The Mystery of Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “You are right, Smith!” I cried. “I hesitated to mention the matter, but I, too, have developed some other sense which warns me of the Doctor’s presence. Although there is not a scrap of confirmatory evidence, I am sure that he has brought about Lord Southery’s death as if I had seen him strike the blow,”

  It was in that torturing frame of mind—chained, helpless, in our ignorance, or by reason of the Chinaman’s supernormal genius—that we lived throughout the ensuing days. My friend began to look like a man consumed by a burning fever. Yet, we could not act.

  In the growing dark of an evening shortly following I stood idly turning over some of the works exposed for sale outside a secondhand bookseller’s in New Oxford Street. One dealing with the secret societies of China struck me as being likely to prove instructive, and I was about to call the shopman when I was startled to feel a hand clutch my arm.

  I turned around rapidly—and was looking into the darkly beautiful eyes of Kâramanèh! She—whom I had seen in so many guises—was dressed in a perfectly fitting walking habit, and had much of her wonderful hair concealed beneath a fashionable hat.

  She glanced about her apprehensively.

  “Quick! Come around the corner. I must speak to you,” she said, her musical voice thrilling with excitement.

  I never was quite master of myself in her presence. He must have been a man of ice who could have been, I think, for her beauty had all the bouquet of rarity; she was a mystery—and mystery adds charm to a woman. Probably she should have been under arrest, but I know I would have risked much to save her from it.

  As we turned into a quiet thoroughfare she stopped and said:

  “I am in distress. You have often asked me to enable you to capture Dr. Fu-Manchu. I am prepared to do so.”

  I could scarcely believe that I heard aright.

  “Your brother—” I began.

  She seized my arm entreatingly, looking into my eyes.

  “You are a doctor,” she said. “I want you to come and see him now.”

  “What! Is he in London?”

  “He is at the house of Dr. Fu-Manchu.”

  “And you would have me—”

  “Accompany me there, yes.”

  Nayland Smith, I doubted not, would have counselled me against trusting my life in the hands of this girl with the pleading eyes. Yet I did so, and with little hesitation; for shortly we were travelling eastward in a closed cab. Kâramanèh was very silent, but always when I turned to her I found her big eyes fixed upon me with an expression in which there was pleading, in which there was sorrow, in which there was something else—something indefinable, yet strangely disturbing. The cabman she had directed to drive to the lower end of the Commercial Road, the neighbourhood of the new docks, and the scene of one of our early adventures with Dr. FuManchu. The mantle of dusk had closed about the squalid activity of the East End streets as we neared our destination. Aliens of every shade of colour were into the glare of the lamps upon the main road about us now, emerging from burrow-like alleys. In the short space of the drive we had passed from the bright world of the West into the dubious underworld of the East.

  I do not know that Kâramanèh moved; but in sympathy, as we neared the abode of the sinister Chinaman, she crept nearer to me, and when the cab was discharged, and together we walked down a narrow turning leading riverward, she clung to me fearfully, hesitated, and even seemed upon the point of turning back. But, on overcoming her fear or repugnance, she led on, through a maze of alleyways and courts, wherein I hopelessly lost my bearings, so that it came home to me how wholly I was in the hands of this girl whose history was so full of shadows, whose real character was so inscrutable, whose beauty, whose charm, truly might mask the cunning of a serpent.

  I spoke to her.

  “S-sh!” She laid her hand upon my arm, enjoining me to silence.

  The high, drab brick wall of what looked like some part of a dock building loomed above us in the darkness, and the indescribable stenches of the Lower Thames were borne to my nostrils through a gloomy, tunnel-like opening, beyond which whispered the river. The muffled clangour of waterside activity was about us. I heard a key grate in a lock, and Kâramanèh drew me into the shadow of an open door, entered, and closed it behind her.

  For the first time I perceived, in contrast to the odours of the court without, the fragrance of the peculiar perfume which now I had come to associate with her. Asbolute darkness was about us, and by this perfume alone I knew that she was near to me, until her hand touched mine, and I was led along an uncarpeted passage and up an uncarpeted stair. A second door was unlocked, and I found myself in an exquisitely furnished room, illuminated by the soft light of a shaded lamp which stood upon a low, inlaid table amidst a perfect ocean of silken cushions, strewn upon a Persian carpet, whose yellow richness was lost in the shadows beyond the circle of light.

  Kâramanèh raised a curtain draped before a doorway, and stood listening intently for a moment.

  The silence was unbroken.

  Then something stirred amid the wilderness of cushions, and two tiny bright eyes looked up at me. Peering closely, I succeeded in distinguishing, crouched in that soft luxuriance, a little ape. It was Dr. Fu-Manchu’s marmoset.

  “This way,” whispered Kâramanèh.

  Never, I thought, was a staid medical man committed to a more unwise enterprise, but so far I had gone, and no consideration of prudence could now be of avail.

  The corridor beyond was thickly carpeted. Following the direction of a faint light which gleamed ahead, it proved to extend as a balcony across one end of a spacious apartment. Together w e stood high up there in the shadows, and looked down upon such a scene as I never could have imagined to exist within many a mile of that district.

  The place below was even more richly appointed than the room into which first we had come. Here, as there, piles of cushions formed splashes of gaudy colour about the floor. Three lamps hung by chains from the ceiling, their light softened by rich silk shades. One wall was almost entirely occupied by glass cases containing chemical apparatus, tubes, retorts, and other less orthodox indications of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s pursuits, whilst close against another lay the most extraordinary object of a sufficiently extraordinary room—a low couch, upon which was extended the motionless form of a boy. In the light of a lamp which hung directly above him his olive face showed an almost startling resemblance to that of Kâramanèh—save that the girl’s colouring was more delicate. He had black, curly hair, which stood out prominently against the white covering upon which he lay, his hands crossed upon his breast.

  Transfixed with astonishment, I stood looking down upon him. The wonders of The Arabian Nights were wonders no longer, for here, in East End London, was a true magician’s palace, lacking not its beautiful slave, lacking not its enchanted prince!

  “It is Azîz, my brother,” said Kâramanèh.

  We passed down a stairway on to the floor of the apartment. Kâramanèh knelt and bent over the boy, stroking his hair and whispering to him lovingly. I, too, bent over him; and I shall never forget the anxiety in the girl’s eyes as she watched me eagerly whilst I made a brief examination.

  Brief, indeed, for even ere I had touched him I knew that the comely shell held no spark of life. But Kâramanèh fondled the cold hands, and spoke softly in that Arabic tongue which long before I had divined must be her native language.

  Then, as I remained silent, she turned and looked at me, read the truth in my eyes, and rose from her knees, stood rigidly upright, and clutched me tremblingly.

  “He is not dead—he is not dead!” she whispered; and shook me as a child might, seeking to arouse me to a proper understanding. “Oh, tell me he is not—”

  “I cannot,” I replied gently; “for indeed he is.”

  “No!” she said, wild-eyed, and raising her hands to her face as though half distraught. “You do not understand—yet you are a doctor. You do not understand—”

  She stopped, moaning to herself
and looking from the handsome face of the boy to me. It was pitiful; it was uncanny. But sorrow for the girl predominated in my mind. Then from somewhere I heard a sound which I had heard before in houses occupied by Dr. FuManchu—that of a muffled gong.

  “Quick!” Kâramanèh had me by the arm. “Up! He has returned!”

  She fled up the stairs to the balcony, I close at her heels. The shadows veiled us, the thick carpet deadened the sound of our tread, or certainly we must have been detected by the man who entered the room we had just quitted.

  It was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  Yellow-robed, immobile, the inhuman green eyes glittering catlike, even, it seemed, before the light struck them, he threaded his way through the archipelago of cushions and bent over the couch of Azîz.

  Kâramanèh dragged me down on to my knees.

  “Watch!”she whispered. “Watch!”

  Dr. Fu-Manchu felt for the pulse of the boy whom a moment since I had pronounced dead, and, stepping to the tall glass case, took out a long-necked flask of chased gold, and from it, into a graduated glass, he poured some drops of an amber liquid wholly unfamiliar to me. I watched him with all my eyes, and noted how high the liquid rose in the measure. He charged a needle-syringe, and, bending again over Azîz, made an injection.

  Then all the wonders I had heard of this man became possible, and with an awe which any other physician who had examined Azîz must have felt, I admitted him a miracle-worker. For as I watched, all but breathless, the dead came to life! The glow of health crept upon the olive cheek—the boy moved—he raised his hands above his head—he sat up, supported by the Chinese doctor!

  Fu-Manchu touched some hidden bell. A hideous yellow man with a scarred face entered, carrying a tray upon which were a bowl containing some steaming fluid, apparently soup, what looked like oaten cakes, and a flask of red wine.

  As the boy, exhibiting no more unusual symptoms than if he had just awakened from a normal sleep, commenced his repast, Kâramanèh drew me gently along the passage into the room which we had first entered. My heart leapt wildly as the marmoset bounded past us to drop hand over hand to the lower apartment in search of its master.

  “You see,” said Kâramanèh, her voice quivering, “he is not dead! But without Fu-Manchu he is dead to me. How can I leave him when he holds the life of Azîz in his hand?”

  “You must get me that flask, or some of its contents,” I directed. “But tell me, how does he produce the appearance of death?”

  “I cannot tell you,” she replied. “I do not know. It is something in the wine. In another hour Azîz will be again as you saw him. But see.” And, opening a little ebony box, she produced a phial half filled with the amber liquid.

  “Good!” I said, and slipped it into my pocket. “When will be the best time to seize Fu-Manchu and to restore your brother?”

  “I will let you know,” she whispered, and, opening the door, pushed me hurriedly from the room. “He is going away tonight to the north; but you must not come tonight. Quick! Quick! Along the passage. He may call me at any moment.”

  So, with the phial in my pocket containing a potent preparation unknown to Western science, and with a last long look into the eyes of Kâramanèh, I passed out into the narrow alley, out from the fragrant perfumes of that mystery house into the place of Thamesside stenches.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  WE GO NORTH

  We must arrange for the house to be raided without delay,” said Smith. “This time we are sure of our ally—”

  “But we must keep our promise to her,” I interrupted.

  “You can look after that, Petrie,” my friend said. “I will devote the whole of my attention to Dr. Fu-Manchu!” he added grimly.

  Up and down the room he paced, gripping the blackened briar between his teeth, so that the muscles stood squarely upon his jaws. The bronze which spoke of the Burmese sun enhanced the brightness of his grey eyes.

  “What have I all along maintained?” he jerked, looking back at me across his shoulder— “that, although Kâramanèh was one of the strongest weapons in the Doctor’s armoury, she was one which some day would be turned against him. That day has dawned.”

  “We must await word from her.”

  “Quite so.”

  He knocked out his pipe on the grate. Then:

  “Have you any idea of the nature of the fluid in the phial?”

  “Not the slightest. And I have none to spare for analytical purposes.”

  Nayland Smith began stuffing mixture into the hot pipe-bowl, and dropping an almost equal quantity on the floor.

  “I cannot rest, Petrie,” he said, “I am itching to get to work. Yet, a false move, and—”

  He lighted his pipe, and stood staring from the window.

  “I shall, of course, take a needle-syringe with me,” I explained. Smith made no reply.

  “If I but knew the composition of the drug which produced the semblance of death,” I continued, “my fame would long survive my ashes.”

  My friend did not turn. But:

  “She said it was something he put in the wine?” he jerked.

  “In the wine, yes.”

  Silence fell. My thoughts reverted to Kâramanèh, whom Dr. FuManchu held in bonds stronger than any slave-chains. For, with Azîz, her brother, suspended between life and death, what could she do save obey the mandates of the cunning Chinaman? What perverted genius was his! If that treasury of obscure wisdom which he, perhaps alone of living men, had rifled, could but be thrown open to the sick and suffering, the name of Dr. Fu-Manchu would rank with the golden ones in the history of healing.

  Nayland Smith suddenly turned, and the expression upon his face amazed me.

  “Look out the next train to L—!” he rapped.

  “To L—? What—?”

  “There’s the Bradshaw. We haven’t a minute to waste.”

  In his voice was the imperative note I knew so well; in his eyes was the light which told of an urgent need for action—a portentous truth suddenly grasped.

  “One in half an hour—the last.”

  “We must catch it.”

  No further word or explanation he vouchsafed, but darted off to dress; for he had spent the afternoon pacing the room, in his dressing-gown, and smoking without intermission.

  Out and to the corner we hurried and leapt into the first taxi upon the rank. Smith enjoined the man to hasten, and we were off—all in that whirl of feverish activity which characterized my friend’s movements in times of important action. He sat glancing impatiently from the window and twitching at the lobe of his ear.

  “I know you will forgive me, old man,” he said, “but there is a little problem which I am trying to work out in my mind. Did you bring the things I mentioned?”

  “Yes.”

  Conversation lapsed, until, just as the cab turned into the station, Smith said:

  “Should you consider Lord Southery to have been the first constructive engineer of his time, Petrie?”

  “Undoubtedly,” I replied.

  “Greater than Von Homber, of Berlin?”

  “Possibly not. But Van Homber has been dead for three years.”

  “Three years, is it?”

  “Roughly.”

  “Ah!”

  We reached the station in time to secure a non-corridor compartment to ourselves, and to allow Smith leisure carefully to inspect the occupants of all the others, from the engine to the guard’s van. He was muffled up to the eyes, and he warned me to keep out of sight in the corner of the compartment. In fact, his behaviour had me bursting with curiosity. The train having started:

  “Don’t imagine, Petrie,” said Smith, “that I am trying to lead you blindfolded in order later to dazzle you with my perspicacity. I am simply afraid that this may be a wild-goose chase. The idea upon which I am acting does not seem to have struck you. I wish it had. The fact would argue in favour of its being sound.”

  “At present I am hopelessly mystified.”

  “We
ll, then, I will not bias you toward my view. But just study the situation, and see if you can arrive at the reason for this sudden journey. I shall be distinctly encouraged if you succeed.”

  But I did not succeed, and since Smith obviously was unwilling to enlighten me, I pressed him no more. The train stopped at Rugby, where he was engaged with the stationmaster in making some mysterious arrangements. At L—, however, their object became plain, for a high-power car was awaiting us, and into this we hurried, and ere the greater number of passengers had reached the platform were being driven off at headlong speed along the moonbathed roads.

  Twenty minutes’ rapid travelling, and a white mansion leapt into the line of sight, standing out vividly against its woody backing.

  “Stradwick Hall,” said Smith, “The home of Lord Southery. We are first—but Dr. Fu-Manchu was on the train.”

  Then the truth dawned upon the gloom of my perplexity.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE VAULT

  “Your extraordinary proposal fills me with horror, Mr. Smith!”

  The sleek little man in the dress suit, who looked like a head waiter (but was the trusted legal adviser of the house of Southery) puffed at his cigar indignantly. Nayland Smith, whose restless pacing had led him to the far end of the library, turned, a remote but virile figure, and looked back to where I stood by the open hearth with the solicitor.

  “I am in your hands, Mr. Henderson,” he said, and advanced upon the latter, his grey eyes ablaze. “Save for the heir, who is abroad on foreign service, you say there is no kin of Lord Southery to consider. The word rests with you. If I am wrong, and you agree to my proposal, there is none whose susceptibilities will suffer—”

  “My own, sir!”

  “If I am right, and you prevent me from acting, you become a murderer, Mr. Henderson.”

  The lawyer started, staring nervously up at Smith, who now towered over him menacingly.

  “Lord Southery was a lonely man,” continued my friend. “If I could have placed my proposition before one of his blood, I do not doubt what my answer had been. Why do you hesitate? Why do you experience this feeling of horror?”