she, disguised, who had driven him to his doom, that she must have
been actively concerned in his murder.
But, I argued, although the damp night air was pouring in through the
door which Zarmi now held open, although sound of Thames-side activity
came stealing to my ears, we were yet within the walls of the Joy-Shop,
with a score or more Asiatic ruffians at the woman's beck and call....
With perfect truth I can state that I retain not even a shadowy
recollection of aiding Fletcher to move the chest out on to the brink
of the cutting—for it was upon this that the door directly opened.
The mist had grown denser, and except a glimpse of slowly moving water
beneath me, I could discern little of our surrounding.
So much I saw by the light of a lantern which stood in the stern of a
boat. In the bows of this boat I was vaguely aware of the presence of
a crouched figure enveloped in rugs—vaguely aware that two filmy
eyes regarded me out of the darkness. A man who looked like a lascar
stood upright in the stern.
I must have been acting like a man in a stupor; for I was aroused to
the realities by the contact of a burning cigarette with the lobe of
my right ear!
"Hurry, quick, strong feller!" said Zarmi softly.
At that it seemed as though some fine nerve of my brain, already
strained to utmost tension, snapped. I turned, with a wild,
inarticulate cry, my fists raised frenziedly above my head.
"You fiend!" I shrieked at the mocking Eurasian, "you yellow fiend of
hell!"
I was beside myself, insane. Zarmi fell back a step, flashing a glance
from my own contorted face to that, now pale even beneath its artificial
tan, of Fletcher.
I snatched the pistol from my pocket, and for one fateful moment the
lust of slaying claimed my mind.... Then I turned towards the river,
and, raising the Browning, fired shot after shot in the air.
"Weymouth!" I cried. "Weymouth!"
A sharp hissing sound came from behind me; a short, muffled cry ...
and something descended, crushing, upon my skull. Like a wild cat
Zarmi hurled herself past me and leapt into the boat. One glimpse I
had of her pallidly dusky face, of her blazing black eyes, and the
boat was thrust off into the waterway ... was swallowed up in the mist.
I turned, dizzily, to see Fletcher sinking to his knees, one hand
clutching his breast.
"She got me ... with the knife," he whispered. "But ... don't worry ...
look to yourself, and ...
him
...."
He pointed, weakly—then collapsed at my feet. I threw myself upon
the wooden chest with a fierce, sobbing cry.
"Smith, Smith!" I babbled, and knew myself no better, in my sorrow,
than an hysterical woman. "Smith, dear old man! speak to me! speak
to me!..."
Outraged emotion overcame me utterly, and with my arms thrown across
the box, I slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter IX - Fu-Manchu
*
Many poignant recollections are mine, more of them bitter than sweet;
but no one of them all can compare with the memory of that moment of
my awakening.
Weymouth was supporting me, and my throat still tingled from the
effects of the brandy which he had forced between my teeth from his
flask. My heart was beating irregularly; my mind yet partly inert.
With something compound of horror and hope I lay staring at one who
was anxiously bending over the Inspector's shoulder, watching me.
It was Nayland Smith.
A whole hour of silence seemed to pass, ere speech became possible;
then—
"Smith!" I whispered, "are you ..."
Smith grasped my outstretched, questing hand, grasped it firmly,
warmly; and I saw his gray eyes to be dim in the light of the several
lanterns around us.
"Am I alive?" he said. "Dear old Petrie! Thanks to you, I am not only
alive, but free!"
My head was buzzing like a hive of bees, but I managed, aided by
Weymouth, to struggle to my feet. Muffled sounds of shouting and
scuffling reached me. Two men in the uniform of the Thames Police were
carrying a limp body in at the low doorway communicating with the
infernal Joy-Shop.
"It's
been actively concerned in his murder.
But, I argued, although the damp night air was pouring in through the
door which Zarmi now held open, although sound of Thames-side activity
came stealing to my ears, we were yet within the walls of the Joy-Shop,
with a score or more Asiatic ruffians at the woman's beck and call....
With perfect truth I can state that I retain not even a shadowy
recollection of aiding Fletcher to move the chest out on to the brink
of the cutting—for it was upon this that the door directly opened.
The mist had grown denser, and except a glimpse of slowly moving water
beneath me, I could discern little of our surrounding.
So much I saw by the light of a lantern which stood in the stern of a
boat. In the bows of this boat I was vaguely aware of the presence of
a crouched figure enveloped in rugs—vaguely aware that two filmy
eyes regarded me out of the darkness. A man who looked like a lascar
stood upright in the stern.
I must have been acting like a man in a stupor; for I was aroused to
the realities by the contact of a burning cigarette with the lobe of
my right ear!
"Hurry, quick, strong feller!" said Zarmi softly.
At that it seemed as though some fine nerve of my brain, already
strained to utmost tension, snapped. I turned, with a wild,
inarticulate cry, my fists raised frenziedly above my head.
"You fiend!" I shrieked at the mocking Eurasian, "you yellow fiend of
hell!"
I was beside myself, insane. Zarmi fell back a step, flashing a glance
from my own contorted face to that, now pale even beneath its artificial
tan, of Fletcher.
I snatched the pistol from my pocket, and for one fateful moment the
lust of slaying claimed my mind.... Then I turned towards the river,
and, raising the Browning, fired shot after shot in the air.
"Weymouth!" I cried. "Weymouth!"
A sharp hissing sound came from behind me; a short, muffled cry ...
and something descended, crushing, upon my skull. Like a wild cat
Zarmi hurled herself past me and leapt into the boat. One glimpse I
had of her pallidly dusky face, of her blazing black eyes, and the
boat was thrust off into the waterway ... was swallowed up in the mist.
I turned, dizzily, to see Fletcher sinking to his knees, one hand
clutching his breast.
"She got me ... with the knife," he whispered. "But ... don't worry ...
look to yourself, and ...
him
...."
He pointed, weakly—then collapsed at my feet. I threw myself upon
the wooden chest with a fierce, sobbing cry.
"Smith, Smith!" I babbled, and knew myself no better, in my sorrow,
than an hysterical woman. "Smith, dear old man! speak to me! speak
to me!..."
Outraged emotion overcame me utterly, and with my arms thrown across
the box, I slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter IX - Fu-Manchu
*
Many poignant recollections are mine, more of them bitter than sweet;
but no one of them all can compare with the memory of that moment of
my awakening.
Weymouth was supporting me, and my throat still tingled from the
effects of the brandy which he had forced between my teeth from his
flask. My heart was beating irregularly; my mind yet partly inert.
With something compound of horror and hope I lay staring at one who
was anxiously bending over the Inspector's shoulder, watching me.
It was Nayland Smith.
A whole hour of silence seemed to pass, ere speech became possible;
then—
"Smith!" I whispered, "are you ..."
Smith grasped my outstretched, questing hand, grasped it firmly,
warmly; and I saw his gray eyes to be dim in the light of the several
lanterns around us.
"Am I alive?" he said. "Dear old Petrie! Thanks to you, I am not only
alive, but free!"
My head was buzzing like a hive of bees, but I managed, aided by
Weymouth, to struggle to my feet. Muffled sounds of shouting and
scuffling reached me. Two men in the uniform of the Thames Police were
carrying a limp body in at the low doorway communicating with the
infernal Joy-Shop.
"It's
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