The Trail of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Dr. Petrie walked down the ladder wearing a white raincoat which he had acquired at the house of Mr. Yusaki, and a gray hat of a color and style which he detested.

  Apparently, Mr. Crossland traveled light. A small cabin-trunk and a suitcase lay upon the Customs bench. The cabin-trunk he was requested to open. Ibrahim produced the necessary key, displaying wearing apparel, a toilet case, books and other odds and ends. The two pieces were passed. The porter hired by Ibrahim carried them out towards the dock gates.

  “Be careful, please,” the Egyptian whispered.

  Detective-inspector Gallaho and Sergeant Murphy were standing at the gate!

  Nothing quite corresponding to this had ever occurred in Petrie’s adventurous life. He had joined the ranks of the law breakers!

  He must play his part; so much was at stake. He must deceive his friends, those interested, as he was interested, in apprehending the Chinese physician. If his nerve, or the art of Mr. Yusaki should fail him now—all would be lost!

  The critical gaze of Gallaho was fixed upon him for a moment, then immediately transferred to Ibrahim.

  Petrie passed the detective, forcing himself not to look in his direction. A taxicab was waiting upon which the pieces of baggage were loaded, under the supervision of Ibrahim. Petrie observed with admiration that his own suitcase had already been placed inside.

  He knew now where his course lay, and his amazement rose by leaps and bounds.

  The presence of Gallaho at the dock gates was explained. The police were covering the Crossland flat. The man, when he had left that morning, had naturally been followed. He was regarded as a factor so important in the case that Gallaho had covered in person. Gallaho would be disappointed. The cunning of the group surrounding Dr. Fu-Manchu exceeded anything in Petrie’s experience.

  He glanced at the placid, elderly Egyptian seated beside him, and:

  “How long have you belonged to the Si-Fan?” he asked, speaking in Arabic.

  Ibrahim shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sir,” he replied in the same language, “it is not possible for me to reply to your questions. Silence is my creed.”

  “Very sound,” Petrie murmured, and gave it up.

  His sentiments when he reached Westminster, and was greeted respectfully by the hall porter as Mr. Crossland, were of a kind inexpressible in any language known to man.

  Then, as he stepped out of the elevator—Nayland Smith was standing on the landing!

  Petrie suppressed an exclamation. One piercing stare of those blue-gray eyes had told him that he was recognized.

  But Smith gave no sign, merely bowing and stepping aside as Ibrahim busied himself with the baggage.

  Three minutes later, Dr. Petrie stood in the pseudo-Oriental atmosphere of the Crossland flat, and Ibrahim closed the door behind him.

  “Please wait a moment,”

  The Egyptian walked through the harem-like apartment which opened out of the lobby, and disappeared.

  Petrie had time to wonder if the authoress of the celebrated novels of desert love also was a member of the Si-Fan, or if this must be counted a secret of her husband’s life which she had never shared. He wondered what part this man normally played in their activities, and doubted the nationality of Crossland.

  Surely no man entitled to his name could link himself with a monstrous conspiracy to subject the Western races to domination by the East?

  Above all, to what reward did Crossland look which should make good the loss of his place in the world of decent men?

  “If you will please come this way, sir.”

  Ibrahim, who had carried out the precious suitcase, now returned without it, and stood bowing before Petrie.

  Petrie nodded and followed the Egyptian across that shaded room with its müshrabîyeh windows, and through a doorway beyond, which, in spite of the Oriental camouflage, he recognized to correspond with one in Nayland Smith’s apartment.

  He found himself in a large bedroom.

  The Eastern note persisted. The place, viewed from the doorway, resembled a stage-set designed by one of the more advanced Germans for a scene in Scheherazade. The bed stood upon a dais; its posts were intricately carved and inlaid, and a canopy of cloth of gold overhung its head. A low couch he saw, too, and a long, inlaid table of Damascus work. Upon this table chemical apparatus appeared, striking a strange note in that apartment. He noted that the contents of his suitcase had been added to the other materials upon the table.

  And, in the bed, Dr. Fu-Manchu lay...

  Petrie stared, and stared again, unable to accept the evidence of his own senses.

  Less than two months had elapsed since he had seen the Chinese doctor. In those two months, Fu-Manchu had aged incredibly.

  He was shrunken; his strange, green eyes were buried in his skull; his long hands lying on the silk coverlet resembled the hands of a mummy. The outline of his teeth could be seen beneath drawn lips. To the keen scrutiny of the physician, the truth was apparent.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu was dying!

  “‘O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low?’” came sibilantly through parched lips. “I observe, Dr. Petrie, that this beautiful passage from an otherwise dull play is present in your mind... You honor me.”

  Petrie started, felt his fists clenching. The body of Fu-Manchu was in dissolution, but that phenomenal brain had lost none of its power. The man still retained his uncanny capacity for reading one’s unspoken thoughts.

  “I must harbor what little strength remains to me,” the painful whisper continued. “For your daughter’s health of mind and body, you need have no fear. I was compelled, since there is still work for me if I can do it, to impose a command upon her. It nearly exhausted my powers, which are dwindling minute by minute.”

  The whispering voice ceased.

  Petrie watched that strange face, but no words came to him. In it he had seen, as others had seen, a likeness to the Pharaoh, Seti I—but to the Pharaoh as one imagined him in his prime. Now, the resemblance to the mummy which lies in Cairo was uncanny.

  Ideas which his scientific mind rejected as superstitious, danced mentally before him...

  What was the real age of this man?

  “I have removed the command which I imposed upon her,” the whistling voice continued, “because I have accepted your word, as you have always accepted mine. Your daughter, Dr. Petrie, is restored to you as you would wish her to be. I shall never again intrude upon her life in any way.”

  “Thank you!” said Petrie—and wondered why he spoke so emotionally.

  He was thanking this cold-blooded, murderous criminal for promising to refrain from one of his many crimes! Perhaps the secret of his sentiment lay in the fact that he knew the criminal to be one whose word was inviolable.

  “I have taken these steps—” Fu-Manchu’s voice sank lower— “because with all your great skill, which I respect, your assistance may have come too late.”

  He paused again. Petrie watched him fascinatedly.

  “Sir Denis Nayland Smith has succeeded for the... first time in his life in sequestering me from most of those resources upon which normally... I can draw... In these circumstances I was compelled to forego one... of the periodical treatments upon which my continued... vitality depends... I was then cut off from the material. My present condition is outside my experience... I cannot say if restoration... is possible...”

  Complete resignation sounded in the weak voice.

  “In the absence of Dr. Yamamata... who usually acts for me, but who unfortunately at present is in China... there is no other physician known to me who could possibly... assist—in any way. I shall be obliged, Dr. Petrie, if you will give the whole of your attention to... the written formula which lies... upon the table. Any error would be fatal... Only one portion of the essential oil remains in the phial contained in the... steel casket...”

  He ceased speaking and closed his eyes.

  His hands had never moved; it was like listening to a dead man speaking from
the grave.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  THE CROSSLANDS’ FLAT

  “Detective-inspector Gallaho, sir,” Fey announced.

  It was approaching evening when Gallaho called on Nayland Smith; and, entering the lobby, he wrenched his bowler off, threw it on to a chair and walked into the sitting-room.

  “Hullo, Gallaho!” said Sir Denis. “A devil of a row going on in the corridor?”

  “Yes, sir. The vacant flat has been let—to an Indian Army gentleman, I believe. His stuff is being moved in.”

  “You’ve checked up, I see!”

  “Well—” Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf—“I’ve got a man posted at each of the four exits, and I’ve sized up the workmen from Staple’s depository on the job. Nobody is going to slip out in the confusion—that is, nobody over six feet in height that I don’t know!”

  “Efficient work, Inspector.”

  Gallaho stared, chewing invisible gum.

  “I have come to a certain conclusion, sir,” he declared. “What I do about it depends upon your answer to a question I am going to ask.”

  “What’s the question?” snapped Nayland Smith.

  “It’s just this, sir: who’s in charge of this Fu-Manchu case?”

  “I am.”

  “Good enough. That means I am under your orders, definitely.”

  “Definitely.”

  “That saves me a lot of trouble,” sighed Gallaho, leaning upon the mantelpiece. “Because I have certain theories, and I can’t act upon them without your instructions.”

  He paused, and seemed to be listening.

  “I know what you’re listening for,” said Sir Denis. “But I am very happy to be able to tell you, Gallaho, that Miss Petrie is entirely restored. The nurse installed by Dr. Petrie insists that she shall remain in bed. But there isn’t really the slightest occasion for it. Mr. Sterling and the nurse are with her now. She is completely normal.”

  “That’s an amazing thing,” growled Gallaho.

  Nayland Smith stared past him as if at some very distant object, and then:

  “The powers of the mind are amazing,” he said, quietly. “But this theory of yours, Gallaho?”

  “Well, sir, my theory is this: that slimy old Arab, Ibrahim, went out this morning and I followed him. I took Murphy along in case we had to split up. He went to West India Dock, and went on board a liner in from Jamaica. He came ashore again, with his employer, Mr. Crossland.”

  “I know,” Sir Denis interrupted. “I met them here, as they arrived.”

  “Oh, I see...” Gallaho stared very hard. “Well, in my opinion, there’s something funny about it. You see, sir, I had some inquiries made about Mr. Crossland. His wife’s in New York. That’s certain—I mean the woman who writes the books. But Mr. Crossland himself was last heard of in Madeira.”

  “He might have joined the ship at some port of call.”

  “He might,” Gallaho replied. “In fact, he must have done. But it’s very funny. Except the Egyptian, nobody has come out of that flat since we visited it... I’m wondering who’s still inside—”

  Nayland Smith did not answer for some moments, then: “You mean, Gallaho,” he said, “that you don’t think the man who is now presumably in Mr. Crossland’s flat, is really Mr. Crossland at all?”

  “I suppose I must be mad,” growled Gallaho, almost rubbing his elbow into the mantelpiece. “His passport was obviously in order; he was accepted by the servants downstairs here, and he was met by Ibrahim, who took charge of his baggage. I suppose I must be barmy. But there’s something about it that isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on the weak spot—but I wish I had your authority to barge into Mr. Crossland’s flat. I think I should find something.”

  Nayland Smith walked up and down in silence, but at last: “In my opinion, you are right, Inspector,” he replied. “If my opinion is of any value, I regard you as a man brilliantly equipped for his chosen profession.”

  Detective-inspector Gallaho became definitely embarrassed.

  “You apparently don’t know the meaning of fear, although you have an active imagination. I owe my life to this singular combination, and this, I shall never forget.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “The present Commissioner and myself, do not see eye to eye, but I don’t dispute his brilliance as an organizer. What I mean is this, Gallaho; you have hit the nail on the head.”

  Gallaho, watching the speaker, was chewing assiduously, and now:

  “Am I to understand, sir,” he asked, “that you agree with my view of this case?”

  “I do.”

  “You mean you have reason to suppose, as I have reason to suppose, that the proper course, in the interests of justice, would be to secure powers to examine the flat of Mr. Crossland?”

  “Exactly.”

  There was a further interval of silence. Tramcars rocked upon their way, far below. Some vague hint of activity upon the river reached that high apartment.

  “I take it, sir, you are officially in charge?”

  “I have told you so.”

  “And you don’t wish Mr. Crossland’s apartment to be searched?”

  “Definitely, I forbid the step.”

  “Very good, sir,”

  Gallaho’s eyes strayed in the direction of the door which communicated with the room occupied by Fleurette.

  “You see,” said Nayland Smith, “you are not dealing with a common criminal. You are dealing with the Emperor of Lawbreakers. Dr. Petrie and myself have worked side by side for many years, opposing this man’s monstrous plans. I have never succeeded in bringing him to justice. There are reasons why I can do nothing at the moment—nothing whatever...”

  He fixed his keen eyes upon Inspector Gallaho.

  “I understand, sir. When do I get the O.K.?”

  “When Dr. Petrie rejoins us.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  COMPANION CROSSLAND

  Into the oriental bedroom dusk had crept. Long ago Ibrahim had turned the lamps on.

  Petrie had lost identity: he was merely a physician battling with the most difficult case ever entrusted to him. He sat beside Dr. Fu-Manchu, holding the lean, yellow wrist and registering the pulse; watching the mummy-like face, wondering if he had committed any error, and hoping—yes, hoping—that success would crown his hours of effort!

  Under no obligation whatever, for no man who had ever met him had doubted the word of Fu-Manchu, he was battling to save the life of this monster, this octopus whose tentacles, stretching out from some place in Asia, touched, it seemed, the races of the world. He was cherishing a plague, fanning into life again an intellect so cold, so exact, that the man in whose body it was set could sacrifice his own flesh and blood in the interests of his giant, impersonal projects.

  For one insane moment, the glamor of the Si-Fan swamped common-sense. Petrie found himself questioning his own ideals; challenging standards which he believed to be true. Definitely, the world was awry; perhaps it was possible that this amazing man—for that he was an outstanding genius, none could deny—had a plan to adjust the scheme of things “nearer to the heart’s desire.”

  How could he know?

  Weighed in the balance with the mandarin doctor, he was a negligible quantity. Perhaps the redemption of mankind, the readjustment of poise, could only be brought about by a remorseless, steely intellect such as that of Dr. Fu-Manchu. Perhaps he was a fool to fight against the Si-Fan... Perhaps the Si-Fan was right, and the Western world wrong!

  Night had come, and upon its wings had descended again that demon Fog. Wisps streaked the room...

  And the night wore on—until ghostly spears of dawn broke through the shaded windows.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu suddenly opened his eyes!

  Their brilliant greenness was oddly filmed; a husky whisper reached Petrie’s ears:

  “Success!”

  He had never believed that he could touch without loathing the person of the Chinese physician, but now, again, he t
ested his pulse, and as he did so:

  “You observe the change?” the weak voice continued. “I have challenged Fate, Dr. Petrie, but again I have won. The crisis is past.”

  Petrie stared at him in amazement. Not only his pulse, but his voice, indicated a phenomenal return of vitality.

  “The life property—which is the sum,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu, “revivifies swiftly. You are surprised.”

  The queer film left his eyes. It appeared to the amazed stare of Petrie that the hollows in those yellow cheeks already were filling out...

  “Of the Western physicians whom chance has thrown in my path, I have not yet met your peer. You are a modest man, Dr. Petrie. True healers are rare—but you are one of these. If ever you join me it will be voluntarily. From this day onward you have nothing to fear from any plans I may deem it necessary to undertake.”

  The treatment which Dr. Petrie had administered to Fu-Manchu was one which, personally, he should have described as imbecile. The B.M.A. would have disowned any physician employing such measures. He had been unable to discover any element of sanity, any trace of unity, in the drugs which he had been directed to assemble.

  The queer oil, with its faint violet tinge, was the only element in the strange prescription which he could not identify. Yes; it was magic!— something transcending the knowledge of the Western world!

  Dr. Fu-Manchu was growing younger, hour by hour...

  Petrie watched the miracle; and, in the full light of morning:

  “You are amazed, Dr. Petrie.” The harsh voice was beginning to regain its normal quality. “Any physician of Europe or America would be amazed. Perhaps you do not realize, even yet, that the old herbalists were not all mad. There is an essential oil—you have used it tonight—which contains those properties the alchemists sought. It is the other ingredients, and they are simple, which convert it into that elixir vitae found only once in the Middle Ages.”

  He sat up!

  Petrie started back. Before the Fu-Manchu against whom he had fought for so many years, the vital, powerful Fu-Manchu, he found himself an enemy. He faced a menace which had all but wrecked his own happiness; which yet might wreck the structure of Western society.