by Sax Rohmer
I set the carved wooden box on the table in the sitting-room and stared through the glass at that dreadful exhibit.
Who had he been, this old man who had met death by decapitation? What tragedy of the Peruvian woods was locked up in my strange possession, and, paramount thought, why had Zazima forced the thing upon me?
The idea that this fragment of dreadful mortality formed a link with Ardatha was one I was anxious to dispel; yet I clung to it. Lighting a cigarette, I considered the relic, and suddenly an idea occurred to me. I wondered that it had not occurred to me before.
The reason for so roundabout a method was not clear, but Zazima may have known himself to be spied upon. That someone else had been concealed at the back of his shop I had felt quite certain, some servant of Fu-Manchu — possibly the Doctor himself. I must suppose that the hidden watcher had good reason for remaining hidden. The answer to the problem must be that vital information of some sort was hidden in the box!
I anticipated no difficulty in opening it; the front was secured by a catch similar to that of a clock face. Yet, I hesitated; I loathed the idea of touching that little shrivelled head mounted upon a block of some hard black wood. I peered in through the glass, expecting to find a note there. But I could see nothing. The box was decorated with carving, some kind of native work, and I thought it possible, noting the thickness of the wood, that part of the base might conceal a secret drawer. Another possibility was that the head was hollow; that if I took it out I should find something hidden inside.
Conquering revulsion, I was about to open the glass front and examine that shrivelled fragment of a long-dead man when abruptly I desisted.
I had heard a rap, short but imperative, at the outer door!
Hastily I placed the shrivelled head with its mahogany casket in a bureau. I was anxious that none of the staff should see it: I mistrusted everyone where Dr. Fu-Manchu was concerned. As I locked the bureau and slipped the key into my pocket, the rapping on the outer door was repeated, this time more insistently. I thought it might be Barton, but I could not imagine why he did not ring the bell.
Swift dusk was falling; and as I opened the door the lights in the passage outside had not yet been switched up.
A woman stood here.
Because of the darkness, because she was graceful and slender, a pang of joy stabbed me. For a moment I thought… Ardatha. Then, the visitor spoke:
“I have come because I want to help you — I must speak to you.”
It was Flammario the dancer!
* * * *
Brilliant amber eyes looked into mine; they were beautiful; but their beauty was of the jungle.
“Please, no, do not turn up the light. I promise you, I declare to you, that I am here to be of help. It is that your interests are mine. I know that you — look for someone.”
She preceded me into the rapidly-darkening room, for dusk falls swiftly in the Tropics, and seated herself in an armchair, not far from the door. Her movements had a wild animal grace, which might have been a product of her profession or have been hereditary. She was very magnetic; an oddly disturbing figure. I was far from trusting her. And now (she had a velvety, caressing voice): “Will you please promise me something?” she asked.
“What is it?”
“There are two other ways out of here. Is — it true?”
“Yes.”
“If Sir Denis Nayland Smith comes, or Sir Lionel Barton, will you help me escape?”
I hesitated. My thirst for knowledge, knowledge that might lead me to Ardatha, prompted me to accept almost any terms, and Flammario had said, “I know that you look for someone.” Yet I distrusted her. I suspected her to be a servant of Dr. Fu-Manchu, an instrument, a mouthpiece; otherwise from what source had she gained her knowledge of my companions? But my longing for news of Ardatha tipped the balance.
“Yes, I will do my best. But why are you afraid of them; and how do you come to know their names?”
“I had a friend — he is now my enemy” — the huskily musical voice came to me from a shadowy figure. “He, my friend, is a member of a secret society called the Si-Fan. You know it, eh?”
“Yes. I know it.”
“He told me much about it — far more than he should have told to anyone. And because I seem to know about the Si-Fan, I think that those others might—”
“Might hold you as a suspect?” I suggested.
“Yes.” The word came in a whisper. “It would not be fair. And so” — she had the quaintest accent— “will you promise me that I am not arrested?”
A moment longer I hesitated, and then:
“Yes,” I said.
She laughed softly, a trilling, musical laugh.
“You Englishmen are so sweet to women — so are American men. It is foolish; but sometimes it pays.”
She was now a dim shape in the armchair.
“You mean until we have been tricked we expect women to play the game?”
“Yes, perhaps that is it But I have something to ask you and something to tell you, and the time is short. First you look for a girl called Ardatha?”
“Yes!”
“And you believe that she is with Dr. Fu-Manchu?”
“Of course—”
“She is not.”
“What do you say?”
“She is with — my friend. Please let me go on. The name of this dear friend of mine is Lou Cabot. He is part owner of The Passion Fruit Tree where I am hostess. He is also the chief agent of the Si-Fan in the Canal Zone. He was sent to New York to bring Ardatha here—”
“Is he a sallow-faced fellow?” I broke in savagely, for I was thinking of the man I had seen with Ardatha in the Regal Athenian — the man of Panama. “Greasy black hair and semi side-whiskers?”
“He might look so, to you; but please listen. The Society, the Si-Fan, is split into two parts; there is a conspiracy against the President, and Lou is of those who plan his ruin. A dangerous game, I told him — and so he will find it! So far so good. But now, if you please, because he is so sure of himself, he has taken her away.”
“What!”
“Please, be patient: she may not have fought so hard; Lou has a charm for women—”
“Enough of that!” I said sharply.
Flammario glided to my side, threw one arm round me and rested her head on my shoulder.
“I am a woman,” she whispered. “Perhaps I know better than you when a man is fascinating to women. I do not think, myself, that her heart has changed about you. But I know — how well I know — that mine has changed! Listen again; my friend has wounded my pride. I know him, now, for a vain fool. He will surely die when the plot is known—”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes, but I wish to see him die!” She laughed; it was musical but demoniacal laughter. “And if I can show you these two together I am sure that you will kill him…”
Flammario was undeniably beautiful in an exotic way; but as she pronounced those last words I thought of a puma, a sleek, satiny, lithe, dangerous beast.
“I assure you I shall do my best! But where is she? Where is she?”
“I think I know. Later tonight I shall be sure.”
“Then — quickly: what am I to do?”
She drew away from me. It was now nearly quite dark, and she appeared as a phantom.
“I will tell you — for someone must be here soon. You will make your friends promise — about me; and then, be at the Passion Fruit tonight before twelve o’clock. You must be prepared to act—”
“How? Tell me!”
I heard the elevator stop at our floor, heard the gate clang. I saw the phantom figure of Flammario drawn swiftly upright. “Quick! Which is the better way?”
I hesitated.
“You promised — I trusted you. You can say I was here, but first let me go!”
“This way.”
I led her through to Barton’s room and opened the outer door.
“Tonight, before twelve — I shall expect
you…
CHAPTER TWENTY. THE SHRIVELLED HEAD
As I closed the door after Flammario, footsteps passed by outside. Whoever had come up in the elevator was not bound for our apartment. In a few more precious moments I might have learned so much; but now it was too late. Ardatha in the hands of the sleek, sallow scoundrel I had seen in Panama! The mere idea made my blood boil. In some way I regarded the Chinese doctor as one might have regarded a disembodied spirit, although a spirit of evil; a sexless supermortal. But Lou Cabot! Could it be true?
Switching up the light, I turned and looked at a large cage which stood on a side-table. Its occupant lay in the sleeping-box, only a tiny, grey-whiskered head drooping disconsolately out. I saw a bowl of food, untouched, upon the sanded floor. Peko the marmoset was near his end.
I approached the bars, staring in anxiously. Wicked little eyes regarded me, teeth were bared; and there was a faint whistling chatter. Peko might be moribund, but he could still hate all humanity. I returned to the sitting-room, lighted up, and took out the head in its mahogany box.
Shrivelled, hideous thing it was; and upon it (as again overcoming my revulsion, I studied it more closely) there still rested the shadow of a distant agony. Was this no more than a trap? Why should I trust Zazima? Yet, because the fate of Ardatha meant more to me — nor do I deny it — than the success or failure of the expedition upon which I was engaged, I knew that I was prepared to believe in his sincerity, prepared to believe Flammario. I was mad with apprehension.
Opening the case, I peered inside eagerly. I could see nothing concealed there. Perhaps I must remove the head; perhaps some message was hidden in the shrivelled skull itself. But as I held the box by its carved and crudely-coloured base, I made a discovery which induced an even greater excitement. One of the painted knobs moved slightly.
I was about to attempt to pull it from its place when the head began to speak!
When I say that it began to speak, I do not mean that any movement of those wasted features became perceptible; I mean that a low, obscene whispering proceeded from it.
I all but dropped the box. I was appalled. I think that any man must have been appalled. But I set it on the table. Then, as that high sibilance continued, I clenched my fists and forced myself to listen.
“So it befell — so it befell…” The whispering was in English! “I was called — Ica… Chief was I of all the Quechua of Callao. But the Jibaros came; my women were taken; my house was fired, my head struck off. We were peaceful folk. But the head-hunters swept down upon us. Thought still lived in my skull, even when it was packed with burning sand. My brain boiled, yet I knew that I was Ica, chief of the Quechua of Callao…”
The uncanny whisper died away. I stood there rigidly, staring at the head, when again a voice spoke from the box;
“Such is the brief obituary of Ica, chief of the Callao Quechuas.”
And this was the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu!
“If I address Mr. Bart Kerrigan,” it continued, “be good enough to press the red indicator on the right of the box, once.”
A sort of icy coolness which, in my case, sometimes takes the place of panic, came now to my aid. Bending forward I pressed the red knob which I had already discovered.
“The grotesque character of the receiving-set before you,” that high distant voice resumed, “was designed for a special purpose. It is otherwise similar to the example which Sir Denis deposited in Scotland Yard Museum rather more than a year ago, but which is no longer of any use. Listen attentively. If Sir Denis or anyone else join you, press the blue indicator on the left of the box. The safety of Ardatha depends upon your obedience.”
Almost, I ceased to breathe.
“What I have to say must be said briefly; it is for you to employ it to good purpose. Your Western world is locked in a stupid clash of arms. You have created a situation resembling those traffic blocks which once were a feature of London. The shadow of Russia, that deformed colossus, frightens the children of Europe, none more so than the deluded Germans; but since one cannot wield the sword at the same time as one guides the ploughshare, nations far distant tremble for their trade. This is where East meets West. The more equally the scales be weighted, the more certainly a decimal of a gramme added to one of them must tip it.”
The voice ceased; I feared that that which I most particularly wanted to hear was to be denied to me, but:
“I hold such a decimal of a gramme in my hand,” the cold guttural voice continued. “That dangerous meddler, Sir Lionel Barton, dreamed of outwitting me. He failed. Mention to him that Haiti, and not Panama, is the home of The Snapping Fingers. He captured Peko, the marmoset who shares all my secrets, including that of longevity. You are unaware of the fact, but I have twice attempted to recover him, and twice have been unsuccessful. In holding Peko I confess that you hold my heartstrings. In the wooden base upon which the head of Ica is mounted, you will find a small phial containing a heavy liquid resembling Chartreuse. Press the red indicator twice, when you have found it.”
Without hesitation (I wondered if anyone had ever disobeyed Dr. Fu-Manchu) I removed the shrivelled head, the base of which I found to be fixed in two grooves so that it could be pulled out from the box. I inverted it and saw that there was a sliding lid. Inside the cavity lay a phial and a tiny tortoiseshell snuff-box packed in cotton wool.
I reclosed this strange casket, replaced the head and followed instructions.
“You have in your hand,” the imperious voice responded, “that which means the life not merely of an animal. One minim, no more, is to be added to one gill of fresh goat’s milk. This must be given to the marmoset at once. Afterwards, the milk once daily, with the liqueur only on every third day. An added fragment of the powder in the snuff-box will induce him to eat any suitable food. Press the red indicator once if you understand; otherwise, twice.”
When I had signified that I understood:
“See that Peko lives,” the distant voice went on. “I am prepared to exchange Ardatha for Peko — when I have recovered Ardatha. There is a schism in our ancient ranks; a usurper seeks to be President, one who believes that the Nazi blunderers who have recently approached me can be used to our advantage. Here, in acting for yourself you act also for me. There is a creature called Lou Cabot who has joined my enemies. So far, he has escaped me. He is hiding in Colon. Ardatha is with him. You have Sir Denis and the Zone Police; I have my own methods. Seek for this reptile. If you should chance to kill him it would save me trouble.”
Again the voice ceased. I was in a state of intense nervous tension, but at last;
“Find Cabot,” the voice added, now faintly and from far away. “Delay may be dangerous… Take care of Peko… I will restore…”
The voice ceased entirely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. CONCERNING LOU CABOT
“It will be interesting to learn,” said Nayland Smith, “whether the Zone Police, Dr. Fu-Manchu or a jealous woman first discovers the whereabouts of this man Lou Cabot. However well hidden he may be, I may add that I do not envy Lou Cabot.”
The hour grew late, and with every moment that passed my impatience grew hotter. Somewhere, perhaps within call of the balcony outside our windows, Ardatha was imprisoned at the mercy of the sallow-faced, sleek-eyed scoundrel who had tracked me in Panama! Smith relighted his pipe, shooting a quick glance in my direction.
“I do not necessarily believe the woman Flammario,” he added, puffing vigorously.
“What could her object be?”
“Assuming it to be revenge — and your description depicts a woman whom it would be unwise to offend — it does not necessarily follow that her construction of the situation is the correct one. What I find hard to believe is this: that a member of the Si-Fan, presumably a senior official and therefore one well acquainted with their methods and efficiency, should, for a mere infatuation, invite the terrible penalties which must follow.”
“I see your point,” I replied miserably; “but if there is any t
ruth at all in Flammario’s story what other explanation can there be?”
“One which occurred to me immediately,” snapped Smith. “You had it from Fu-Manchu himself. In one respect the Doctor stands unique amongst all the villains I have known; he never lies. Civil war has broken out in the ancient order of the Si-Fan: the man Cabot has joined the rebels. This, Flammario told you. I assume that Cabot is acting under the orders of the opposition leader.”
“You mean that his interest in Ardatha is not personal, as Flammario thinks?”
“I mean just that. She, as a woman, would naturally think otherwise. Ardatha is in some way useful to the rebel members, and so they are endeavouring to smuggle her away. This is not the first time, Kerrigan, that strife has broken out in the Council of Seven. The last rebel who endeavoured to assume control of that vast organization—”
He ceased speaking and began to pace up and down restlessly.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“A train of thought, Kerrigan — possibly an inspiration.”
He was still promenading, plunged in a brown study, when the door opened and Barton came in.
“Fu-Manchu is undeniably a wizard physician,” Sir Lionel declared. “Treatment prescribed seems to have taken years off that beastly little marmoset. It is now as full of fight as a bulldog.”
“I am glad,” I said, and spoke with sincerity. “I was afraid we were going to lose the thing.”
“Any more messages from the Talking Head?” he inquired in his loud, facetious way.
“No.” Smith suddenly emerged from some maze of speculation in which he had been lost. “We have tried pressing the red control, and as you see the door of the box is open.”
“I am prepared to believe that it is a receiving-set and not some kind of hypnotic machine,” growled Barton, “when I have actually heard it for myself. It isn’t connected up in any way: it’s just an empty box — except, of course, for the shrivelled head.”
“No doubt I should be as sceptical as you,” Smith admitted, “if I had not had previous experience of this amazing apparatus. The head, of course, has nothing to do with the matter. Fu-Manchu lacks a true sense of humour; but he has a strong sense of the baroque. Some time when you are in London and have an hour to spare, I must take you along to Scotland Yard Museum. One of these receivers is there. European experts have overhauled the mechanism and have unanimously declared it to be without equipment for receiving and transmitting sound waves — yet it did, as Kerrigan can testify. My dear Barton, Dr. Fu-Manchu is many generations ahead of others in nearly all the sciences. I have never been able to make you understand that he has at his disposal many first class brains other than his own.”