The Bride of Fu Manchu f-6

by Sax Rohmer

  “You think Dr. Fu Manchu has been taken to some landing • place farther along the coast, where a car awaited him?”

  “That is the point we have to settle. Only one of two roads could serve—the Great Corniche or the Middle. All cars using them are being challenged and searched.”

  “Then, by heaven! we may have him yet!”

  “Knowing him better than you do, I look upon that as almost too much to hope for, Sterling. However, suppose we begin our climb.”

  We set out.

  A wild eleventh-hour hope was mine, that not only Petrie but Fleurette might be with Dr. Fu Manchu, and that this delay might prove to be his undoing. I did not know how far to take his words literally—but I remembered that he had said, “Dr. Petrie is with me.” Yes, there was still a ghost of a chance that all was not lost yet.

  The path was one of those which would not have appalled a hardened climber, but mountaineering had never been my enthusiasm. One thing was certain: Dr. Fu Manchu and his party had never come this way.

  It wound round and round great gnarled crags, creeping higher and ever higher. I was glad to be wearing rubber-soled shoes, although I am aware that experienced mountaineers reject them.

  At one point it led us fully a mile inland, climbing very near to the rim of a deep gorge and at an eerie height above the sea. It was a mere tracing, much better suited to a goat than to a human being. Never once did it touch any practicable road, but now led seaward again, until we found ourselves high up on the side of a dizzy precipice, sheer above the blue Mediterranean.

  “Heavens!” muttered Nayland Smith, clutching at the rocky wall at his right hand. “This is getting rather too exciting!”

  “I agree, Sir Denis.”

  At a point which was no more than eighteen inches wide, I was tempted to shut my eyes, but knew that I must keep them open and go on.

  “Heaven knows who uses such a path as this,” he muttered.

  We rounded the bluff and saw that our way lay inland again. The slope below was less steep, and there was dense vegetation upon its side. Nayland Smith pulled up, and under one upraised hand, stared hard.

  “It is difficult to recognise from this point,” he said, “but here is the bay of Ste Claire, as I suspected.”

  And now that crazy path began to descend, leading us lower and lower.

  It was very still there, and the early morning air possessed champagne-like properties. And suddenly Sir Denis turned to me:

  “Do you hear it. Sterling?” he snapped.

  Distinctly, in the silence, although it seemed to come from a long way off, I had detected the sound to which he referred—a distant shouting, and an almost incessant booming sound.

  “It seems incredible,” he continued, “but they are evidently still trying to force a way into the house! Come on, let’s hurry—there’s much to do, and very little time to do it.”

  We ran down the remaining few yards of the path and found ourselves upon the beach—that beach of which I had dreamed so often—but always with the dainty, sun-browned figure of Fleurette seated upon it.

  Sir Denis, whose powers of physical endurance were little short of phenomenal, ran across, making for that corresponding path upon the other side which led to the seven flights of steps communicating with the terrace of the villa....

  We mounted at the double.

  I saw that the main door had been forced and the shutters torn from an upper window against which a ladder rested.

  The booming sound, which had grown louder as we approached, was caused by the efforts of a party of men under a bewildered police officer endeavouring to force the first of the section doors at the top of the steps which led down to the radio research room.

  Sir Denis made himself known to the man—who had not been a member of the original party. And we learned the astounding fact that with the exception of four, the whole of that party, including the Chief of Police, remained locked inside the house—nor had any sound or message come from them!!

  A man was at work with a blow-lamp, supported by others with crowbars.

  Expert reinforcements were expected at any moment;

  and—a curious feature of the situation—although there was a telephone in the villa, no message had come over it from within, nor had any reply been received when the number was called....

  chapter forty-third

  KARAMANEH’S DAUGHTER

  in the course of the next few minutes I had my first sight of Ste Claire de la Roche.

  A paved path circled the house. There were ladders against several windows; ways had been forced into the outer rooms, and the villa proper was in possession of the police. But I knew that the real establishment was far below, and that it was much more extensive than that more or less open to inspection.

  Crashing and booming echoed hollowly from within.

  The front of the villa, by which I mean that part which faced towards the distant road, was squat and unimpressive. An entrance had been forced from this point also, and there were a number of police hurrying about.

  A little cobbled street, flanked by a house with an arched entrance, presented itself. Beside the house, in a cavern-like opening, a steep flight of steps disappeared into blackness. The top of a ladder projected above the parapet on my right, and, looking over, I saw that part of the glass roof of one of the forcing houses visible at this point had been smashed and a ladder lowered through the gap.

  Dim voices reached me from far below. I wondered if any of the raiding party had been found in that section.

  But Nayland Smith was hurrying on down the slope. And now we came to a long, sanded drive. There was a wall on the left, beyond which I thought lay a kitchen garden and a sheer drop on the right.

  • Sweeping around in a northerly direction, the drive led to gates of ornate iron scrollwork, which were closed, and I saw that two police officers were on duty there.

  The gates were opened in response to a brief order, and we hurried out into a narrow, sloping lane. I remembered this lane. It wandered down to the main road; for I had penetrated to it in my earliest attempt to explore Ste Claire de la Roche, and had been confronted with a “No thoroughfare” sign.

  “There’s a police car at the comer,” said Nayland Smith;

  “we must take that.”

  No cars had been found in the stone garage attached to the villa, and I wondered what had become of that which had once belonged to Petrie, and which must have been hidden on the night of my encounter with the dacoit on the Comiche road.

  A sergeant of police was standing by the car. He reported that a motorcyclist patrol had just passed. All cars using both roads had been challenged and searched throughout the night in accordance with Sir Denis’s instructions. But no one had been detained.

  Nayland Smith stood there twitching at the lobe of his ear;

  and my heart sank, for I thought that he was about to admit defeat.

  “He may have gone by sea down to Italy,” he said; “it is a possibility which must not be overlooked. Or, by heavens!—”

  He suddenly dashed his fist into the palm of his left hand.

  “What, Sir Denis?”

  “He may have had a yacht standing by! He got away from England in that manner on one occasion.”

  “It is also just possible,” I began...

  “I know,” Sir Denis groaned. “My theory lacks solid foundation—he may have joined the submarine?”

  “Exactly.”

  “His delay might be due merely to his sense of the dramatic—which is strong. Get in, Sterling.”

  He turned to the sergeant in charge of the car.

  “Officer of the Prefet,” he rapped and jumped in behind me.

  To endeavour to reconstruct the ideas which passed through my mind during that early morning drive would be futile, since they consisted of a taunting panorama of living-dead men; the flowerlike face of Fleurette appearing again and again before that ghostly curtain, and set in an expression of adoration whic
h formed my most evil memory. I could not banish the image of Petrie, could not accept the fact that he had joined the phantom army of Dr. Fu Manchu.

  Nayland Smith sat grimly silent, until at last:

  “Sir Denis,” I said, “this is not time to talk of my personal affairs, but—something which happened in Petrie’s room has been puzzling me.”

  “What is that?” he snapped.

  “Fleurette kept watch at the door—she had led me there— while I slipped in to see him. Just before I left, he caught a glimpse of her, and——”

  “Yes?” said Sir Denis, with a sudden keen interest in his eyes. “What did he do?”

  “He sat up in bed as though he had seen an apparition. He asked in a most extraordinary voice who it was that had looked into the room. I had to leave—it was impossible to stay. But there is no doubt whatever that he recognized her!— although, as she told me afterwards, she had never seen Petrie in her life.”

  I paused, meeting his eager regard; and then:

  “You also thought you recognized her, Sir Denis,” I went on, “and evidently you were not wrong. I can’t believe I shall ever see her again, but, if you know, tell me: Who is she?”

  He drew a deep breath.

  “You told me, I think that you had never met Karamaneh— Petrie’s wife?”

  “Never.”

  “She was formerly a member of the household of Dr. Fu Manchu.”

  “It seems impossible!”

  “It does, but it’s a fact, nevertheless. I seem to remember telling you that she was the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

  “You did.”

  “On one side she’s of pure Arab blood, of the other I am uncertain.”

  “Arab?”

  “Surely. She was selected for certain qualities, of which her extraordinary beauty was not the least, by Dr. Fu Manchu. Petrie upset his plans in that direction. Now, it is necessary for you to realise, Sterling, that Petrie, also, is a man of very good family—of sane, clean, balanced stock.”

  “I am aware of this, Sir Denis; my father knows him well.”

  Sir Denis nodded and went on:

  “Dr. Fu Manchu has always held Petrie in high esteem. Very few people are aware of what I am going to tell you—possibly even your father doesn’t know. But a year after Petrie’s marriage to Karamaneh, a child was born.”

  “I had no idea of this.”

  “It was so deep a grief to them, Sterling, that they never spoke of it.”

  “A grief?”

  “The child, a girl, was born in Cairo. She died when she was three weeks old.”

  “Good heavens! Poor old Petrie! I have never heard him even mention it.”

  “You never would. They agreed never to mention it. It was their way of forgetting. There were curious features about the case to which, in their sorrow they were blind at the time. But when, nearly a year later, the full facts came into my possession, a truly horrible idea presented itself to my mind.”

  “What do you mean, Sir Denis?”

  “Naturally, I whispered no word of it to Petrie. It would have been the most callous cruelty to do so. But privately, I made a number of enquiries; and while I obtained no evidence upon which it was possible to act, nevertheless, what I learned confirmed my suspicion....

  “Dr. Fu Manchu is patient, as only a great scientist can be.”

  He paused, watching me, a question in his eyes. But as I did not speak:

  “When I entered that room, which I described to you as the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty, I received one of the great shocks of my life. Do you know what I thought as I looked at Fleurette asleep?”

  “I am trying to anticipate what you are going to tell me.”

  “I thought that it was Karamaneh—Petrie’s wife!”

  “You mean——”

  “I mean that, even with her eyes closed, the likeness was uncanny, utterly beyond the possibility of coincidence. Then, when you described to me their unusual quality—and Karamaneh’s eyes are her crowning beauty—I knew that I could not be mistaken.”

  Positively I was stricken dumb—I could only sit and stare at the speaker. No words occurred to me.

  Therefore, poor Petrie’s recognition does not surprise me. It may seem amazing, Sterling, almost incredible, that a child less than three weeks old could be subjected to that treatment upon which much of Fu Manchu’s monumental knowledge rests: the production of artificial catalepsy; but a fact which by now must have dawned upon you. He is not only the greatest physician alive to-day, he is probably the greatest physician who has ever been.”

  “Sir Denis——”

  The car was just pulling up before the police headquarters.

  “There’s no doubt whatever. Sterling!” He grasped my arm firmly. “Think of what the doctor has told you about her—think of what she has told you about herself—so much as she knows. There isn’t a shadow of doubt. Fleurette is Petrie’s daughter, and Karamaneh is her mother! Buck up, old chap, I know how you must feel about it—but we haven’t abandoned hope yet.”

  He sprang out and ran in at the door, brushing past an officer who stood on duty there.

  chapter forty-fourth

  OFFICER OF THE PREFET

  in the large but frigid office of M. Chamrousse, Prefet of the Department, that sedate, grey-bearded official spoke rapidly on the telephone and made a number of notes upon a writing block. Sir Denis snapping his fingers impatiently and pacing up and down the carpet.

  I had no idea of his plan, of what he hoped for. My state of mental chaos was worse than before. Fleurette Petrie’s daughter! From tenderest infancy she had lived as those others lived whom he wanted for his several purposes: a dream-life!

  And now—Petrie himself...

  In upon my thoughts broke the magisterial voice of the man at the big table.

  “Here is the complete list, Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he said. “You will see that the only private vessel of any tonnage which has cleared a neighbouring port during the last twelve hours is this one.”

  He rested the point of his pencil on the paper. Nayland Smith, bending eagerly over him, read the note aloud:

  “M. Y. Lola, of Buenos Aires; four thousand tons; owned by Santos da Cunha.”

  He suddenly stood upright, staring before him.

  “Santos da Cunha?” he repeated. “Where have I heard that name?”

  “Curiously enough,” said M. Chamrousse, “the villa at Ste Claire was formerly the property of this gentleman, from whom it was purchased by Mahdi Bey.”

  Sir Denis dashed his fist into the palm of his hand.

  “Sterling!” he cried—”there’s hope yet! there’s hope yet! But I have been blind. This is the Argentine for whose record I am waiting!” He turned to the Prefet. “How long has the Lola been lying in Monaco?”

  “Nearly a week, I believe.”

  “And she left?”

  “Soon after dawn, Sir Denis—as I read in this report.”

  “You see, Sterling! you see?” he cried.

  He turned again to the Prefet, and:

  “The Lola must be traced,” he said rapidly—”without delay. Please give instructions for messages to be sent to all ships in the neighbourhood, notifying position of this motor yacht when sighted.”

  “I can do this,” said the other gravely, inclining his head.

  “Next, is there a French or British warship in port anywhere along the coast?”

  M. Chamrousse raised his eyebrows.

  “There is a French destroyer in the harbour of Monaco,” he replied.

  “Please notify her commander to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice—in fact, the instant I get on board.”

  That peremptory manner, contempt for red tape and routine, which characterised Sir Denis in emergencies, had the effect of ruffling the French official.

  “This, sir,” he replied taking off his spectacles and tapping them on the blotting pad, “I cannot do.”

  “Cannot?”

/>   The other shrugged.

  “I have no such powers,” he declared. “It is in the province of the naval authority. I doubt if even the admiral commanding the Mediterranean Fleet could take it upon himself to do what you ask of me.”

  “Perhaps,” rapped Nayland Smith, “in these circumstances, you will be good enough to put a call through to the Ministry of Marine in Paris.”

  M. Chamrousse shrugged his shoulders and looked mildly surprised.

  “Really——” he began.

  “My authority from the British Foreign Office,” said Sir Denis, with a sort of repressed violence, “is such that any delay you may cause must react to your own discredit. The interests of France as well as those of England are involved in this matter. Damn it, M. Chamrousse! I am here in the interests of France! Must I go elsewhere, or will you do as I ask?”

  The Prefet resignedly took up the telephone and gave instructions to the outer office that Paris should be called.

  Nayland Smith began again to pace up and down the carpet.

  “You know. Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” M. Chamrousse began in his dry, precise voice, “it is perhaps a little unfair to me that I am so badly informed regarding this matter. All the available police have been rushed to Ste Claire and, according to my latest reports, are locked up there. I am in the dark about this—I am tied hand and foot. Paris instructed me to place myself at your disposal, and I have done so, but the reputation of Mahdi Bey, whom I have met several times socially, is quite frankly above suspicion. To me the whole thing is incomprehensible; and now you demand——”

  In this unemotional outburst I saw the reason of the Prefet’s coldness towards Sir Denis. He resented the action of Paris. Sir Denis realised this also; for checking his restless promenade he turned to face the little bearded man.

  “Such issues are at stake, M. Chamrousse,” he said, “and my own blunders have so confounded me, that perhaps I have failed in proper courtesy. If so, forgive me. But try to believe that I have every reason for what I do. It is of vital importance that the yacht Lola should be detained.”

  I accept your assurance upon these matters, Sir Denis,” said M. Chamrousse.

  But I thought from the tone of his dusty voice that he was somewhat mollified.