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

It is bad. I worked near here for a long time. But further up it is better.”
    “Which way do we go?”
    “To the corner. Then around, half way along the block.”
    “The car will wait?”
    “Of course, my lady.”
    The warmth of the night had grown sultry. Clouds gathered, to add to the gloom of the depressing street. They had nearly reached the corner when Mrs van Roorden heard the sound of a started engine. She stopped, turned.
    “You told me the chauffeur would wait!”
    “He will wait, my lady.” Mai Cha’s placid voice remained soft, soothing. “I shall know where to find him.”
    They came to the corner, and Mrs van Roorden stood back against a wall decorated with a Chinese poster. A heavily built man, a half-caste of some sort, picturesquely drunk, had almost bumped into her. He pulled up, stared at her, stared at Mai Cha, and staggered on.
    “Let’s hurry!”
    Mrs van Roorden was coolly composed, but delicately disgusted. Her composure might have faltered if she had known that the drunken half-caste was one of Raymond Harkness’ men. That he had returned to the corner to watch them and that, two minutes later, he would report: “The woman has gone in.”
    They hurried along to a door set beside double, barred gates.
    “Here is the bell, my lady. I shall be waiting for you to come out.”
    * * *
    Nayland Smith five minutes before, had pressed the same bell—seven times.
    An interval followed, during which nothing happened. Then, there was a faint clicking sound. Realising that it operated mechanically, Smith pushed the door—and found himself in a complete blackout, stuffy, airless. The door closed behind him.
    He stood still for a moment, trying to get his bearings in the dark. But he could see nothing, hear nothing. He wondered what he should do next, thought of Orson’s notes—and had an idea.
    “Si-Fan. The Seven!”
he called.
    A mechanical rumbling followed, heavy, dull, thunderous. A second door was being opened. In that utter darkness he saw a panel of faint green light. It enlarged as he watched, became a wide rectangular gap.
    He found himself looking out into a dimly illuminated place which resembled Aladdin’s cave. It was the warehouse referred to by Police Captain Rafferty.
    This green light came from a solitary lamp far away in cavernous darkness, but coming out of even more complete darkness, Nayland Smith’s eyes quickly became accustomed to it. He glanced around—and was amazed.
    Here was a fabulous treasure-house.
    The distant light was from a silver mosque lamp fitted with green glass; one of the objects of art with which this incredible place was crowded. Piled upon the floor were rugs and carpets of Kermanshah, of Khorassan, of the looms of China. Here was furniture of lemonwood, ivory, exquisitely inlaid, some of it with semi-precious stones; lacquer and enamel caskets, robes heavy with gold brocades and gems, pagan gods, swords, jars and bowls of delicate porcelain.
    He looked back at the door by which he had entered, for he had heard it closing.
    It was a metal door, set in a steel frame.
    Clearly, Kwang T’see did not rely on burglary insurance. But, setting aside certain qualms aroused by this unbreakable door, Nayland Smith concentrated upon the next move.
    It was highly probable that the real delegates were familiar with the routine, and his only chance of safety lay in divining what this routine was. He hesitated for no more than twenty seconds.
    Picking a route along a sort of alleyway amid priceless pieces, some of them fragile, he paused under the green lamp. It was suspended before a drapery of magnificent Chinese tapestry which only partly concealed another metal door. The ingenuity of the scheme, carried out without care for cost, earned his admiration.
    These steel doors could be explained readily by the proprietor of such a collection as this. But other than a bank strongroom, no safer place could well be imagined for a meeting of conspirators.
    A ticking