The Island of Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

know more about the case of Schonberg—that was the German’s name. After Schonberg had retired that night, it appears that Kennard Wood became curious about what he was doing. From the end of one balcony to another was not a difficult climb; and with the exercise of a little ingenuity it is easy to peep through a slatted shutter. He crept along. The German’s room was in darkness. He was about to climb back, when he heard a sound like that of someone snapping his fingers!”
    “From inside the room?”
    “Yes. It was repeated several times, but no light was switched on. Kennard Wood returned. Schonberg was found dead in the morning. His door was locked; his shutters were still closed.”
    “What did you do when you heard of this?”
    “I went along at once. I have a pretty strong stomach, but the sight of that heavy Teutonic frame quite drained of blood—ugh! Fortunately for the hotel a number of cases occurred elsewhere, not only in Port au Prince but as far north as Cap Haitien. A story got about amongst the coloured population that it was Voodoo, that someone they call the Queen Mamaloi (a fabulous woman supposed to live in the interior) was impatient for sacrifices. A perfect state of panic developed; no one dared to sleep. My God! to think that the fiend, Fu-Manchu, has brought
that
horror to New York!”
    “But what
is
it, Smith? What
can
it be?”
    “Just another agent of death, Kerrigan. Some unclean thing bred in a tropical swamp—”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHAT HAPPENED IN SUTTON PLACE
    “ I t is more than I can bear, Smith,” I whispered, and turned away, “Although I didn’t know Longton, it is more than I can bear.”
    “Probably painless, Mr. Kerrigan,” said Inspector Hawk. “Cheer up, sir.”
    But there was nothing cheerful in his manner, his appearance, or his voice. He was a tall, angular, gloomy person, depressingly taciturn; and he gave to each of his rare remarks the value of a biblical quotation. Under the harsh light of suspended lamps Longton lay on a stone slab. In life he had been slightly built; had had scanty fair hair and a small blond moustache. There was a sound of dripping water.
    “What have you got to say, doctor?” asked Smith, addressing a stout, red-faced man who beamed amiably through green-rimmed spectacles.
    “A very unusual case.” the police doctor replied breezily. “Very unusual. Observe the irregular rose-coloured spots, the evidences of pernicious, or aplastic, anaemia. A malarial subject, beyond doubt; but the actual cause of death remains obscure.”
    “Quite,” snapped Smith; “most obscure. I am sorry to seem to check your diagnosis, doctor, but James Longton had not suffered from malaria; and a month ago he was freshly-coloured as yourself. Have you heard, by chance, of the minor epidemic which recently appeared in the Canal Zone and later in Haiti?”
    “Some short account was published in the newspapers, but I don’t believe medical circles paid much attention to it. In any case, there can be no parallel here.”
    “I fear I must disagree again: the parallel is exact. I suggest that anaemia, however advanced, could never produce this result. The body is drained like that of a fly after a spider has gorged its fill.” Smith turned abruptly to Inspector Hawk. “The man is nude. How was he found, and where?”
    “Found just as you see,” the gloomy voice replied. “Brought in from West Channel, right below Queensbrough Bridge. Kind of caught up on something; shone in the moonlight and a river patrol made contact. I was once detailed to take care of Mr. Longton: recognized him right away.”
    “How long dead?” Smith asked the doctor.
    “Well,” he replied—and I detected a note of resentment—“if my views are of any value, I should say no more than four hours. Hypnostasis had only just appeared and there is little rigidity.”
    “I agree,” said Smith.
    “Thank you.”
    Some further formalities there were, and then once more we sped