The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu Sax Rohmer (top reads txt) 📖

“Where did he first see this green mist?”

“He says, Mr. Smith, that he thinks it came from the mummy case.”

“Yes; go on.”

“It is to his credit that he climbed into the room after seeing a thing like that. He did. He turned the body over, and Sir Lionel looked horrible. He was quite dead. Then Croxted⁠—that’s the man’s name⁠—went over to this curtain. There was a glass door⁠—shut. He opened it, and it gave on a conservatory⁠—a place stacked from the tiled floor to the glass roof with more rubbish. It was dark inside, but enough light came from the study⁠—it’s really a drawing-room, by the way⁠—as he’d turned all the lamps on, to give him another glimpse of this green, crawling mist. There are three steps to go down. On the steps lay a dead Chinaman.”

“A dead Chinaman!”

“A dead Chinaman.”

“Doctor seen them?” rapped Smith.

“Yes; a local man. He was out of his depth, I could see. Contradicted himself three times. But there’s no need for another opinion⁠—until we get the coroner’s.”

“And Croxted?”

“Croxted was taken ill, Mr. Smith, and had to be sent home in a cab.”

“What ails him?”

Detective-Inspector Weymouth raised his eyebrows and carefully knocked the ash from his cigar.

“He held out until I came, gave me the story, and then fainted right away. He said that something in the conservatory seemed to get him by the throat.”

“Did he mean that literally?”

“I couldn’t say. We had to send the girl home, too, of course.”

Nayland Smith was pulling thoughtfully at the lobe of his left ear.

“Got any theory?” he jerked.

Weymouth shrugged his shoulders.

“Not one that includes the green mist,” he said. “Shall we go in now?”

We crossed the Assyrian hall, where the members of that strange household were gathered in a panic-stricken group. They numbered four. Two of them were negroes, and two Easterns of some kind. I missed the Chinaman, Kwee, of whom Smith had spoken, and the Italian secretary; and from the way in which my friend peered about the shadows of the hall I divined that he, too, wondered at their absence. We entered Sir Lionel’s study⁠—an apartment which I despair of describing.

Nayland Smith’s words, “an earthquake at Sotheby’s auction-rooms,” leaped to my mind at once; for the place was simply stacked with curious litter⁠—loot of Africa, Mexico and Persia. In a clearing by the hearth a gas stove stood upon a packing-case, and about it lay a number of utensils for camp cookery. The odor of rotting vegetation, mingled with the insistent perfume of the strange night-blooming flowers, was borne in through the open window.

In the center of the floor, beside an overturned sarcophagus, lay a figure in a neutral-colored dressing-gown, face downwards, and arms thrust forward and over the side of the ancient Egyptian mummy case.

My friend advanced and knelt beside the dead man.

“Good God!”

Smith sprang upright and turned with an extraordinary expression to Inspector Weymouth.

“You do not know Sir Lionel Barton by sight?” he rapped.

“No,” began Weymouth, “but⁠—”

“This is not Sir Lionel. This is Strozza, the secretary.”

“What!” shouted Weymouth.

“Where is the other⁠—the Chinaman⁠—quick!” cried Smith.

“I have had him left where he was found⁠—on the conservatory steps,” said the Inspector.

Smith ran across the room to where, beyond the open door, a glimpse might be obtained of stacked-up curiosities. Holding back the curtain to allow more light to penetrate, he bent forward over a crumpled-up figure which lay upon the steps below.

“It is!” he cried aloud. “It is Sir Lionel’s servant, Kwee.”

Weymouth and I looked at one another across the body of the Italian; then our eyes turned together to where my friend, grim-faced, stood over the dead Chinaman. A breeze whispered through the leaves; a great wave of exotic perfume swept from the open window towards the curtained doorway.

It was a breath of the East⁠—that stretched out a yellow hand to the West. It was symbolic of the subtle, intangible power manifested in Dr. Fu-Manchu, as Nayland Smith⁠—lean, agile, bronzed with the suns of Burma, was symbolic of the clean British efficiency which sought to combat the insidious enemy.

“One thing is evident,” said Smith: “no one in the house, Strozza excepted, knew that Sir Lionel was absent.”

“How do you arrive at that?” asked Weymouth.

“The servants, in the hall, are bewailing him as dead. If they had seen him go out they would know that it must be someone else who lies here.”

“What about the Chinaman?”

“Since there is no other means of entrance to the conservatory save through the study, Kwee must have hidden himself there at some time when his master was absent from the room.”

“Croxted found the communicating door closed. What killed the Chinaman?”

“Both Miss Edmonds and Croxted found the study door locked from the inside. What killed Strozza?” retorted Smith.

“You will have noted,” continued the Inspector, “that the secretary is wearing Sir Lionel’s dressing-gown. It was seeing him in that, as she looked in at the window, which led Miss Edmonds to mistake him for her employer⁠—and consequently to put us on the wrong scent.”

“He wore it in order that anybody looking in at the window would be sure to make that mistake,” rapped Smith.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he came here for a felonious purpose. See.” Smith stooped and took up several tools from the litter on the floor. “There lies the lid. He came to open the sarcophagus. It contained the mummy of some notable person who flourished under Meneptah II; and Sir Lionel told me that a number of valuable ornaments and jewels probably were secreted amongst the wrappings. He proposed to open the thing and to submit the entire contents to examination tonight. He evidently changed his mind⁠—fortunately for himself.”

I ran my fingers through my hair in perplexity.

“Then what has become of the mummy?”

Nayland Smith laughed dryly.

“It has vanished in the form of a green vapor apparently,” he said. “Look at Strozza’s face.”

He turned the body over, and, used as I was to such spectacles, the contorted features of the Italian filled me with horror, so⁠—suggestive were they of a death