The Drums of Fu-Manchu (38 page)

“Where on earth are you going?” I demanded.

“We
must
know who that was!” he returned. “It may be unimportant or it may mean everything. I only wish there were a shorter route. And, by Jove! I believe there is. Look!”

He pulled up suddenly, pointing.

A mere goat track it showed, steep and boulder-strewn, but clearly leading in the direction of the prehistoric settlement. And so, perilously, we descended by it and presently approached, from the rear, the hut in which we had discovered the dog.

By mutual instinct we pulled up, and stood still, listening. There was no sound. Then, side by side we circled around the
stone building and peered in…

The body of the dog had disappeared!

* * *

We had lunched at the Quarry Inn. My companion was strangely taciturn.

“This thing is worrying you, Smith,” I said. “And you didn’t come here to worry. After all, the dog may have found some poisonous thing out there on the moor…”

“He did!” Smith snapped viciously. “But he was led to it. Whoever threw his body into the mire—for that is no doubt where it went—is hiding his tracks.” Suddenly, he stood up.

“What now?” said I.

“Over to the cottage.”

* * *

It was about two o’clock, daylight-saving time, when we reached the cottage occupied by the Marsburgs. Mrs. Ugglestone admitted us.

To Smith’s first question—which I admit astonished me: “Any news of the dog?”—Mrs. Ugglestone replied that Miss Marsburg, herself, Mr. Marsburg and Mr. Pine, assisted by men from the local moor farm, had searched all the morning, but nothing had resulted. Miss Marsburg and Mr. Pine had driven into Exeter about twelve o’clock, as the young lady had a lunch appointment there. Mr. Pine was staying the night in Exeter, Miss Marsburg was coming back to dinner. Mr. Marsburg had lunched at home and had gone out only twenty minutes before with his cases and apparatus as usual.

Nayland Smith shrugged his shoulders, thanked the old lady, and we walked down the short path, through the gate and away from the cottage.

He was silent again for a long time.

“You seem disappointed, Smith,” I said.

He glanced at me sharply; and:

“Not disappointed, Petrie,” he said, “but puzzled—very badly puzzled. I’m going to lock myself in my room, with a pint of our host’s excellent beer, my pouch and pipe—and
think
.”

“You didn’t come here to think,” I reminded him.

“Nevertheless, that’s what I’m going to do…”

And so, knowing that no words of mine could move him from this resolution, I found myself with the afternoon on my hands. I wandered about rather aimlessly, surveying the moor from many points and hoping for a glimpse of that shining helmet which rendered the movements of Henry Marsburg conspicuous for miles.

But I never had a glimpse of him. Then, about half past six, ascending the hillside towards the Quarry Inn, I saw a black and red roadster speeding along the road below. The bare arms and bright blue hat of the driver told me that it was Isola Marsburg returning to dinner at the cottage.

Back in the Inn, I found Smith. We dined alone in the little parlor, having an excellent meal. Smith and I sat outside the Inn afterward, smoking our pipes. My reflections presently led me in an obvious direction, and:

“This Mark of the Monkey, Smith,” I said abruptly. “Was this strange form of death confined to the natives?”

“Yes,” he murmured disinterestedly, obviously pursuing another train of thought—“to the natives.”

* * *

Then, as though galvanized, he sprang to his feet and:

“My God!” he cried, “My God!
Now I know
!”

“What do you know?” I asked blankly, rising.

“I know that there was one victim of the Mark of the Monkey who was
not
a native! And I know tonight that a human life is at stake.”

“Whose life?”

He became silent, gripping my shoulders hard… And listening, I heard it—the sound of rapid footsteps, growing ever nearer. Then I thought I detected short, sobbing cries.”

Nayland Smith leaned upon me so heavily that I glanced anxiously at him in the dusk.

“Petrie,” he said, “God forgive me—I’m too late… I’m too late!”

And into the patch of light cast by the open doorway, Isola Marsburg came stumbling!

She was deathly white; her heavy-lidded eyes were wild. She staggered forward and collapsed at out feet…

“Sir Denis,” she whispered. “Sir Denis!” and then clutching at me—“Dr. Petrie… my father… went out today as usual, and… he hasn’t come back…”

By the time that I had revived the poor girl and persuaded her to remain in the motherly care of the good landlady, a barman had been dispatched on a bicycle to Princetown. His instructions were to ring up the hotel in Exeter at which Mr. Pine was staying, speak to Mr. Pine in person, and tell him to return to the cottage immediately. Henry Marsburg’s big car was garaged there, and he could do it within the hour. This, and to advise the police that a man had disappeared upon the moor. Then, with a grimly set face, Nayland Smith set out, and:

“We shall find him at the stone huts beyond the quarry! I told you I was too late!”

We skirted the sheer cliff of the quarry, followed it down to the path bordering the tract of mire. Smith had an electric torch. He
began to search feverishly, right and left. Night insects whirled about the light and presently came a distant rumbling of thunder. We came out of the artificial amphitheater of the quarry without having made any discovery.

Next, the prehistoric huts were examined. Without result. We pressed on.

“Here’s the old mine,” said Smith harshly. “I explored part of it this morning, but not all.”

We pushed on feverishly. Suddenly, by the light of the torch, I saw a cave-like gap in the hillside.

“The main shaft,” said my friend, moving the ray to right and left. “My God!
There he is!
”

At the entrance to this prehistoric burrow Henry Marsburg lay, his gray head huddled on a bed of some kind of fungus—of a vivid purple color! And as the light of Smith’s torch moved farther into the opening, I saw that specimens of the thing grew there—monstrously.

A sort of purple haze lay over the body of the dead man. A glimmering of the truth came to me. These unclean things growing in the tunnel belonged to the genus
Lycoperdon
—the giant puffball which breaks at a touch. Into this place, the dog had burst—and found his death. Marsburg in his enthusiasm had touched one of the things and shared the fate of the dog.

“Good God!” said I, “these things don’t belong to England?”

“They don’t!” My friend’s voice grated harshly. “They belong to Nepal—though they occur sometimes in Burma. Broken by the unwary traveler and their dust inhaled, they evidently produce what is called in those parts The Hanuman Death, or the Mark of the Monkey. Look!”

He stooped, directing the light of his torch upon Marsburg’s face.

On the throat were five small purplish marks!

We were halfway back to the Quarry Inn. Securely tucked away in my pocket was a small amount of the purple dust, wrapped in a handkerchief.

“I have sacrificed the life of a clever and worthy man,” said Nayland Smith, breaking a long, gloomy silence.

“For heaven’s sake,” I replied, “be reasonable! How could you conceivably know that a species of fungus, hitherto not met with in England, had sprung up—no doubt as a result of the tropical heat of the last few weeks—in a suitable location in Devon?”

Nayland Smith made no reply and we tramped along for some time in stolid silence, in fact until the dim lights of the Quarry Inn became visible through the darkness. Then, suddenly:

“If the dog was led up to the quarry,” he began, “it is only reasonable to suppose…”

* * *

He never finished the sentence. He stood still—listening. And presently I heard that which he listened to—the throb of powerful engines on the Exeter road…

“Petrie!” Smith snapped. “You are hot and tired—so am I. Can you run?”

“I can try.”

“Then run!”

With no idea why we ran or where we ran, nevertheless I set out and, Nayland Smith making the pace, we raced over uneven ground to the Marsburg cottage in what I suppose was fairly good time.

It was all in darkness. Mrs. Ugglestone had probably gone to join Isola at the Quarry Inn. The door was closed, but the kitchen window was open.

“Quick!” Smith panted—“in you go!”

I reached up, pushed the window up to its full extent and climbed in onto a kitchen table. Smith following. He scrambled onto the floor beside me.

“Into the front room,” he panted.

We stumbled into the room, Smith flashing the light of his torch upon the floor before us. I could hear, dimly, the approach of the big car, now no more than half a mile distant.

I found myself once more in Henry Marsburg’s extemporized study. Smith flashed his light about rapidly, particularly examining the littered table, and suddenly:

“Ah!” he whispered. “What’s this?”

I looked over his shoulder. The light of the torch rested upon a large-scale map of Dartmoor, partially opened upon the table. A pencil ring was traced around one of the squares to which my friend’s eye had been automatically drawn, since, as I knew, he had a similar map at the Inn.

And within this ring in cramped characters was written: “Entrance to main shaft.”

* * *

Smith shut the light off and we stood in utter darkness.

“Do you understand, Petrie?” he asked. “In that square lies the old mine-working—and the writing isn’t Marsburg’s! Back into the kitchen, quick! Don’t make a sound.”

Together, we stole into the kitchen.

The big car pulled up before the cottage. There came a dead silence.

Followed one of those breathless moments in which I heard the sound of a key inserted in the lock and knew that someone had entered by the front door. There was an interval, the scratching of a
match; then a dim light. The man who had entered had lighted the oil lamp on the table.

Smith, nearer the door, craned forward and looked in. Only by an effort could I obtain a glimpse of the room. I saw enough. Mr. Pine, in evening clothes and wearing a soft gray felt hat, was thrusting the Ordnance map into a pocket of his jacket. Suddenly Smith relaxed; he stepped out into the room.

“One moment. Dr. Gwalia.” he said.

Pine swung around like a man stung by a snake.

“Who the devil are
you
?” he asked coolly. “A burglar?” I made my appearance behind Nayland Smith.

“Hello!” said Pine. “Two of you!”

“Two of us. Dr. Gwalia,” Nayland Smith confirmed grimly.

Pine stared as if puzzled; and then:

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “You are Sir Denis Nayland Smith and this is Dr. Petrie. I’m afraid you rather startled me. You may perhaps explain why you address me as Dr. Gwalia?”

“Your request is very easily complied with,” Nayland Smith replied, “You wore a beard and mustache in those days, but you were known as Dr. Gwalia in Rangoon in 1912. I was assistant commissioner of police at the time, and the death of your wife, a very wealthy woman, came under my notice. She died, Dr. Gwalia—continue to smile if it pleases you—of what was known in India as the Hanuman Death, or the Mark of the Monkey. My department was advised, but was helpless. You left Burma, taking your wife’s fortune with you.”

“Bah! this is madness,” Pine murmured. “I am an American citizen, and my name is John Randolph Pine.”

“The handkerchief, Petrie.” said Smith.

I handed him the tied-up handkerchief which I had been carrying,
and he opened it upon the table before Pine. So opened, it disclosed a little mound of purple dust.

As the Eurasian’s eyes rested upon it, I witnessed such a change in his expression as must have told the truth to the purblind. He glanced towards the door by which he had entered. But Nayland Smith, who had been edging all the time in that direction, now stood squarely in the opening.

In that sudden silence, I heard the patter of footsteps, and Isola Marsburg entered the room.

“John!” she cried. “John! Thank God, you have come back!”

She threw her arms about the man, clung to him.

He kissed her and then set her gently aside, one arm around her shoulders.

“You have surprised our secret, gentlemen,” said he. “The lady you know as Miss Marsburg has been my wife for the past three months.”

Followed a moment of silence which seemed to me vibrant, then:

“Miss Marsburg,” said Nayland Smith, “my job is a very unhappy one. But I must do it.”

He turned his eyes again upon the Eurasian doctor.

“The past comes hack to me,” he went on. “You possess, I believe, an unusual power over reptiles, animals and children. It was suspected that this power extends to women.”

Isola Marsburg watched the speaker dumbly, in a state which I knew to border upon hysteria.

“You left Burma with a moderate fortune and evidently went to the United States. Miss Marsburg is her father’s only heir and this was a prize indeed. I suggest that what has happened tonight was in your mind from the first hour that you entered the service of Henry Marsburg. The accomplishment of your plan was delayed. But the conditions which you found upon Dartmoor during the great heat
which we have experienced in the last two months gave you new hope. I am inclined to think that you have a correspondent in India or in Burma from whom you recently obtained spores of a deadly species of puffball. You cultivated this thing in a suitable spot upon the moor, the continued high temperature favoring your plan. It grew rapidly, fungus fashion. You experimented upon the dog.”

“What?”

The word came as a whisper from the girl. Nayland Smith, ignoring her, went on.

“The poor brute, infected with the poison, ran away. You didn’t discover his body until the following morning. You recognized, then, that the Devon-raised fungus was deadly and consigned the body to the mire. This morning, before leaving the cottage, you advised Mr. Marsburg of an extraordinary discovery you had made in the old mine on the moor, and marked the spot on the map, with a note as to the exact location of the growth. Something disturbed your usual presence of mind—possibly the necessity of preventing Miss Marsburg, your wife, from meeting her father before your departure and learning of the quest on which you had sent him—the quest which ended in his death…”