The Trail of Fu Manchu

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“Who’s there?”

P.C. Ireland raised his red lantern, staring with smarting eyes through moving wreaths of yellow mist. Visibility was nil. This was the great fog of 1934—the worst in memory.

No one replied—there was no sound.

The constable shook himself, and settled the lantern down at his feet, flapped his arms in an endeavour to restore circulation. This chilliness was not wholly physical. Something funny was going on—something he didn’t like. He stood quite still again, listening.

Three times he had heard that sound resembling nothing so much as the hard breathing of some animal. Quite close to him in the fog—some furtive thing that crept by stealthily. . . . And now, he heard it again.

“Who’s there?” he challenged, snatching up the red lamp.

None answered. The sound ceased—if it had ever existed.

Traffic had been brought to a standstill some hours before; pedestrians there were none. King fog held the city of London in bondage. The silence was appalling. P.C. Ireland felt as though he was enveloped in a wet blanket from head to feet.

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