Read Online The Mask of Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sax Rohmer
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stand there, just where you are sitting. They awakened immediately and in turn awakened him. He must have realised what was afoot, and he sprang straight for the box. It was his first and only thought—for already he was under the influence of the drug. The Negro knifed him from behind.”
He pointed to a narrow-bladed knife which lay upon a small table.
“He came provided for a similar emergency tonight... That unhappy mystery, I think, is solved.”
“I cannot doubt it,” the Persian admitted. “But the strength of this material,” touching a piece of the slender yellow-gray line, “is amazing. What is it?”
“It’s silkworm gut,” Sir Lionel shouted. “I recognized it at once. It’s the strongest animal substance known. It’s strong enough to land a shark, if he’s played properly.”
“I don’t agree with you, Barton,” Nayland Smith said quietly. “It certainly resembles silkworm gut, but it is infinitely stronger.”
Before the chief could reply:
“A very singular business. Sir Lionel,” the suave official murmured. “But I am happy to leam that no Persian subject is concerned in this murderous affair.”
There was a pause, and then:
“A fourth man was concerned,” said Nayland Smith, speaking unusually slowly. “He, as well as the Negro whom I wounded, has managed to get away. Probably there are exits from the mosque with which I am unacquainted?”
“You suggest that the fourth man concerned was one of our subjects?”
“I suggest nothing. I merely state that there was a fourth man. He was concealed in a window of the mosque.”
“Probably another of these Negroes—who are of a type quite unfamiliar to me…”
“They are Ogboni!” shouted the chief. “They come from a district of the Slave Coast I know well! They’re members of a secret Voodoo society. You should read my book The Sorcerers of Dahomey . I spent a year in their territory. When I saw that bull roarer there—” he pointed to the frontal bone with the twine attached, which also lay upon the small table—“it gave me the clue. I knew that these West African negroes were Ogboni. They’re active as cats and every bit as murderous. But I agree with Smith, that they were working under somebody else’s direction.”
The Persian official, a dignified and handsome man of forty-odd, wearing well tailored European clothes, raised his heavy brows and smiled slightly.
“Are you suggesting. Sir Lionel,” he asked, “that the religious trouble, which I fear you have brought about, is at the bottom of this?”
“I am,” the chief replied, glaring at him truculently.
“It’s beyond doubt,” said Nayland Smith. “The aim of the whole conspiracy was to gain possession of the green box.”
The Persian continued to smile.
“And in this aim it would seem that the conspirators have been successful.”
“They certainly managed to smuggle the box out of the mosque,” Nayland Smith admitted grimly, “although one of the pair was wounded, as I know for a fact.”
Our visitor stood up.
“Some sort of rough justice has been done,” he said. “The actual assassin of your poor friend Dr. Van Berg has met his deserts, as has his most active accomplice. The green box, I believe, contained valuable records of your recent inquiries in Khorassan…”
His very intonation told me unmistakably that he believed nothing of the kind…
“I feel, Sir Lionel, that this may represent a serious loss to Oriental students—nor can I imagine of what use these—records can be to those who have resorted to such dreadful measures to secure them.”
The chief clapped his hands, and Ali Mahmoud came in. The Persian official stooped and kissed Rima’s fingers, shook hands with the rest of us, and went out. There was silence for a few moments, and then:
“You know, Barton,” said Nayland Smith, pacing up and down rapidly, “Ispahan, though quite civilised, is rather off the map; and frankly—local feeling is against you.
He pointed to a narrow-bladed knife which lay upon a small table.
“He came provided for a similar emergency tonight... That unhappy mystery, I think, is solved.”
“I cannot doubt it,” the Persian admitted. “But the strength of this material,” touching a piece of the slender yellow-gray line, “is amazing. What is it?”
“It’s silkworm gut,” Sir Lionel shouted. “I recognized it at once. It’s the strongest animal substance known. It’s strong enough to land a shark, if he’s played properly.”
“I don’t agree with you, Barton,” Nayland Smith said quietly. “It certainly resembles silkworm gut, but it is infinitely stronger.”
Before the chief could reply:
“A very singular business. Sir Lionel,” the suave official murmured. “But I am happy to leam that no Persian subject is concerned in this murderous affair.”
There was a pause, and then:
“A fourth man was concerned,” said Nayland Smith, speaking unusually slowly. “He, as well as the Negro whom I wounded, has managed to get away. Probably there are exits from the mosque with which I am unacquainted?”
“You suggest that the fourth man concerned was one of our subjects?”
“I suggest nothing. I merely state that there was a fourth man. He was concealed in a window of the mosque.”
“Probably another of these Negroes—who are of a type quite unfamiliar to me…”
“They are Ogboni!” shouted the chief. “They come from a district of the Slave Coast I know well! They’re members of a secret Voodoo society. You should read my book The Sorcerers of Dahomey . I spent a year in their territory. When I saw that bull roarer there—” he pointed to the frontal bone with the twine attached, which also lay upon the small table—“it gave me the clue. I knew that these West African negroes were Ogboni. They’re active as cats and every bit as murderous. But I agree with Smith, that they were working under somebody else’s direction.”
The Persian official, a dignified and handsome man of forty-odd, wearing well tailored European clothes, raised his heavy brows and smiled slightly.
“Are you suggesting. Sir Lionel,” he asked, “that the religious trouble, which I fear you have brought about, is at the bottom of this?”
“I am,” the chief replied, glaring at him truculently.
“It’s beyond doubt,” said Nayland Smith. “The aim of the whole conspiracy was to gain possession of the green box.”
The Persian continued to smile.
“And in this aim it would seem that the conspirators have been successful.”
“They certainly managed to smuggle the box out of the mosque,” Nayland Smith admitted grimly, “although one of the pair was wounded, as I know for a fact.”
Our visitor stood up.
“Some sort of rough justice has been done,” he said. “The actual assassin of your poor friend Dr. Van Berg has met his deserts, as has his most active accomplice. The green box, I believe, contained valuable records of your recent inquiries in Khorassan…”
His very intonation told me unmistakably that he believed nothing of the kind…
“I feel, Sir Lionel, that this may represent a serious loss to Oriental students—nor can I imagine of what use these—records can be to those who have resorted to such dreadful measures to secure them.”
The chief clapped his hands, and Ali Mahmoud came in. The Persian official stooped and kissed Rima’s fingers, shook hands with the rest of us, and went out. There was silence for a few moments, and then:
“You know, Barton,” said Nayland Smith, pacing up and down rapidly, “Ispahan, though quite civilised, is rather off the map; and frankly—local feeling is against you.
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