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Hand of Fu-Manchu

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<h3 id="id00895" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XIX</h3> <h5 id="id00896">"ZAGAZIG"</h5> Fully two weeks elapsed ere Nayland Smith's arduous labors at last met with a slight reward. For a moment, the curtain of mystery surrounding the Si-Fan was lifted, and we had a glimpse of that organization's elaborate mechanism. I cannot better commence my relation of the episodes associated with the Zagazig's cryptogram than from the moment when I found myself bending over a prostrate form extended upon the table in the Inspector's room at the River Police Depôt. It was that of a man who looked like a Lascar, who wore an ill-fitting slop-shop suit of blue, soaked and stained and clinging hideously to his body. His dank black hair was streaked upon his low brow; and his face, although it was notable for a sort of evil leer, had assumed in death another and more dreadful expression. Asphyxiation had accounted for his end beyond doubt, but there were marks about his throat of clutching fingers, his tongue protruded, and the look in the dead eyes was appalling. "He was amongst the piles upholding the old wharf at the back of the Joy-Shop?" said Smith tersely, turning to the police officer in charge. "Exactly" was the reply. "The in-coming tide had jammed him right up under a cross-beam." "What time was that?' "Well, at high tide last night. Hewson, returning with the ten o'clock boat, noticed the moonlight glittering upon the knife." The knife to which the Inspector referred possessed a long curved blade of a kind with which I had become terribly familiar in the past. The dead man still clutched the hilt of the weapon in his right hand, and it now lay with the blade resting crosswise upon his breast. I stared in a fascinated way at this mysterious and tragic flotsam of old Thames. Glancing up, I found Nayland Smith's gray eyes watching me. "You see the mark, Petrie?" he snapped. I nodded. The dead man upon the table was a Burmese dacoit! "What do you make of it?" I said slowly. "At the moment," replied Smith, "I scarcely know what to make of it. You are agreed with the divisional surgeon that the man—unquestionably a dacoit—died, not from drowning, but from strangulation. From evidence we have heard, it would appear that the encounter which resulted in the body being hurled in the river, actually took place upon the wharf-end beneath which he was found. And we know that a place formerly used by the Si-Fan group—in other words, by Dr. Fu-Manchu— adjoins the wharf. I am tempted to believe that this"—he nodded towards the ghastly and sinister object upon the table—"was a servant of the Chinese Doctor. In other words, we see before us one whom Fu-Manchu has rebuked for some shortcoming." I shuddered coldly. Familiar as I should have been with the methods of the dread Chinaman, with his callous disregard of human suffering, of human life, of human law, I could not reconcile my ideas—the ideas of a modern, ordinary middle-class practitioner—with these Far Eastern devilries which were taking place in London. Even now I sometimes found myself doubting the reality of the whole thing; found myself reviewing the history of the Eastern doctor and of the horrible group of murderers surrounding him, with an incredulity almost unbelievable in one who had been actually in contact not only with the servants of the Chinaman, but with the sinister Fu-Manchu himself. Then, to restore me to grips with reality, would come the thought of Kâramaneh, of the beautiful girl whose love had brought me seemingly endless sorrow and whose love for me had brought her once again into the power of that mysterious, implacable being. This thought was enough. With its coming, fantasy vanished; and I knew that the dead dacoit, his great curved knife yet clutched in his hand, the Yellow menace hanging over London, over England, over the civilized world, the absence, the heart-breaking absence, of Kâramaneh—all were real, all were true, all were part of my life. Nayland Smith was standing staring vaguely before him and tugging at the lobe of his left ear. "Come along!" he snapped suddenly. "We have no more to learn here: the clue to the mystery must be sought elsewhere." There was that in his manner whereby I knew that his thoughts were far away, as we filed out from the River Police Depôt to the cab which awaited us. Pulling from his overcoat pocket a copy of a daily paper— "Have you seen this, Weymouth?" he demanded. With a long, nervous index finger he indicated a paragraph on the front page which appeared under the heading of "Personal." Weymouth bent frowningly over the paper, holding it close to his eyes, for this was a gloomy morning and the light in the cab was poor. "Such things don't enter into my sphere, Mr. Smith," he replied, "but no doubt the proper department at the Yard have seen it." "I know they have seen it!" snapped Smith; "but they have also been unable to read it!" Weymouth looked up in surprise. "Indeed," he said. "You are interested in this, then?" "Very! Have you any suggestion to offer respecting it?" Moving from my seat I, also, bent over the paper and read, in growing astonishment, the following:— ZAGAZIG-Z,-a-g-a;-z:-I-g,a,-a,ag-a,z;- I;-g:z-a-g-A-z;i-:g;-Z,,-a;-gg-_-z-i;- G;-z-,a-g-:a-Z__I_;-g:-z-a-g;-a-:Z-,i-g: z,a-g,-a:z,i-g. "This is utterly incomprehensible! It can be nothing but some foolish practical joke! It consists merely of the word 'Zagazig' repeated six or seven times—which can have no possible significance!" "Can't it!" snapped Smith. "Well," I said, "what has Zagazig to do with Fu-Manchu, or to do with us?" "Zagazig, my dear Petrie, is a very unsavory Arab town in Lower Egypt, as you know!" He returned the paper to the pocket of his over-coat, and, noting my bewildered glance, burst into one of his sudden laughs. "You think I am talking nonsense," he said; "but, as a matter of fact, that message in the paper has been puzzling me since it appeared— yesterday morning—and at last I think I see the light." He pulled out his pipe and began rapidly to load it. "I have been growing careless of late, Petrie," he continued; and no hint of merriment remained in his voice. His gaunt face was drawn grimly, and his eyes glittered like steel. "In future I must avoid going out alone at night as much as possible." Inspector Weymouth was staring at Smith in a puzzled way; and certainly I was every whit as mystified as he. "I am disposed to believe," said my friend, in his rapid, incisive way, "that the dacoit met his end at the hands of a tall man, possibly dark and almost certainly clean-shaven. If this missing personage wears, on chilly nights, a long tweed traveling coat and affects soft gray hats of the Stetson pattern, I shall not be surprised." Weymouth stared at me in frank bewilderment. "By the way, Inspector," added Smith, a sudden gleam of inspiration entering his keen eyes—"did I not see that the s.s.Andaman arrived recently?" "The Oriental Navigation Company's boat?" inquired Weymouth in a hopeless tone. "Yes. She docked yesterday evening." "If Jack Forsyth is still chief officer, I shall look him up," declared Smith. "You recall his brother, Petrie?" "Naturally; since he was done to death in my presence," I replied; for the words awoke memories of one of Dr. Fu-Manchu's most ghastly crimes, always associated in my mind with the cry of a night-hawk. "The divine afflatus should never be neglected," announced Nayland Smith didactically, "wild though its promptings may seem." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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