by Sax Rohmer
“Petrie,” he began in his abrupt fashion, “I am losing confidence in myself.”
“Why?” I asked in surprise.
“I hardly know; but for some occult reason I feel afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Exactly; afraid. There is some deep mystery here that I cannot fathom. In the first place, if they had really meant you to remain ignorant of the place at which the episodes described by you occurred, they would scarcely have dropped you at the end of Portland Place.”
“You mean …?”
“I mean that I don’t believe you were taken to the Chinese Legation at all. Undoubtedly you saw the mandarin Ki-Ming; I recognize him from your description.”
“You have met him, then?”
“No; but I know those who have. He is undoubtedly a very dangerous man, and it is just possible — —”
He hesitated, glancing at me strangely.
“It is just possible,” he continued musingly, “that his presence marks the beginning of the end. Fu-Manchu’s health may be permanently impaired, and Ki-Ming may have superceded him.”
“But, if what you suspect, Smith, be only partly true, with what object was I seized and carried to that singular interview? What was the meaning of the whole solemn farce?”
“Its meaning remains to be discovered,” he answered; “but that the mandarin is amicably disposed I refuse to believe. You may dismiss the idea. In dealing with Ki-Ming we are to all intents and purposes dealing with Fu-Manchu. To me, this man’s presence means one thing: we are about to be subjected to attempts along slightly different lines.”
I was completely puzzled by Smith’s tone.
“You evidently know more of this man, Ki-Ming, than you have yet explained to me,” I said.
Nayland Smith pulled out the blackened briar and began rapidly to load it.
“He is a graduate,” he replied, “of the Lama College, or monastery, of Rache-Churân.
“This does not enlighten me.”
Having got his pipe going well —
“What do you know of animal magnetism?” snapped Smith.
The question seemed so wildly irrelevant that I stared at him in silence for some moments. Then —
“Certain powers sometimes grouped under that head are recognized in every hospital to-day,” I answered shortly.
“Quite so. And the monastery of Rache-Churân is entirely devoted to the study of the subject.”
“Do you mean that that gentle old man — —”
“Petrie, a certain M. Sokoloff, a Russian gentleman whose acquaintance I made in Mandalay, related to me an episode that took place at the house of the mandarin Ki-Ming in Canton. It actually occurrd in the presence of M. Sokoloff, and therefore is worthy of your close attention.
“He had had certain transactions with Ki-Ming, and at their conclusion received an invitation to dine with the mandarin. The entertainment took place in a sort of loggia or open pavilion, immediately in front of which was an ornamental lake, with numerous waterlilies growing upon its surface. One of the servants, I think his name was Li, dropped a silver bowl containing orange-flower water for pouring upon the hands, and some of the contents lightly sprinkled M. Sokoloff’s garments.
“Ki-Ming spoke no word of rebuke, Petrie; he merely looked at Li, with those deceptive, gazelle-like eyes. Li, according to my acquaintance account, began to make palpable and increasingly anxious attempts to look anywhere rather than into the mild eyes of his implacable master. M. Sokoloff, who, up to that moment, had entertained similar views to your own respecting his host, regarded this unmoving stare of Ki-Ming’s as a sort of kindly, because silent, reprimand. The behavior of the unhappy Li very speedily served to disabuse his mind of that delusion.
“Petrie — the man grew livid, his whole body began to twitch and shake as though an ague had attacked him; and his eyes protruded hideously from their sockets! M. Sokoloff assured me that he felt himself turning pale — when Ki-Ming, very slowly, raised his right hand and pointed to the pond.
“Li began to pant as though engaged in a life and death struggle with a physically superior antagonist. He clutched at the posts of the loggia with frenzied hands and a bloody froth came to his lips. He began to move backward, step by step, step by step, all the time striving, with might and main, to prevent himself from doing so! His eyes were set rigidly upon Ki-Ming, like the eyes of a rabbit fascinated by a python. Ki-Ming continued to point.
“Right to the brink of the lake the man retreated, and there, for one dreadful moment, he paused and uttered a sort of groaning sob. Then, clenching his fists frenziedly, he stepped back into the water and immediately sank among the lilies. Ki-Ming continued to gaze fixedly — at the spot where bubbles were rising; and presently up came the livid face of the drowning man, still having those glazed eyes turned, immovably, upon the mandarin. For nearly five seconds that hideous, distorted face gazed from amid the mass of blooms, then it sank again … and rose no more.”
“What!” I cried, “do you mean to tell me — —”
“Ki-Ming struck a gong. Another servant appeared with a fresh bowl of water; and the mandarin calmly resumed his dinner!”
I drew a deep breath and raised my hand to my head.
“It is almost unbelievable,” I said. “But what completely passes my comprehension is his allowing me to depart unscathed, having once held me in his power. Why the long harangue and the pose of friendship?
“That point is not so difficult.”
“What!”
“That does not surprise me in the least. You may recollect that Dr. Fu-Manchu entertains for you an undoubted affection, distinctly Chinese in its character, but nevertheless an affection! There is no intention of assassinating you, Petrie; I am the selected victim.”
I started up.
“Smith! what do you mean? What danger, other than that which has threatened us for over two years, threatens us to-night?”
“Now you come to the point which does puzzle me. I believe I stated awhile ago that I was afraid. You have placed your finger upon the cause of my fear. What threatens us to-night?”
He spoke the words in such a fashion that they seemed physically to chill me. The shadows of the room grew menacing; the very silence became horrible. I longed with a terrible longing for company, for the strength that is in numbers; I would have had the place full to overflowing — for it seemed that we two, condemned by the mysterious organization called the Si-Fan, were at that moment surrounded by the entire arsenal of horrors at the command of Dr. Fu-Manchu. I broke that morbid silence. My voice had assumed an unnatural tone.
“Why do you dread this man, Ki-Ming, so much?”
“Because he must be aware that I know he is in London.”
“Well?”
“Dr. Fu-Manchu has no official status. Long ago, his Legation denied all knowledge of his existence. But the mandarin Ki-Ming is known to every diplomat in Europe, Asia and American almost. Only I, and now yourself, know that he is a high official of the Si-Fan; Ki-Ming is aware that I know. Why, therefore, does he risk his neck in London?”
“He relies upon his national cunning.”
“Petrie, he is aware that I hold evidence to hang him, either here or in China! He relies upon one thing; upon striking first and striking surely. Why is he so confident? I do not know. Therefore I am afraid.”
Again a cold shudder ran icily through me. A piece of coal dropped lower into the dying fire — and my heart leapt wildly. Then, in a flash, I remembered something.
“Smith!” I cried, “the letter! We have not looked at the letter.”
Nayland Smith laid his pipe upon the mantelpiece and smiled grimly. From his pocket he took out square piece of paper, and thrust it close under my eyes.
“I remembered it as I passed your borrowed garment — which bear no maker’s name — on my way to the bedroom for matches,” he said.
The paper was covered with Chinese characters!
“What does it me
an?” I demanded breathlessly.
Smith uttered a short, mirthless laugh.
“It states that an attempt of a particularly dangerous nature is to be made upon my life to-night, and it recommends me to guard the door, and advises that you watch the window overlooking the court, and keep your pistol ready for instant employment.” He stared at me oddly. “How should you act in the circumstances, Petrie?”
“I should strongly distrust such advice. Yet — what else can we do?”
“There are several alternatives, but I prefer to follow the advice of Ki-Ming.”
The clock of St. Paul’s chimed the half-hour: half-past two.
CHAPTER XXIX
LAMA SORCERY
From my post in the chair by the window I could see two sides of the court below; that immediately opposite, with the entrance to some chambers situated there, and that on the right, with the cloisteresque arches beyond which lay a maze of old-world passages and stairs whereby one who knew the tortuous navigation might come ultimately to the Embankment.
It was this side of the court which lay in deepest shadow. By altering my position quite slightly I could command a view of the arched entrance on the left with its pale lamp in an iron bracket above, and of the high blank wall whose otherwise unbroken expanse it interrupted. All was very still; only on occasions the passing of a vehicle along Fleet Street would break the silence.
The nature of the danger that threatened I was wholly unable to surmise. Since, my pistol on the table beside me, I sat on guard at the window, and Smith, also armed, watched the outer door, it was not apparent by what agency the shadowy enemy could hope to come at us.
Something strange I had detected in Nayland Smith’s manner, however, which had induced me to believe that he suspected, if he did not know, what form of menace hung over us in the darkness. One thing in particular was puzzling me extremely: if Smith doubted the good faith of the sender of the message, why had he acted upon it?
Thus my mind worked — in endless and profitless cycles — whilst my eyes were ever searching the shadows below me.
And, as I watched, wondering vaguely why Smith at his post was so silent, presently I became aware of the presence of a slim figure over by the arches on the right. This discovery did not come suddenly, nor did it surprise me; I merely observed without being conscious of any great interest in the matter, that some one was standing in the court below, looking up at me where I sat.
I cannot hope to explain my state of mind at that moment, to render understandable by contrast with the cold fear which had visited me so recently, the utter apathy of my mental attitude. To this day I cannot recapture the mood — and for a very good reason, though one that was not apparent to me at the time.
It was the Eurasian girl Zarmi, who was standing there, looking up at the window! Silently I watched her. Why was I silent? — why did I not warn Smith of the presence of one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s servants? I cannot explain, although later, the strangeness of my behavior may become in some measure understandable.
Zarmi raised her hand, beckoning to me, then stepped back, revealing the presence of a companion, hitherto masked by the dense shadows that lay under the arches. This second watcher moved slowly forward, and I perceived him to be none other than the mandarin Ki-Ming.
This I noted with interest, but with a sort of impersonal interest, as I might have watched the entrance of a character upon the stage of a theater. Despite the feeble light, I could see his benign countenance very clearly; but, far from being excited, a dreamy contentment possessed me; I actually found myself hoping that Smith would not intrude upon my reverie!
What a fascinating pageant it had been — the Fu-Manchu drama — from the moment that I had first set eyes upon the Yellow doctor. Again I seemed to be enacting my part in that scene, two years ago and more, when I had burst into the bare room above Shen-Yan’s opium den and had stood face to face with Dr. Fu-Manchu. He wore a plain yellow robe, its hue almost identical with that of his gaunt, hairless face; his elbows rested upon the dirty table and his pointed chin upon his long, bony hands.
Into those uncanny eyes I stared, those eyes, long, narrow, and slightly oblique, their brilliant, catlike greenness sometimes horribly filmed, like the eyes of some grotesque bird….
Thus it began; and from this point I was carried on, step by step through every episode, great and small. It was such a retrospect as passes through the mind of one drowning.
With a vividness that was terrible yet exquisite, I saw Kâramaneh, my lost love; I saw her first wrapped in a hooded opera-cloak, with her flower-like face and glorious dark eyes raised to me; I saw her in the gauzy Eastern raiment of a slave-girl, and I saw her in the dress of a gipsy.
Through moments sweet and bitter I lived again, through hours of suspense and days of ceaseless watching; through the long months of that first summer when my unhappy love came to me, and on, on, interminably on. For years I lived again beneath that ghastly Yellow cloud. I searched throughout the land of Egypt for Kâramaneh and knew once more the sorrow of losing her. Time ceased to exist for me.
Then, at the end of these strenuous years, I came at last to my meeting with Ki-Ming in the room with the golden door. At this point my visionary adventures took a new turn. I sat again upon the red-covered couch and listened, half stupefied, to the placid speech of the mandarin. Again I came under the spell of his singular personality, and again, closing my eyes, I consented to be led from the room.
But, having crossed the threshold, a sudden awful doubt passed through my mind, arrow-like. The hand that held my arm was bony and clawish; I could detect the presence of incredibly long finger nails — nails long as those of some buried vampire of the black ages!
Choking down a cry of horror, I opened my eyes — heedless of the promise given but a few moments earlier — and looked into the face of my guide.
It was Dr. Fu-Manchu!…
Never, dreaming or waking, have I known a sensation identical with that which now clutched my heart; I thought that it must be death. For ages, untold ages — aeons longer than the world has known — I looked into that still, awful face, into those unnatural green eyes. I jerked my hand free from the Chinaman’s clutch and sprang back.
As I did so, I became miraculously translated from the threshold of the room with the golden door to our chambers in the court adjoining Fleet Street; I came into full possession of my faculties (or believed so at the time); I realized that I had nodded at my post, that I had dreamed a strange dream … but I realized something else. A ghoulish presence was in the room.
Snatching up my pistol from the table I turned. Like some evil jinn of Arabian lore, Dr. Fu-Manchu, surrounded by a slight mist, stood looking at me!
Instantly I raised the pistol, leveled it steadily at the high, dome-like brow — and fired! There could be no possibility of missing at such short range, no possibility whatever … and in the very instant of pulling the trigger the mist cleared, the lineaments of Dr. Fu-Manchu melted magically. This was not the Chinese doctor who stood before me, at whose skull I still was pointing the deadly little weapon, into whose brain I had fired the bullet; it was Nayland Smith!
Ki-Ming, by means of the unholy arts of the Lamas of Rache-Churân, had caused my to murder my best friend!
“Smith!” I whispered huskily— “God forgive me, what have I done? What have I done?”
I stepped forward to support him ere he fell; but utter oblivion closed down upon me, and I knew no more.
* * * * * * * * *
“He will do quite well now.” said a voice that seemed to come from a vast distance. “The effects of the drug will have entirely worn off when he wakes, except that there may be nausea, and possibly muscular pain for a time.”
I opened my eyes; they were throbbing agonizingly. I lay in bed, and beside me stood Murdoch McCabe, the famous toxicological expert from Charing Cross Hospital — and Nayland Smith!
“Ah, that’s better!” cried McCabe cheerily. “Here —
drink this.”
I drank from the glass which he raised to my lips. I was too weak for speech, too weak for wonder. Nayland Smith, his face gray and drawn in the cold light of early morning, watched me anxiously. McCabe in a matter of fact way that acted upon me like a welcome tonic, put several purely medical questions, which at first by dint of a great effort, but, with ever-increasing ease, I answered.
“Yes,” he said musingly at last. “Of course it is all but impossible to speak with certainty, but I am disposed to think that you have been drugged with some preparation of hashish. The most likely is that known in Eastern countries as maagûn or barsh, composed of equal parts of cannabis indica and opium, with hellebore and two other constituents, which vary according to the purpose which the maagûn is intended to serve. This renders the subject particularly open to subjective hallucination, and a pliable instrument in the hands of a hypnotic operator, for instance.”
“You see, old man?” cried Smith eagerly. “You see?”
But I shook my head weakly.
“I shot you,” I said. “It is impossible that I could have missed.”
“Mr. Smith has placed me in possession of the facts,” interrupted McCabe, “and I can outline with reasonable certainty what took place. Of course, it’s all very amazing, utterly fantastic in fact, but I have met with almost parallel cases in Egypt, in India, and elsewhere in the East: never in London, I’ll confess. You see, Dr. Petrie, you were taken into the presence of a very accomplished hypnotist, having been previously prepared by a stiff administration of maagûn. You are doubtless familiar with the remarkable experiments in psycho-therapeutics conducted at the Salpêtrier in Paris, and you will readily understand me when I say that, prior to your recovering consciousness in the presence of the mandarin Ki-Ming, you had received your hypnotic instructions.
“These were to be put into execution either at a certain time (duly impressed upon your drugged mind) or at a given signal….”
“It was a signal,” snapped Smith. “Ki-Ming stood in the court below and looked up at the window,” I objected.