The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu Read Free Page A

was a big limousine, and
its driver swerved perilously in avoiding Smith and nearly ran into
me. But, the breathless moment past, the car was pulled up, head on
to the railings; and a man in evening clothes was demanding
excitedly what had happened. Smith, a hatless, disheveled figure,
stepped up to the door.
    "My name is Nayland Smith," he said rapidly—"Burmese
Commissioner." He snatched a letter from his pocket and thrust it
into the hands of the bewildered man. "Read that. It is signed by
another Commissioner—the Commissioner of Police."
    With amazement written all over him, the other obeyed.
    "You see," continued my friend, tersely—"it is carte blanche. I
wish to commandeer your car, sir, on a matter of life and
death!".
    The other returned the letter.
    "Allow me to offer it!" he said, descending. "My man will take
your orders. I can finish my journey by cab. I am—"
    But Smith did not wait to learn whom he might be.
    "Quick!" he cried to the stupefied chauffeur—"You passed a car a
minute ago—yonder. Can you overtake it?"
    "I can try, sir, if I don't lose her track."
    Smith leaped in, pulling me after him.
    "Do it!" he snapped. "There are no speed limits for me. Thanks!
Goodnight, sir!"
    We were off! The car swung around and the chase commenced.
    One last glimpse I had of the man we had dispossessed, standing
alone by the roadside, and at ever increasing speed, we leaped away
in the track of Eltham's captors.
    Smith was too highly excited for ordinary conversation, but he
threw out short, staccato remarks.
    "I have followed Fu-Manchu from Hongkong," he jerked. "Lost him
at Suez. He got here a boat ahead of me. Eltham has been
corresponding with some mandarin up-country. Knew that. Came
straight to you. Only got in this evening. He—Fu-Manchu—has been
sent here to get Eltham. My God! and he has him! He will question
him! The interior of China—a seething pot, Petrie! They had to stop
the leakage of information. He is here for that."
    The car pulled up with a jerk that pitched me out of my seat,
and the chauffeur leaped to the road and ran ahead. Smith was out
in a trice, as the man, who had run up to a constable, came racing
back.
    "Jump in, sir—jump in!" he cried, his eyes bright with the lust
of the chase; "they are making for Battersea!"
    And we were off again.
    Through the empty streets we roared on. A place of gasometers
and desolate waste lots slipped behind and we were in a narrow way
where gates of yards and a few lowly houses faced upon a prospect
of high blank wall.
    "Thames on our right," said Smith, peering ahead. "His rathole
is by the river as usual. Hi!"—he grabbed up the
speaking-tube—"Stop! Stop!"
    The limousine swung in to the narrow sidewalk, and pulled up
close by a yard gate. I, too, had seen our quarry—a long, low
bodied car, showing no inside lights. It had turned the next
corner, where a street lamp shone greenly, not a hundred yards
ahead.
    Smith leaped out, and I followed him.
    "That must be a cul de sac," he said, and turned to the
eager-eyed chauffeur. "Run back to that last turning," he ordered,
"and wait there, out of sight. Bring the car up when you hear a
police-whistle."
    The man looked disappointed, but did not question the order. As
he began to back away, Smith grasped me by the arm and drew me
forward.
    "We must get to that corner," he said, "and see where the car
stands, without showing ourselves."

Chapter 3 THE WIRE JACKET
    I suppose we were not more than a dozen paces from the lamp when
we heard the thudding of the motor. The car was backing out!
    It was a desperate moment, for it seemed that we could not fail
to be discovered. Nayland Smith began to look about him,
feverishly, for a hiding-place, a quest in which I seconded with
equal anxiety. And Fate was kind to us—doubly kind as after events
revealed. A wooden gate broke the expanse of wall hard by upon the
right, and, as the result of some recent accident, a ragged gap had
been torn in the panels close to