by Sax Rohmer
“To do so would be false kindness. I say it because I believe it.
“You mean… ?”
“I mean that Rima is to be used as an instrument to bring Sir Lionel to reason.”
“By heavens!” I sprang up, hope reborn in my heart. “Of course! Of course! It will be a case of ransom!”
“Rima’s life against the relics of the Prophet,” Nayland Smith returned dryly. He begun to walk up and down again. “And this time, Greville, the enemy will score. Not even Barton could hesitate.”
“Hesitate!” I cried. “Why, if he has to be forced to give them up at the point of a gun — give them up he shall!”
“I don’t think such persuasion will be necessary, Greville. Barton is a monument of selfishness where his professional enthusiasms are concerned, but he has a heart, and a big one at that.”
I dropped back into my seat again. A flood of relief had swept over me, for I believed Nayland Smith’s solution of the mystery to be the correct one. Truth to tell, I was physically tired to the point of exhaustion; yet sleep, I knew, was utterly impossible. And I sat there, watching that apparently tireless man; haggard, but alert, brighteyed, pacing up and down — up and down — his brain as clear and his nerves as cool as if he were fresh from his morning bath. Even the chief, who had the constitution of a healthy ox, had collapsed some time before and was now sleeping like a log.
I was conscious of an acute pain in the tendon behind my left ankle, and stooping, I began to rub it. As I did so:
“What’s the matter?” Nayland Smith asked sharply.
“I don’t know,” I replied, and lifting my foot I rolled my sock down and examined the painful spot.
“By Jove! something has cut in there. And my other ankle is painful, too, but in front.”
“Let me see,” he said rapidly. “Rest both feet on this chair here.”
Whereupon he stooped and examined my ankles with the utmost care, and finally:
“You have been tied,” he said, “and from the appearance of your ankles, brutally tied, with some very thin but presumably very strong material.” He glanced up, smiling sourly. “I think, Greville, I have a length of that same mysterious material carefully preserved among my belongings!”
He watched me steadily, and I knew what he hoped for.
“No!” I shook my head sadly. “I have undoubtedly been tied, as you surmise, but I have no recollection whatever of the matter.”
“Damn!” he rapped, and stood upright. “I can’t help you in this case. There’s no cue word, you see, to arouse that drugged memory. By heaven, Greville—” he suddenly shook his clenched fist in the air— “if I and those behind me can defeat the genius of this one old man, we shall have accomplished a feat which Homer might have sung. He is stupendous!”
He ceased suddenly and began to stare at me again.
“H’m!” he added. “I am forgetting how to keep my head in difficult moments. I have allowed elementary routine to go to the winds. Have you by any chance examined the contents of your pockets since you returned?”
“No!” I replied in surprise; “it never occurred to me.”
“Be good enough to turn out all your pockets and place their contents upon this table.”
Mechanically I obeyed. A wallet, a pipe, a pouch, a cigarette case, I extracted from various pockets and laid down upon the table. A box of matches, a pocketknife, a bunch of keys, some loose money, a handkerchief, a trouser button, two toothpicks, and an automatic lighter which never functioned but which I carried as a habit.
“That’s the lot,” I announced dully.
“Anything missing?”
“Not that I can remember.”
Nayland Smith took up my cigarette case, opened it, and glanced inside.
“How many cigarettes were in your case when you left?”
I paused for a moment, and then:
“None,” I replied confidently. “I remember dropping my last in the garden, here, just before I sighted Fah Lo Suee.”
He took up my pipe: it was filled but had not been lighted.
“Odd! Isn’t it?” he asked. “Remember anything about this?”
I dropped my weary head into my hands again, thinking hard, and at last:
“Yes,” I replied. “I remember that I never lighted it.”
Nayland Smith sniffed at the tobacco, opened my pouch and sniffed at the contents, also; then:
“Is your small change all right?”
“To the best of my recollection.”
“Examine the wallet. You probably know exactly what you had there.”
I obeyed; and at the first glance, I made a singular discovery.
A small envelope of thick gray paper containing a bulky enclosure protruded from one of the pockets of the wallet!
“Sir Denis!” I said excitedly, “this wasn’t here. This doesn’t belong to me!”
“It does now,” he replied grimly, and, stooping, he pulled out the envelope from the wallet which I held in my hand.
“‘Shan Greville, Private,’” he read aloud. “Do you know the writing?”
I stared at the envelope which he had placed on the table before me. Yes, that handwriting was familiar — hauntingly familiar, but difficult to place. Where had I seen it before?
“Well?”
It was queer, square writing, the horizontal strokes written very thickly, and the ink used was of a peculiar shade of green. I looked up.
“Yes, I have seen it — somewhere.”
“Good. As it is addressed to you and marked ‘private,’ perhaps you had better open it.”
I tore open the small square envelope. It contained a single sheet of the same thick, gray paper folded in which was a little piece of muslin, a tiny extemporised bag, tied with green silk. It contained some small, hard object, and I placed it on the table glancing at Nayland Smith, and then began to read the note written in green ink upon the gray paper. This is what I read:
I do not want you to suffer because of what I have been compelled to do. You love Rima. If she does not come back — trust me. I am not jealous. I send you a tablet which must be dissolved in a half litre of matured white wine, and which you must drink as quickly as possible. I trust you also — TO BURN THIS LETTER. To help you I say: He will be crowned in Damascus.This I read aloud, then dropped the letter on the table and glanced at Nayland Smith. He was watching me fixedly.
“‘He will be crowned in Damascus,’” he echoed. “Quick! Do those words, now, take you back any further?”
I shook my head.
“Do you know the writing? Think.”
“I am thinking. Yes, I have it! I have only seen it once before in my life.”
“Well?”
“It’s the writing of Fu-Manchu’s daughter — Fab Lo Suee!”
Sir Denis snapped his fingers and began to walk up and down again.
“I knew it!” he snapped. “Greville! Greville! It’s the old days over again! But this time we’re dealing with a she-devil. And dare we trust her? Dare we trust her?”
I was untying the little packet, and from it I dropped an ordinary-looking tablet, small, round, and white, which might have been aspirin, upon the table.
“Personally,” I said, with a ghastly attempt at a smile, “I would as soon think of following the instructions in her letter as of jumping out of that window.”
Nayland Smith continued to walk up and down.
“For the moment I express no opinion,” he replied. “I may have a better knowledge of the mentality of Eastern women than you have, Greville. And I may have paid a high price for my knowledge. But don’t misunderstand me.”
I picked up the tablet and was in the act of throwing it out into the garden, when:
“Don’t do that!” He sprang forward and grasped my wrist. “You leap to conclusions too hastily. Think! Thought is man’s prerogative. You definitely recognise this as the writing of Fu-Manchu’s daughter? Granting it even to be a forgery — what then?” He stared
at me coldly. “Can you conceive of any object which would be served by bringing your death about in so complicated a manner?”
It was a new point of view — but a startling one.
“Frankly, no.” I admitted. “But we have had experience in the past, Sir Denis, of remarkable behaviour on the part of persons subjected to the poisons of Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“You are thinking of an attempt once made unconsciously by Rima to murder me?” he suggested. I had thought of this. Don’t imagine I haven’t taken it into account. But no agent of Dr. Fu-Manchu, with such an object in mind, could be so clumsy as this.”
He pointed to the tablet upon the table.
“I suppose you’re right,” I said dully. “But all the same, you are not suggesting that I should follow out these instructions?”
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“I am merely suggesting,” he answered, “that you should keep this remarkable clue. It may have its uses later.”
Already he was sniffing at the paper and envelope, scrutinising the writing — holding the sheet up to the light — examining its texture.
“Very remarkable,” he “murmured, and, turning, stared at me fixedly.
Personally, I was on the verge of collapse and knew it. My brain was a veritable circus; my body was deadly weary. Desperately though anxiety rode me, I would have given all I had for one hour of sleep, of forgetfulness, of relief from this fever which was burning me up. Nayland Smith came forward and, seating himself beside me, put his arm around my shoulders.
“Listen, Greville,” he said. “Petrie is due back in a few minutes, now. He won’t have long to spare. But I’m going to make him put you to sleep. You understand?”
I had never in my life stood so near to the borders of hysteria.
“Thanks,” I replied; “of course I do. And I’ll submit to it; but there’s a proviso…”
“What is it?”
“Not for more than an hour. I can’t bear the thought of lying like a log while I might be of use to her.”
He gripped my tightly for a moment, and then stood up.
“You are off duty,” he snapped dryly. “I’m in charge, and you’ll take my orders. When Petrie comes, you’ll do exactly as Petrie directs. In the meantime, have I your permission to examine and photograph this letter? You will then, quite properly, wish to destroy it, as your correspondent directs.”
I agreed. At which very moment the door was thrown open and Petrie came in. One glance he cast at Sir Denis, and then directed that searching professional gaze upon me; the analytical look of a diagnostician. I saw that he was not favourably impressed.
“Smith,” he said, with another glance at Sir Denis, “our friend here must sleep.”
Nayland Smith nodded.
“It’s not going to be easy,” Petrie continued; “you’re most terribly overwrought, Greville. But if you share my opinion that sleep is necessary, I think I can manage you.”
“I do,” I replied.
“In that event, the matter is simple enough. We will go up to your room, now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR. THE MESSENGER
“Wake up, old chap, there’s good news!”
I opened my eyes to find myself staring up into the face of Nayland Smith. My brain was confused; I could not coordinate circumstances, and:
“What is it?” I asked drowsily; “what’s the time?”
“Never mind the time, Greville. Wake up! There’s work for you.”
Then full consciousness came. But before I had time to clear the borderland:
“He will be crowned in Damascus,” said Nayland Smith staring intently into my eyes.
His gaze held me; but in the moment that he spoke I had seen that Dr. Petrie stood behind him, that I was lying in my room. Even as I realised what he was endeavouring to do, I realised also that he had partially succeeded.
For my memory was thrown back as he willed it to be, to the pavement of the Sharia Kamel. Dawn, as I recalled the scene, was not far off. And I was walking in the direction of Shepheard’s. Out of the shadows of the recess where the shops lie back, a ragged figure approached me, whining for bakshish. I saw him clearly; every line and lineament of his dirty face, his straggly gray beard, his ragged garments, his crutch. I could hear it tapping on the pavement...
I saw myself give him alms and turn away; I heard his words: “He will be crowned in Damascus.” I knew again the mystification which had descended upon me in that moment; and felt the depth of wonder about where I had been and of how I came to find myself in that place, at that time.
Starting up in bed:
“It was an old beggarman,” I cried hoarsely, “in the Sharia Kamel, who spoke those words!”
And while Nayland Smith and Petrie listened eagerly I told them all that I had remembered. And, concluding:
“What’s the news?” I demanded, now fully awake, and conscious that my hours of sleep had given me new life.
“It’s as I predicted, Greville,” Nayland Smith replied. “She is being held to ransom.”
I sprang out onto the floor. Queerly enough, that news came like balm to my troubled mind. Rima was in the hands of Dr. Fu-Manchu! A dreadful thought, one would suppose — but better, far, far better than doubt. One thing at least I knew definitely: that if terms had been demanded by the Chinaman, it remained only strictly to carry them out.
The most evil man I had ever known, he was also, according to his own peculiar code, the most honourable. I met Nayland Smith’s glance and knew that he understood me.
“I have burned your letter, Greville,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” I replied. “And now, tell me: Who brought the news?”
“The messenger is in Barton’s room,” Dr. Petrie answered, watching me with keen professional interest. “How do you feel? Fairly fit?”
“Thanks to you, I feel a new man.”
Nayland Smith smiled and glanced aside at Petrie.
“You may recall,” he said, “that no less an authority than Dr. Fu-Manchu always regarded your great talents as wasted, Petrie!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. MR. ADEN’S PROPOSAL
“Leave this to me, Barton,” Nayland Smith said sharply. “If you interfere in any way I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”
Sir Lionel clenched his fists and glared at our visitor; then, crossing, he stood with his back to us, looking out of the window. He was dishevelled, unshaven, wrapped in his dilapidated old dressing gown, and in a mood as dangerous as any I had ever known.
Professional duties had compelled Dr. Petrie to leave, and so there were four of us in the long pleasant room, with its two windows overlooking the garden. I was little better groomed than the chief, for I had been fast asleep five minutes before, thanks to Petrie’s ministrations. But Sir Denis, although his gray suit had seen much wear, looked normally spruce.
I stared with murderous disfavour at a man seated in an armchair over by the writing table.
Heavily built, he wore the ordinary morning dress of a business man, and indeed was of a type which one may meet with in any of the capitals of the world. His face, inclined to be fat, was of a dead white colour. Thick iron-gray hair was cut close to his skull, and he had a jet-black moustache. I hated his dark, restless eyes.
“This is Mr. — er — Aden,” Nayland Smith continued; “and as the business upon which he has come interests you personally, Greville, I thought you should be present.”
Mr. Aden bowed and smiled. My detestation grew by leaps and bounds.
“Mr. Aden is a solicitor practising in Cairo. By the way—” suddenly turning to our visitor— “I believe I met your brother some years ago.”
“That is not possible,” said the Greek; and his oily voice did nothing to redeem his character in my eyes.
“No?” Sir Denis queried rapidly. “Not a Mr. Samarkan, one-time manager of the New Louvre Hotel in London? But surely?”
Mr. Aden visibly started, but endeavoured to conceal the fac
t with an artificial cough and a swiftly upraised hand.
“You are mistaken. Sir Denis,” he declared suavely, “not possibly in the resemblance, but certainly in the relationship. I never heard of Mr. Samarkan.”
“Indeed!” snapped Nayland Smith, and turned aside. “Let it pass, then. Briefly, Greville the position is this: Mr. — er — Aden, here in the ordinary way of his professional duties—”
“Damned nonsense!” shouted the chief, stamping one slippered foot upon the floor, but not turning around. “He’s one of the gang and an impudent liar!”
“Barton!” Nayland Smith interrupted angrily, “I have requested you to leave this matter to me. If you insist upon interrupting, I shall order you to do so.”
“Order be damned!”
“I have the necessary authority.”
Some few moments of ominous silence followed, during which Nayland Smith stood staring at the broad back of Sir Lionel. The latter remained silent, and:
“Very well,” Sir Denis went on. “As I was explaining, Greville, Mr. — er — the name persistently escapes me…”
“Adrian Aden,” our visitor prompted smoothly.
“Yes. Mr. Aden has been instructed by one of his clients to approach Barton professionally.”
“The situation is difficult,” Mr. Aden explained, extending a fat white hand. “But what could I do? I act for the great interests in Egypt. I cannot afford to offend.”
“Ah!” shouted the chief, “truth at last! I admit you’re not the man to offend Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“Dr. Fu-Manchu?” Mr. Aden murmured. “That name also is unfamiliar to me.”
Nayland Smith glanced in Barton’s direction, snapped his fingers irritably, and:
“The name of your client it is unnecessary to discuss at the moment,” he said. “But I gather your instructions to be these: A body of religious fanatics has abducted Miss Rima Barton. Your client has learned that she will be returned unharmed if the demands of these religious fanatics are complied with?”
“Ah!” beamed Mr. Aden, “but this is common sense, Sir Denis. How perfectly you understand my position.”
“If you understood it,” growled the chief, “you would know that you might be kicked through the window at any moment.”