“It’s no easy matter,” said Inspector Weymouth, “to patrol the vicinity of John Ki’s Joy-Shop without their getting wind of it. The entrance, as you’ll see, is a long, narrow rat-hole of a street running at right angles to the Thames. There’s no point, so far as I know, from which the yard can be overlooked; and the back is on a narrow cutting belonging to a disused mill.”
I paid little attention to his words. Disguised beyond all chance of recognition even by one intimate with my appearance, I was all impatience to set out. I had taken Smith’s place in the night’s program; for, every possible source of information having been tapped in vain, I now hoped against hope that some clue to the fate of my poor friend might be obtained at the Chinese den which he had designed to visit with Fletcher.
The latter, who presented a strange picture in his make-up as a sort of half-caste sailor, stared doubtfully at the inspector; then—
“The River Police cutter,” he said, “can drop down on the tide and lie off under the Surrey bank. There’s a vacant wharf facing the end of the street and we can slip through and show a light there, to let you know we’ve arrived. You reply in the same way. If there’s any trouble, I shall blaze away with this”—he showed the butt of a Service revolver protruding from his hip pocket—“and you can be ashore in no time.”
The plan had one thing to commend it, viz., that no one could devise another. Therefore it was adopted, and five minutes later a taxi-cab swung out of the Yard containing Inspector Weymouth and two ruffianly looking companions—myself and Fletcher.
Any zest with which, at another time, I might have entered upon such an expedition, was absent now. I bore with me a gnawing anxiety and sorrow that precluded all conversation on my part, save monosyllabic replies, to questions that I comprehended but vaguely.
At the River Police Depot we found Inspector Ryman, an old acquaintance, awaiting us. Weymouth had telephoned from Scotland Yard.
“I’ve got a motor-boat at the breakwater,” said Ryman, nodding to Fletcher, and staring hard at me.
Weymouth laughed shortly.
“Evidently you don’t recognize Dr. Petrie!” he said.
“Eh!” cried Ryman—“Dr. Petrie! why, good heavens, Doctor, I should never have known you in a month of bank holidays! What’s afoot, then?”—and he turned to Weymouth, eyebrows raised interrogatively.
“It’s the Fu-Manchu business again, Ryman.”
“Fu-Manchu! But I thought the Fu-Manchu case was off the books long ago? It was always a mystery to me; never a word in the papers; and we as much in the dark as everybody else—but didn’t I hear that the Chinaman, Fu-Manchu, was dead?”
Weymouth nodded.
“Some of his friends seem to be very much alive, though,” he said. “It appears that Fu-Manchu, for all his genius—and there’s no denying he was a genius, Ryman—was only the agent of somebody altogether bigger.”
Ryman whistled softly.
“Has the real head of affairs arrived, then?”
“We find we are up against what is known as the Si-Fan.”
At that it came to the inevitable, unanswerable question.
“What is the Si-Fan?”
I laughed, but my laughter was not mirthful. Inspector Weymouth shook his head.
“Perhaps Mr. Nayland Smith could tell you that,” he replied; “for the Si-Fan got him today!”
“Got him!” cried Ryman.
“Absolutely! He’s vanished! And Fletcher here has found out that John Ki’s place is in some way connected with this business.”
I interrupted—impatiently, I fear.
“Then let us set out, Inspector,” I said, “for it seems to me that we are wasting precious time—and you know what that may mean.” I turned to Fletcher. “Where is this place situated, exactly? How do we proceed?”
“The cab can take us part of the way,” he replied, “and we shall have to walk the rest. Patrons of John’s don’t turn up in taxis, as a rule!”
“Then let us be off,” I said, and made for the door.
“Don’t forget the signal!” Weymouth cried after me, “and don’t venture into the place until you’ve received our reply....”
But I was already outside, Fletcher following; and a moment later we were both in the cab and off into a maze of tortuous streets toward John Ki’s Joy-Shop.
With the coming of nightfall the rain had ceased, but the sky remained heavily overcast and the air was filled with clammy mist. It was a night to arouse longings for Southern skies; and when, discharging the cabman, we set out afoot along a muddy and ill-lighted thoroughfare bordered on either side by high brick walls, their monotony occasionally broken by gateways, I felt that the load of depression which had settled upon my shoulders must ere long bear me down.
Sounds of shunting upon some railway siding came to my ears; train whistles and fog signals hooted and boomed. River sounds there were, too, for we were close beside the Thames, that gray old stream which has borne upon its bier many a poor victim of underground London. The sky glowed sullenly red above.
“There’s the Joy-Shop, along on the left,” said Fletcher, breaking in upon my reflections. “You’ll notice a faint light; it’s shining out through the open door. Then, here is the wharf.”
He began fumbling with the fastenings of a dilapidated gateway beside which we were standing; and a moment later—
“All right—slip through,” he said.
I followed him through the narrow gap which the ruinous state of the gates had enabled him to force, and found myself looking under a low arch, with the Thames beyond, and a few hazy lights coming and going on the opposite bank.
“Go steady!” warned Fletcher. “It’s only a few paces to the edge of the wharf.”
I heard him taking a box of matches from his pocket.
“Here is my electric lamp,” I said. “It will serve the purpose better.”
“Good,” muttered my companion. “Show a light down here, so that we can find our way.”
With the aid of the lamp we found our way out on to the rotting timbers of the crazy structure. The mist hung denser over the river, but through it, as through a dirty gauze curtain, it was possible to discern some of the greater lights on the opposite shore. These, without exception, however, showed high up upon the fog curtain; along the water level lay a belt of darkness.
“Let me give them the signal,” said Fletcher, shivering slightly and taking the lamp from my hand.
He flashed the light two or three times. Then we both stood watching the belt of darkness that followed the Surrey shore. The tide lapped upon the timbers supporting the wharf and little whispers and gurgling sounds stole up from beneath our feet. Once there was a faint splash from somewhere below and behind us.
“There goes a rat,” said Fletcher vaguely, and without taking his gaze from the darkness under the distant shore. “It’s gone into the cutting at the back of John Ki’s.”
He ceased speaking and flashed the lamp again several times. Then, all at once out of the murky darkness into which we were peering, looked a little eye of light—once, twice, thrice it winked at us from low down upon the oily water; then was gone.
“It’s Weymouth with the cutter,” said Fletcher; “they are ready ... now for Jon Ki’s.”
We stumbled back up the slight acclivity beneath the archway to the street, leaving the ruinous gates as we had found them. Into the uninviting little alley immediately opposite we plunged, and where the faint yellow luminance showed upon the muddy path before us, Fletcher paused a moment, whispering to me warningly.
“Don’t speak if you can help it,” he said; “if you do, mumble any old jargon in any language you like, and throw in plenty of cursing!”
He grasped me by the arm, and I found myself crossing the threshold of the Joy-Shop—I found myself in a meanly furnished room no more than twelve feet square and very low ceiled, smelling strongly of paraffin oil. The few items of furniture which it contained were but dimly discernible in the light of a common tin lamp which stood upon a packing-case at the head of what looked like cellar steps.
Abruptly, I pulled up; for this stuffy little den did not correspond with pre-conceived ideas of the place for which we were bound. I was about to speak when Fletcher nipped my arm—and out from the shadows behind the packing-case a little bent figure arose!
I started violently, for I had had no idea that another was in the room. The apparition proved to be a Chinaman, and judging from what I could see of him, a very old Chinaman, his bent figure attired in a blue smock. His eyes were almost invisible amidst an intricate map of wrinkles which covered his yellow face.
“Evening, John,” said Fletcher—and, pulling me with him, he made for the head of the steps.
As I came abreast of the packing-case, the Chinaman lifted the lamp and directed its light fully upon my face.
Great as was the faith which I reposed in my make-up, a doubt and a tremor disturbed me now, as I found myself thus scrutinized by those cunning old eyes looking out from the mask-like, apish face. For the first time the Chinaman spoke.
“You blinger fliend, Charlie?” he squeaked in a thin, piping voice.
“Him play piecee card,” replied Fletcher briefly. “Good fellow, plenty much money.”
He descended the steps, still holding my arm, and I perforce followed him. Apparently John’s scrutiny and Fletcher’s explanation respecting me, together had proved satisfactory; for the lamp was replaced upon the lid of the packing-case, and the little bent figure dropped down again into the shadows from which it had emerged.
“Allee lightee,” I heard faintly as I stumbled downward in the wake of Fletcher.
I had expected to find myself in a cellar, but instead discovered that we were in a small square court with the mist of the night about us again. On a doorstep facing us stood a duplicate of the lamp upon the box upstairs. Evidently this was designed to indicate the portals of the Joy-Shop, for Fletcher pushed open the door, whose threshold accommodated the lamp, and the light of the place beyond shone out into our faces. We entered and my companion closed the door behind us.
Before me I perceived a long low room lighted by flaming gas-burners, the jets hissing and spluttering in the draught from the door, for they were entirely innocent of shades or mantles. Wooden tables, their surfaces stained with the marks of countless wet glasses, were ranged about the place, café fashion; and many of these tables accommodated groups, of nondescript nationality for the most part. One or two there were in a distant corner who were unmistakably Chinamen; but my slight acquaintance with the races of the East did not enable me to classify the greater number of those whom I now saw about me. There were several unattractive-looking women present.
Fletcher walked up the center of the place, exchanging nods of recognition with two hang-dog poker-players, and I was pleased to note that our advent had apparently failed to attract the slightest attention. Through an opening on the right-hand side of the room, near the top, I looked into a smaller apartment, occupied exclusively by Chinese. They were playing some kind of roulette and another game which seemed wholly to absorb their interest. I ventured no more than a glance, then passed on with my companion.
“Fan-tan!” he whispered in my ear.
Other forms of gambling were in progress at some of the tables; and now Fletcher silently drew my attention to yet a third dimly lighted apartment—this opening out from the left-hand corner of the principal room. The atmosphere of the latter was sufficiently abominable; indeed, the stench was appalling; but a wave of choking vapor met me as I paused for a moment at the threshold of this inner sanctuary. I formed but the vaguest impression of its interior; the smell was sufficient. This annex was evidently reserved for opium-smokers.
Fletcher sat down at a small table near by, and I took a common wooden chair which he thrust forward with his foot. I was looking around at the sordid scene, filled with a bitter sense of my own impotency to aid my missing friend, when that occurred which set my heart beating wildly at once with hope and excitement. Fletcher must have seen something of this in my attitude, for—
“Don’t forget what I told you,” he whispered. “Be cautious!—be very cautious! ...”