by Sax Rohmer
“Someone would have to lead this movement,” she suggested. “How could there be followers of a Veiled Prophet if there were no Veiled Prophet?”
“I’m told that up at El Azhar,” Humphreys replied seriously, “they are proclaiming that there is a Veiled Prophet—or, rather, a Masked Prophet. He’s supposed to be moving down through Persia.”
“But it’s simply preposterous!” Rima declared.
“It’s likely to be infernally dangerous,” he returned dryly. “However,” brightening up, “I notice you’re devoid of evening kit, Miss Barton, same as Greville. But as I’m attired with proper respectability, I know of no reason why we shouldn’t dance out here. The band’s just starting again.”
Rima consented with a complete return of gaiety. And as her petite figure moved off beside that of the burly airman, I lighted a cigarette and looked around me. I was glad she had found a partner to distract her thoughts from the depression which lay upon all of us. And, anyway, I’m not much of a dancing man myself at the best of times.
Up under the leaves of the tall palms little coloured electric lamps were set, resembling fiery fruit. Japanese lanterns formed lighted festoons from trunk to trunk. In the moonlight, the water of the central fountain looked like an endless cascade of diamonds. The sky above was blue-black, and the stars larger and brighter than I remembered ever to have seen them.
Crunching of numberless feet I heard on the sanded paths; a constant murmur of voices; peals of laughter rising sometimes above it all—and now the music of a military band.
There were few fancy costumes, and those chiefly of the stock order. But there was a profusion of confetti—which seems to be regarded as indispensable on such occasions, but which I personally look upon as a definite irritant. To shed little disks of coloured paper from one’s clothing, cigarette case, and tobacco pouch wherever one goes for a week after visiting a fete of this kind is a test of good-humour which the Southern races possibly survive better than I do.
I strolled round towards the left of the garden—that part farthest from the band and the dancers—intending to slip into the hotel for a drink before rejoining Rima and Humphreys.
Two or three confetti fiends had pot shots at me, but I did not find their attentions stimulating. In fact, I may as well confess that this more or less artificial gaiety, far from assisting me to banish those evil thoughts which claimed my mind, seemed to focus them more sharply.
Sir Denis and the chief, when I had left them, were still pacing up and down in the latter’s room, arguing hotly; and poor Dr. Petrie was trying to keep the peace. That Sir Lionel had smuggled the Mokanna relics out of Persian territory he did not deny, nor was this by any means the first time he had indulged in similar acts of piracy. Nayland Smith was for lodging them in the vault of the Museum: Sir Lionel declined to allow them out of his possession.
He had a queer look in his deep-set eyes which I knew betokened mischief. Sir Denis knew too, and the knowledge taxed him almost to the limit of endurance, that the chief was keeping something back.
A sudden barrage of confetti made me change my mind about going in. Try how I would, I could not force myself into gala humour, and I walked all around the border of the garden, along a path which seemed to be deserted and only imperfectly lighted.
Practically everybody was on the other side, where the band was playing—either dancing or watching the dancing. The greater number of the guests were in the ballroom, however, preferring jazz and a polished floor to military brass and al fresco discomfort. I had lost my last cigarette under the confetti bombardment, and now, taking out my pipe, I stood still and began to fill it.
Dr. Fu-Manchu!
Nayland Smith believed that agents of Dr. Fu-Manchu had been responsible for the death of Van Berg and for the theft of the green box. This, I reflected, could mean only one thing.
Dr. Fu-Manchu was responsible for the wave of fanaticism sweeping throughout the East, for that singular rumour that a prophet was reborn, which, if Humphreys and Petrie were to be believed, El Azhar already proclaimed.
My pipe filled, I put my hand in my pocket in search of matches, when—a tall, slender figure crossed the path a few yards ahead of me.
My hand came out of my pocket, I took the unlighted pipe from between my teeth, and stared... stared!
The woman, who wore a green, sheath-like dress and gold shoes, had a delicate indolence of carriage, wholly Oriental. About one bare ivory arm, extending from just below the elbow to the wrist, she wore a massive jade bangle in six or seven loops. A golden girdle not unlike a sword belt was about her waist, and a tight green turban on her head.
Her appearance, then, was sufficiently remarkable. But that which crowned the queerness of this slender, graceful figure, was the fact that she wore a small half-mask; and this half-mask was apparently of gold!
That the costume was designed to represent El Mokanna there could be no doubt. This in itself was extraordinary, but might have been explained by that queer wave of native opinion which was being talked about everywhere. It was such an ill-considered jest as would commend itself to a crazy member of the younger set. But there was something else…
Either I had become the victim of an optical delusion, traceable to events of the past few days, or the woman in the gold mask was Fu-Manchu’s daughter!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE MOSQUE OF MUAYYAD
Normally the air would have been growing chilly by now, but on the contrary a sort of oppressive heat seemed to be increasing. As the alluring figure crossed diagonally and disappeared into a side path, I glanced upward.
The change was startling.
Whereas but a few minutes before the stars had been notably bright, now not a star was visible. A dense black cloud hung overhead, and, as the band stopped, I noted a quality of stillness in the atmosphere such as often precedes a storm.
These things, however, I observed almost subconsciously. I was determined to overtake the wearer of the gold mask; I was determined to establish her identity. All those doubts and fears which I had with difficulty kept at bay seemed to swoop down upon me as if from the brooding sky.
An imperfect glimpse only I had had of long, tapering ivory fingers. But I believed there was only one woman in the world who possessed such hands—the woman known as Fah Lo Suee, the fascinating but witch-like daughter of the Chinese doctor.
Slipping my pipe back into my pocket, I stepped forward quickly, turning right, into a narrow path. Owing, I suppose, to the threatening skies, a general exodus from the garden had commenced, and since I was walking away from the hotel and not towards it, I met with no other guests.
I had hesitated only a few seconds before starting in pursuit. Nevertheless, there was no sign of my quarry. I pulled up, peering ahead. A sudden doubt crossed my mind.
Had Fah Lo Suee seen me? And did she hope to slip away unmasked? If so, she had made a false move.
For a glance had shown that, now, she could not possibly avoid me. She had turned left, from the narrow path, and was approaching the railings of the garden at a point where there was a gate.
I chanced to know that this gate was invariably locked…
She had nearly reached it when I began to walk forward again, slowly and confidently. Her movements convinced me even in the semi-darkness that my conjecture had been correct. This was Fu-Manchu’s daughter, beyond any shadow of doubt.
I was not twelve paces behind her when she came to the gate. She stooped, and, although I heard no sound—the gate swung open! I saw her for a moment, a tall, slim silhouette against lights from the other side of the street; then the gate clanged to behind her.
Without even glancing over her shoulder, although I knew she must have heard my approach, she turned left in the direction of Sharia Kamel, still at that leisurely, languid pace.
I ran to the gate—it was locked!
This discovery astounded me.
By what means obtained, I could not even guess, but clearly thi
s strange woman possessed a key of the disused entrance. I contemplated scaling the railings, but realised the difficulty of the operation. There was only one thing for it.
I turned and ran back to the hotel, hoping I might meet no one to whom I should feel called upon to give an explanation of my eccentric conduct.
There came an ominous rumbling, and I saw with annoyance that crowds were pouring in at the entrance. However, I made a rush for it; earned some stinging comments on the part of guests into whom I bumped—dashed across the lobby and out onto the terrace.
A line of cars and taxicabs was drawn up outside. This I had time to note as I went flying down the steps. I turned sharply right. I was only just in time. A wonderfully slender ankle, an arched instep, and a high-heeled golden shoe provided the only clue.
The woman had just entered a car stationed, not outside the terrace of the hotel, but over by the arcade opposite. At the very moment that I heard the clang of its closing door, the car moved off, going in the direction of Esbekiyeh Gardens.
I ran to the end of the rank of waiting cabs and cars, and, grabbing an Egyptian driver who brought up the tail of the procession:
“Look!” I said rapidly in Arabic, and pulled him about, “where I am pointing!”
The hour being no later than ten o’clock, there was still a fair amount of traffic about. But I could see the car, a long, low two-seater, proceeding at no great speed, in the direction of the Continental.
“You see that yellow car? The one that has just reached the corner!”
The man stared as I pointed; and then:
“Yes, I see it.”
“Then follow it! Double fare if you keep it in sight!”
That settled the matter. He sprang to the wheel in a flash. And whilst I half knelt on the seat, looking back, he turned his cab with reckless disregard of oncoming traffic and started off at racing speed...
Other cars were in the way, now, but I could still discern that in which the woman had driven off. I saw it turn left. I bent forward, shouting to the driver.
“They have turned left—did you see?”
“Yes.”
An English policeman shouted angrily as my driver swerved to avoid a pedestrian and drove madly on. But the magic of a double fare infected him like a virus. He took the corner by the Gardens, when we reached it, at breakneck speed, and foreseeing disaster if this continued:
“Take it easy!” I shouted, leaning forward. “I can see them ahead. I don’t want to catch them—only to keep them in sight.”
The man nodded, and our progress became less furious. The atmosphere remained oppressive, but a few stars began to creep out overhead, and I saw ragged borders of the black cloud moving away over the Mokattam Hills. Rumbling of thunder grew more distant.
I could see the car ahead very clearly, now, for indeed we were quite near to it. And I found time to wonder where it could possibly be going.
We were leaving the European city behind and heading for the Oriental. In fact, it began to dawn upon me that Fah Lo Suee was making for the Muski—that artery of the bazaar streets, hives of industry during the day, but desolate as a city of the dead at night.
I was right.
The last trace of native night life left behind us, I saw the yellow car, proceeding in leisurely fashion, head straight into that deserted thoroughfare. My driver followed. We passed a crossways but still carried on, presently to turn right. I saw a mosque ahead, but my brain was so excited that at the moment I failed to identify it. My knowledge of native Cairo is not extensive at the best.
We left the mosque behind, the narrow street being far from straight and I in a constant fever lest we should lose sight of the yellow car. Then, I saw it—just passing another, larger mosque.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Sukkariya,” he replied, slowing down still more and negotiating a right-angle turn.
Empty shops and unlighted houses were all about us. For some time now we had met not a single pedestrian. It was utterly mystifying. Where could the woman possibly be heading for?
“Where does this lead to?”
“Mosque of Muayyad-Bab ez-Zuwela…”
Fah Lo Suee, of course, must have known now that she was pursued, but this I considered to be unavoidable, since in that maze of narrow streets that only a native driver could have negotiated, to lose sight of her for a moment would have meant failure.
Right again went the long, low French car.
“Don’t know the name,” my driver announced nonchalantly.
We turned into the narrowest street we had yet endeavoured to negotiate.
“Pull up!” I ordered sharply.
The place was laden with those indescribable smells which belong to the markets of the East, but nowhere could I see a light, or any evidence of human occupation. Narrow alleys intersected the street—mere black caverns.
Ahead, I saw the yellow car moving away again. But, for the second time that night, I had a glimpse of an arched instep, of a golden shoe.
Fah Lo Suee had alighted from the car, which evidently someone else was driving, and had walked into a narrow alley not twenty yards along.
I jumped out.
“Stay here,” I ordered. “Don’t move, whatever happens, until I come back.”
I set out at the double, pulling up when I gained the entrance to the alley, and peering into its utter blackness. I heard the distant rumbling of thunder. It died away into oppressive silence.
No sound of footsteps reached me, and there was no glimmer of light ahead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DR. FU-MANCHU
I began to grope my way along a dark, unevenly paved passage, but I had taken no more than two steps forward when the folly of my behaviour crashed upon me like a revelation. If the woman who had disappeared somewhere ahead were indeed she whom we had known as Madame Ingomar, what a fool I was to thrust myself into this rat trap!
For a man to experience such terrors in regard to a woman may seem feeble; but from bitter experience I knew something of the weapons at command of Fah Lo Suee. That I might be mistaken about the identity of the gold mask was remotely possible, but no more than remotely so.
In a few fleeting seconds I reviewed the queer episode from the moment when I had seen that green-robed figure in Shepheard’s garden—and I realised with bleak certainty that her behaviour had been directly to one end and to one end only. A trap had been baited... and I had fallen into it like the veriest fool.
I pulled up sharply, stretching out my hands to learn if any obstruction lay ahead. In the heat of the chase I had thrown precaution aside. I realised now, too late, that I was unarmed, alone; no one but the driver of the taxicab had the slightest idea where I had gone.
This same counsel came in the same moment that panic threatened. What else I could have done if the woman were not to escape unmasked was not clear. But to have sent a message to Smith, to Petrie, to the chief, before setting out, seemed, now, a more reasonable course.
And as the things which I had not done presented themselves starkly before me, a wave of that abominable perfume of mimosa which to the end of my days I must associate with the death of poor Van Berg was swept into my face…
It stifled me, engulfed me, struck me dumb. I remember that I tried to cry out, recognising in this awful moment that my only chance was to attract the attention of the Egyptian driver.
But never a sound came, only an increase of darkness, a deadly sickness, and a maddening knowledge that among fools in the land of Egypt I might claim high rank...
My next impression was of acute pain in the left ankle. My head was swimming as though I had recently indulged in a wild debauch, and my eyelids were so heavy that I seemed to experience physical difficulty in raising them.
I did raise them, however, and (a curious circumstance, later to be explained) my brain immediately began to function from the very moment that I had smelled that ghastly perfume.
My first thought, now, ove
rlapped my last before unconsciousness had claimed me. I thought that I lay in that nameless alley somewhere behind the Mosque of Muayyad and that in falling I had twisted my ankle. I expected darkness, but I saw light.
Raising my hands, I rubbed my aching eyes, staring about me dazedly. I was furiously thirsty, but in absolute possession of my senses. I looked down at my ankle, which pained me intensely, and made a discovery so remarkable that it engaged my attention even in the surroundings amid which I found myself.
I was lying on a divan; and about each of my ankles was fastened a single loop of dull, gray-yellow line resembling catgut and no thicker than a violin string. Amazing to relate—there were apparently no knots!
One of these loops was drawn so tightly as to be painful, and a single strand, some twelve inches long, connected the left ankle with the right. I struggled to my feet—and was surprised, since I knew I had been drugged, to find that my muscular reactions were perfectly normal.
Evidently my common sense was subnormal (or I am slow to profit by experience); for, resting one foot firmly on the floor, I kicked forward with the other, fully anticipating that this fragile link would snap.
The result must have been comic; but I had no audience. I kicked myself backward with astonishing velocity, falling among the cushions of the divan, from which I had not moved away!
Fortunately, the tendon escaped serious injury; but this first experiment was also the last. I had, tardily, recognized my bonds to be of that mysterious substance which had figured in our Ispahan adventure. I should not have been more helpless, save that I could shuffle about the room, if iron fetters had confined me.
I lay where I had fallen, gazing about. And I knew, as I had known in the very moment of opening my heavy-lidded eyes, that this was an amazing room in which I found myself.
It was a long, low salon, obviously that of an old Egyptian house, as the woodwork, a large mushrabiyeh window, and the tiling upon part of the wall clearly indicated. There were a few good rugs upon the floor, and light was furnished by several lamps, shaded incongruously in unmistakable Chinese fashion, which swung from the wooden ceiling.