He was abreast of the Joy-Shop now, and in sight of the ominous old
witch huddled upon the bridge. He pulled up suddenly and stood
looking at her. Coincident with his doing so, she began to moan and
sway her body to right and left as if in pain; then—
"Kind gentleman," she whined in a sing-song voice, "thank God you came
this way to help a poor old woman."
"What is the matter?" said Smith tersely, approaching her.
I clenched my fists. I could have cried out; I was indeed hard put to
it to refrain from crying out—from warning him. But his injunctions
had been explicit, and I restrained myself by a great effort,
preserving silence and crouching there at the window, but with every
muscle tensed and a desire for action strong upon me.
"I tripped up on a rough stone, sir," whined the old creature, "and
here I've been sitting waiting for a policeman or someone to help me,
for more than an hour, I have."
Smith stood looking down at her, his arms behind him, and in one
gloved hand swinging the cane.
"Where do you live, then?" he asked.
"Not a hundred steps from here, kind gentleman," she replied in the
monotonous voice; "but I can't move my left foot. It's only just
through the gates yonder."
"What!" snapped Smith, "on the wharf?"
"They let me have a room in the old building until it's let," she
explained. "Be helping a poor old woman, and God bless you."
"Come along, then!"
Stooping, Smith placed his arm around her shoulders, and assisted her
to her feet. She groaned as if in great pain, but gripped her red
bundle, and leaning heavily upon the supporting arm, hobbled off
across the bridge in the direction of the wharf gates at the end of
the lane.
Now at last a little action became possible, and having seen my friend
push open one of the gates and assist the old woman to enter, I crept
rapidly across the crazy floor, found the doorway, and, with little
noise, for I wore rubber-soled shoes, stole down the stairs into what
had formerly been the reception-room of the Joy-Shop, the malodorous
sanctum of the old Chinaman, John Ki.
Utter darkness prevailed there, but momentarily flicking the light of
a pocket-lamp upon the floor before me, I discovered the further steps
that were to be negotiated, and descended into the square yard which
gave access to the path skirting the creek.
The moonlight drew a sharp line of shadow along the wall of the house
above me, but the yard itself was a well of darkness. I stumbled under
the rotting brick archway, and stepped gingerly upon the muddy path
that I must follow. One hand pressed to the damp wall, I worked my way
cautiously along, for a false step had precipitated me into the foul
water of the creek. In this fashion and still enveloped by dense
shadows, I reached the angle of the building. Then—at risk of being
perceived, for the wharf and the river both were bathed in moonlight—
I peered along to the left....
Out onto the paved pathway communicating with the wharf came Smith,
shepherding his tottering charge. I was too far away to hear any
conversation that might take place between the two, but, unless Smith
gave the pre-arranged signal, I must approach no closer. Thus, as one
sees a drama upon the screen, I saw what now occurred—occurred with
dramatic, lightning swiftness.
Releasing Smith's arm, the old woman suddenly stepped back ... at the
instant that another figure, a repellent figure which approached,
stooping, apish, with a sort of loping gait, crossed from some spot
invisible to me, and sprang like a wild animal upon Smith's back!
It was a Chinaman, wearing a short loose garment of the smock pattern,
and having his head bare, so that I could see his pigtail coiled upon
his yellow crown. That he carried a cord, I perceived in the instant
of his spring, and that he had whipped it about Smith's throat with
unerring dexterity was evidenced by the one, short, strangled cry that
came from my friend's lips.
Then Smith was down, prone upon the crazy planking, with the ape-like
figure of the Chinaman perched between his shoulders—bending forward—
the wicked yellow fingers at work, tightening—tightening—tightening
the strangling-cord!
Uttering a loud cry of horror, I went racing along the gangway which
projected actually over the moving Thames waters, and gained the wharf.
But, swift as I had been, another had been swifter!
A tall figure (despite the brilliant moon, I doubted the evidence of
my sight), wearing a tweed overcoat and a soft felt hat with the brim
turned down, sprang up, from nowhere as it seemed, swooped upon the
horrible figure squatting, simianesque, between Smith's shoulder-blades,
and grasped him by the neck.
I pulled up shortly, one foot set upon the wharf. The new-comer was
the double of Nayland Smith!
Seemingly exerting no effort whatever, he lifted the strangler in that
remorseless grasp, so that the Chinaman's hands, after one quick
convulsive upward movement, hung limply beside him like the paws of a
rat in the grip of a terrier.
"You damned murderous swine!" I heard in a repressed, savage undertone.
"The knife failed, so now the cord has an innings! Go after your pal!"
Releasing one hand from the neck of the limp figure, the speaker
grasped the Chinaman by his loose, smock-like garment, swung him back,
once—a mighty swing—and hurled him far out into the river as one
might hurl a sack of rubbish!
"As the high gods willed it," explained Nayland Smith, tenderly
massaging his throat, "Mr. Forsyth, having just left the docks,
chanced to pass along Three Colt Street on Wednesday night at exactly
the hour that
I
was expected! The resemblance between us is rather
marked and the coincidence of dress completed the illusion. That
devilish Eurasian woman, Zarmi, who has escaped us again—of course
you recognized her?—made a very natural mistake. Mr. Forsyth, however,
made no mistake!"
I glanced at the chief officer of the
Andaman
, who sat in an armchair
in our new chambers, contentedly smoking a black cheroot.
"Heaven has blessed me with a pair of useful hands!" said the seaman,
grimly, extending his horny palms. "I've an old score against those
yellow swine; poor George and I were twins."
He referred to his brother who had been foully done to death by one of
the creatures of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
"It beats me how Mr. Smith got on the track!" he added.
"Pure inspiration!" murmured Nayland Smith, glancing aside from the
siphon wherewith he now was busy. "The divine afflatus—and the same
whereby Petrie solved the Zagazig cryptogram!"
"But," concluded Forsyth, "I am indebted to you for an opportunity of
meeting the Chinese strangler, and sending him to join the Burmese
knife expert!"
Such, then, were the episodes that led to the arrest of M. Samarkan,
and my duty as narrator of these strange matters now bears me on to
the morning when Nayland Smith was hastily summoned to the prison into
which the villainous Greek had been cast.
We were shown immediately into the Governor's room and were invited by
that much disturbed official to be seated. The news which he had to
impart was sufficiently startling.
Samarkan was dead.
"I have Warder Morrison's statement here," said Colonel Warrington,
"if you will be good enough to read it—"
Nayland Smith rose abruptly, and began to pace up and down the little
office. Through the open window I had a glimpse of a stooping figure
in convict garb, engaged in liming the flower-beds of the prison
Governor's garden.
"I should like to see this Warder Morrison personally," snapped my
friend.
"Very good," replied the Governor, pressing a bell-push placed close
beside his table.
A man entered, to stand rigidly at attention just within the doorway.
"Send Morrison here," ordered Colonel Warrington.
The man saluted and withdrew. As the door was reclosed, the Colonel
sat drumming his fingers upon the table, Nayland Smith walked
restlessly about tugging at the lobe of his ear, and I absently
watched the convict gardener pursuing his toils. Shortly, sounded a
rap at the door, and—
"Come in," cried Colonel Warrington.
A man wearing warder's uniform appeared, saluted the Governor, and
stood glancing uneasily from the Colonel to Smith. The latter had
now ceased his perambulations, and, one elbow resting upon the
mantelpiece, was staring at Morrison—his penetrating gray eyes as
hard as steel. Colonel Warrington twisted his chair around, fixing
his monocle more closely in its place. He had the wiry white mustache
and fiery red face of the old-style Anglo-Indian officer.
"Morrison," he said, "Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith has some
questions to put to you."
The man's uneasiness palpably was growing by leaps and bounds. He was
a tall and intelligent-looking fellow of military build, though spare
for his height and of an unhealthy complexion. His eyes were curiously
dull, and their pupils interested me, professionally, from the very
moment of his entrance.
"You were in charge of the prisoner Samarkan?" began Smith harshly.
"Yes, sir," Morrison replied.
"Were you the first to learn of his death?"
"I was, sir. I looked through the grille in the door and saw him lying
on the floor of the cell."
"What time was it?"
"Half-past four A.M."
"What did you do?"
"I went into the cell and then sent for the head warder."
"You realized at once that Samarkan was dead?"
"At once, yes."
"Were you surprised?"
Nayland Smith subtly changed the tone of his voice in asking the last
question, and it was evident that the veiled significance of the words
was not lost upon Morrison.
"Well, sir," he began, and cleared his throat nervously.
"Yes, or no!" snapped Smith.
Morrison still hesitated, and I saw his underlip twitch. Nayland Smith,
taking two long strides, stood immediately in front of him, glaring
grimly into his face.
"This is your chance," he said emphatically; "I shall not give you
another. You had met Samarkan before?"
Morrison hung his head for a moment, clenching and unclenching his
fists; then he looked up swiftly, and the light of a new resolution
was in his eyes.
"I'll take the chance, sir," he said, speaking with some emotion, "and
I hope, sir"—turning momentarily to Colonel Warrington—"that you'll
be as lenient as you can; for I didn't know there was any harm in what
I did."
"Don't expect any leniency from me!" cried the Colonel. "If there has
been a breach of discipline there will be punishment, rely upon it!"
"I admit the breach of discipline," pursued the man doggedly; "but I
want to say, here and now, that I've no more idea than anybody else
how the—"
Smith snapped his fingers irritably.
"The facts—the facts!" he demanded. "What you
don't
know cannot
help us!"
"Well, sir," said Morrison, clearing his throat again, "when the
prisoner, Samarkan, was admitted, and I put him safely into his cell,
he told me that he suffered from heart trouble, that he'd had an
attack when he was arrested and that he thought he was threatened
with another, which might kill him—"
"One moment," interrupted Smith, "is this confirmed by the police
officer who made the arrest?"
"It is, sir," replied Colonel Warrington, swinging his chair around
and consulting some papers upon his table. "The prisoner was overcome
by faintness when the officer showed him the warrant and asked to be
given some cognac from the decanter which stood in his room. This was
administered, and he then entered the cab which the officer had
waiting. He was taken to Bow Street, remanded, and brought here in
accordance with some one's instructions."
"
My instructions
" said Smith. "Go on, Morrison."
"He told me," continued Morrison more steadily, "that he suffered from
something that sounded to me like apoplexy."
"Catalepsy!" I suggested, for I was beginning to see light.
"That's it, sir! He said he was afraid of being buried alive! He asked
me, as a favor, if he should die in prison to go to a friend of his
and get a syringe with which to inject some stuff that would do away
with all chance of his coming to life again after burial."
"You had no right to talk to the prisoner!" roared Colonel Warrington.
"I know that, sir, but you'll admit that the circumstances were peculiar.
Anyway, he died in the night, sure enough, and from heart failure,
according to the doctor. I managed to get a couple of hours leave in
the evening, and I went and fetched the syringe and a little tube of
yellow stuff."
"Do you understand, Petrie?" cried Nayland Smith, his eyes blazing
with excitement. "Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"It's more than I do, sir," continued Morrison, "but as I was
explaining, I brought the little syringe back with me and I filled it
from the tube. The body was lying in the mortuary, which you've seen,
and the door not being locked, it was easy for me to slip in there for
a moment. I didn't fancy the job, but it was soon done. I threw the
syringe and the tube over the wall into the lane outside, as I'd been
told to do.
"What part of the wall?" asked Smith.
"Behind the mortuary."
"That's where they were waiting!" I cried excitedly. "The building
used as a mortuary is quite isolated, and it would not be a difficult
matter for some one hiding in the lane outside to throw one of those
ladders of silk and bamboo across the top of the wall."
"But, my good sir," interrupted the Governor irascibly, "whilst I
admit the possibility to which you allude, I do not admit that a dead
man, and a heavy one at that, can be carried up a ladder of silk and
bamboo! Yet, on the evidence of my own eyes, the body of the prisoner,
Samarkan, was removed from the mortuary last night!"