The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu | Page 5

stood talking to a footman. Other
members of the household were moving about, more or less aimlessly,
and the chilly hand of King Fear had touched one and all, for, as they
came and went, they glanced ever over their shoulders, as if each
shadow cloaked a menace, and listened, as it seemed, for some sound
which they dreaded to hear. Smith strode up to the detective and
showed him a card, upon glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said
something in a low voice, and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a
respectful manner.
A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we
followed the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor

lined with pictures and busts, and into a large library. A group of
people were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers
Cleeve, of Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched
upon a couch. Another door communicated with a small study, and
through the opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet.
The uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the
bizarre figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room, and the grim
hub, around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene
that etched itself indelibly on my mind.
As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.
"Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the
immediate cause of death," he said. "Sir Crichton was addicted to
cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with
cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the
facts--if," he added, "we ever arrive at them. A most mysterious case!"
Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in
conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton's body.
The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking-jacket.
He had been of spare but hardy build, with thin, aquiline features,
which now were oddly puffy, as were his clenched hands. I pushed
back his sleeve, and saw the marks of the hypodermic syringe upon his
left arm. Quite mechanically I turned my attention to the right arm. It
was unscarred, but on the back of the hand was a faint red mark, not
unlike the imprint of painted lips. I examined it closely, and even tried
to rub it off, but it evidently was caused by some morbid process of
local inflammation, if it were not a birthmark.
Turning to a pale young man whom I had understood to be Sir
Crichton's private secretary, I drew his attention to this mark, and
inquired if it were constitutional. "It is not, sir," answered Dr. Cleeve,
overhearing my question. "I have already made that inquiry. Does it
suggest anything to your mind? I must confess that it affords me no
assistance."

"Nothing," I replied. "It is most curious."
"Excuse me, Mr. Burboyne," said Smith, now turning to the secretary,
"but Inspector Weymouth will tell you that I act with authority. I
understand that Sir Crichton was--seized with illness in his study?"
"Yes--at half-past ten. I was working here in the library, and he inside,
as was our custom."
"The communicating door was kept closed?"
"Yes, always. It was open for a minute or less about ten-twenty-five,
when a message came for Sir Crichton. I took it in to him, and he then
seemed in his usual health."
"What was the message?"
"I could not say. it was brought by a district messenger, and he placed it
beside him on the table. It is there now, no doubt."
"And at half-past ten?"
"Sir Crichton suddenly burst open the door and threw himself, with a
scream, into the library. I ran to him but he waved me back. His eyes
were glaring horribly. I had just reached his side when he fell, writhing,
upon the floor. He seemed past speech, but as I raised him and laid him
upon the couch, he gasped something that sounded like `The red hand!'
Before I could get to bell or telephone he was dead!"
Mr. Burboyne's voice shook as he spoke the words, and Smith seemed
to find this evidence confusing.
"You do not think he referred to the mark on his own hand?"
"I think not. From the direction of his last glance, I feel sure he referred
to something in the study."
"What did you do? Having summoned the servants, I ran into the study.
But there was absolutely nothing unusual to be seen. The windows

were closed and fastened. He worked with closed windows in the
hottest weather. There is no other door, for the study occupies the end
of a narrow wing, so that no one could possibly have gained access to it,
whilst I was