by Sax Rohmer
The Persian official, a dignified and handsome man of forty-odd, wearing well tailored European clothes, raised his heavy brows and smiled slightly.
“Are you suggesting. Sir Lionel,” he asked, “that the religious trouble, which I fear you have brought about, is at the bottom of this?”
“I am,” the chief replied, glaring at him truculently.
“It’s beyond doubt,” said Nayland Smith. “The aim of the whole conspiracy was to gain possession of the green box.”
The Persian continued to smile.
“And in this aim it would seem that the conspirators have been successful.”
“They certainly managed to smuggle the box out of the mosque,” Nayland Smith admitted grimly, “although one of the pair was wounded, as I know for a fact.”
Our visitor stood up.
“Some sort of rough justice has been done,” he said. “The actual assassin of your poor friend Dr. Van Berg has met his deserts, as has his most active accomplice. The green box, I believe, contained valuable records of your recent inquiries in Khorassan…”
His very intonation told me unmistakably that he believed nothing of the kind…
“I feel, Sir Lionel, that this may represent a serious loss to Oriental students — nor can I imagine of what use these — records can be to those who have resorted to such dreadful measures to secure them.”
The chief clapped his hands, and Ali Mahmoud came in. The Persian official stooped and kissed Rima’s fingers, shook hands with the rest of us, and went out. There was silence for a few moments, and then:
“You know, Barton,” said Nayland Smith, pacing up and down rapidly, “Ispahan, though quite civilised, is rather off the map; and frankly — local feeling is against you. I mean this Mokanna movement is going to play hell in Persia if it goes on. As you started it — you’re not popular.”
“Never have been,” growled the chief; “never expect to be.”
“Not the point,” rapped Smith. “There’s going to be worse to come — when they know.”
A silence followed which I can remember more vividly than many conversations. Rima squeezed my arm and looked up at me in a troubled way. Sir Denis was not a man to panic. But he had made it perfectly clear that he took a grave view of the situation.
Sir Lionel had fenced with the local authorities throughout, knowing that they could have no official information regarding the relics — since, outside our own party (and now Captain Woodville and Stratton Jean), nobody but Amir Khan knew we had found them.
At the cost of one life in our camp and two in their own the enemy had secured the green box... but the green box was empty! I knew now why the chief had been so conscience-stricken by the death of Van Berg; I knew that the relics had never been where we all supposed them to be from the time that we came to Ispahan.
Van Berg had died defending an empty box...
Sir Lionel began to laugh in his boisterous fashion.
“We’ve scored over them. Smith!” he shouted, and shook his clenched fist. They had Van Berg — but we got a pair of the swine tonight! Topping it all — they’ve drawn a blank!”
His laughter ceased, and that wonderful, lined old face settled down again into the truculent mask which was the front Sir Lionel Barton showed to the world.
“It’s a poor triumph,” he added, “to pay for the loss of Van Berg.”
Nayland Smith ceased his promenade at the window and stood with his back to all of us, staring out.
“I don’t know where you’ve hidden the relics, Barton,” he said slowly, “but I may have to ask you to tell me. One thing I do know. This part of the East is no longer healthy for any of us. The second attempt has failed — but the third…”
“What are you suggesting?” Sir Lionel growled; “that I give ’em up? Suppose it came to that. Who am I dealing with?”
Nayland Smith did not turn. But:
“I believe I can tell you,” he answered quietly.
“Then tell me! Don’t throw out hints. Speak up, man!”
At that, Nayland Smith turned and stared at the speaker, remaining silent for some moments. At last:
“I flew here in a two-seater from Basra,” he replied. “There was no other aircraft available in the neighbourhood. I have already made arrangements, however. Imperial Airways have lent us a taxi. You must realise. Barton, the position is serious.”
Something in his manner temporarily silenced the chief; until:
“I do realise it,” he admitted grudgingly. “Some organiser has got hold of this wave of fanaticism which my blowing up of El Mokanna’s tomb started, and he realises — I suppose that’s what you’re driving at? — that production of the actual relics would clinch the matter. Am I right?”
“You are!” said Nayland Smith. “And I must ask you to consider one or two facts. The drug which was used in the case of Van Berg, and again last night, is, I admit, unfamiliar. But the method of employment is not. You see what I mean?”
Rima’s grip on my arm tightened; and:
“Shan,” she said, looking up at me, “it was what happened two years ago in England!”
The chief’s face was a study. Under tufted eyebrows he was positively glaring at Nayland Smith. The latter continued:
“Rima begins to realise what I mean. The device for passing from house to house without employing the usual method of descending to the street is also familiar to me. It was experience, and nothing else, that enabled me to deal with the affair of last night.”
He paused, and I found my mind working feverishly. Then, bringing that odd conversation to a dramatic head, came a husky query from Sir Lionel.
“Good God! Smith!” he said. “He can’t be behind this?”
The emphasis on “he” resolved my final doubt.
“You’re not suggesting, Sir Denis,” I asked, “that we are up against Dr. Fu-Manchu?”
Rima clutched me now convulsively. Once only had she met the stupendous genius, Dr. Fu-Manchu, but the memory of that one interview would remain with her to the end of her days, as it would remain with me.
“If I had had any doubts, Barton,” said Nayland Smith, “your identification of the murderer and his accomplice would have settled them. They belong, you tell me, to a secret society on the Slave Coast.”
He paused, staring hard at Sir Lionel.
“I believe that there is no secret society of this character, however small or remote, which is not affiliated to the organisation known as the Si-Fan. That natives of the Pacific Islands are indirectly controlled by this group, I know for a fact; why not Negroes of West Africa? Consider the matter from another angle. What are natives of the Slave Coast doing in Persia? Who has brought them here?
“They are instruments, Barton, in the hands of a master schemer. For what object they were originally imported, we shall probably never know, but their usefulness in the present case has been proved. There can be no association between this West African society and the survivors of the followers of El Mokanna. These Negroes are in the train of some directing personality.”
It was morning, and the East is early afoot. From a neighbouring market street came sounds of movement and discords human and animal. Suddenly Sir Denis spoke again.
“If any doubt had remained in my mind. Barton, it would have been removed last night. You may recall that just before the first signal came, someone passed slowly along the street below?”
“Yes! I heard him — but I couldn’t see him.”
“I heard him, too!” I cried…
“I both heard him and saw him,” Nayland Smith continued— “from my post on the minaret. Action was impossible — unfortunately — in the circumstances. But the man who walked along the street last night just before the second attempt on the green box… was Dr. Fu-Manchu!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN. ROAD TO CAIRO
Weary though I was of all the East, nevertheless, Cairo represented civilisation. I think I have never felt a greater wave of satisfaction than at th
e moment when, completing the third and longest stage of our flight from Ispahan, we climbed down upon the sands of Egypt.
Dr. Petrie was there to meet us; and the greeting between himself and Sir Denis, while it had all the restraint which characterises our peculiar race, was nevertheless so intimate and affectionate that I turned away and helped Rima down the ladder.
When the chief, last to alight, joined his old friend, I felt that Rima and I had no further part in the affair.
It should have been a happy reunion, but a cloud lay over it — a cloud which I, personally, was helpless to dispel.
Dr. Petrie, no whit changed since last I had seen him, broke away from Sir Denis and the chief and hugged Rima and myself in both arms. The best of men are not wholly unselfish; and part of Petrie’s present happiness was explainable by something which I had overheard as he had grasped Nayland Smith’s hand:
“Thank God, old man! Kara is home in England…”
Mrs. Petrie, the most beautiful woman I have ever met (Rima is not jealous of my opinion), was staying with Petrie’s people in Surrey, where the doctor shortly anticipated joining her.
I was sincerely glad. For the gaunt shadow of Fu-Manchu again had crept over us, and the lovely wife whom Petrie had snatched from that evil genius was in safe keeping beyond the reach of the menace which stretched over us even here.
Nevertheless, this was a momentary hiatus, if no more than momentary. Rima extended her arms, raised her adorable little head, and breathed in the desert air as one inhaling a heavenly perfume.
“Shan,” she said, “I don’t feel a bit safe, yet. But at least we are in Egypt, our Egypt!”
Those words “our Egypt” quickened my pulse. It was in Egypt that I had met her, and in Egypt that I had learned to love her. But above and beyond even this they held a deeper significance. There is something about Egypt which seems to enter the blood of some of us, and to make that old, secret land a sort of super-motherland. I lack the power properly to express what I mean, but over and over again I have found this odd sort of cycle operating — suggesting some mystic affinity with the “gift of the Nile,” which, once recognized, can never be shaken off.
“Our Egypt!” Yes, I appreciated what she meant…
Dr. Petrie had his car waiting, and presently we set out for Cairo. Our pilot, Humphreys, had official routine duties to perform, but arrangements were made for his joining us later.
The chief, with Nayland Smith and Rima, packed themselves in behind, and I sat beside Dr. Petrie in front. Having cleared the outskirts of Heliopolis and got out onto the road to Cairo:
“This last job of yours, Greville,” said Petrie, “in Khorassan, has had its echoes even here.”
“Good heavens! You don’t tell me!”
“I assure you it is so. I hadn’t the faintest idea, until Smith’s first message reached me, that this extraordinary outburst of fanaticism which is stirring up the Moslem population (and has its particular centre at El Azhar) had anything to do with old Barton. Now I know.”
He paused, steering a careful course through those immemorable thoroughfares where East and West mingle. Our pilot had just tricked sunset, and we drove on amid the swift, violet, ever changing dusk; dodging familiar native groups; a donkey-rider now and then — with villas shrinking right and left into the shadows, and dusty palms beginning to assume an appearance of silhouettes against the sky which is the roof of Egypt.
“It may have reached me earlier than it reached the authorities,” Dr. Petrie went on; “I have many native patients. But that the Veiled Prophet is reborn is common news throughout the native quarter!”
“This is damned serious!” said I.
Petrie swept left to avoid a party of three aged Egyptians trudging along the road to Cairo as though automobiles had not been invented.
“When I realised what lay behind it,” Petrie added, “I could only find one redeeming feature — that my wife, thank God! was in England. The centre of the trouble is farther east, but there’s a big reaction here.”
“The centre of the trouble,” rapped Nayland Smith, evidently having overheard some part of our conversation, “is here, in your car, Petrie!”
“What!”
The doctor’s sudden grip on the wheel jerked us from the right to the centre of the road, until he steadied himself; then:
“I don’t know what you mean. Smith,” he added.
“He means the big suitcase which I have with me!” the chief shouted. “It’s under my feet now!”
We were traversing a dark patch at the moment with a crossways ahead of us and a native café on the left. Petrie, a careful driver, had been trying for some time to pass a cart laden with fodder which jogged along obstinately in the middle of the road. Suddenly it was pulled in, and the doctor shot past.
Even as Sir Lionel spoke, and before Petrie could hope to avert the catastrophe, out from the nearer side of this café, supported by two companions, a man (apparently drunk or full of hashish) came lurching. I had a hazy impression that the two supporters had sprung back; then, although Petrie swerved violently and applied brakes, a sickening thud told me that the bumpers had struck him…
A crowd twenty or thirty strong gathered in a twinkling. They were, I noted, exclusively native. Petrie was out first — I behind him — Nayland Smith came next, and then Rima.
Voices were raised in high excitement. Men were gesticulating and shaking clenched fists at us.
“Carry him in,” said Petrie quietly. “I want to look at him. But I think this man is dead…”
On a wooden seat in the café we laid the victim, an elderly Egyptian, very raggedly dressed, who might have been a mendicant. A shouting mob blocked the doorway and swarmed about us. Their attitude was unpleasant.
Nayland Smith grabbed my arm.
“Give ’em hell in their own language!” he directed. “You’re a past master of the lingo.”
I turned, hands upraised, and practically exhausted my knowledge of Arab invective. I was so far successful as to produce a lull of stupefaction during which the doctor made a brief examination.
Rima throughout had kept close beside me; Nayland Smith stood near the feet of the victim — his face an unreadable mask, but his piercing gray eyes questioning Petrie. And at last:
“Where’s Barton?” said Petrie astonishingly, standing upright and looking about him — from Rima to myself and from me to Nayland Smith.
“Never mind Barton,” said the latter. “Is the man dead?”
“Dead?” Petrie echoed. “He’s been dead for at least three hours! He’s rigid... Where’s Barton?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN. ROAD TO CAIRO (CONTINUED)
Sir Denis forming the head of the wedge, the four of us fought our way out of the café to the street, Petrie and I acting as Rima’s bodyguard.
The hostility of the crowd was now becoming nasty. The mystery of the thing had literally turned me cold. Then, to crown it all, as we gained the open, I was just in time to see the chief, standing beside Petrie’s car, deliver a formidable drive to the jaw of a big Nubian and to see the Negro sprawl upon his back.
“A frame-up, Smith!” came his great voice, as he sighted us. “To me, Cavaliers! We’re in the hands of the Roundheads!”
So strange a plot I could never have imagined, but its significance was all to obvious. The chief’s cry was characteristic of the man’s entire outlook on life. He was a throwback to days when personal combat was a gentleman’s recreation. His book History and Art of the Rapier might have been written by a musketeer, so wholly was the spirit of the author steeped in his bloodthirsty subject. This boyish diablerie it was which made him lovable, but perhaps as dangerous a companion as any man ever had.
One thing, however, I could not find it in my heart to forgive him: that he should expose Rima to peril consequent upon his crazy enthusiasms. I had come to want her near me in every waking moment. Yet now, with that threatening crowd about us and with every evidence that a secret enemy had e
ngineered this hold-up, I found myself wishing that she, as well as Mrs. Petrie, had been safe in England.
How we should have fared, and how that singular episode would have ended, I cannot say. It was solved by the appearance of a member of one of the most efficient organisations in the world: a British-Egyptian policeman, his tarbush worn at a jaunty angle, his blue tunic uncreased as though it had left the tailor’s only that morning. His khaki breeches were first class, and his very boots apparently unsoiled by the dust. He elbowed his way into the crowd — aloof, alone, self-contained, all powerful.
I had seen the same calm official intrusion on the part of a New York policeman, and I had witnessed it with admiration in London. But never before had I welcomed it so as at the appearance of this semi-military figure that night on the outskirts of Cairo.
Gesticulating Egyptians sought to enlist his sympathy and hearing. He was deaf. It dawned upon me that the casual onlookers had been deceived as completely as ourselves. We were regarded as the slayers of the poor old mendicant. But the appearance of that stocky figure changed everything.
As we reached Barton:
“Is the case safe?” snapped Nayland Smith, glancing down at the Negro, now rapidly getting to his feet.
“It is,” the chief replied grimly. “That’s what they were after.” Sir Denis nodded shortly and turned to the police officer.
“Your car, sir?” asked the latter. “What’s the trouble?”
“Remains to be investigated! You turned up at the right moment. My name is Nayland Smith. Have you been advised?”
The man started — stared hard, and then:
“Yes, sir.” He saluted. “Two days ago. Carry on, sir. I’ll deal with all this.”
“Good. You’re a smart officer. What’s your name?”
“John Banks, sir, on special duty here tonight.” “I’ll mention you at headquarters…”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN. A MASKED WOMAN
“I am not prepared to believe,” said Sir Lionel, walking up and down the big room reserved for him at Shepheard’s, “that even Dr. Fu-Manchu could have had a stock of dead men waiting on the road from Heliopolis.”