Free The Perils of Sherlock Holmes by Loren D. Estleman Page B

common. Vexed though he might have been by my little theft, I’m convinced that Dr. Watson would not stoop so far as to kidnap me and threaten my life.”
    “Good Lord!” I exclaimed. In my foolish complacency I had formed the fancy that such incidents had been left behind with the dead century.
    Holmes’s guest proceeded to exhibit his flair for narrative with a colourful but concise account of his recent adventure.
    Whilst strolling the twisting streets of Limehouse in quest of literary inspiration recently, he had been seized and forced into a touring car by two dark-skinned brutes—Bedouins, he thought—in shaggy black beards and ill-fitting European dress, who conveyed him to that selfsame house before which he had first set eyes upon Mr. King. There, in a windowless room decorated only with an ancient Chinese tapestry upon one wall, he was left along with that weird Satanic creature, attired in a plain yellow robe and mandarin’s cap, who interviewed him from behind a homely oak desk, enquiring about the source of his novel. In precise, unaccented English, Mr. King expressed particular interest in the character of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the wicked Chinese ascetic bent upon world domination by the East.
    “He is a creature of my imagination,” Rohmer had insisted; for he intuited that to profess otherwise would seal his doom.
    “Pray do not insult me,” Mr. King replied evenly. “I am a law-abiding British resident. Import-export is my trade, and I have no wish to conquer this troubled planet. Beyond these things, your description of me is accurate in every detail. Was it your purpose to malign my character?”
    “It was not.”
    “And yet I find myself incapable of doing business with gentlemen who placed absolute faith in my integrity before your canard appeared. If the situation continues I shall face ruin.”
    “I sympathise. However, I am not responsible for your sour fortune.”
    “Will you withdraw the book from circulation?”
    “I shan’t. I am informed its sales are increasing.”
    Mr. King stroked his great brow.
    “May I at least extract your word of honour that this ogre who resembles me will not be seen again once the novel is no longer in print?”
    “You may not. I am writing a sequel.”
    “I could bring suit, of course. However, the courts take too long, and in the meantime I shall have no source of income. Shall I threaten you?”
    “I rather wish you would. This conversation has become tedious.”
    At this point in Rohmer’s account I laughed despite myself. Here was an Englishman! He continued without acknowledging the interruption.
    Mr. King’s devilish features assumed a saturnine arrangement, he informed us. “I am, as I said, respectful of your laws. This was not always the case. It is difficult for a Chinese to advance himself in business in this society; I was forced to take certain measures, the nature of which I shall not define. I assume you are aware that if you were never to leave this house, your body would never be recovered?”
    Rohmer confided to Holmes and me that he had not been so sanguine as he’d pretended. He knew the house stood before a dock, and that many a weighted corpse lay on the bottom of the Thames with little hope of recovery. The thought that his wife should never learn of his true fate very nearly unmanned him. Yet he held his tongue.
    “I shall accept your silence as an affirmative response,” said the Chinese. “However, I am not without reason, and I am in the way of being a sporting man.”
    Hereupon he struck a miniature gong which stood upon the desk. It had scarcely finished reverberating when one of the villains who had abducted Rohmer, now draped in the burnoose and robes of the authentic Bedouin, entered through an opening hidden behind the tapestry, placed a singular object next to the gong, and withdrew.
    “This bowl is said to have belonged to the Emperor Han, who ruled China from 206 until 220 A.D. ,” said Mr. King, lifting the