Dusk found Nayland Smith and me at the top bedroom window. We knew, now
that poor Forsyth’s body had been properly examined, that he had died
from poisoning. Smith, declaring that I did not deserve his confidence,
had refused to confide in me his theory of the origin of the peculiar
marks upon the body.
“On the soft ground under the trees,” he said, “I found his tracks right
up to the point where something happened. There were no other fresh
tracks for several yards around. He was attacked as he stood close to
the trunk of one of the elms. Six or seven feet away I found some other
tracks, very much like this.”
He marked a series of dots upon the blotting pad at his elbow.
“Claws!” I cried. “That eerie call! like the call of a nighthawk--is it
some unknown species of--flying thing?”
“We shall see, shortly; possibly to-night,” was his reply. “Since,
probably owing to the absence of any moon, a mistake was made,” his jaw
hardened at the thoughts of poor Forsyth--“another attempt along the
same lines will almost certainly follow--you know Fu-Manchu’s system?”
So in the darkness, expectant, we sat watching the group of nine elms.
To-night the moon was come, raising her Aladdin’s lamp up to the star
world and summoning magic shadows into being. By midnight the highroad
showed deserted, the common was a place of mystery; and save for the
periodical passage of an electric car, in blazing modernity, this was a
fit enough stage for an eerie drama.
No notice of the tragedy had appeared in print; Nayland Smith was vested
with powers to silence the press. No detectives, no special constables,
were posted. My friend was of opinion that the publicity which had
been given to the deeds of Dr. Fu-Manchu in the past, together with
the sometimes clumsy co-operation of the police, had contributed not a
little to the Chinaman’s success.
“There is only one thing to fear,” he jerked suddenly; “he may not be
ready for another attempt to-night.”
“Why?”
“Since he has only been in England for a short time, his menagerie of
venomous things may be a limited one at present.”
Earlier in the evening there had been a brief but violent thunderstorm,
with a tropical downpour of rain, and now clouds were scudding across
the blue of the sky. Through a temporary rift in the veiling the
crescent of the moon looked down upon us. It had a greenish tint, and it
set me thinking of the filmed, green eyes of Fu-Manchu.
The cloud passed and a lake of silver spread out to the edge of the
coppice, where it terminated at a shadow bank.
“There it is, Petrie!” hissed Nayland Smith.
A lambent light was born in the darkness; it rose slowly, unsteadily, to
a great height, and died.
“It’s under the trees, Smith!”
But he was already making for the door. Over his shoulder:
“Bring the pistol, Petrie!” he cried; “I have another. Give me at least
twenty yards’ start or no attempt may be made. But the instant I’m under
the trees, join me.”
Out of the house we ran, and over onto the common, which latterly had
been a pageant ground for phantom warring. The light did not appear
again; and as Smith plunged off toward the trees, I wondered if he knew
what uncanny thing was hidden there. I more than suspected that he had
solved the mystery.
His instructions to keep well in the rear I understood. Fu-Manchu, or
the creature of Fu-Manchu, would attempt nothing in the presence of a
witness. But we knew full well that the instrument of death which was
hidden in the elm coppice could do its ghastly work and leave no clue,
could slay and vanish. For had not Forsyth come to a dreadful end while
Smith and I were within twenty yards of him?
Not a breeze stirred, as Smith, ahead of me--for I had slowed my
pace--came up level with the first tree. The moon sailed clear of the
straggling cloud wisps which alone told of the recent storm; and I noted
that an irregular patch of light lay silvern on the moist ground under
the elms where otherwise lay shadow.
He passed on, slowly. I began to run again. Black against the silvern
patch, I saw him emerge--and look up.
“Be careful, Smith!” I cried--and I was racing under the trees to join
him.
Uttering a loud cry, he leaped--away from the pool of light.
“Stand back, Petrie!” he screamed--“Back! further!”
He charged into me, shoulder lowered, and sent me reeling!
Mixed up with his excited cry I had heard a loud splintering and
sweeping of branches overhead; and now as we staggered into the shadows
it seemed that one of the elms was reaching down to touch us! So, at
least, the phenomenon presented itself to my mind in that fleeting
moment while Smith, uttering his warning cry, was hurling me back.
Then the truth became apparent.
With an appalling crash, a huge bough fell from above. One piercing,
awful shriek there was, a crackling of broken branches, and a choking
groan...
The crack of Smith’s pistol close beside me completed my confusion of
mind.
“Missed!” he yelled. “Shoot it, Petrie! On your left! For God’s sake
don’t miss it!”
I turned. A lithe black shape was streaking past me. I
fired--once--twice. Another frightful cry made yet more hideous the
nocturne.
Nayland Smith was directing the ray of a pocket torch upon the fallen
bough.
“Have you killed it, Petrie?” he cried.
“Yes, yes!”
I stood beside him, looking down. From the tangle of leaves and twigs
an evil yellow face looked up at us. The features were contorted with
agony, but the malignant eyes, wherein light was dying, regarded us with
inflexible hatred. The man was pinned beneath the heavy bough; his back
was broken; and as we watched, he expired, frothing slightly at the
mouth, and quitted his tenement of clay, leaving those glassy eyes set
hideously upon us.
“The pagan gods fight upon our side,” said Smith strangely. “Elms have a
dangerous habit of shedding boughs in still weather--particularly after
a storm. Pan, god of the woods, with this one has performed Justice’s
work of retribution.”
“I don’t understand. Where was this man--”
“Up the tree, lying along the bough which fell, Petrie! That is why he
left no footmarks. Last night no doubt he made his escape by swinging
from bough to bough, ape fashion, and descending to the ground somewhere
at the other side of the coppice.”
He glanced at me.
“You are wondering, perhaps,” he suggested, “what caused the mysterious
light? I could have told you this morning, but I fear I was in a bad
temper, Petrie. It’s very simple: a length of tape soaked in spirit or
something of the kind, and sheltered from the view of any one watching
from your windows, behind the trunk of the tree; then, the end ignited,
lowered, still behind the tree, to the ground. The operator swinging it
around, the flame ascended, of course. I found the unburned fragment of
the tape last night, a few yards from here.”
I was peering down at Fu-Manchu’s servant, the hideous yellow man who
lay dead in a bower of elm leaves.
“He has some kind of leather bag beside him,” I began--
“Exactly!” rapped Smith. “In that he carried his dangerous instrument of
death; from that he released it!”
“Released what?”
“What your fascinating friend came to recapture this morning.”
“Don’t taunt me, Smith!” I said bitterly. “Is it some species of bird?”
“You saw the marks on Forsyth’s body, and I told you of those which I
had traced upon the ground here. They were caused by claws, Petrie!”
“Claws! I thought so! But what claws?”
“The claws of a poisonous thing. I recaptured the one used last night,
killed it--against my will--and buried it on the mound. I was afraid to
throw it in the pond, lest some juvenile fisherman should pull it out
and sustain a scratch. I don’t know how long the claws would remain
venomous.”
“You are treating me like a child, Smith,” I said slowly. “No doubt I
am hopelessly obtuse, but perhaps you will tell me what this Chinaman
carried in a leather bag and released upon Forsyth. It was something
which you recaptured, apparently with the aid of a plate of cold turbot
and a jug of milk! It was something, also, which Karamaneh had been sent
to recapture with the aid--”
I stopped.
“Go on,” said Nayland Smith, turning the ray to the left, “what did she
have in the basket?”
“Valerian,” I replied mechanically.
The ray rested upon the lithe creature that I had shot down.
It was a black cat!
“A cat will go through fire and water for valerian,” said Smith; “but I
got first innings this morning with fish and milk! I had recognized the
imprints under the trees for those of a cat, and I knew, that if a cat
had been released here it would still be hiding in the neighborhood,
probably in the bushes. I finally located a cat, sure enough, and
came for bait! I laid my trap, for the animal was too frightened to be
approachable, and then shot it; I had to. That yellow fiend used the
light as a decoy. The branch which killed him jutted out over the path
at a spot where an opening in the foliage above allowed some moon rays
to penetrate. Directly the victim stood beneath, the Chinaman uttered
his bird cry; the one below looked up, and the cat, previously held
silent and helpless in the leather sack, was dropped accurately upon his
head!”
“But”--I was growing confused.
Smith stooped lower.
“The cat’s claws are sheathed now,” he said; “but if you could examine
them you would find that they are coated with a shining black substance.
Only Fu-Manchu knows what that substance is, Petrie, but you and I know
what it can do!”