The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu. Sax Rohmer
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hear. Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card, upon
glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something in a low voice,
and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a respectful manner.
A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we followed
the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor lined
with pictures and busts, and into a large library. A group of people
were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve, of
Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a
couch. Another door communicated with a small study, and through the
opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet. The
uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the bizarre
figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room, and the grim hub,
around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene that
etched itself indelibly on my mind.
As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.
"Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the
immediate cause of death," he said. "Sir Crichton was addicted to
cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with
cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the
facts--if," he added, "we ever arrive at them. A most mysterious case!"
Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in
conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton's body.
The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking-jacket. He
had been of spare but hardy build, with thin, aquiline features, which
now were oddly puffy, as were his clenched hands. I pushed back his
sleeve, and saw the marks of the hypodermic syringe upon his left arm.
Quite mechanically I turned my attention to the right arm. It was
unscarred, but on the back of the hand was a faint red mark, not unlike
the imprint of painted lips. I examined it closely, and even tried to
rub it off, but it evidently was caused by some morbid process of local
inflammation, if it were not a birthmark.
Turning to a pale young man whom I had understood to be Sir Crichton's
private secretary, I drew his attention to this mark, and inquired if
it were constitutional. "It is not, sir," answered Dr. Cleeve,
overhearing my question. "I have already made that inquiry. Does it
suggest anything to your mind? I must confess that it affords me no
assistance."
"Nothing," I replied. "It is most curious."
"Excuse me, Mr. Burboyne," said Smith, now turning to the secretary,
"but Inspector Weymouth will tell you that I act with authority. I
understand that Sir Crichton was--seized with illness in his study?"
"Yes--at half-past ten. I was working here in the library, and he
inside, as was our custom."
"The communicating door was kept closed?"
"Yes, always. It was open for a minute or less about ten-twenty-five,
when a message came for Sir Crichton. I took it in to him, and he then
seemed in his usual health."
"What was the message?"
"I could not say. It was brought by a district messenger, and he
placed it beside him on the table. It is there now, no doubt."
"And at half-past ten?"
"Sir Crichton suddenly burst open the door and threw himself, with a
scream, into the library. I ran to him but he waved me back. His eyes
were glaring horribly. I had just reached his side when he fell,
writhing, upon the floor. He seemed past speech, but as I raised him
and laid him upon the couch, he gasped something that sounded like 'The
red hand!' Before I could get to bell or telephone he was dead!"
Mr. Burboyne's voice shook as he spoke the words, and Smith seemed to
find this evidence confusing.
"You do not think he referred to the mark on his own hand?"
"I think not. From the direction of his last glance, I feel sure he
referred to something in the study."
"What did you do?"
"Having summoned the servants, I ran into the study. But there was
absolutely nothing unusual to be seen. The windows were closed and
fastened. He worked with closed windows in the hottest weather. There
is no other door, for the study occupies the end of a narrow wing, so
that no one could possibly have gained access to it, whilst I was in
the library, unseen by me. Had someone concealed himself in the study
earlier in the evening--and I am convinced that it offers no
hiding-place--he could only have come out again by passing through
here."
Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his left ear, as was his habit when
meditating.
"You had been at work here in this way for some time?"
"Yes. Sir Crichton was preparing an important book."
"Had anything unusual occurred prior to this evening?"
"Yes," said Mr. Burboyne, with evident perplexity; "though I attached
no importance to it at the time. Three nights ago Sir Crichton came
out to me, and appeared very nervous; but at times his nerves--you
know? Well, on this occasion he asked me to search the study. He had
an idea that something was concealed there."
"Some THING or someone?"
"'Something' was the word he used. I searched, but fruitlessly, and he
seemed quite satisfied, and returned to his work."
"Thank you, Mr. Burboyne. My friend and I would like a few minutes'
private investigation in the study."
CHAPTER II
SIR CRICHTON DAVEY'S study was a small one, and a glance sufficed to
show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding-place. It
was heavily carpeted, and over-full of Burmese and Chinese ornaments
and