by Sax Rohmer
I stirred dreamily, opening my eyes. I was pillowed on a warm ivory shoulder, a bare arm encircled my neck, and the silvery voice which had awakened me was tenderly caressing. I hugged my fragrant pillow and felt no desire to move.
A long jade earring touched me coldly. Soothing fingers stroked my hair, and the silvery voice whispered:
“Truly, Shan, you must wake up! I’m sorry, dear, but you must.”
Reluctantly I raised my head, looking into brilliant green eyes regarding me under half lowered lashes. Their glance was a caress as soothing as that of the slender fingers.
Fah Lo Suee, I mused languidly, conscious of nothing but a dreamy contentment, and thinking what perfect lips she had, when, smiling, she bent and whispered in my ear:
“Love dreams are so bitter-sweet because we know we are dreaming.”
But yet I was reluctant to move. I could see a long reach of the Nile, touched to magic by the moon. Dahabeahs were moored against the left bank, their slender, graceful masts forming harmonious lines against a background of grouped palms and straggling white buildings. Of course! I was in Fah Lo Suee’s car; her arms were about me. I turned my head, looking over a silken shoulder to where a bridge spanned the Nile. It must be very late, I mused, later than I had supposed; the Kasr el-Nil bridge was deserted.
Memory began to return — or what I thought then to be memory — from the moment when I determined to follow Fah Lo Suee from the garden of Shepheard’s… I had been uncertain of her identity until she had removed the gold mask…
“I think someone has been watching, Shan, and I am positively shivering. I am going to drive you back now.”
I sat bolt upright, one hand raised to my head, as Fah Lo Suee bent slightly and started the car. With never another glance aside, she drove on, presently to turn, right, into the maze of Cairo’s empty streets.
Furtively I watched the clear profile of the driver. It was beautiful, and strangely like that of the mystery queen, Nefertiti, whose cold loveliness has caused so much controversy. The small chin was delicately but firmly modelled, the straight nose from a strictly classical standpoint was perhaps too large, but very characteristic. I exulted in the knowledge that this brilliant and alluring woman had selected me — Shan Greville — from the rest of mankind.
Cairo’s streets were depopulated as the streets of sleeping Thebes; and at the corner of Sharia el-Maghriabi, which I recognized with a start of awakening, Fah Lo Suee pulled up.
I did not know then, but I knew later, the real character of a kind of wave of remorse which swept over me. It was, of course, my true self fighting against this strange abandonment, partly drug-induced and partly hypnotic, which held me voluptuously...
Rima! How could I ever face Rima? What explanation could I offer which she would accept? And Sir Denis! Oddly enough, it was his grim brown face which appeared most vividly before me in that odd moment of clarity: the chief and Dr. Petrie were mere shadows in a mist background...
I had held a link of a deathly conspiracy in my hand. I could have snapped it; my duty was plain. Instead, I had passed the hours in dalliance with Fah Lo Suee! I clutched my head, trying to recall where we had gone. I could not believe that I had spent the night like some callow undergraduate on a petting party; but:
“You must walk from here, Shan,” said Fah Lo Suee. “I dare not drive you any farther.”
She linked her arms about me and crushed her lips against mine, her long, narrow eyes closed. And in the complete surrender of that parting embrace I experienced a mad triumph which no other conquest could have given me. Rima, Nayland Smith, the chief — all were forgotten!
“Goodnight, dear! And remember me until we meet again…”
I stood on the pavement struggling with the most conflicting emotions, as the car swept around in the empty Sharia el-Maghrabi and disappeared in the direction of Ismailia. The perfume of that parting kiss still lingered on my lips. As a man marooned, condemned, forgotten, I stood there — I cannot say for how long. But at last I turned and stared about me.
Cairo was asleep. What did it matter? I laughed aloud — and began to walk back to Shepheard’s.
I met never a soul in the Sharia Kamel, until just before reaching the terrace. At this point, where there are a number of shops lying back from the street, a hideous object, a belated beggar man, suddenly emerged from the shadows.
Ragged, bearded, indescribably filthy, he hobbled upon a crude crutch. As he ranged up beside me, muttering unintelligibly, I thrust my hand into my trouser pocket, found some small coins, and dropped them in his extended palm.
“He will be crowned in Damascus,” said the mendicant, and hobbled away…
I despair of making my meaning clear; but those words formed the termination of what I can only term the second phase of my dream-like experience. Oddly enough, they remained with me: I mean, when all else was forgotten, I remembered the words, “He will be crowned in Damascus.”
For, as they were spoken, and as I listened to the tap-tap-tap of the mendicant’s crutch receding in the distance, a complete mental blackout came for a third time in that one night!
All that I have related of my experience with Fah Lo Suee, as well as that which went before, I was to recall later, as I shall presently explain; but, so far as I knew at the time, in effect what occurred was this:
I found myself standing, swaying rather dizzily, and with a splitting headache, looking towards the steps of Shepheard’s with the words buzzing in my ears: “He will be crowned in Damascus.”
The sound of the crutch had died away, and I had no idea who had spoken those words! I know now, of course, that they formed part of an amazing sequence of hypnotic suggestions; that they were my cue for final forgetfulness. At the time, I merely knew that, wondering when and where I had heard that sentence spoken, I staggered forward, trying to remember why I was there — and what business had brought me to Cairo.
Then came true memory — I mean memory without interference.
I had reached the foot of the steps when the facts returned to me… That narrow alley behind the Mosque of Muayyad! From the moment I had entered it until the present, I was conscious of nothing but darkness!
How had I reached the Sharia Kamel? I asked myself. Could I have walked? And where had I heard those words: “He will be crowned in Damascus”?
Shepheard’s was in darkness, and it suddenly occurred to me to look at my wrist watch.
Three A.M.
Heavy-footed, I mounted the steps. The door was barred, but I pressed the bell. In the interval of waiting for the night porter to open, I cudgeled my brains for an explanation of what had happened.
I had followed Fu-Manchu’s daughter (of her identity I was all but certain) in a taxicab. I should remember the man. Leaving him at a corner near the Bab ez-Zuwela, I had unwisely run on into a narrow alleyway; and then?
Then… I had found myself a few steps away from the point at which I now stood at three in the morning!
The night porter unbarred the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. THE HAND OF FU-MANCHU
The night porter, who knew me well, stared like a man who sees a ghost.
“Good heavens, Mr. Greville!”
I saw that the lobby was in the hands of an army of cleaners, removing traces of the night’s festivities. A man standing over by the hall porter’s desk turned and then came forward quickly.
“Where is Sir Lionel Barton?” I had begun when:
“Are you Mr. Shan Greville?” the stranger asked.
He was an alert-looking man wearing dinner kit and carrying a soft felt hat. There was something about him which was vaguely familiar.
“I am,” I replied.
The hall porter had stepped back as the newcomer arrived upon the scene, but he continued to stare at me, in a half-frightened way.
“My name is Hewlett. I’m in charge of police headquarters in the absence of Superintendent Weymouth. I was never more pleased to see a man in my life than
I am to see you, Mr. Greville.”
I shook his hand mechanically, noting that he was looking at me in a a queer fashion; and then:
“Where is Sir Denis?” I asked rapidly, “and Miss Barton?”
Hewlett continued to look at me, and I have since learned that I presented a wild-eyed and strange appearance.
“All your friends, Mr. Greville,” he replied, “are out with the search party, operating from Bab el-Khalk. I came back here ten minutes ago for news. I’m glad I did.”
“Where are they searching?” I asked dazedly.
“All around the neighbourhood of the Bab ez-Zuwela — acting on information supplied by the taxi-man who drove you there.”
“Of course,” I muttered; “he returned here and reported my absence, I suppose?”
Hewlett nodded. His expression had changed somewhat, had become very grave.
“You look completely whacked,” he said. “But, nevertheless, I’m afraid I must ask you to come along and join Sir Denis. My car is just round the corner.”
My confusion of mind was such that I thought the search (which presumably had been for me) would now be continued in the hope of discovering the hiding place of Fah Lo Suee.
“Very well,” I replied wearily. “I should like a long drink before we start, and then I shall be entirely at your service.”
“Very well, Mr. Greville.”
I gave the necessary orders to the night porter, whose manner still remained strange, and dropped upon a lounge. Hewlett sat down beside me.
“In order that we don’t waste one precious moment,” he went on, “suppose you tell me exactly what happened tonight?”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, “but I fear it’s not going to help very much.”
“What? How can that be?”
“Because the most important period is a complete blank.”
Whereupon I related my movements in the garden that night: how I had seen a woman, whom I was convinced was none other than the daughter of Fu-Manchu, going out by that gate of the garden which I had supposed always to be locked. How I had run through to the front of the hotel just in time to see her entering a car which waited upon the other side of the street.
“Describe this car,” said Hewlett eagerly.
I did so to the best of my ability, stressing its conspicuous yellow colour.
“I have no doubt that my driver’s account is more accurate than mine,” I continued. “He knew the names of all the streets into which we turned, with the exception of the last.”
“He led us there,” said Hewlett with a certain impatience, “but we drew a complete blank. What I want you to tell me, Mr. Greville, is into which house you went in that street.”
I smiled wryly, as the night porter appeared, bearing refreshments on a tray.
“I warned you that my evidence would be a disappointment,” I reminded him. “From that point up to the moment when I found myself standing outside Shepheard’s, here, my memory is a complete blank.”
Hewlett’s expression became almost incredulous. “But what happened?” he demanded. “The man tells us that he saw you run into a narrow turning on the left, as the yellow car — your description of which tallies with his — was driven off. He followed you a moment later and found no trace whatever. For heaven’s sake, tell me, Mr. Greville, what happened?”
“I had fallen into a trap,” I replied wearily. “I was drenched with some kind of anaesthetic. I don’t know how it was applied. Perhaps a cloth saturated in it was thrown over my head. Unconsciousness was almost instantaneous. Beyond telling you that this drug, which was used in the murder of Dr. Van Berg in Persia, has a smell resembling that of mimosa, I can tell you nothing more — absolutely nothing!”
“Good heavens!” groaned Hewlett, “this is awful. Our last hope’s gone!”
My brain seemed to be spinning. I was conscious of most conflicting ideas; and suddenly:
“Wait a moment!” I cried. “There is one other thing. At some time — I haven’t the faintest idea when, but at some time during the night I heard the words, ‘He will be crowned in Damascus’!”
“By whom were they spoken?”
I shook my head impatiently.
“I have no recollection that they were spoken by anybody. I merely remembered them, just before I came up the steps a little while ago. When and where I heard them I haven’t the slightest idea. But I’m ready, Mr Hewlett. I’m afraid I can’t be of the least assistance, but all the same I’m at your service.”
He stood up, and I detected again that queer expression upon his face.
“I suppose,” I added, “Miss Barton is in her room?”
Hewlett bit his lip and glanced swiftly aside. He was a man suddenly and deeply embarrassed. In a grave voice which he tried to make sympathetic:
“It’s hard to have to tell you, Mr. Greville,” he replied, “but it’s for Miss Barton we are searching.”
“What!”
I had turned, already heading for the door, when those words fell upon my ears. I grasped the speaker by both shoulders and, staring into his eyes like a madman, I suppose:
“Miss Barton! What do you mean? What do you mean?” I demanded.
“Go steady, Mr. Greville,” said Hewlett, and gripped my forearms tightly, reassuringly. “Above all things, keep your nerve.”
“But—” my voice shook almost hysterically— “she was with Reggie Humphreys, the Airways pilot… I left her dancing with him!”
“That was a long time ago, Mr. Greville,” was the reply, spoken gently. “Half an hour after the time you mention, there was a perfect hue and cry because you had disappeared. The hotel was searched, and finally Sir Denis got through to my office. Then the cabman turned up reporting your disappearance and where it had taken place. He reported to the central police station, first, and then came on here.”
“But,” I began, “but when—”
“I know what you’re going to ask, but I can’t answer you, because nobody seems to know. There’s only one scrap of evidence. An Egyptian chauffeur brought a note to one of the servants here and requested him to give it to Miss Barton. He telephoned to her room, found her there, and she immediately came down. From that moment the man (I have examined him closely) lost sight of her. But his impression, unconfirmed, is that she ran out onto the terrace. From which moment, Mr. Greville, I regret to say, nothing has been seen or heard of her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. AMNESIA
My frame of mind when the new day broke, is better left to the imagination. I was convinced that my brain could not long sustain such stress. Maltreated already by an administration of some damnable drug, this further imposition was too great. I sat in the chief’s room in the light of early morning. Birds were flying from tree to tree outside in the garden; and I could hear the sound of a broom as a man below swept the sanded path.
Sir Lionel had gone to his room to rest, and Dr. Petrie had been recalled to his house by professional duties. Nayland Smith walked up and down in front of the open window. He looked haggard — a sick man; and his eyes were burning feverishly. Suddenly he stopped, turned, and stared at me very hard.
“Look at me, Greville,” he said, “and listen closely.”
His words were spoken with such a note of authority that I was startled out of my misery. I met that steady glance, as:
“He will be crowned in Damascus,” said Nayland Smith distinctly.
I felt my eyes opening more widely as if under the influence of that compelling stare. Even as I realised that this was a shot at random, and grasped the purpose of the experiment, it succeeded — in a measure.
For one incalculable instant I saw with my mind’s eye an incredibly dirty old beggarman, hobbling along on a crutch. My expression must have given the clue, for:
“Quick!” rapped Nayland Smith; “what are you thinking about?”
“I am thinking,” I replied in a flat, toneless voice, which during these last agonising hours I had come to recogn
ise as my own, “that those words were spoken by a very old man, having one leg and carrying a crutch.”
“Keep your mind on that figure, Greville,” Nayland Smith ordered; “don’t lose it, but don’t get excited. You are sure it was a crutch — not a stick?”
I shook my head sadly. I thought I knew what he was driving at. Dr. Fu-Manchu, on the one occasion (so far as I remembered) that I had ever set eyes on him, had supported his weight upon a heavy stick.
“It was a crutch,” I replied. “I can hear the tap of it, now.”
“Did it crunch? Was the man walking on gravel — or sand?”
“No, a clear tap. It must have been on stone.”
“Did he speak in English?”
“Yes. I am almost sure the words were spoken in English.”
“Did he say ‘Damas’ or ‘Damascus’?”
“Damascus.”
“Anything else?”
“No — it’s all gone again.”
I dropped my head into my hands as Nayland Smith began to walk up and down before the window.
“Do you know, Greville,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, “that your memory of those words — for I am perfectly convinced that you really heard them — relieves my mind of a certain anxiety in regard to Rima.”
I looked up.
“What ever do you mean?”
“It confirms my first opinion that her disappearance was arranged, and arranged with fiendish ingenuity, by the Fu-Manchu group. This can only mean one thing, Greville. She has been abducted for a definite purpose. Had it been otherwise, in these rather disturbed times, I should have feared that her abduction had been undertaken for personal reasons. You understand what I mean?”
I nodded miserably.
Nayland Smith stepped across and laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“Buck up, old chap. I think I know how you feel. But there’s nothing to despair about. Take my word for it: we shall have news of her before noon.”
Hoping, doubting, I looked up at the speaker.
“You don’t say that just to try to ease my mind?”