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    The Devil Doctor
    The Devil Doctor
    The Devil Doctor
    Ebook342 pages4 hours

    The Devil Doctor

    By Sax Rohmer

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    "The Devil Doctor" by Sax Rohmer. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGood Press
    Release dateNov 20, 2019
    ISBN4057664121769
    The Devil Doctor
    Author

    Sax Rohmer

    Sax Rohmer (1883–1959) was a pioneering and prolific author of crime fiction, best known for his series of novels featuring the archetypal evil genius Dr. Fu-Manchu.

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      Book preview

      The Devil Doctor - Sax Rohmer

      Sax Rohmer

      The Devil Doctor

      Published by Good Press, 2022

      goodpress@okpublishing.info

      EAN 4057664121769

      Table of Contents

      CHAPTER I

      A MIDNIGHT SUMMONS

      CHAPTER II

      ELTHAM VANISHES

      CHAPTER III

      THE WIRE JACKET

      CHAPTER IV

      THE CRY OF A NIGHTHAWK

      CHAPTER V

      THE NET

      CHAPTER VI

      UNDER THE ELMS

      CHAPTER VII

      ENTER MR. ABEL SLATTIN

      CHAPTER VIII

      DR. FU-MANCHU STRIKES

      CHAPTER IX

      THE CLIMBER

      CHAPTER X

      THE CLIMBER RETURNS

      CHAPTER XI

      THE WHITE PEACOCK

      CHAPTER XII

      DARK EYES LOOK INTO MINE

      CHAPTER XIII

      THE SACRED ORDER

      CHAPTER XIV

      THE COUGHING HORROR

      CHAPTER XV

      BEWITCHMENT

      CHAPTER XVI

      THE QUESTING HANDS

      CHAPTER XVII

      ONE DAY IN RANGOON

      CHAPTER XVIII

      THE SILVER BUDDHA

      CHAPTER XIX

      DR. FU-MANCHU'S LABORATORY

      CHAPTER XX

      THE CROSSBAR

      CHAPTER XXI

      CRAGMIRE TOWER

      CHAPTER XXII

      THE MULATTO

      CHAPTER XXIII

      A CRY ON THE MOOR

      CHAPTER XXIV

      STORY OF THE GABLES

      CHAPTER XXV

      THE BELLS

      CHAPTER XXVI

      THE FIERY HAND

      CHAPTER XXVII

      THE NIGHT OF THE RAID

      CHAPTER XXVIII

      THE SAMURAI'S SWORD

      CHAPTER XXIX

      THE SIX GATES

      CHAPTER XXX

      THE CALL OF THE EAST

      CHAPTER XXXI

      MY SHADOW LIES UPON YOU

      CHAPTER XXXII

      THE TRAGEDY

      CHAPTER XXXIII

      THE MUMMY

      Uniform with this Volume

      A short Selection only.

      CHAPTER I

      Table of Contents

      A MIDNIGHT SUMMONS

      Table of Contents

      W

      hen did you last hear from Nayland Smith?" asked my visitor.

      I paused, my hand on the siphon, reflecting for a moment.

      Two months ago, I said: he's a poor correspondent and rather soured, I fancy.

      What—a woman or something?

      Some affair of that sort. He's such a reticent beggar, I really know very little about it.

      I placed a whisky and soda before the Rev. J. D. Eltham, also sliding the tobacco jar nearer to his hand. The refined and sensitive face of the clergyman offered no indication to the truculent character of the man. His scanty fair hair, already grey over the temples, was silken and soft-looking: in appearance he was indeed a typical English churchman; but in China he had been known as the fighting missionary, and had fully deserved the title. In fact, this peaceful-looking gentleman had directly brought about the Boxer Risings!

      You know, he said in his clerical voice, but meanwhile stuffing tobacco into an old pipe with fierce energy, I have often wondered, Petrie—I have never left off wondering—

      What?

      That accursed Chinaman! Since the cellar place beneath the site of the burnt-out cottage in Dulwich Village—I have wondered more than ever.

      He lighted his pipe and walked to the hearth to throw the match in the grate.

      You see, he continued, peering across at me in his oddly nervous way—one never knows, does one? If I thought that Dr. Fu-Manchu lived; if I seriously suspected that that stupendous intellect, that wonderful genius, Petrie, er—he hesitated characteristically—survived, I should feel it my duty—

      Well? I said, leaning my elbows on the table and smiling slightly.

      If that Satanic genius were not indeed destroyed, then the peace of the world might be threatened anew at any moment!

      He was becoming excited, shooting out his jaw in the truculent manner I knew, and snapping his fingers to emphasize his words; a man composed of the oddest complexities that ever dwelt beneath a clerical frock.

      He may have got back to China, doctor! he cried, and his eyes had the fighting glint in them. Could you rest in peace if you thought that he lived? Should you not fear for your life every time that a night-call took you out alone? Why, man alive, it is only two years since he was here amongst us, since we were searching every shadow for those awful green eyes! What became of his band of assassins—his stranglers, his dacoits, his damnable poisons and insects and what-not—the army of creatures—

      He paused, taking a drink.

      You—he hesitated diffidently—searched in Egypt with Nayland Smith, did you not?

      I nodded.

      Contradict me if I am wrong, he continued; but my impression is that you were searching for the girl—the girl—Kâramanèh, I think she was called?

      Yes, I replied shortly; but we could find no trace—no trace.

      You—er—were interested?

      More than I knew, I replied, until I realized that I had—lost her.

      I never met Kâramanèh, but from your account, and from others, she was quite unusually—

      She was very beautiful, I said, and stood up, for I was anxious to terminate that phase of the conversation.

      Eltham regarded me sympathetically; he knew something of my search with Nayland Smith for the dark-eyed Eastern girl who had brought romance into my drab life; he knew that I treasured my memories of her as I loathed and abhorred those of the fiendish, brilliant Chinese doctor who had been her master.

      Eltham began to pace up and down the rug, his pipe bubbling furiously; and something in the way he carried his head reminded me momentarily of Nayland Smith. Certainly, between this pink-faced clergyman, with his deceptively mild appearance, and the gaunt, bronzed and steely-eyed Burmese commissioner, there was externally little in common; but it was some little nervous trick in his carriage that conjured up through the smoke-haze one distant summer evening when Smith had paced that very room as Eltham paced it now, when before my startled eyes he had rung up the curtain upon the savage drama in which, though I little suspected it then, Fate had cast me for a leading rôle.

      I wondered if Eltham's thoughts ran parallel with mine. My own were centred upon the unforgettable figure of the murderous Chinaman. These words, exactly as Smith had used them, seemed once again to sound in my ears: Imagine a person, tall, lean and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull and long magnetic eyes of the true cat green. Invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race accumulated in one giant intellect, with all the resources of science, past and present, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the 'Yellow Peril' incarnate in one man.

      This visit of Eltham's no doubt was responsible for my mood; for this singular clergyman had played his part in the drama of two years ago.

      I should like to see Smith again, he said suddenly; it seems a pity that a man like that should be buried in Burma. Burma makes a mess of the best of men, doctor. You said he was not married?

      No, I replied shortly, and is never likely to be, now.

      Ah, you hinted at something of the kind.

      I know very little of it. Nayland Smith is not the kind of man to talk much.

      Quite so—quite so! And, you know, doctor, neither am I; but—he was growing painfully embarrassed—it may be your due—I—er—I have a correspondent, in the interior of China—

      Well? I said, watching him in sudden eagerness.

      Well, I would not desire to raise—vain hopes—nor to occasion, shall I say, empty fears; but—er ... no, doctor! He flushed like a girl. It was wrong of me to open this conversation. Perhaps, when I know more—will you forget my words, for the time?

      The 'phone bell rang.

      Hullo! cried Eltham—hard luck, doctor!—but I could see that he welcomed the interruption. Why! he added, it is one o'clock!

      I went to the telephone.

      Is that Dr. Petrie? inquired a woman's voice.

      Yes; who is speaking?

      Mrs. Hewett has been taken more seriously ill. Could you come at once?

      Certainly, I replied, for Mrs. Hewett was not only a profitable patient but an estimable lady. I shall be with you in a quarter of an hour.

      I hung up the receiver.

      Something urgent? asked Eltham, emptying his pipe.

      Sounds like it. You had better turn in.

      I should much prefer to walk over with you, if it would not be intruding. Our conversation has ill prepared me for sleep.

      Right! I said, for I welcomed his company; and three minutes later we were striding across the deserted common.

      A sort of mist floated amongst the trees, seeming in the moonlight like a veil draped from trunk to trunk, as in silence we passed the Mound Pond, and struck out for the north side of the common.

      I suppose the presence of Eltham and the irritating recollection of his half-confidence were the responsible factors, but my mind persistently dwelt upon the subject of Fu-Manchu and the atrocities which he had committed during his sojourn in England. So actively was my imagination at work that I felt again the menace which so long had hung over me; I felt as though that murderous yellow cloud still cast its shadow upon England. And I found myself longing for the company of Nayland Smith. I cannot state what was the nature of Eltham's reflections, but I can guess; for he was as silent as I.

      It was with a conscious effort that I shook myself out of this morbidly reflective mood, on finding that we had crossed the common and were come to the abode of my patient.

      I shall take a little walk, announced Eltham; for I gather that you don't expect to be detained long? I shall never be out of sight of the door, of course.

      Very well, I replied, and ran up the steps.

      There were no lights to be seen in any of the windows, which circumstance rather surprised me, as my patient occupied, or had occupied when last I had visited her, a first-floor bedroom in the front of the house. My knocking and ringing produced no response for three or four minutes; then, as I persisted, a scantily clothed and half-awake maid-servant unbarred the door and stared at me stupidly in the moonlight.

      Mrs. Hewett requires me? I asked abruptly.

      The girl stared more stupidly than ever.

      No, sir, she said: she don't, sir; she's fast asleep!

      But some one 'phoned me! I insisted, rather irritably, I fear.

      Not from here, sir, declared the now wide-eyed girl. We haven't got a telephone, sir.

      For a few moments I stood there, staring as foolishly as she; then abruptly I turned and descended the steps. At the gate I stood looking up and down the road. The houses were all in darkness. What could be the meaning of the mysterious summons? I had made no mistake respecting the name of my patient; it had been twice repeated over the telephone; yet that the call had not emanated from Mrs. Hewett's house was now palpably evident. Days had been when I should have regarded the episode as preluding some outrage, but to-night I felt more disposed to ascribe it to a silly practical joke.

      Eltham walked up briskly.

      You're in demand to-night, doctor, he said. A young person called for you almost directly you had left your house, and, learning where you were gone, followed you.

      Indeed! I said, a trifle incredulously. There are plenty of other doctors if the case is an urgent one.

      She may have thought it would save time as you were actually up and dressed, explained Eltham; and the house is quite near to here, I understand.

      I looked at him a little blankly. Was this another effort of the unknown jester?

      I have been fooled once, I said. That 'phone call was a hoax—

      But I feel certain, declared Eltham earnestly, that this is genuine! The poor girl was dreadfully agitated; her master has broken his leg and is lying helpless: number 280 Rectory Grove.

      Where is the girl? I asked sharply.

      She ran back directly she had given me her message.

      Was she a servant?

      I should imagine so: French, I think. But she was so wrapped up I had little more than a glimpse of her. I am sorry to hear that some one has played a silly joke on you, but believe me—he was very earnest—this is no jest. The poor girl could scarcely speak for sobs. She mistook me for you, of course.

      Oh! said I grimly; well, I suppose I must go. Broken leg, you said?—and my surgical bag, splints and so forth, are at home!

      My dear Petrie! cried Eltham, in his enthusiastic way, you no doubt can do something to alleviate the poor man's suffering immediately. I will run back to your rooms for the bag and rejoin you at 280 Rectory Grove.

      It's awfully good of you, Eltham—

      He held up his hand.

      The call of suffering humanity, Petrie, is one which I may no more refuse to hear than you.

      I made no further protest after that, for his point of view was evident and his determination adamantine, but told him where he would find the bag and once more set out across the moon-bright common, he pursuing a westerly direction and I going east.

      Some three hundred yards I had gone, I suppose, and my brain had been very active the while, when something occurred to me which placed a new complexion upon this second summons. I thought of the falsity of the first, of the improbability of even the most hardened practical joker practising his wiles at one o'clock in the morning. I thought of our recent conversation; above all I thought of the girl who had delivered the message to Eltham, the girl whom he had described as a French maid—whose personal charm had so completely enlisted his sympathies. Now, to this train of thought came a new one, and, adding it, my suspicion became almost a certainty.

      I remembered (as, knowing the district, I should have remembered before) that there was no number 280 Rectory Grove.

      Pulling up sharply, I stood looking about me. Not a living soul was in sight; not even a policeman. Where the lamps marked the main paths across the common nothing moved; in the shadows about me nothing stirred. But something stirred within me—a warning voice which for long had lain dormant.

      What was afoot?

      A breeze caressed the leaves overhead, breaking the silence with mysterious whisperings. Some portentous truth was seeking for admittance to my brain. I strove to reassure myself, but the sense of impending evil and of mystery became heavier. At last I could combat my strange fears no longer. I turned and began to run towards the south side of the common—towards my rooms—and after Eltham.

      I had hoped to head him off, but came upon no sign of him. An all-night tramcar passed at the moment that I reached the high-road, and as I ran around behind it I saw that my windows were lighted and that there was a light in the hall.

      My key was yet in the lock when my housekeeper opened the door.

      There's a gentleman just come, doctor, she began.

      I thrust past her and raced up the stairs to my study.

      Standing by the writing-table was a tall thin man, his gaunt face brown as a coffee-berry and his steely grey eyes fixed upon me. My heart gave a great leap—and seemed to stand still.

      It was Nayland Smith!

      Smith! I cried. Smith, old man, by God, I'm glad to see you!

      He wrung my hand hard, looking at me with his searching eyes; but there was little enough of gladness in his face. He was altogether greyer than when last I had seen him—greyer and sterner.

      Where is Eltham? I asked.

      Smith started back as though I had struck him.

      Eltham! he whispered—"Eltham! is Eltham here?"

      I left him ten minutes ago on the common.

      Smith dashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand, and his eyes gleamed almost wildly.

      My God, Petrie! he said, "am I fated always to come too late?"

      My dreadful fears in that instant were confirmed. I seemed to feel my legs totter beneath me.

      Smith, you don't mean—

      I do, Petrie! His voice sounded very far away. Fu-Manchu is here; and Eltham, God help him ... is his first victim!

      CHAPTER II

      Table of Contents

      ELTHAM VANISHES

      Table of Contents

      S

      mith went racing down the stairs like a man possessed. Heavy with such a foreboding of calamity as I had not known for two years, I followed him—along the hall and out into the road. The very peace and beauty of the night in some way increased my mental agitation. The sky was lighted almost tropically with such a blaze of stars as I could not recall to have seen since, my futile search concluded, I had left Egypt. The glory of the moonlight yellowed the lamps speckled across the expanse of the common. The night was as still as night can ever be in London. The dimming pulse of a cab or car alone disturbed the quietude.

      With a quick glance to right and left, Smith ran across on to the common, and, leaving the door wide open behind me, I followed. The path which Eltham had pursued terminated almost opposite to my house. One's gaze might follow it, white and empty, for several hundred yards past the pond, and farther, until it became overshadowed and was lost amid a clump of trees.

      I came up with Smith, and side by side we ran on, whilst pantingly I told my tale.

      It was a trick to get you away from him! cried Smith. They meant no doubt to make some attempt at your house, but, as he came out with you, an alternative plan—

      Abreast of the pond, my companion slowed down, and finally stopped.

      Where did you last see Eltham? he asked, rapidly.

      I took his arm, turning him slightly to the right, and pointed across the moon-bathed common.

      You see that clump of bushes on the other side of the road? I said. There's a path to the left of it. I took that path and he took this. We parted at the point where they meet—

      Smith walked right down to the edge of the water and peered about over the surface.

      What he hoped to find there I could not imagine. Whatever it had been he was disappointed, and he turned to me again, frowning perplexedly, and tugging at the lobe of his left ear, an old trick which reminded me of gruesome things we had lived through in the past.

      Come on, he jerked. It may be amongst the trees.

      From the tone of his voice I knew that he was tensed up nervously, and his mood but added to the apprehension of my own.

      "What may be amongst the trees, Smith?" I asked.

      He walked on.

      God knows, Petrie; but I fear—

      Behind us, along the high-road, a tramcar went rocking by, doubtless bearing a few belated workers homeward. The stark incongruity of the thing was appalling. How little those weary toilers, hemmed about with the commonplace, suspected that almost within sight from the car windows, amid prosy benches, iron railings, and unromantic, flickering lamps, two fellow-men moved upon the border of a horror-land!

      Beneath the trees a shadow carpet lay, its edges tropically sharp; and fully ten yards from the first of the group, we two, hatless both, and sharing a common dread, paused for a moment and listened.

      The car had stopped at the farther extremity of the common, and now with a moan that grew to a shriek was rolling on its way again. We stood and listened until silence reclaimed the night. Not a footstep could be heard. Then slowly we walked on. At the edge of the little coppice we stopped again abruptly.

      Smith turned and thrust his pistol into my hand. A white ray of light pierced the shadows; my companion carried an electric torch. But no trace of Eltham was discoverable.

      There had been a heavy shower of rain during the evening, just before sunset, and although the open paths were dry again, under the trees the ground was still moist. Ten yards within the coppice we came upon tracks—the tracks of one running, as the deep imprints of the toes indicated.

      Abruptly the tracks terminated; others, softer, joined them, two sets converging from left and right. There was a confused patch, trailing off to the west; then this became indistinct, and was finally lost, upon the hard ground outside the group.

      For perhaps a minute, or more, we ran about from tree to tree, and from bush to bush, searching like hounds for a scent, and fearful of what we might find. We found nothing; and fully in the moonlight we stood facing one another. The night was profoundly still.

      Nayland Smith stepped back into the shadows, and began slowly to turn his head from left to right, taking in the entire visible expanse of the common. Towards a point where the road bisected it he stared intently. Then, with a bound, he set off!

      Come on, Petrie! he cried. There they are!

      Vaulting a railing he went away over a field like a madman. Recovering from the shock of surprise, I followed him, but he was well ahead of me, and making for some vaguely seen objects moving against the lights of the roadway.

      Another railing was vaulted, and the corner of a second, triangular grass patch crossed at a hot sprint. We were twenty yards from the road when the sound of a starting motor broke the silence. We gained the gravelled footpath only to see the tail-light of the car dwindling to the north!

      Smith leant dizzily against a tree.

      Eltham is in that car! he gasped. Just God! are we to stand here and see him taken away to—?

      He beat his fist upon the tree, in a sort of tragic despair. The nearest cab-rank was no great distance away, but, excluding the possibility of no cab being there, it might, for all practicable purposes, as well have been a mile off.

      The beat of the retreating motor was scarcely audible; the lights might but just be distinguished. Then, coming in an opposite direction, appeared the headlamp of another car, of a car that raced nearer and nearer

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