The Bride of Fu Manchu f-6

by Sax Rohmer

  “Look!” said Trenck, with emotion.

  He pointed; and, creeping up from the steaming mud, I saw tender flesh-coloured tendrils clasping the swampy roots.

  “The orchid of life!” Trenck cried. “The doctor so terms. But imagine! Watch this thermometer—watch it as though your life depended, Mr Sterling! Here is a culture of fourteen days! In its natural state in Burma, flowering occurs at intervals of rarely less than eighty years! Do you realise what this means?”

  I shook my head rather blankly.

  “Come, Companion! It means that if we can produce flowers, and I expect these buds to break within the next few hours, no one of us, no member of the Si-Fan, shall ever die except by violence!”

  Probably my expression had grown even more blank, for:

  “The doctor has not told you?” he went on excitedly. “Very well! The knowledge which we accumulate is common to us all, and it is my privilege to explain to you that from this orchid the doctor has obtained a certain oil. It is the missing ingredient for which the old alchemists sought. It is the Oil of Life!”

  As he spoke, mentally I conjured up the face of Dr. Fu Manchu, recalling the image which had occurred to me—that of Seti the First, the Egyptian Pharaoh. Could it be possible that this Chinese wizard had solved a problem which had taunted the ages?

  “He spoke of it,” I said, “but gave me no details. How old then is Dr. Fu Manchu?”

  Trenck burst out laughing.

  “Do you think,” he cried, his voice rising to a note almost hysterical, “that a man could know what he knows in one short span of life? How can I tell you? It is only necessary to prevent the veins from clogging as in vegetable life. The formula which first came into his possession demanded an ingredient no longer obtainable. For this, after nearly thirty years’ inquiry, he found a substitute in the oil expressed from this Burmese orchid. Ah! I must go. It is tantalizing to leave at such a moment, but regulations must be obeyed. But I forget; you are a novice. I will show you how to call be if a bud breaks.”

  He hurried back to the laboratory and pointed to a dial set upon the wall. He illustrated its simple mechanism, and it was not unlike that of a dial telephone.

  “You see,” he said, “my number is ninety-five.”

  He twisted the mechanism until the number ninety-five appeared in a small, illuminated oval.

  At which moment I heard again that strange vibrating note which had so intrigued me on the beach at Ste Claire.

  Trenck pressed a button, and the number ninety-five disappeared from the illuminated space, and that incredibly high sound which was almost like the note of a bat ceased.

  “At the moment that a bud begins to break,” he said, “you will call me? It would be tragic for a new world to open before us in all its perfection and Father Time to cut us off before we could enjoy it. Eh? I envy you your hours of duty; they may bring the honour of being the first man to witness a thing which shall revolutionise human life!”

  chapter twenty-seven

  IN THE GALLERIES

  my course was already set.

  That there would be some kind of night patrol—probably one of those immobile Chinamen—I could not doubt. But since I had no orders to the contrary, I was presumably entitled to proceed wherever I pleased, definitely within the botanical department, and by presumption elsewhere, always supposing that the communicating doors were not locked.

  Complete silence descended upon the laboratory, which was not more than twenty feet square. I found it necessary to keep reminding myself of the fact that in the eyes of those surrounding me, including the formidable Dr. Fu Manchu himself, I had become a Companion of the Si-Fan, a devotee of the cause, a blind slave of the Chinese doctor.

  The more I considered the situation, the more obvious it became that I had only one person to fear—Fah Lo Suee! Fah Lo Suee alone knew that I was still the captain of my soul.

  She counted on my interest in Fleurette to ensure my complicity. She thought—and she was right—that I would hesitate at nothing to save the lovely Rose-petal from that unimaginable fate mapped out for her by the insane master of so many destinies.

  And as I paced up and down that silent room I tried to work out where my duty lay.

  Fah Lo Suee clearly took it for granted that I could not escape from the place: this remained to be seen! But assuming that I did escape, and my absence be noted, this would precipitate some catastrophe, at the nature of which I could little more than guess.

  Fleurette would be lost to me forever! Sir Frank Narcomb and the rest—what would be their fate?

  Moreover, recognising the imminence of his danger, Fu Manchu might open his war on the world!

  Yet, now that I knew myself to be not in China, but in Ste Claire de la Roche, my determination to endeavour to get in touch with Nayland Smith was firmly established: the route alone remained doubtful.

  And upon this point I formed a sudden resolution.

  I had noted that in one of the houses—the first which I had entered with Dr. Fu Manchu, and the loftiest; that in which many fantastic species of palms grew—there was a spiral staircase leading to a series of gangways. By means of these presumably the upper foliage of the trees could be inspected.

  From up there, I thought, I might obtain a view of whatsoever lay outside, and thus get my bearings. Otherwise, I was just as likely to penetrate farther and farther into this maze of laboratories and workshops, as to find a way out of it.

  I had one chance, and I didn’t know what it was worth. But given anything like decent luck, I proposed to risk it.

  For a minute or more I looked in through the observation window to the small house flooded with synthetic sunshine, where those queer, flesh-like orchids were clambering up from steaming mud around the contorted mango roots. They seemed to be moving slightly, as is the way with such plants, in a manner suggesting the breathing of a sleeping animal.

  I moved on to the door which communicated with the first of the range of forcing houses, or the last in the order in which I had inspected them. It was the one containing the pitcher plants and other fly-catching varieties.

  It was dimly lighted within, and the door slid open as I pressed the control button. I closed it, adjusted the gauge, then opened the inner door and went in.

  The steamy heat of the place attacked me at once. It was like stepping out of a temperate clime into the heart of a jungle. The air was laden with perfumes—pleasant and otherwise; the predominant smell being that of an ineffable rottenness which characterises swampy vegetation.

  I threaded my way along a narrow path. So far, I had met with success—probably all the doors were unfastened.

  It proved to be so, nor did I meet a soul on the way.

  And when at last I stood in the most imposing house of all, palms towering high above my head, I became conscious of an apprehension against which I must fight...that the note of recall would suddenly sound in my brain.

  Yet to discard the metal ring would have been folly.

  There was an odd whispering among the dim palm-tops, for the place was but half lighted. It felt and smelled like a tropical forest. Much of the glass comprising the walls was semi-opaque. What lay beyond, I had no means of finding out.

  I moved cautiously along until I came to that spiral staircase I had noted. It was situated at no great distance from the doorway through which I had originally entered.

  Cautiously I began to ascend, my rubber-soled shoes creating a vague thrumming sound upon the metal steps. I reached the top of the first staircase and saw before me a narrow gangway with a single handrail—not unlike those found in engine rooms.

  Palm boles towered about me, and fronds of lower foliage extended across the platform. I advanced, sometimes ducking under them, to where vaguely I had seen a second stair leading higher. I mounted this until I found myself among the tops of wildly unfamiliar trees; narrow galleries branched off in several directions. I selected one which seemed to lead to the glass wall. I saw queer
fruit glowing in the crowns of trees unknown. Normally I could not have resisted inspecting it more closely; but to-night my professional enthusiasms must be subdued: a task of intense urgency claimed me.

  Then, I had almost come to where one gangway joined another running flat against the glass wall, up very near to the arching roof, when I pulled up, inhaled deeply, and clutched at the hand rail....

  Uttering a shrill whistling sound, something swung from a golden crest on my right, perched for a moment on the rail, not a yard from where I stood, chattering up at me and sprang into bright green foliage of an overhanging palm!

  My heart was beating rapidly—but I tried to laugh at myself.

  It was Fu Manchu’s marmoset!

  I had begun to move on again when once more I pulled up.

  Surely it was not the doctor’s custom to allow his pet to roam at large in these houses? It had presumably escaped from its usual quarters, and sooner or later the doctor, or someone else, would see it.

  I stood still, listening. I could hear nothing save the faint whispering of the leaves.

  Moving on to the side gallery, I saw ahead of me through glass windows a rugged slope topped by a ruined wall, and beyond the wall an ancient building. Stepping slightly to the right, I could see more of the place—a narrow street descending in cobbled stops, and another more modem building, from the arched entrance of which light shone out upon the cobbles. Looking higher, I saw a cloudless sky gemmed with stars.

  This, beyond doubt was the back of Ste Claire, and these huge forcing houses were built against the slope which ran down from it to the sea.

  In other words, as I stood, the sea was behind me. I must seek an exit in that direction. I walked back along the gangways to the head of the spiral staircase, seeing nothing of Peko, the marmoset, on my way.

  I descended; proceeded along the second gallery to the lower stair, and so reached the rubber covered floor again.

  Instantly, I noticed something which pulled me up dead in my tracks...an unmistakable smell of opium!

  I turned slowly, fists clenched, looking towards those doors which I knew to communicate with the study of Dr. Fu Manchu.

  Good heavens! what did this mean?

  Both doors, the inner and the outer, were open!

  From where I stood I could see the farther wall of the room—I could see a silk lantern suspended from the ceiling;

  some of the books in their barbaric bindings; the thick carpet;

  and even that Chinese stool upon which I had sat.

  Not a sound reached me.

  Something, perhaps a natural cowardice, was urging me to go back—to go back, but I conquered it, and went forward— very cautiously.

  I believe I had rarely done anything so truly praiseworthy as when I crossed the space between those two doors, and, craning forward inch by inch, peeped into the study.

  chapter twenty-eighth

  EVIL INCARNATE

  I withdrew my head with hare-like rapidity and clenched my teeth so sharply, stifling an exclamation, that I heard the click as they came together.

  Dr. Fu Manchu was seated in the big throne-like chair behind the writing table.

  One glimpse only I had of him in profile, but it had wrecked my optimism—reduced me to a state of helpless despair.

  I stood now on the threshold, not daring to move, scarce daring to breathe. He was seated, I had seen in that lightning glimpse, his head resting against the back of the padded chair, bolt upright, his yellow taloned hands clutching the arms. It was like a vision of a Pharoah dead upon his throne.

  The open doors were explained: he had heard me approaching. He was waiting for me!...What explanation could I offer?

  So much more than my own life was at stake, that I stood there, aware that a cold perspiration had broken out upon my skin, fighting for composure, demanding of my dull brain some answer to the inquisition to which at any moment I expected to be submitted.

  Silence!

  Not a sound came from that study out of which opium fumes floated to my nostrils.

  It was possible, it was just possible, that he had not heard my approach. This being so, it was also possible that he did not know the identity of the intruder whom, presumably, he had heard mounting or dismounting the iron staircase....

  I might creep back, and if questioned later, brazen the thing out. One objective I must keep in mind—my freedom!

  Silence!

  The sickly smell of opium mingling with a damp miasma from the palm house. So still it was that I could hear my heart beating, and hear—or thought I could hear—that faint rustling in the tree-tops, that curious communion among tropical leaves which never ceases, day or night.

  I began to recover courage.

  After all, my duties were of a character which rendered wakefulness difficult. What more natural as a botanist than that I should keep my mind alert by inspecting the unique products of those wonderful houses? Finding these doors open, what more natural than that I should investigate?

  Very cautiously, very quietly, I bent forward again, and this time ventured to look long and steadily.

  Like Seti the First, Dr. Fu Manchu sat in his throne chair. I knew that I had never seen so majestic an outline, nor so wonderful a brow, such tremendous power in any human lineaments. He was motionless, his hands resting upon the dragon chair-arms; he might have been carved from old ivory.

  My rubber-soled shoes making no sound, I stepped into the room and stood watching him closely. His eyes were closed. He was asleep, or—

  I glanced at the jade-bowled pipe which lay upon the table before him. I sniffed the fumes with which the room was laden.

  Drugged!

  Here was the explanation which I had been slow to grasp.

  Dr. Fu Manchu was in an opium trance...possibly the only sleep which that restless, super-normal brain ever knew!

  I glanced rapidly about the room, wondering if any other man, not enthralled by the Blessing of the Celestial Vision, had ever viewed its strange treasures and lived to tell the world of them.

  And now, as I stood there in the presence of that insensible enemy of Western civilisation, I asked myself a question:

  What should I do?

  If I could find a way out of this maze I believed I had a fighting chance to escape from Ste Claire. I was in China only in the sense that this place was under the domination of the Chinese doctor. Actually, I was in France; my friends were within easy reach if I could get in touch with them.

  Why should I not kill him?

  He had killed Petrie—dear old Petrie, one of the best friends I had ever had in life: he had killed, for no conceivable reason, those other poor workers in vineyards and gardens.

  And, according to Sir Denis, this was but the beginning of the sum of his assassinations!

  I stood quite close to him; only the big table divided us. And I studied the majestic, evil mask which was the face of Dr. Fu Manchu.

  He was helpless, and I was a young, vigorous man. Would it be a worthy or an unworthy deed? It is an ethical point which to this day I have never settled satisfactorily.

  All I can say in defence of my inaction is that, confronting Dr. Fu Manchu, helpless and insensible, I knew, although my reason and my Celtic blood rose in revolt against me, that something deep down in my consciousness bade me not to touch him!

  Supreme Evil sat enthroned before me, at my mercy—perhaps the nearest approach to Satan incarnate which this troubled world has ever known....And perhaps, for that strange reason, inviolable.

  I dared not lay a finger upon him—and I knew it!

  No! I must pursue my original plan—gain my freedom.

  The mahogany-arched recess communicated, I knew, with a corridor at the end of which was a stair leading to the rooms with white doors. The door which faced the table opened into the big laboratory called the radio research room.

  Which of these should I attempt?

  I had decided upon that leading to the laboratory when som
ething occurred to me which produced a chill at my heart.

  The opened doors into the palm house!

  Who had opened them, since, obviously, Dr. Fu Manchu had not done so?

  I stood quite still for a moment; then turned slowly and looked out into that misty jungle beyond.

  Someone had come out of this room during the time that I had been creeping about upon those gangways in the palmtops. A patrol? A patrol who, having heard me, would now be waiting for me....

  I listened; but no sound came from that tropical jungle. And now dawned a second thought. One acquainted with the iron routine of that place would never have left both doors open!

  What did it mean?

  An urge to escape from this drug-laden room, from the awful still figure in the carven chair, seized me.

  I stepped softly towards the archway—only to realise that the control was hidden. I could see no trace of one of those familiar glass buttons, resembling bell pushes, which took the place of door-knobs in this singular household. Perforce, then, I must try my luck in the radio research room.

  Beside the door facing Dr. Fu Manchu I could see the control button which opened it. I turned, pressed that button...and the door slid silently open.

  I stepped out into the violet-lighted laboratory.

  Looking swiftly right and left I could see no one. The place was empty, as when I had first discovered myself in its vast-ness. Almost directly at my feet a black line was marked upon the rubber floor.

  I inhaled deeply. Could I cross it?

  Clenching my teeth, I stepped forward. Nothing happened. I was free of the radio research room!

  But now my case was growing desperate. I could not believe myself to be the only person awake in that human ant-hill. Sooner or later I must be detected and challenged. My only chance was to find another way out of the radio research room. And now it occurred to me that there might be none!

  Avoiding those black marks upon the dull grey floor which outlined the settings of certain pieces of mechanism and of tables laden with indefinable instruments, I walked in the direction of the further end of the dimly lighted place, until I came to the glass wall.