The Island of Fu-Manchu Read Online Free PDF

door. He had seen it opening!
    A man who wore black-rimmed spectacles was bending over him, a man whose outstanding peculiarity was a bright yellow complexion. From the constable’s description I recognized Dr. Oster. Barton’s coat had been removed, his shirt sleeves rolled up. The yellow Dr. Oster grasped a muscular arm near the biceps and pinched up a pucker of flesh. The agony in those staring eyes turned me cold—murderously cold. The fang of a hypodermic syringe touched Barton’s skin—Smith threw the door open: Dr. Oster looked up.
    To this hour I cannot recall actually pressing the trigger; but I heard the report.
    I saw a tiny bluish mark appear in the middle of that yellow forehead. Dr. Oster glared straight at me through his spectacles, dropping the syringe, and, still glaring, voiceless, fell forward across Barton’s writhing body.

CHAPTER FIVE
ARDATHA
    “ D on’t move, Fu-Manchu! the game’s up this time!”
    Smith leaped into the room, and I was close beside him. The dead man slipped slowly to his knees, still staring glassily straight ahead as if into some black hell suddenly revealed, and soundlessly crumpled up on the floor. One swift glance I gave to Barton, strapped on the long table, then spun about to face Dr. Fu-Manchu.
    But Dr. Fu-Manchu was not there!
    “Good God!”
    Smith, for once, was wholly taken aback; he glared around him, one amazed beyond belief. The room, as I supposed, was a study. The wall right of the door through which we had burst in was covered by bookcases flanking an old oak cabinet having glazed windows behind which I saw specimens of porcelain on shelves. No other door was visible. But, although we had heard Fu-Manchu speaking, Fu-Manchu was not in the room…
    At the moment that Barton began to utter inarticulate sounds. Smith raised his automatic and fired a shot into the china cabinet.
    A crash of glass followed; then, as he ran forward:
    “Release Barton!” he cried. “Quick!”
    I slipped my Colt into my pocket and bent over the table. Smith had wrenched open the glazed door. I heard a further crashing of glass. I tore the bandage from Barton’s mouth. He stared up at me, his florid face purple.
    “Behind the cabinet!” he gasped. “Get him, Smith—the yellow rat is behind the cabinet!”
    As I pulled out a pocket-knife to cut the lashings came a second shot—more crashing.
    “He’s gone this way!” Smith shouted. “Cut Barton loose and follow!”
    As Sir Lionel rose unsteadily and swung his feet clear of the table, something fell to the carpet. It was the hypodermic syringe, the point of which had just touched his skin at the moment that I had fired. Barton rested against the table for a moment, breathing heavily and looking down at the dead man.
    “Good shot, Kerrigan. Thank you,” he said.
    The sound of a third report, more distant, echoed through the house and, turning, I saw that the china cabinet was a camouflaged door. A gap now yawned beyond.
    “I’ll follow, Kerrigan. Find Smith.”
    Good old Barton! I had no choice.
    Stumbling over shattered china, I entered the hidden doorway. A flash of my torch showed me that I stood in a large, unfurnished room. A second door was open, although no glimmer shone beyond. I ran across and out. I found myself back in the lobby, but the lights were all off!
    “Smith!” I cried. “Smith! Where are you?”
    From far behind a sound of crunching footsteps reached me. Barton was coming through. Near by, in the shadows, the grandfather clock ticked solemnly. I stepped to the newel post and moved all the switches which I found there.
    Nothing happened. The current had been cut off from some main control.
    Knowing that the house, only a matter of minutes before, had been occupied by members of the most dangerous criminal group in the world, I stood quite still for a moment, glancing up carpeted stairs. The scent of hyacinths grew overpowering; a foreboding—almost, it seemed, a pre-knowledge of disaster—bore