by Sax Rohmer
The adjoining house had been up for sale ever since I could remember. It was unoccupied and plastered all over with auctioneers’ boards—a pathetically frequent sight in Mayfair. And as I passed the iron railing guarding the area of the basement—indeed, had my foot on Sir Lionel’s steps—a voice called me by name...
“Shan!”
The voice came from the basement of the empty house!
It was a woman’s voice; not loud, but appealing. My heart leapt wildly. In tone it was not unlike the voice of Rima!
I turned back, staring down into the darkness below. An illusion, I thought. Yet I could have sworn it was a human voice. And as I stood there looking down:
“Shan!” it came again, more faintly.
It chilled me! It was uncanny—but investigate I must. I looked up and down the street; not a soul was in sight. Then, pushing open the iron gate, I descended the steps to the little sunken forecourt.
There was no repetition of the sound, and it was very dark down there in the area. But I could see that a window of the empty house had been taken out, and it occurred to me that the call had come from someone inside. Standing by the frameless window:
“Who’s there?” I cried.
There was no reply.
Yet I knew that a second time I could not have been mistaken.
Someone had called my name. I must learn the truth. My pipe gripped firmly between my teeth, and, ignoring accumulated dust on the ledge, I climbed over a low sill and dropped into the gloom of the deserted house. I put my hand into my topcoat pocket in search of matches.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“THIS WAS THE ONLY WAY…”
A paralysing grip seized my ankles; my arms were pinioned behind me, and an impalpable something was pressed over my mouth! I experienced a sudden sharp pain in my arm, as though something had seared the flesh. Then… I realised that, struggle as I might, I was helpless—helpless as a child!
That I had walked into a trap laid by common footpads was the thought that flashed across my mind. But the presence of a woman, of a woman who knew my name, promptly banished it. I had walked into a trap—yes! But the identity of the one who had baited that trap suddenly forced itself upon my brain with all the reality of a vision: long, narrow, brilliantly green eyes seemed to be looking into mine out of the darkness...
I was spurred to a great effort for safety. I exerted every nerve and sinew in a violent bid for liberty.
Good heavens! what was it that had me at its mercy! Surely no human hands gripped my ankles; no arms of flesh and blood could hold a struggling, muscular man, immovable!
Yet, so I was held—immovable! My strivings were utterly futile: no sound of quickened breathing, nothing to show that my struggles inconvenienced these unseen captors. No flinching; no perceptible tremor of the hands—if hands they were—that had locked themselves about me.
I swore in an agony of furious impotence. But only a groan escaped from the pad held over my mouth. Then, I stood still— tensed nervously… The crowning strangeness of the thing had suddenly been borne home to me.
Held captive though I was, no attempt had been made on my personal possessions, no word had been spoken! Nothing had moved—nothing breathed. Indeed, although I stood but a few yards from a Mayfair street, there was something, awful in the stillness— something uncanny in the silent strength which held me. Doubts were dispelled; the cold water of nervous fear trickled down my spine. For what is more fearful than utter helplessness in the face of an enemy? I was afraid—grimly, dreadfully afraid.
I felt chilled, too, as though by the near presence of ice. The pad was not pressed so tightly over my mouth as to be stifling, but nevertheless I held my breath, listening. Save for the thumping of my heart, not a sound could I hear.
Then, from afar off, as though from a remote room of the empty house, came a voice—a wonderful and a strange voice, penetrating, sweet, and low; the voice of a woman. Although the speaker seemed to be far away—very far away—the impression was not as that of a loud voice heard in the distance; it was that of a soft, caressing voice which carried clearly every word to my ear, from some other place; almost from some other world.
“You have nothing to fear, Shan,” it said. “No harm shall come to you. This was the only way.”
The voice ceased... and then, I was free!
For several seconds, an unfamiliar numbness, the spell of the hidden speaker, lay upon me. I stood stock still, questioning my sanity. Then natural instincts reasserted themselves. I lashed out right and left, with hand and foot, might and main!
A gashed knuckle was my only reward—caused by a window casement. With fingers far from steady, at last I found the matches, struck one and looked quickly about me. I was alone!
The unsatisfactory light showed a large kitchen, practically stripped; a big, dirty cooking range at one end, torn wall paper, and general odds and ends upon the floor; an old whitewash pail in a corner—my pipe lying at my feet. Absolutely nothing else. I ran to the only door which I could see.
It was locked.
The cupboards!... both were empty!
My fourth match smouldered down to my fingers, and, as a man in a dream, I climbed out again into the well of the area, looking up at dirty vacant windows, plastered over with house agents’ bills.
“What the devil!” I said aloud.
A voice answered from immediately above me.
“Hello, there!”
I turned with a start. It was a policeman—a real substantial constable; the same, I thought, whom I had seen examining shop doors in Bond Street.
“What’s your game, eh?”
He was standing by the iron gate, looking down at me. My first impulse was to tell him the truth. I was conscious of a crying necessity for someone to confide in. Then, the thought of the question which had already flashed through my own mind restrained me: such a tale would be discredited by any, and by every policeman in the force.
“It’s all right, constable,” I said, going up the steps. “I thought I heard a row in this house, so I went in to investigate. But there seems to be no one there.”
The man’s attitude of suspicion relaxed when he had had a good look at me.
“I live next door,” I went on, “and was just about to go in when I heard it.”
“What sort of a row, sir?”
“Don’t know exactly,” I replied—“scuffling sounds.”
The officer looked surprised.
“Can’t be rats, can it?” he mused. “Been inside?”
“I looked in through that broken kitchen window.”
“Nobody there?”
“No, nobody.”
“Think I’ll take a look round.”
He went down the steps, shot a light into the broken window, and finally climbed over, as I had done. He examined the kitchen, trying the door which I knew to be locked; then:
“Must have been mistaken, sir,” he said; “the place has been empty for years. But I believe it’s been sold recently and is going to be converted into flats.”
He walked up the steps and approached the front entrance, directing his light through the glass panels into an empty hallway, at the same time ringing the bell, though with what idea I was unable to conjecture.
“Nobody here,” he concluded. “Nothing to make it worth anybody’s while, is there?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” I agreed; and, entirely contrary to regulations, slipped a ten-shilling note into his hand. “Sorry I have been unable to find you a case, though.”
“Right-ho!” the constable grinned; “better luck next time. Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight,” I said, taking out my key and opening Sir Lionel’s door.
As I hung up my hat and coat I stood in the lobby trying to get my ideas into some kind of order. What, exactly, had happened?
Had I fallen victim to a delusion?—was my brain slightly out of gear? And if so, where had delusion ceased and actuality commenced? I had spoken to the constable; this was
beyond dispute. But had I ever heard that strange voice? Had I ever been gripped as in a vice and listened to those words? And if I had, what did it all mean? Who could profit by it?
If, as I suspected—and the suspicion was abominable—we had blown the trumpet of triumph too soon, why should Fu-Manchu, or anyone associated with him, stoop to a meaningless practical joke?
I stared about the lobby with its curious decorations, and up the fine old staircase to where a row of Saracen armour stood on guard. The servants had long since retired, and there was not a sound to be heard in the house. Pushing open the dining-room door, I turned up one of the lights.
There was cold supper on the buffet, which Betts invariably placed there. I helped myself to a stiff whisky and soda, extinguished the light, and went upstairs.
Needless to say that I was badly shaken, mystified, utterly astounded. Aimlessly I opened the door of the Museum Room, turning up all the lamps.
Walking in, I dropped into one of the big settees, took a cigarette from a box which lay there, lighting it and staring about me. I was surrounded by the finest private collection of its kind in Great Britain. Sir Lionel’s many donations to public institutions contained treasures enough, but here was the cream of a lifetime of research.
Directly facing me where I sat, in a small case which had been stripped for the purpose, were the fifteen gold plates of the New Koran mounted on little wooden easels; the mask above them, and the magnificent Sword of God suspended below. A table with paper, writing material, lenses, and other conveniences, was set not far away, in preparation for the visit of the experts in the morning.
And I sat, dully gazing at all this for fully five minutes—or so I estimated at the time.
As a matter of fact, I may have remained there longer; I have no recollection of going upstairs, but it is certain that I did not fall asleep in the Museum Room. I remember that a welcome drowsiness claimed me as I sat there, and I remember extinguishing my cigarette in an ashtray.
Of my movements from that point onward I retain no memory whatever!
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
MEMORY RETURNS
My next impression was of acute pain in both ankles. My head was swimming as after a wild night, and my eyelids seemed to be weighted with lead. I raised them, however, by what I felt to be a definite muscular effort. And, curious circumstances—very curious indeed, as I came to realise later—my brain immediately began to function from the last waking moment I have recorded; namely, from the moment when, seated in the Museum Room, I began to feel very drowsy.
My first thought now was that I had fallen asleep on the settee in some unnatural position, which might account for the pain in my ankles. I looked about me…
I was certainly lying on a divan, as I had supposed; but my ankles were fastened together by a single strand of that dull, yellowish-gray material resembling catgut, and no thicker than a violin string, which had played a part in the death of poor Dr. Van Berg in Ispahan!
My fragile bonds were fastened so tightly as to be painful, and I struggled to my feet. Wedging one foot firmly against the floor, I kicked forward with the other, supposing that the slender link would snap.
The result was that I kicked myself backwards!
I fell among the cushions of the divan, aware that I had badly strained a tendon. Helpless, bewildered, struggling with some memory ever growing, I lay where I had fallen, looking about me. And this was what I saw:
A long, low salon—that, I thought, of an old Egyptian house; parts of the walls were tiled, and a large mushrabiyeh window formed a recess at one end. there were some rugs upon the floor, and the room was lighted by a number of lamps having shades of a Chinese pattern which swung from the wooden ceiling. The furniture, scanty, was of mixed Arab and Chinese character. There were deep bookcases laden with volumes in most unfamiliar bindings as well as a number of glass cabinets containing most singular objects.
In one was something which at first I took to be a human head, that of a woman. But, focusing my gaze upon it, I realised that it was an unusually perfect mummy head. In another were some small green snakes, alive. I saw a human skeleton; and in a kind of miniature conservatory which occupied the recess formed by the mushrabiyeh window, queer-looking orchids, livid and ugly, were growing.
A definite conviction claimed my mind that I had been in this room before. But—perhaps the most remarkable feature of the experience—it reached my brain in just the same way that such impressions reach us in everyday life. I thought, “This has all happened before.” The only difference was that my prophetic anticipations lasted much longer than is normally the case.
Upon a long, wooden table, resembling a monkish refectory table, lay a number of open volumes among test tubes and other scientific paraphernalia. Standing up, I saw that the table was covered with glass.
Then, turning around, I realised that in many other cabinets hitherto invisible were rows of chemical bottles and apparatus. I was, then, in a room which was at least partly a laboratory; for in one corner I saw a working bench with electrical fittings. There were three doors to the room, of old, bleached teak. They possessed some peculiarity which puzzled me, until I recognized wherein it lay:
These doors had neither latches, handles, nor keyholes. And as I grasped this curious fact, one of them slipped noiselessly open.
And Dr. Fu-Manchu came in…
All who have followed my attempts to record the strange and tragic events which followed upon Sir Lionel Barton’s discovery of the tomb of El Mokanna, will recognise at this point something which I was totally unable to recognise at the time:
I was living again through that hiatus in Cairo; bridging the gap which led to the loss of Rima! That everything in the room, every word spoken by the Chinese doctor, seemed familiar, was natural enough; since I had seen those things and heard those words before.
Again that compelling glance absorbed me. The green, globular lamp upon a silver pedestal was lighted on the long table. And I watched the Chinaman, with long, flexible, bony fingers, examining the progress of some chemical experiment in which he had evidently been engaged at the time of quitting the room.
He spoke to me of this experiment and of others; of the new anaesthetic prepared from mimosa; of the fabrication of spider web—a substance stronger than any known to commerce. He discussed his daughter, Nayland Smith, and Dr. Petrie; and he spoke of the essential oil of a rare orchid found in Burma, which for twenty-five years he had studied in quest of what the old philosophers called the elixir of life.
And I knew, watching him, that he had thrown off the burden of many years, had cheated man’s chiefest enemy—Time.
He went on to criticise the chief, stripping him bare of all his glamour, placing his good qualities in the scale against the colossal egoism of the man. “You love a shell,” he said, “an accomplishment, a genius, if you like, but a phantom, a hollow thing, having no real existence.”
So it went on to the point where I was forced to submit to an injection of that strange new drug in which the Chinese doctor evidently took such pride.
I experienced a sudden and unfamiliar glow throughout my entire body. I became exhilarated; some added clarity of vision came to me. And presently I took my orders from Dr. Fu-Manchu as a keen subaltern takes orders from his colonel.
Exulting in the knowledge that by reason of my association with the great Chinese physician, I was above the trivialities of common humanity, god-like, superior, all-embracing, I set out for Shepheard’s—intent only upon bringing Rima within the fold of this all-powerful genius.
When we pulled up opposite the hotel, and the driver had run across with my note, I knew a fever of impatience—I could scarcely contain myself. But at last I saw her come out, my letter in her hand, saw her run down the steps.
Then, we were together, and my heart was singing with gladness… I was taking her to Dr. Fu-Manchu!
She could not understand; I knew that she could never understand until she had s
tood face to face with that great and wonderful man, as I had done.
And at first I tried to pacify her, holding her very close. She fought with me, and even endeavoured to attract the attention of a British policeman. But at last she lay passive in my arms, watching me. And I grew very uneasy.
I was assailed by odd doubts. We were far out on the road to Gizeh when suddenly the car pulled up. I saw Dr. Fu-Manchu standing beside me.
“You have done well,” he said; “you may rest now…”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
FAH LO SUEE
“Shan, dear, I know you are very sleepy, but it’s getting cold and late, too.”
I stirred lazily, opening my eyes. I was pillowed on a warm shoulder, a bare arm encircling my neck. That silvery voice had awakened me. Along jade earring touched my cheek coldly, and caressing fingers stroked my hair.
Yes! I was with Fah Lo Suee, somewhere on the banks of the Nile. And I was content—utterly, rapturously content.
“Love dreams are bitter-sweet, Shan, because we know we are dreaming…”
I could see a long reach of the river, silver under the moon, dahabeahs moored against the left bank, where groups of palms formed a background for their slender, graceful masts.
“I think someone has been watching, Shan; I am going to drive you back to Shepheard’s now.”
And as she drove, I watched the delicate profile of the driver. She was very beautiful, I thought. How wonderful to have won the love of such a woman. She linked her arms about me and crushed her lips against mine, her long, narrow eyes closed.
In the complete surrender of that embrace I experienced a mad triumph, in which Rima, Nayland Smith, the chief, all, were forgotten.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
IVORY HANDS
I closed my eyes again, pressing my face against that satin pillow. I felt I could have stayed there forever.