CHAPTER V. THE NET
We raised the poor victim and turned him over on his back. I droppedupon my knees, and with unsteady fingers began to strike a match. Aslight breeze was arising and sighing gently through the elms, but,screened by my hands, the flame of the match took life. It illuminatedwanly the sun-baked face of Nayland Smith, his eyes gleaming withunnatural brightness. I bent forward, and the dying light of the matchtouched that other face.
"Oh, God!" whispered Smith.
A faint puff of wind extinguished the match.
In all my surgical experience I had never met with anything quite sohorrible. Forsyth's livid face was streaked with tiny streams of blood,which proceeded from a series of irregular wounds. One group of theseclustered upon his left temple, another beneath his right eye, andothers extended from the chin down to the throat. They were black,almost like tattoo marks, and the entire injured surface was bloatedindescribably. His fists were clenched; he was quite rigid.
Smith's piercing eyes were set upon me eloquently as I knelt on the pathand made my examination--an examination which that first glimpse whenForsyth came staggering out from the trees had rendered useless--a merematter of form.
"He's quite dead, Smith," I said huskily. "It's--unnatural--it--"
Smith began beating his fist into his left palm and taking little,short, nervous strides up and down beside the dead man. I could hear acar humming along the highroad, but I remained there on my knees staringdully at the disfigured bloody face which but a matter of minutessince had been that of a clean looking British seaman. I found myselfcontrasting his neat, squarely trimmed mustache with the bloated faceabove it, and counting the little drops of blood which trembled uponits edge. There were footsteps approaching. I stood up. The footstepsquickened; and I turned as a constable ran up.
"What's this?" he demanded gruffly, and stood with his fists clenched,looking from Smith to me and down at that which lay between us. Then hishand flew to his breast; there was a silvern gleam and--
"Drop that whistle!" snapped Smith--and struck it from the man's hand."Where's your lantern? Don't ask questions!"
The constable started back and was evidently debating upon his chanceswith the two of us, when my friend pulled a letter from his pocket andthrust it under the man's nose.
"Read that!" he directed harshly, "and then listen to my orders."
There was something in his voice which changed the officer's opinion ofthe situation. He directed the light of his lantern upon the open letterand seemed to be stricken with wonder.
"If you have any doubts," continued Smith--"you may not be familiar withthe Commissioner's signature--you have only to ring up Scotland Yardfrom Dr. Petrie's house, to which we shall now return, to dispersethem." He pointed to Forsyth. "Help us to carry him there. We must notbe seen; this must be hushed up. You understand? It must not get intothe press--"
The man saluted respectfully; and the three of us addressed ourselvesto the mournful task. By slow stages we bore the dead man to the edgeof the common, carried him across the road and into my house, withoutexciting attention even on the part of those vagrants who nightly sleptout in the neighborhood.
We laid our burden upon the surgery table.
"You will want to make an examination, Petrie," said Smith in hisdecisive way, "and the officer here might 'phone for the ambulance. Ihave some investigations to make also. I must have the pocket lamp."
He raced upstairs to his room, and an instant later came running downagain. The front door banged.
"The telephone is in the hall," I said to the constable.
"Thank you, sir."
He went out of the surgery as I switched on the lamp over the table andbegan to examine the marks upon Forsyth's skin. These, as I have said,were in groups and nearly all in the form of elongated punctures; afairly deep incision with a pear-shaped and superficial scratch beneathit. One of the tiny wounds had penetrated the right eye.
The symptoms, or those which I had been enabled to observe as Forsythhad first staggered into view from among the elms, were most puzzling.Clearly enough, the muscles of articulation and the respiratory muscleshad been affected; and now the livid face, dotted over with tiny wounds(they were also on the throat), set me mentally groping for a clue tothe manner of his death.
No clue presented itself; and my detailed examination of the bodyavailed me nothing. The gray herald of dawn was come when the policearrived with the ambulance and took Forsyth away.
I was just taking my cap from the rack when Nayland Smith returned.
"Smith!" I cried--"have you found anything?"
He stood there in the gray light of the hallway, tugging at the lobe ofhis left ear, an old trick of his.
The bronzed face looked very gaunt, I thought, and his eyes were brightwith that febrile glitter which once I had disliked, but which I hadlearned from experience were due to tremendous nervous excitement.At such times he could act with icy coolness and his mental facultiesseemed temporarily to acquire an abnormal keenness. He made no directreply; but--
"Have you any milk?" he jerked abruptly.
So wholly unexpected was the question, that for a moment I failed tograsp it. Then--
"Milk!" I began.
"Exactly, Petrie! If you can find me some milk, I shall be obliged."
I turned to descend to the kitchen, when--
"The remains of the turbot from dinner, Petrie, would also be welcome,and I think I should like a trowel."
I stopped at the stairhead and faced him.
"I cannot suppose that you are joking, Smith," I said, "but--"
He laughed dryly.
"Forgive me, old man," he replied. "I was so preoccupied with my owntrain of thought that it never occurred to me how absurd my request musthave sounded. I will explain my singular tastes later; at the moment,hustle is the watchword."
Evidently he was in earnest, and I ran downstairs accordingly, returningwith a garden trowel, a plate of cold fish and a glass of milk.
"Thanks, Petrie," said Smith--"If you would put the milk in a jug--"
I was past wondering, so I simply went and fetched a jug, into which hepoured the milk. Then, with the trowel in his pocket, the plate of coldturbot in one hand and the milk jug in the other, he made for the door.He had it open when another idea evidently occurred to him.
"I'll trouble you for the pistol, Petrie."
I handed him the pistol without a word.
"Don't assume that I want to mystify you," he added, "but the presenceof any one else might jeopardize my plan. I don't expect to be long."
The cold light of dawn flooded the hallway momentarily; then the doorclosed again and I went upstairs to my study, watching Nayland Smith ashe strode across the common in the early morning mist. He was making forthe Nine Elms, but I lost sight of him before he reached them.
I sat there for some time, watching for the first glow of sunrise. Apoliceman tramped past the house, and, a while later, a belated revelerin evening clothes. That sense of unreality assailed me again. Out therein the gray mists a man who was vested with powers which rendered him alaw unto himself, who had the British Government behind him in all thathe might choose to do, who had been summoned from Rangoon to London onsingular and dangerous business, was employing himself with a plate ofcold turbot, a jug of milk, and a trowel!
Away to the right, and just barely visible, a tramcar stopped by thecommon; then proceeded on its way, coming in a westerly direction. Itslights twinkled yellowly through the grayness, but I was less concernedwith the approaching car than with the solitary traveler who haddescended from it.
As the car went rocking by below me, I strained my eyes in an endeavormore clearly to discern the figure, which, leaving the highroad, hadstruck out across the common. It was that of a woman, who seeminglycarried a bulky bag or parcel.
One must be a gross materialist to doubt that there are latent powers inman which man, in modern times, neglects, or knows not how to develop. Ibecame suddenly con
scious of a burning curiosity respecting this lonelytraveler who traveled at an hour so strange. With no definite plan inmind, I went downstairs, took a cap from the rack, and walked brisklyout of the house and across the common in a direction which I thoughtwould enable me to head off the woman.
I had slightly miscalculated the distance, as Fate would have it, andwith a patch of gorse effectually screening my approach, I came uponher, kneeling on the damp grass and unfastening the bundle which hadattracted my attention. I stopped and watched her.
She was dressed in bedraggled fashion in rusty black, wore a commonblack straw hat and a thick veil; but it seemed to me that the dexteroushands at work untying the bundle were slim and white; and I perceived apair of hideous cotton gloves lying on the turf beside her. As she threwopen the wrappings and lifted out something that looked like asmall shrimping net, I stepped around the bush, crossed silently theintervening patch of grass, and stood beside her.
A faint breath of perfume reached me--of a perfume which, like thesecret incense of Ancient Egypt, seemed to assail my soul. The glamourof the Orient was in that subtle essence; and I only knew one woman whoused it. I bent over the kneeling figure.
"Good morning," I said; "can I assist you in any way?"
She came to her feet like a startled deer, and flung away from me withthe lithe movement of some Eastern dancing girl.
Now came the sun, and its heralding rays struck sparks from thejewels upon the white fingers of this woman who wore the garments ofa mendicant. My heart gave a great leap. It was with difficulty that Icontrolled my voice.
"There is no cause for alarm," I added.
She stood watching me; even through the coarse veil I could see how hereyes glittered. I stooped and picked up the net.
"Oh!" The whispered word was scarcely audible, but it was enough; Idoubted no longer.
"This is a net for bird snaring," I said. "What strange bird are youseeking--Karamaneh?"
With a passionate gesture Karamaneh snatched off the veil, and withit the ugly black hat. The cloud of wonderful, intractable hair camerumpling about her face, and her glorious eyes blazed out upon me. Howbeautiful they were, with the dark beauty of an Egyptian night; howoften had they looked into mine in dreams!
To labor against a ceaseless yearning for a woman whom one knows, uponevidence that none but a fool might reject, to be worthless--evil; isthere any torture to which the soul of man is subject, more pitiless?Yet this was my lot, for what past sins assigned to me I was unable toconjecture; and this was the woman, this lovely slave of a monster, thiscreature of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
"I suppose you will declare that you do not know me!" I said harshly.
Her lips trembled, but she made no reply.
"It is very convenient to forget, sometimes," I ran on bitterly, thenchecked myself; for I knew that my words were prompted by a fecklessdesire to hear her defense, by a fool's hope that it might be anacceptable one.
I looked again at the net contrivance in my hand; it had a strong springfitted to it and a line attached. Quite obviously it was intended forsnaring.
"What were you about to do?" I demanded sharply--but in my heart,poor fool that I was, I found admiration for the exquisite arch ofKaramaneh's lips, and reproach because they were so tremulous.
She spoke then.
"Dr. Petrie--"
"Well?"
"You seem to be--angry with me, not so much because of what I do, asbecause I do not remember you. Yet--"
"Kindly do not revert to the matter," I interrupted. "You have chosen,very conveniently, to forget that once we were friends. Please yourself.But answer my question."
She clasped her hands with a sort of wild abandon.
"Why do you treat me so!" she cried; she had the most fascinating accentimaginable. "Throw me into prison, kill me if you like, for what I havedone!" She stamped her foot. "For what I have done! But do not tortureme, try to drive me mad with your reproaches--that I forget you! I tellyou--again I tell you--that until you came one night, last week, torescue some one from--" There was the old trick of hesitating before thename of Fu-Manchu--"from him, I had never, never seen you!"
The dark eyes looked into mine, afire with a positive hunger forbelief--or so I was sorely tempted to suppose. But the facts wereagainst her.
"Such a declaration is worthless," I said, as coldly as I could. "Youare a traitress; you betray those who are mad enough to trust you--"
"I am no traitress!" she blazed at me; her eyes were magnificent.
"This is mere nonsense. You think that it will pay you better to serveFu-Manchu than to remain true to your friends. Your 'slavery'--for Itake it you are posing as a slave again--is evidently not very harsh.You serve Fu-Manchu, lure men to their destruction, and in return heloads you with jewels, lavishes gifts--"
"Ah! so!"
She sprang forward, raising flaming eyes to mine; her lips were slightlyparted. With that wild abandon which betrayed the desert blood in herveins, she wrenched open the neck of her bodice and slipped a softshoulder free of the garment. She twisted around, so that the white skinwas but inches removed from me.
"These are some of the gifts that he lavishes upon me!"
I clenched my teeth. Insane thoughts flooded my mind. For that creamyskin was red with the marks of the lash!
She turned, quickly rearranging her dress, and watching me the while. Icould not trust myself to speak for a moment, then:
"If I am a stranger to you, as you claim, why do you give me yourconfidence?" I asked.
"I have known you long enough to trust you!" she said simply, and turnedher head aside.
"Then why do you serve this inhuman monster?"
She snapped her fingers oddly, and looked up at me from under herlashes. "Why do you question me if you think that everything I say is alie?"
It was a lesson in logic--from a woman! I changed the subject.
"Tell me what you came here to do," I demanded.
She pointed to the net in my hands.
"To catch birds; you have said so yourself."
"What bird?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
And now a memory was born within my brain; it was that of the cry ofthe nighthawk which had harbingered the death of Forsyth! The net wasa large and strong one; could it be that some horrible fowl of theair--some creature unknown to Western naturalists--had been releasedupon the common last night? I thought of the marks upon Forsyth's faceand throat; I thought of the profound knowledge of obscure and dreadfulthings possessed by the Chinaman.
The wrapping, in which the net had been, lay at my feet. I stooped andtook out from it a wicker basket. Karamaneh stood watching me and bitingher lip, but she made no move to check me. I opened the basket. Itcontained a large phial, the contents of which possessed a pungent andpeculiar smell.
I was utterly mystified.
"You will have to accompany me to my house," I said sternly.
Karamaneh upturned her great eyes to mine. They were wide with fear. Shewas on the point of speaking when I extended my hand to grasp her. Atthat, the look of fear was gone and one of rebellion held its place. EreI had time to realize her purpose, she flung back from me with that wildgrace which I had met with in no other woman, turned and ran!
Fatuously, net and basket in hand, I stood looking after her. The ideaof pursuit came to me certainly; but I doubted if I could have outrunher. For Karamaneh ran, not like a girl used to town or even countrylife, but with the lightness and swiftness of a gazelle; ran like thedaughter of the desert that she was.
Some two hundred yards she went, stopped, and looked back. It would seemthat the sheer joy of physical effort had aroused the devil in her, thedevil that must lie latent in every woman with eyes like the eyes ofKaramaneh.
In the ever brightening sunlight I could see the lithe figure swaying;no rags imaginable could mask its beauty. I could see the red lipsand gleaming teeth. Then--and it was music good to hear, despite itstaunt--she laughed defiantly, turned, and ra
n again!
I resigned myself to defeat; I blush to add, gladly! Some evidences ofa world awakening were perceptible about me now. Feathered choirs hailedthe new day joyously. Carrying the mysterious contrivance which I hadcaptured from the enemy, I set out in the direction of my house, my mindvery busy with conjectures respecting the link between this bird snareand the cry like that of a nighthawk which we had heard at the moment ofForsyth's death.
The path that I had chosen led me around the border of the Mound Pond--asmall pool having an islet in the center. Lying at the margin of thepond I was amazed to see the plate and jug which Nayland Smith hadborrowed recently!
Dropping my burden, I walked down to the edge of the water. I was filledwith a sudden apprehension. Then, as I bent to pick up the now emptyjug, came a hail:
"All right, Petrie! Shall join you in a moment!"
I started up, looked to right and left; but, although the voice had beenthat of Nayland Smith, no sign could I discern of his presence!
"Smith!" I cried--"Smith!"
"Coming!"
Seriously doubting my senses, I looked in the direction from which thevoice had seemed to proceed--and there was Nayland Smith.
He stood on the islet in the center of the pond, and, as I perceivedhim, he walked down into the shallow water and waded across to me!
"Good heavens!" I began--
One of his rare laughs interrupted me.
"You must think me mad this morning, Petrie!" he said. "But I have madeseveral discoveries. Do you know what that islet in the pond really is?"
"Merely an islet, I suppose--"
"Nothing of the kind; it is a burial mound, Petrie! It marks the site ofone of the Plague Pits where victims were buried during the GreatPlague of London. You will observe that, although you have seen it everymorning for some years, it remains for a British Commissioner residentin Burma to acquaint you with its history! Hullo!"--the laughter wasgone from his eyes, and they were steely hard again--"what the blazeshave we here!"
He picked up the net. "What! a bird trap!"
"Exactly!" I said.
Smith turned his searching gaze upon me. "Where did you find it,Petrie?"
"I did not exactly find it," I replied; and I related to him thecircumstances of my meeting with Karamaneh.
He directed that cold stare upon me throughout the narrative, and when,with some embarrassment, I had told him of the girl's escape--
"Petrie," he said succinctly, "you are an imbecile!"
I flushed with anger, for not even from Nayland Smith, whom I esteemedabove all other men, could I accept such words uttered as he had utteredthem. We glared at one another.
"Karamaneh," he continued coldly, "is a beautiful toy, I grant you; butso is a cobra. Neither is suitable for playful purposes."
"Smith!" I cried hotly--"drop that! Adopt another tone or I cannotlisten to you!"
"You must listen," he said, squaring his lean jaw truculently. "You areplaying, not only with a pretty girl who is the favorite of a ChineseNero, but with my life! And I object, Petrie, on purely personalgrounds!"
I felt my anger oozing from me; for this was strictly just. I hadnothing to say, and Smith continued:
"You know that she is utterly false, yet a glance or two from those darkeyes of hers can make a fool of you! A woman made a fool of me, once;but I learned my lesson; you have failed to learn yours. If you aredetermined to go to pieces on the rock that broke up Adam, do so! Butdon't involve me in the wreck, Petrie--for that might mean a yellowemperor of the world, and you know it!"
"Your words are unnecessarily brutal, Smith," I said, feeling verycrestfallen, "but there--perhaps I fully deserve them all."
"You do!" he assured me, but he relaxed immediately. "A murderousattempt is made upon my life, resulting in the death of a perfectlyinnocent man in no way concerned. Along you come and let an accomplice,perhaps a participant, escape, merely, because she has a red mouth, orblack lashes, or whatever it is that fascinates you so hopelessly!"
He opened the wicker basket, sniffing at the contents.
"Ah!" he snapped, "do you recognize this odor?"
"Certainly."
"Then you have some idea respecting Karamaneh's quarry?"
"Nothing of the kind!"
Smith shrugged his shoulders.
"Come along, Petrie," he said, linking his arm in mine.
We proceeded. Many questions there were that I wanted to put to him, butone above all.
"Smith," I said, "what, in Heaven's name, were you doing on the mound?Digging something up?"
"No," he replied, smiling dryly; "burying something!"