by Sax Rohmer
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice sounding unfamiliar.
“I mean, Mr. Greville, that you love him. But you love a shell, an accomplishment, a genius if you like; but a phantom, a hollow thing, having no real existence. Sir Lionel Barton would sacrifice you tomorrow — tonight — to his own ambitions. Do you doubt this?”
It was a wicked thought, and I clenched my teeth. But God knows I recognized its truth! I knew well enough, and Rima knew too, that the chief would have sacrificed nearly everything and almost everybody to that mania for research, for achievements greater than his contemporaries’ which were his gods. That we loved him in spite of this was, perhaps, evidence of our folly or of something fine in Sir Lionel’s character, something which outweighed the juggernaut of his egoism.
“For this reason” — Dr. Fu-Manchu’s voice rose to a soft, sibilant note— “I have been compelled slightly to modify my original plans.” Returning to his chair, he seated himself. I was very near to him now, but:
“Sit down!” he said.
And I sat down, on an Arab stool which stood at one end of the table and which he indicated with a bony extended forefinger. Since that all but incredible interview I have tried to analyse my behaviour; I have tried to blame myself, arguing that there must have been some course other than the passive one which I adopted. Many have thought the same, but to them all I have replied: “You have never met Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
He rested his long hands before him upon the glass covering of the table. And, no longer looking in my direction:
“Sir Lionel Barton has served me for the first time in his life,” he said, his voice still touching that high, sibilant note. “By discovering and then destroying the tomb of El Mokanna he awakened a fanaticism long dormant which, properly guided, should sweep farther than that once controlled by the Mahdi. And the Mahdi, Mr. Greville, came nearer to achieving his ends than British historians care to admit. Your Lord Kitchener — whom I knew and esteemed — had no easy task.”
He suddenly turned to me, and I lost personality again, swamped in the lake of two green eyes.
“The Mokanna may be greater than the Mahdi,” he added. “But his pretensions must survive severe tests. He must satisfy the learned Moslems of the Great Mosque at Damascus, and later pass the ordeal of Mecca. This he can do who possesses the authentic relics…”
Vaguely, I groped for the purpose behind all this...
“I would not trust Sir Lionel Barton to respond even to that demand about to be made upon him, if Dr. Petrie and Sir Denis Nayland Smith were not there. Since they are — I am satisfied.”
He struck a little gong suspended on a frame beside his chair. One of the three doors — that almost immediately behind him, opened; and two of those dwarfish and muscular Negroes entered, instantly carrying my mind back to the horrors of Ispahan.
They wore native Egyptian costume, but that they were West Africans was a fact quite unmistakable.
“New allies of mine, Mr. Greville,” said the awful Chinaman, “although old in sympathy. They have useful qualities which attract me.”
He made a slight signal with his left hand, and in an instant I found myself pinioned. He spoke gutturally in an unfamiliar tongue — no doubt that of the Negroes. And I was led forward until I stood almost at his elbow.
“This document is precious,” he explained, “and I feared that you might attempt some violent action. Can you read from where you stand?”
Yes, I could read — and reading, I was astounded...
I saw a note in my own handwriting, addressed to Rima; phrased as I would have phrased it, and directing her to slip away and to join me in a car which would be waiting outside Shepheard’s! Particularly, the note impressed upon her that she must not confide in anyone, but must come alone…
I swallowed audibly; and then:
“It’s a marvellous forgery,” I said.
“Forgery!” Dr. Fu-Manchu echoed the word. “My dear Mr. Greville, you wrote it with your own hand during that period of thirty minutes’ oblivion to which I have drawn your attention. My new anaesthetic” — he drooped some of the dried seeds through his long fingers— “has properties approaching perfection.”
My arms held in a muscular grip:
“She will never be fool enough to come,” I exclaimed.
“Not to join you?”
“She will run back when she finds I am not there.”
“But you will be there.”
“What?”
“When one small obstacle has been removed — that which the obstinacy of Sir Lionel Barton has set before me — your behaviour, Mr. Greville, will excite Dr. Petrie’s professional interest. I wish it were in my power to give him some small demonstration of the potentialities, which I have not yet fully explored, of another excellent formula.”
A sudden dread clutched me, and I found cold perspiration breaking out all over my body.
“What are you going to do with me?” I asked— “and what are you going to do with Rima?”
“For yourself, you have my word…” the green eyes which had been averted turned to me again; “and I have never warred with women. I am going to recover the relics of the Masked Prophet and return them to those to whom they properly belong. You are going to assist me.”
I clenched my teeth very tightly.
Dr. Fu-Manchu stood up and moved with his lithe, dignified gait, to one of the glass cases. He opened it. Speaking over his shoulder:
“If you care to swallow a cachet,” he said, “this would suffice. The liquid preparation” — he held up a small flask containing a colourless fluid— “is not so rapid. Failing your compliance, however, an injection is indicated.”
He stood with his back to me. The grip of the two dwarfish Negroes held me as in iron bands. And I found myself studying the design of the white peacock which was carried from the breast of the doctor’s robe, over the shoulders and round to the back. I watched his lean yellow neck, and the scanty, neutral-coloured hair beneath his skullcap; the square, angular shoulders, the gaunt, cat-like poise of the tall figure. He seemed to be awaiting a reply.
“I have no choice,” I said in a dry voice.
Dr. Fu-Manchu replaced the flask which he held in one bony hand and selected a small wooden box. He turned, moving back towards the table.
“The subcutaneous is best,” he murmured, “being most rapid in its effect. But the average patient prefers the tablets…”
He opened a leather case which lay upon the table and extracted a hypodermic syringe. Unemotionally he dipped the point into a small vessel and wiped it with a piece of lint. Then, charging it from a tiny tube which he took from the box, he stepped towards me.
CHAPTER TWENTY. THE MASTER MIND
I remember saying, as that master physician and devil incarnate thrust back the sleeve of my tweed jacket and unfastened my cuff link:
“Since I have your word, Dr. Fu-Manchu, you are loosing a dangerous witness on the world!”
The needle point pierced my flesh.
“On the contrary,” the guttural voice replied without emotion, “one of your own English travellers, Dr. McGovem, has testified to the fact that words and actions under the influence of this drug — which he mentions in its primitive form as kaapi — leave no memory behind. I have gone further than the natives who originally discovered it. I can so prescribe as to induce fourteen variations of amnesia, graded from apparently full consciousness to complete anaesthesis. The patient remains under my control in all these phases. Anamnesis, or recovery of the forgotten acts, may be brought about by means of a simple antidote…”
He extracted the needle point.
“This preparation” — he laid the syringe on the glass-topped table and indicated the working bench— “might interest Sir Denis.”
I experienced a sudden unfamiliar glow throughout my entire body. A burning thirst was miraculously assuaged. Whereas, a moment before, my skin had been damp with perspiration, now it seemed to be sup
ernormally dry. I was exhilarated. I saw everything with an added clarity of vision...
Some black, indefinable doubt which had been astride me like an Old Man of the Sea dropped away. I wondered what I had been worrying about. I could perceive nothing wrong with the world nor with my own condition and place in it.
Dr. Fu-Manchu took up a dull white flask, removed the stopper, and dipped a slender rod into the contents.
“This, Mr. Greville” — holding up a bar of metal— “is Sheffield steel.”
He dropped upon the bar some of the liquid adhering to the rod.
“Now — observe…”
In obedience to a slight signal, the Negroes released my arms; one with surgical scissors, cut the fastenings from my ankles...
But I was conscious of no desire to attack the speaker. On the contrary, I recognized with a sudden overwhelming conviction the fact that my own happiness and the happiness of everyone I knew rested in his hands! He was all-powerful, beneficent, a superman to be respected and obeyed.
I watched him, entranced. Holding the steel bar in his bony fingers, he snapped it as though it had been a stick of chocolate!
“Had I been a burglar, Mr. Greville, this small invention would have been of value to me. You see, even I have my toys…”
He turned and walked slowly from the room with that dignified, yet cat-like gait which I knew. As lightning flickers in a summer sky, the idea crossed my mind that once I had feared, had loathed this Chinese physician. It disappeared, leaving me in a state of mental rapture such as I had never known.
I rejoiced that I was to serve Fu-Manchu. Of the details of my mission I knew nothing, but that it aimed at the ultimate good of us all, I did not doubt. We were in charge of an omnipotent being; it was not for us to question his wisdom.
Led by one of the Slave Coast Negroes whose broad shoulders and slightly bandy legs lent him a distinct resemblance to an ape dressed in human clothing, I found myself passing rapidly along a dimly lighted passage. I was delighted at my discovery that these active little men resembled apes. It seemed to me, in that strange mood, one worthy of reporting to the chief — an addition to scientific knowledge which should not be lost.
I understood, and it was a deep-seated faith, why Dr. Fu-Manchu had willing servants all over the world. Hitherto I had merely existed: this was life. I laughed aloud, and snapped my fingers in time to my swift footsteps.
Down a flight of stairs I was led. A silk-shaded lamp on the landing afforded the only light, but I was aware of a surety of foot which would have enabled me to negotiate the most perilous mountain path with all the certainty of a wild goat. An iron-barred and studded door was opened, and I looked out into a square courtyard.
No cloud obscured the sky, now, which seemed to be filled with a million diamonds.
A landaulet stood before the steps. Respecting its driver, I could be sure only of one thing in that semi-darkness: he wore a tarbush and was therefore presumably an Egyptian.
The Negro opened the door for me, and I stepped in. One of the headlights was switched on momentarily, and I saw a heavy gate being opened. Then, the driver had swung out into a narrow street. It was not that behind the Mosque of Muayyad...
Through a number of such narrow streets, with never a light anywhere, we went at fair speed. I found myself constantly chuckling at the surprise which I had in store for Rima and the chief. Its exact character was not apparent to me, but I was perfectly satisfied that when the time came all would be well.
A shock of doubt, which passed quickly, came, when leaving the last of these streets we bumped up an ill-made road, turned sharply, and at greatly accelerated speed set off along a straight tree-bordered avenue. Beyond question this was the road from Gizeh to Cairo!
Mental confusion resembling physical pain claimed me in that moment. My drugged brain, of course, was trying to force realities upon me. The spasm passed. There was some good reason for this circuitous route…
And now we were nearing Cairo. The moment of the great revelation was fast approaching.
I took very little heed of passing automobiles or pedestrians, nor did I note by what route the driver made his way through to the Sharia Kamel. But almost exactly at the spot where Fah Lo Suee had entered the yellow car, that is, nearly opposite Shepheard’s, we pulled up.
“Stand here, please, in the light,” said the driver, springing out and opening the door for me, “where she can see you when I find her.”
“I know,” I replied eagerly; “I understand perfectly.”
The man nodded and ran across to the terrace steps. The number of waiting cars was not so great as at the time of my departure, but it was obvious that revelry still proceeded.
So unusually warm was the night that fully half a dozen tables on the terrace were occupied by dancers who had evidently come there to seek comparative quiet. Dimly I could hear strains of music. One thing I knew urgently I must avoid above all others — I must not be seen by anyone who knew me.
It was vitally important that Rima alone should know what was afoot.
I saw the driver go up the steps. He looked about him swiftly and then went into the hotel. He was carrying my letter. I became the victim of a devouring impatience.
Rima was not well known at Shepheard’s and perhaps it might prove difficult to find her, unless she chanced to be in her room. All would be lost if Sir Lionel got to know, or even if Sir Denis or Dr. Petrie should suspect what was afoot.
My impatience grew by leaps and bounds.
A group of four people came out onto the terrace, walking down the strip of carpet towards the steps. I shrank back apprehensively. One was a big, heavily built man, and for a moment I mistook him for the chief, until I saw that he wore evening kit. A car drew up, and the party drove away.
Suspense became all but intolerable. Evidently some difficulty was being experienced in finding Rima, and the moments were precious — each one adding to the chances of detection. I found myself regarding failure of the plot with absolute horror!
Such was the genius of Dr. Fu-Manchu…
The doors revolved again. The Egyptian driver came out, walked to the head of the steps, and signaled to me.
I stepped forward into the roadway where I must be clearly visible from the terrace. Rima came out, dressed as I had seen her last, hatless and flushed with excitement. She held an open letter in her hand — mine. And she was staring eagerly across the street in quest of me.
None of the people seated on the terrace took any notice of these manoeuvres; indeed, as I realised joyfully, there was nothing extraordinary in a man calling to pick up a girl from a dance.
Rima saw me, raced down the steps, and ran across.
I noticed, with a quick pang of sorrow — which, however, instantly gave place to that thrilling exaltation which was the keynote of my mood — that she was, or recently had been, very frightened. She threw her arms around me with a little gasping cry and looked into my eyes.
“Shan, Shan darling! You have terrified us all! Wherever have you been? Whose car is this?”
“It is his car, dearest,” I replied. “Quick! get in. It’s important that nobody should see us.”
“His car?”
As I half lifted her in onto the cushions she grasped my arm and looked up with startled eyes at me. The chauffeur already was back at the wheel.
“Shan dear, whatever do you mean? Sir Denis got in touch with police headquarters half an hour ago. And Uncle is simply raving. Dr. Petrie has asked everybody he knows in the hotel if you were seen to leave.”
I held her close as the car moved off, but she began to tremble violently.
“Shan! — my dear, my dear!” she cried, and pulled my head down, trying to search my eyes in that semidarkness. “For God’s sake, where are we going?”
“We are going to him,” I replied.
“My God! He’s mad!”
The words were barely audible — a mere whisper. Thrusting both hands against my breast, Ri
ma tried to push me away — to free herself. Already we had passed the Continental.
“You don’t understand, darling…”
“God help me, Shan, I do! Make him stop! Make him stop, I tell you!”
An English policeman was on duty at the corner, and as we raced past him, I saw him raise his arm. Rima, wrenching free, leaned from the window, and:
“Help!” she screamed.
But I drew her forcibly back, putting my hand over her mouth before she could utter another word.
“My darling!” I said, holding her very close. “You will spoil everything! You will spoil everything!”
She relaxed and lay very still in my arms...
The way was practically deserted, now, and we passed few lighted patches, but I could see her big, upcast eyes fixed upon me with an intensity of expression which puzzled me. I could see, too, that she had grown very pale. She did not speak again, but continued to watch me in that strange manner.
She seemed to be communicating some silent message and to be changing my mood, cooling that feverish exaltation.
What had she asked? Where we were going? Yes, that was it... And where were we going? Mental turmoil like a physical pain claimed me again as I tried to grapple with that question…
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. “HE WILL BE CROWNED IN DAMASCUS”
I have related what really happened on that night in Cairo in the proper order of those events — but in their order as I knew it later. As a matter of fact, quite a long interval elapsed, as will presently appear, before I was able to recall anything whatever from the time when I set out in pursuit of Madame Ingomar to that when I acted as a decoy in the abduction of Rima.
A master player had used me as a pawn. The very seat of reason had been shaken by a drug not to be discovered in any pharmacopoeia. These events and those which immediately followed I was to recover later. I must return now to the conclusion of a phase in my life which I still consider the most remarkable any man has known…
“Shan dear, I know you are very sleepy, but it’s getting cold, and very late…”