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Page 14
CHAPTER IV
"THE body of a lascar, dressed in the manner usual on the P. & O. boats,
was recovered from the Thames off Tilbury by the river police at six
A.M. this morning. It is supposed that the man met with an accident
in leaving his ship."
Nayland Smith passed me the evening paper and pointed to the above paragraph.
"For `lascar' read `dacoit,'" he said. "Our visitor, who came by way
of the ivy, fortunately for us, failed to follow his instructions.
Also, he lost the centipede and left a clew behind him.
Dr. Fu-Manchu does not overlook such lapses."
It was a sidelight upon the character of the awful being with whom we
had to deal. My very soul recoiled from bare consideration of the fate
that would be ours if ever we fell into his hands.
The telephone bell rang. I went out and found that Inspector
Weymouth of New Scotland Yard had called us up.
"Will Mr. Nayland Smith please come to the Wapping River Police
Station at once," was the message.
Peaceful interludes were few enough throughout that wild pursuit.
"It is certainly something important," said my friend; "and, if
Fu-Manchu is at the bottom of it--as we must presume him to be--
probably something ghastly."
A brief survey of the time-tables showed us that there were no trains
to serve our haste. We accordingly chartered a cab and proceeded east.
Smith, throughout the journey, talked entertainingly about his work in Burma.
Of intent, I think, he avoided any reference to the circumstances which first
had brought him in contact with the sinister genius of the Yellow Movement.
His talk was rather of the sunshine of the East than of its shadows.
But the drive concluded--and all too soon. In a silence which neither
of us seemed disposed to break, we entered the police depot, and followed
an officer who received us into the room where Weymouth waited.
The inspector greeted us briefly, nodding toward the table.
"Poor Cadby, the most promising lad at the Yard," he said;
and his usually gruff voice had softened strangely.
Smith struck his right fist into the palm of his left hand and swore
under his breath, striding up and down the neat little room.
No one spoke for a moment, and in the silence I could hear the whispering
of the Thames outside--of the Thames which had so many strange secrets
to tell, and now was burdened with another.
The body lay prone upon the deal table--this latest of the river's dead--
dressed in rough sailor garb, and, to all outward seeming, a seaman of
nondescript nationality--such as is no stranger in Wapping and Shadwell.
His dark, curly hair clung clammily about the brown forehead;
his skin was stained, they told me. He wore a gold ring in one ear,
and three fingers of the left hand were missing.
"It was almost the same with Mason." The river police inspector
was speaking. "A week ago, on a Wednesday, he went off in his own
time on some funny business down St. George's way--and Thursday
night the ten-o'clock boat got the grapnel on him off Hanover Hole.
His first two fingers on the right hand were clean gone, and his left
hand was mutilated frightfully."
He paused and glanced at Smith.
"That lascar, too," he continued, "that you came down to see, sir;
you remember his hands?"
Smith nodded.
"He was not a lascar," he said shortly. "He was a dacoit."
Silence fell again.
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