Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  I could never follow the principle of his system. But while, admittedly, we had never lost anything, on the other hand, we had not gained.

  My somewhat morbid reflections seemed to curtail the journey. I observed little of the route, until I found myself on the long curve above Monte Carlo. Dusk had fallen, and that theatrical illumination which is a feature of the place had sprung into life.

  I pulled up for a moment, looking down at the unique spectacle — wonderful, for all its theatricality. The blazing colour of the flower beds, floodlighted from palm tops; the emerald green of terraced lawns falling away to that ornate frontage of the great Casino.

  It is Monte Carlo’s one and only “view”, but in its garish way it is unforgettable.

  I pushed on down the sharp descent to the town, presently halting before the little terrace of an unpretentious restaurant. Tables were laid under the awning, and already there were many diners.

  This was Quinto’s, where, without running up a ruinous bill, one may enjoy a perfect dinner and the really choice wines of France.

  The genial Maître d’hôtel met me at the top of the steps, extending that cosmopolitan welcome which lends a good meal an additional savour. Your true restaurateur is not only an epicure; he is also a polished man of the world.

  Yes, there was a small table in the corner. But I was alone tonight! Was Dr. Petrie busy?

  I shook my head.

  “I am afraid he is very ill,” I replied cautiously.

  Hitherto the authorities had succeeded in suppressing the truth of this ghastly outbreak so near to two great pleasure resorts. I had to guard my tongue, for an indiscreet word might undo all their plans of secrecy.

  “Something serious?” he asked, with what I thought was real concern: everybody loved Petrie.

  “A serious chill. The doctors are afraid of pneumonia.”

  Quinto raised his hands in an eloquent southern gesture.

  “Oh, these chilly nights!” he exclaimed. “They will ruin us! So many people forget to wrap themselves up warmly in the Riviera evenings. And then” — he shrugged— “they say it is a treacherous climate!”

  He conducted me to a table in an angle of the wall, and pointed out, as was his custom, notabilities present that evening.

  These included an ex-Crown Prince, Fritz Kreisler, and an internationally popular English novelist residing on the Côte d’Azur. The question of what I should eat and what I should drink was discussed as between artists; for the hallmark of a great Maître d’hôtel is the insidious compliment which he conveys to his patron in conceding the latter’s opinions to be worthy of the master’s consideration.

  When the matter was arranged and the wine-waiter had brought me a cocktail, I settled down to survey my fellow guests.

  My survey stopped short at a table in the opposite corner.

  A man who evidently distrusted the chill of the southern evenings sat there, his back towards me. He wore a heavy coat, having an astrakhan collar; and, what was more peculiar at dinner, he wore an astrakhan cap. From my present point of view he resembled pictures I had seen of Russian noblemen of the old regime.

  Facing him across the small square table was Fleurette! Over one astrakhan-covered shoulder of her companion our glances met. Dim light may have created the illusion, but I thought that the flower-like face turned pale, that the blue eyes opened very wide for a moment.

  I was about to stand up, when a slight, almost imperceptible movement of Fleurette’s head warned me unmistakably not to claim the acquaintance.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN. FAIRY TRUMPET

  I asked myself the question: had the gesture been real, or had I merely imagined it?

  Fleurette wore a light wrap over a very plain black evening frock. Her hair smouldered under the shaded lights so that it seemed to contain sparks of fire. She had instantly glanced aside. I could not be wrong.

  At first I had experienced intense humiliation, but now my courage returned. True, she had conveyed the message: “Don’t speak to me.” But it had been in the nature of a warning, an admission of a mutual secret understanding, and in no sense a snub.

  She was not, then, inaccessible. She was hedged around, guarded, by the jealous suspicions of her Oriental master.

  I could doubt no longer.

  The man seated with his back to me was the same I had seen in the car driven by the Negro chauffeur. Despite his nonconformity to type, this was Mahdi Bey. And Fleurette, for all her glorious, virginlike beauty, must be his mistress.

  She deliberately avoided looking in my direction again.

  Her companion never moved: his immobility was extraordinary. And presently, through the leaves of the shrubs growing in wooden boxes, I saw the black-and-silver Rolls, almost directly opposite the restaurant.

  My glance moved upward to the parapet guarding a higher road which here dips down and forms a hairpin bend.

  A man stood there watching.

  Difficult though it was from where I sat to form a clear impression of his appearance, I became convinced, nevertheless, that he was one of the tribe of the Dacoits... either the same, or an opposite number, of the yellow-faced horror I had seen in the garden of the Villa Jasmin!

  And at that moment, as my waiter approached, changing the plates in readiness for the first course, I found myself swept back mentally into the ghastly business I had come there to forget. I experienced a sudden chill of foreboding.

  If, as I strongly suspected, one of the murderous Burmans was watching the restaurant — did this mean that I had been followed there? If so, with what purpose? I no longer stood between Petrie’s enemies and their objective; but — I had wounded, probably killed, one of their number. I had heard much of the implacable blood feuds of the Indian thugs; it was no more than reasonable to suppose that something of the same might prevail among the Dacoits of Burma.

  I glanced furtively upward again. And there was the motionless figure leaning against the parapet.

  In dress there was nothing to distinguish the man from an ordinary Monaco workman, but my present survey confirmed my first impression.

  This was one of the yellow men attached to the service of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  I cast my memory back over the route I had so recently traversed. Had any car followed me? I could not recollect that it was so. But, on the other hand, I had been much abstracted, driving mechanically. Dusk had fallen before I had reached Monaco. If an attempt were contemplated, why had it not taken place upon the road?

  The problem was beyond me... But there stood the watcher, motionless by the parapet.

  And at this very moment, and just as the wine-waiter placed a decanter of my favourite Pommard before me, I had a remarkable experience — an experience so disturbing that I sat quite still for several seconds, my outstretched hand poised in the act of taking up the decanter.

  Close beside my ear — as it seemed, out of space, out of nowhere — that same high, indescribable note became audible; that sound which I believe I have already attempted to describe as the call of a fairy trumpet...

  Once before, and once only, I had heard it — on the beach of Ste Claire de la Roche.

  Some eerie quality in the sound affected me now, as it had affected me then. It was profoundly mysterious; but one thing was certain. Unless the sound were purely a product of my own imagination, or the result of some trouble of the inner ear — possibly an aftermath of illness — it could not be coincidence that on the two occasions that I had heard it Fleurette had been present.

  My hand dropped down to the couvert — and I looked across at her.

  Her eyes were fixed on the face of her companion, who sat with his back to me, in that dreamy, faraway regard which I remembered.

  Then her delicate lips moved, and I thought, although I could not hear her words, that she was replying to some question which he had addressed to her.

  And, as I looked and realized that she was speaking, that strange sound ceased as abruptly as it had commenced.

&n
bsp; I saw Fleurette glance aside; her expression changed swiftly. But her eyes never once turned in my direction. I stared beyond her, up through the leaves of the shrubs and towards the parapet on the other side of the street.

  The Burman had disappeared...

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE DACOIT

  “You are wanted on the telephone, Mr. Sterling.”

  I started as wildly as a man suddenly aroused from sleep. A dreadful premonition gripped me icily. I stood up.

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “I believe the name was Dr. Cartier, sir.”

  In that moment, Fleurette and her mysterious companion were forgotten; the lurking yellow man faded from my mind as completely as he had faded from my view. This was news of Petrie; and something told me it could only be bad news.

  I hurried through the restaurant to the telephone booth, and snatched up the receiver.

  “Hullo, hullo!” I called. “Alan Sterling here. Is that Dr. Cartier?”

  Brisson’s voice answered me: his tone prepared me for what was to come.

  “I mentioned Dr. Cartier’s name in case you should not be familiar with my own, Mr. Sterling. I would not have disturbed you — for you can scarcely have begun your dinner yet — had I not promised to report any news at once.”

  “What is it?” I asked eagerly.

  “Prepare yourself to know that it is bad.”

  “Not...?”

  “Alas — yes!”

  “My God!”

  “There was no final convulsion — no change. ‘654’ might have saved him — if we had known what treatment to pursue after the first injection. But the coma passed slowly into... death.”

  As I listened to those words, a change came over my entire outlook on the future. A cold rage, and what I knew to be an abiding rage, took possession of me. The merciless fiends, for no reason that I could possibly hope to imagine, had ended an honourable and supremely useful life; that kindly personality which had lived only to serve had been snatched away, remorselessly.

  Very well... It was murder, calculated, callous murder. This was a game that two could play. What I had done once, I could do again, and again — and every time that I got within reach of any of the foul gang!

  Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  If such a person existed, I asked only to be set face to face with him. That moment, I vowed, should be his last — little knowing the stupendous task to which I vowed myself.

  Fah Lo Suee — a woman; but one of them. The French had not hesitated to shoot female spies during the World War. Nor should I, now.

  I had reached the head of the steps when Victor Quinto touched my shoulder. Details were indefinite, but my immediate objective was plain. One of the Burmans was covering my movements. I planned to find that Burman; and — taking every possible precaution to ensure my own getaway — I planned to kill him...

  “You have had bad news, M. Sterling?”

  “Dr. Petrie is dead,” I said, and ran down the steps.

  I suppose many curious glances followed; perhaps Fleurette had seen me. I didn’t care. I crossed the street and walked up the opposite slope. A man was lounging there, smoking a cigarette — a typical working-class Frenchman; and I remembered that he had stood there for part of the time during which the Dacoit had watched the restaurant.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  The man started and turned.

  “Did you chance to see an Oriental who stood near you here a few minutes ago?”

  “But yes, m’sieur. Someone, I suppose, off one of those foreign yachts in the harbour? He has gone only this last two minutes.”

  “Which way?”

  He pointed downward.

  “Toward the Jardin des Suicides,” he replied, smiling.

  “Suitable spot, if I catch him there,” I muttered; then, aloud:

  “Drink my health,” I said, thrusting a note into his hand. “I shall need your kind wishes.”

  “Thank you, m’sieur — and goodnight...”

  I remember starting the car and driving slowly down the slope to the corner by the Café de Paris. I had no glimpse of the Burman. Here, viewing the activity which surges around the Casino, seeing familiar figures at the more sheltered café tables, noticing a gendarme in an Offenbach uniform, a hotel bus — I pulled up.

  My determination remained adamant as ever; but I suddenly recognized the hopelessness of this present quest. I must cast my hook wisely; useless to pursue one furtive shark. My place was beside Cartier, beside dear old Petrie — in the centre of the murderous school...

  I set out. I had not dined; nor had I tasted my wine. But I was animated by a vigorous purpose more stimulating than meat and drink.

  That purpose, as I view it now, was vengeance. Some part of me, the Highland, had seen the Fiery Cross. I was out for blood. I had consecrated myself to a holy cause: the utter destruction of Dr. Fu-Manchu and of all he stood for.

  Petrie dead!

  It was all but impossible to accept the fact — yet. I dreaded my next meeting with Sir Denis: his hurt would be deeper even than my own. And throughout the time that these bitter reflections occupied my mind, I was driving on, headlong, my steering controlled by a guiding Providence.

  Without having noted one landmark on the way, I found myself high up on the Corniche road. Beyond a piece of broken parapet outlining a sharp bend, I could see twinkling lights far ahead, and below were, I thought, the lights of Ste Claire de la Roche. I slowed up to light my pipe.

  The night was very still. No sound of traffic reached my ears.

  I remembered having stuck a spare box of matches in a fold of the canvas hood. I turned to get it...

  A malignant yellow face, the eyes close-set and slightly oblique, stared into mine!

  The Dacoit was perched on the baggage rack!

  What that hideous expression meant — in what degree it was compounded of animosity and of fear caused by sudden discovery — I didn’t pause to consider. But that my own cold purpose was to be read in my face, the Burman’s next move clearly indicated.

  Springing to the ground, he began to run.

  He ran back: I had no chance to turn the car. But I was out and after him in less time than it takes me to record the fact. This was a murder game: no quarter given or expected!

  The man ran like Mercury. He was already twenty yards away. I put up a tremendous sprint and slightly decreased his lead. He glanced back. I saw the moonlight on his snarling teeth.

  Pulling up, I took careful aim with the automatic — and fired. He ran on. I fired again.

  Still he ran. I set out in pursuit; but the Dacoit had thirty yards’ start. If he had ever doubted, he knew, now, that he ran for his life.

  In a hundred yards I had gained nothing. My wind was not good for more than another hundred yards at that speed. Then — and if I had had enough breath I should have cheered — he stumbled, tottered, and fell forward on to hands and knees!

  I bore down upon him with grim determination. I was not ten feet off when he turned, swung his arm, and something went humming past my bent head!

  A knife!

  I checked and fired again at close range.

  The Burman threw his hands up, and fell prone in the road.

  “Another one for Petrie!” I said breathlessly.

  Stooping, I was about to turn him over, when an amazing thing happened.

  The man whipped around with a movement which reminded me horribly of a snake. He threw his legs around my thighs and buried fingers like steel hooks in my throat!

  Dragging me down — down — remorselessly down — he grinned like a savage animal cornered but unconquerable... The world began to swim about me; there was a murmur in my ears like that of the sea.

  I thought a car approached in the distance... I saw bloody foam dripping from the Dacoit’s clenched teeth...

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE ROOM OF GLASS

  When I opened my eyes my first impression was that the Dacoit had killed me — that I was dead �
� and that the Beyond was even more strange and inconsequential than the wildest flight of Spiritualism had depicted.

  I lay on a couch, my head on a pillow. The cushions of the couch were of a sort of neutral grey colour; so was the pillow. They were composed, I saw, of some kind of soft rubber and were inflated. I experienced considerable difficulty in swallowing, and raising a hand to my throat found it to be swollen and painful.

  Perhaps, after all, I was not dead; but if alive, where in the known world could I be?

  The couch upon which I lay — and I noted now that I was dressed in white overalls and wore rubber-soled shoes! — was at one end of an enormously large room. The entire floor, or that part of it which I could see, was covered with this same neutral grey substance which may have been rubber. The ceiling looked like opaque glass, and so did the walls.

  Quite near to me was a complicated piece of apparatus, not unlike, I thought, a large cinematograph camera, and mounted on a movable platform. It displayed a number of huge lenses, and there were tiny lamps here and there in the amazing mechanism, some of them lighted.

  A most intricate switchboard was not the least curious feature of this baffling machine. Farther beyond, suspended from the glass ceiling, hung what I took to be the largest arc lamp I had ever seen in my life. But although it was alight, it suffused only a dim, purple glow, contributing little to the general illumination.

  Half hidden from my point of view stood a long glass table (or a table composed of the same material as the ceiling and the walls) upon which was grouped the most singular collection of instruments and appliances I had ever seen, or even imagined.

  Huge glass vessels containing fluids of diverse colours, masses of twisted tubing, little points of fire, and a thing like an Egyptian harp, the strings of which seemed to be composed of streaks of light which wavered and constantly changed colour, emitting a ceaseless crackling sound...