The Hand of Fu Manchu Read Free Page B

doorway, close to my right hand, it
came—a sound of muffled
tapping
, together with that of something
which dragged upon the floor.
    Within my brain the words seemed audibly to form: "The man with
the limp!"
    I sprang to the door; I had my hand upon the drapery ... when a woman
stepped out, barring the way!
    No impression, not even a vague one, did I form of her costume, save
that she wore a green silk shawl, embroidered with raised white
figures of birds, thrown over her head and shoulders and draped in
such fashion that part of her face was concealed. I was transfixed
by the vindictive glare of her eyes, of her huge dark eyes.
    They were ablaze with anger—but it was not this expression within
them which struck me so forcibly as the fact that they were in some
way familiar.
    Motionless, we faced one another. Then—
    "You go away," said the woman—at the same time extending her arms
across the doorway as barriers to my progress.
    Her voice had a husky intonation; her hands and arms, which were bare
and of old ivory hue, were laden with barbaric jewelry, much of it
tawdry silverware of the bazaars. Clearly she was a half-caste of some
kind, probably a Eurasian.
    I hesitated. The sounds of dragging and tapping had ceased. But the
presence of this grotesque Oriental figure only increased my anxiety
to pass the doorway. I looked steadily into the black eyes; they looked
into mine unflinchingly.
    "You go away, please," repeated the woman, raising her right hand and
pointing to the door whereby I had entered. "These private rooms. What
you doing here?"
    Her words, despite her broken English, served to recall to me the fact
that I was, beyond doubt, a trespasser! By what right did I presume to
force my way into other people's apartments?
    "There is some one in there whom I must see," I said, realizing,
however, that my chance of doing so was poor.
    "You see nobody," she snapped back uncompromisingly. "You go away!"
    She took a step towards me, continuing to point to the door. Where had
I previously encountered the glance of those splendid, savage eyes?
    So engaged was I with this taunting, partial memory, and so sure, if
the woman would but uncover her face, of instantly recognizing her,
that still I hesitated. Whereupon, glancing rapidly over her shoulder
into whatever place lay beyond the curtained doorway, she suddenly
stepped back and vanished, drawing the curtains to with an angry jerk.
    I heard her retiring footsteps; then came a loud bang. If her object
in intercepting me had been to cover the slow retreat of some one she
had succeeded.
    Recognizing that I had cut a truly sorry figure in the encounter, I
retraced my steps.
    By what route I ultimately regained the main staircase I have no idea;
for my mind was busy with that taunting memory of the two dark eyes
looking out from the folds of the green embroidered shawl. Where, and
when, had I met their glance before?
    To that problem I sought an answer in vain.
    The message despatched to New Scotland Yard, I found M. Samarkan, long
famous as a
mâitre d' hôtel
in Cairo, and now host of London's
newest and most palatial
khan
. Portly, and wearing a gray imperial,
M. Samarkan had the manners of a courtier, and the smile of a true Greek.
    I told him what was necessary, and no more, desiring him to go to
suite 14a without delay and also without arousing unnecessary
attention. I dropped no hint of foul play, but M. Samarkan expressed
profound (and professional) regret that so distinguished, though
unprofitable, a patron should have selected the New Louvre, thus
early in its history, as the terminus of his career.
    "By the way," I said, "have you Oriental guests with you, at the moment?"
    "No, monsieur," he assured me.
    "Not a certain Oriental lady?" I persisted.
    M. Samarkan slowly shook his head.
    "Possibly monsieur has seen one of the
ayahs?
There are several
Anglo-Indian families resident in the New Louvre at present."
    An
ayah?
It was just possible, of course. Yet