In utter darkness we groped our way through into the hallway of
Slattin’s house, having entered, stealthily, from the rear; for Smith
had selected the study as a suitable base of operations. We reached it
without mishap, and presently I found myself seated in the very chair
which Karamaneh had occupied; my companion took up a post just within
the widely opened door.
So we commenced our ghostly business in the house of the murdered man--a
house from which, but a few hours since, his body had been removed. This
was such a vigil as I had endured once before, when, with Nayland Smith
and another, I had waited for the coming of one of Fu-Manchu’s death
agents.
Of all the sounds which, one by one, now began to detach themselves
from the silence, there was a particular sound, homely enough at another
time, which spoke to me more dreadfully than the rest. It was the
ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece; and I thought how this sound
must have been familiar to Abel Slattin, how it must have formed
part and parcel of his life, as it were, and how it went on
now--tick-tick-tick-tick--whilst he, for whom it had ticked, lay
unheeding--would never heed it more.
As I grew more accustomed to the gloom, I found myself staring at his
office chair; once I found myself expecting Abel Slattin to enter the
room and occupy it. There was a little China Buddha upon the bureau in
one corner, with a gilded cap upon its head, and as some reflection of
the moonlight sought out this little cap, my thoughts grotesquely turned
upon the murdered man’s gold tooth.
Vague creakings from within the house, sounds as though of stealthy
footsteps upon the stair, set my nerves tingling; but Nayland Smith gave
no sign, and I knew that my imagination was magnifying these ordinary
night sounds out of all proportion to their actual significance.
Leaves rustled faintly outside the window at my back: I construed their
sibilant whispers into the dreaded name--Fu-Manchu-Fu-Manchu--Fu-Manchu!
So wore on the night; and, when the ticking clock hollowly boomed the
hour of one, I almost leaped out of my chair, so highly strung were my
nerves, and so appallingly did the sudden clangor beat upon them. Smith,
like a man of stone, showed no sign. He was capable of so subduing his
constitutionally high-strung temperament, at times, that temporarily
he became immune from human dreads. On such occasions he would be icily
cool amid universal panic; but, his object accomplished, I have seen him
in such a state of collapse, that utter nervous exhaustion is the only
term by which I can describe it.
Tick-tick-tick-tick went the clock, and, with my heart still thumping
noisily in my breast, I began to count the tickings; one, two, three,
four, five, and so on to a hundred, and from one hundred to many
hundreds.
Then, out from the confusion of minor noises, a new, arresting sound
detached itself. I ceased my counting; no longer I noted the tick-tick
of the clock, nor the vague creakings, rustlings and whispers. I saw
Smith, shadowly, raise his hand in warning--in needless warning, for I
was almost holding my breath in an effort of acute listening.
From high up in the house this new sound came from above the topmost
room, it seemed, up under the roof; a regular squeaking, oddly familiar,
yet elusive. Upon it followed a very soft and muffled thud; then a
metallic sound as of a rusty hinge in motion; then a new silence,
pregnant with a thousand possibilities more eerie than any clamor.
My mind was rapidly at work. Lighting the topmost landing of the house
was a sort of glazed trap, evidently set in the floor of a loft-like
place extending over the entire building. Somewhere in the red-tiled
roof above, there presumably existed a corresponding skylight or
lantern.
So I argued; and, ere I had come to any proper decision, another sound,
more intimate, came to interrupt me.
This time I could be in no doubt; some one was lifting the trap above
the stairhead--slowly, cautiously, and all but silently. Yet to my ears,
attuned to trifling disturbances, the trap creaked and groaned noisily.
Nayland Smith waved to me to take a stand on the other side of the
opened door--behind it, in fact, where I should be concealed from the
view of any one descending the stair.
I stood up and crossed the floor to my new post.
A dull thud told of the trap fully raised and resting upon some
supporting joist. A faint rustling (of discarded garments, I told
myself) spoke to my newly awakened, acute perceptions, of the visitor
preparing to lower himself to the landing. Followed a groan of woodwork
submitted to sudden strain--and the unmistakable pad of bare feet upon
the linoleum of the top corridor.
I knew now that one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s uncanny servants had gained the
roof of the house by some means, had broken through the skylight and had
descended by means of the trap beneath on to the landing.
In such a tensed-up state as I cannot describe, nor, at this hour
mentally reconstruct, I waited for the creaking of the stairs which
should tell of the creature’s descent.
I was disappointed. Removed scarce a yard from me as he was, I could
hear Nayland Smith’s soft, staccato breathing; but my eyes were all for
the darkened hallway, for the smudgy outline of the stair-rail with the
faint patterning in the background which, alone, indicated the wall.
It was amid an utter silence, unheralded by even so slight a sound
as those which I had acquired the power of detecting--that I saw the
continuity of the smudgy line of stair-rail to be interrupted.
A dark patch showed upon it, just within my line of sight, invisible to
Smith on the other side of the doorway, and some ten or twelve stairs
up.
No sound reached me, but the dark patch vanished and reappeared three
feet lower down.
Still I knew that this phantom approach must be unknown to my
companion--and I knew that it was impossible for me to advise him of it
unseen by the dreaded visitor.
A third time the dark patch--the hand of one who, ghostly, silent, was
creeping down into the hallway--vanished and reappeared on a level with
my eyes. Then a vague shape became visible; no more than a blur upon the
dim design of the wall-paper... and Nayland Smith got his first sight of
the stranger.
The clock on the mantelpiece boomed out the half-hour.
At that, such was my state (I blush to relate it) I uttered a faint cry!
It ended all secrecy--that hysterical weakness of mine. It might have
frustrated our hopes; that it did not do so was in no measure due to me.
But in a sort of passionate whirl, the ensuing events moved swiftly.
Smith hesitated not one instant. With a panther-like leap he hurled
himself into the hall.
“The lights, Petrie!” he cried--“the lights! The switch is near the
street-door!”
I clenched my fists in a swift effort to regain control of my
treacherous nerves, and, bounding past Smith, and past the foot of the
stair, I reached out my hand to the switch, the situation of which,
fortunately, I knew.
Around I came, in response to a shrill cry from behind me--an inhuman
cry, less a cry than the shriek of some enraged animal....
With his left foot upon the first stair, Nayland Smith stood, his lean
body bent perilously backward, his arms rigidly thrust out, and his
sinewy fingers gripping the throat of an almost naked man--a man whose
brown body glistened unctuously, whose shaven head was apish low, whose
bloodshot eyes were the eyes of a mad dog! His teeth, upper and lower,
were bared; they glistened, they gnashed, and a froth was on his lips.
With both his hands, he clutched a heavy stick, and once--twice, he
brought it down upon Nayland Smith’s head!
I leaped forward to my friend’s aid; but as though the blows had been
those of a feather, he stood like some figure of archaic statuary, nor
for an instant relaxed the death grip which he had upon his adversary’s
throat.
Thrusting my way up the stairs, I wrenched the stick from the hand of
the dacoit--for in this glistening brown man, I recognized one of that
deadly brotherhood who hailed Dr. Fu-Manchu their Lord and Master.
* * * * *
I cannot dwell upon the end of that encounter; I cannot hope to make
acceptable to my readers an account of how Nayland Smith, glassy-eyed,
and with consciousness ebbing from him instant by instant, stood there,
a realization of Leighton’s “Athlete,” his arms rigid as iron bars even
after Fu-Manchu’s servant hung limply in that frightful grip.
In his last moments of consciousness, with the blood from his wounded
head trickling down into his eyes, he pointed to the stick which I had
torn from the grip of the dacoit, and which I still held in my hand.
“Not Aaron’s rod, Petrie!” he gasped hoarsely--“the rod of
Moses!--Slattin’s stick!”
Even in upon my anxiety for my friend, amazement intruded.
“But,” I began--and turned to the rack in which Slattin’s favorite cane
at that moment reposed--had reposed at the time of his death.
Yes!--there stood Slattin’s cane; we had not moved it; we had disturbed
nothing in that stricken house; there it stood, in company with an
umbrella and a malacca.
I glanced at the cane in my hand. Surely there could not be two such in
the world?
Smith collapsed on the floor at my feet.
“Examine the one in the rack, Petrie,” he whispered, almost inaudibly,
“but do not touch it. It may not be yet....”
I propped him up against the foot of the stairs, and as the constable
began knocking violently at the street door, crossed to the rack and
lifted out the replica of the cane which I held in my hand.
A faint cry from Smith--and as if it had been a leprous thing, I dropped
the cane instantly.
“Merciful God!” I groaned.
Although, in every other particular, it corresponded with that which I
held--which I had taken from the dacoit--which he had come to substitute
for the cane now lying upon the floor--in one dreadful particular it
differed.
Up to the snake’s head it was an accurate copy; but the head lived!
Either from pain, fear or starvation, the thing confined in the hollow
tube of this awful duplicate was become torpid. Otherwise, no power
on earth could have saved me from the fate of Abel Slattin; for the
creature was an Australian death-adder.