The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories by Sax Rohmer Read Free Book Online

the River, through a gap in dock buildings, to where the Jersey City skyline stretched like far-flung ramparts of some giant castle. A launch of the Harbour Patrol went by, its crew ignorant of the fact that a conspiracy to upset the stability of the United States was brewing close on shore.
    “I don’t like this business,” Harkness remarked in his gentle way. “It’s believed, but has never been proved, that the cellars under both those places intercommunicate, in fact form a perfect warren in the time-honoured Chinese style.”
    “What of it? You may remember that I know something about Huian Tsung’s cellars, anyway. Been down there before. Point is, if anything goes wrong, you know I’m there and you know where to look for me.”
    “Yes. But I feel this should be my job, not yours.”
    “The hell you do!” rapped Nayland Smith, his eyes suddenly steely. “Don’t misunderstand me, Harkness. I quite follow and I appreciate. But now that poor Orson is gone, there’s probably no man outside the Si-Fan who knows more about the organisation than I do. No. Definitely it’s my job.”
    Harkness sighed.
    “You have memorised the notes pencilled on Orson’s report?”
    “I have. But I don’t know what some of them mean. I wonder if he had a premonition of what was to happen? Or were they intended to refresh his own memory?”
    The notes referred to had been scribbled on the back of one of the typed pages hidden in Orson’s hollow stick. They were:
    Ring seven times
    Si-Fan. The Seven
    Give up card
    Mask. Gown
    Seven rings. Sixth bell
    “The first one’s clear enough,” Harkness said. “You ring the doorbell seven times. The others are incomprehensible. I can only hope that their meaning will come to you when you get inside. But if anything goes wrong, you know what to do?”
    “Certainly. But I should hate to disturb the party before it had properly begun.”
    The arrival of a fourth man at Kwang’s door had been reported:
    “Time we were moving,” Smith said, rapidly, and glanced at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch. “Better put the glasses on!”
    At a word from Harkness, the sedan shot forward at sudden speed, swerved swiftly left and swept almost noiselessly into a dark street. At this hour of the night on the outskirts of the Asiatic quarter, windows were blackened, there were few people on the sidewalk. These mean houses might have been uninhabited.
    Even the show places on Mott and Pell Street would be closing. Only one prepared to explore deep in secret burrows could hope to penetrate to the shady side of Eastern life in Manhattan’s Chinatown.
    The big car came to a sudden halt.
    “You can’t miss the door,” Harkness said. “Remember—I’m standing by!”
    Nayland Smith, wearing no disguise other than heavy-rimmed glasses (with plain lenses), got out. He carried Selwyn Orson’s small leather case. They had driven past the establishment of Kwang T’see an hour before, and it was impossible for him to make any mistake.
    As he walked slowly along, he paid an unspoken compliment to the police arrangements, whereby several men had been placed, earlier, so that they commanded a view of Kwang T’see’s office door. The store on the next street was also under close observation.
    He had the whole of the New York Police Department behind him… and the unknown before…
    * * *
    “We must walk from here, my lady.”
    Mrs van Roorden alighted from the car. Her green gown was hidden by a dark rainproof coat, the hood pulled over her head. A satchel hung from a strap across her shoulder. Mai Cha, hatless, and wearing a cheap frock in place of her native dress, had stepped out first and held the car door open. The chauffeur sat, silent, at the wheel.
    There was garbage piled on the dirty sidewalk. The dingy houses looked as though they had been deserted in a plague. Two or three dilapidated automobiles were parked along the street.
    “This is a dreadful neighbourhood, Mai Cha.”
    “Yes.