by Sax Rohmer
He was a tall, rather shabby-looking man, bearded and bespectacled. His wide-brimmed hat suggested a colonial visitor, and he walked with a stoop, leaning heavily upon an ash stick. Under one arm he carried a bulky portfolio. He was accompanied by a park-keeper and a policeman who assisted his every step. But it was something else which had arrested my attention.
He was staring up intently at my window!
Now as I drew the curtain aside and peered out, he raised his stick and lowered it, pointing to the front door!
That he was directing me to go down and admit him was an unmistakable fact, for I saw during a halt in the traffic that he was being shepherded across. I delayed only long enough to slip an automatic into my pocket and then went out and began to descend.
Mrs. Merton, my daily help, had gone, for I was not dining at home. As the flat below remained unoccupied and my upstairs neighbor was away, I confess that my steps to the front door were not unfearful. But I knew that this growing dread of the demoniac Dr Fu Manchu was something I must combat with all my strength. Fear was his weapon.
I threw the door open and stood looking out at the man who waited there.
With a terse nod to his two supporters, he stepped in.
“Shut the door,” he snapped.
It was Nayland Smith!
* * *
“Smith,” I said reproachfully,”you promised you would never go about alone!”
“I was not alone!”
He removed the wide-brimmed hat, the glasses, and straightened bent shoulders.
“I cannot complete the transformation in the best stage tradition,” he said, with a grim smile. “False whiskers, if they are to sustain close scrutiny must be attached with some care.”
“But Smith, I don’t understand!”
“My dramatic appearance, Kerrigan, is easily explained. I was in a flying squad car with Gallaho. Nearly at the top of Sloane Street, just before one reaches Knightsbridge, there is a narrow turning on the right. Out of this at the very moment that we were about to pass, a lorry shot—I use the word advisedly—for the acceleration pointed to an amazing engine. It struck the bonnet of our car, turned us completely around. We capsized—and before the lorry driver could check his mad career, it resulted in the destruction of a taxicab, and, I fear, of the taximan!”
“But, Smith, do you mean—”
That it was deliberate? Of course!” The pipe and pouch came from the pocket of his shabby coat. “Gallaho was knocked out, and I am afraid our driver was badly injured. As you see”—he indicated the side of his skull—”I did not escape entirely.”
I saw a jagged gash which was still bleeding.
“Some iodine, Smith?”
“Later. A scratch.”
“What happened then? How do you come to be here?”
“What happened was this: In spite of my disguise I had been recognized. This was a planned attempt to recover something which I had in my possession! In the tremendous disturbance which followed I climbed out of the window of the overturned car and lost myself in the crowd which began to collect. The casualties were receiving attention. My business was to slip away.”
He paused, stuffing tobacco into the briar bowl and staring at me, familiar grey eyes in that unfamiliar bearded face leaving an odd impression.
“I always carry the badge of a king’s messenger.” He pulled back the lapel of his coat and I saw the silver greyhound. “It ensures prompt official assistance in an emergency without long explanations. I grabbed a constable, told him to come along, and made straight across the park. Here I roped in a parkkeeper. Even so, I kept as much as possible to open spaces and checked up on anybody walking in the same direction.”
He stared through the window across to the darkening park.
“What should you have done if I had not been looking out or if I had not replied?”
“I should have been compelled to ring the bell, meaning delay—which I feared. But I knew you would be at home for I had promised to communicate.”
As I crossed to the dining room for refreshments he dropped into an armchair and began to light his pipe. The big portfolio he set upon the floor beside him. On my return:
“The full facts of the Venice plot are now to hand,” he said bitterly. “Our pursuit of Silver Heels may or may not have been foreseen, but in any event it is certain that they meant to destroy the vessel.”
“Why?”
“The story of engine trouble had been circulated. She was as you know, a Diesel engine ship. By the simple device of blowing her up at sea, everybody on board having first slipped away on the motor launch, the death of James Brownlow Wilton would be satisfactorily explained. I think we may take it for granted that the launch did not make for land. I am postulating, though I may never be able to prove it, some other craft in the neighborhood by which they were picked up.”
“But . . . James Brownlow Wilton?”
“I have the facts—all of them, but the details are unimportant, Kerrigan. James Brownlow Wilton travelled by the Blue Train from London to Monte Carlo to join the yacht—I mean the real James Brownlow Wilton. At some time during the night (the French police think at Avignon) he was smuggled off the train. His double took his place . . .”
“It’s too appalling to think about!”
“His retiring habits made the job a comparatively easy one. He avoided—refused to see—those to whom the real Wilton was well known, and joining the yacht, sailed for Venice. The same procedure was followed there. Rudolf Adion was dealt with, and saving our presence, the death of the millionaire at sea would have concluded the episode.”
“That conclusion has been generally accepted, Smith. The newspapers are full of it.”
“I know. Those who are aware of the real facts have been instructed to remain silent . . . as in the case of Rudolf Adion.”
“Good God! What a ghastly farce!”
He took the glass I handed to to him, and holding it up to the light, stared through it as though inspiration might reside in the bubbles.
“A farce indeed! But any government such as the Adion government, which consistently hoodwinks the public, must be prepared to face such an emergency. One must admit that they have faced it well. General Diesler, Adion’s successor, acted with promptitude and vision. The figure lying in state was in the true tradition of Cesare Borgia. The bulletins of the medical men were worthy of Machiavelli. And now, today, an empty shell has reverently been set in place, and a monument will be raised above it!”
My phone rang.
“Careful, Kerrigan!” snapped Smith. “Remember that Doctor Fu Manchu employs mimics. Don’t say I’m here unless you are absolutely sure to whom you are speaking. But it may be news of poor Gallaho.”
I picked up the receiver.
“Hello,” came a typically English voice. “Is that Mr. Bart Kerrigan’s flat?”
“Yes.”
“I have been told by Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s man that Sir Denis may be with you. This is Egerton of the Foreign Office speaking I turned to Smith, and without uttering the words, framed with my lips: “Egerton, P.O.!”
Close to my ear Smith whispered:
“Say you will communicate with me if he will give you Fey’s number.”
“If you will give me Fey’s number,” I said (wondering what Fey’s number might be), “I will endeavor to communicate with Sir Denis.”
“Seven six nine four,” came the reply.
“Seven six nine four,” I mouthed.
Nayland Smith took up the receiver.
“That you, Egerton? Yes . . . precautions are necessary I am afraid. We have had an unexpected scoop today. Be good enough to mention to no one that I am here . . . Yes . . . What’s that? . . .”
He seemed to grow rigid. The grey eyes in that bearded face shone feverishly as he listened. Only once he interpolated a query:
“The mob killed him, you say? Is that certain?”
He listened again, nodding grimly. And at last:
“We knew he had had the notices,” he said in a dull voice, “but he was even more obstinate than Adion. In fact I am disposed to believe, Egerton, that he distrusted me. You know I was refused admission to the country?”
I heard the voice of the unseen Egerton talking for a while longer, and then:
“You may count upon me. I will communicate at once,” said Smith and hung up the receiver.
He turned, and his expression warned me: Dr Fu Manchu had scored again.
“Yes,” he nodded, “the work of the Si-Fan carries on.”
“What has happened, Smith?”
“Something even more spectacular,” he replied bitterly, “than the published facts relating to Rudolf Adion. The newspapers and news bulletins will have it tonight. All the world must know, for this is something which cannot be suppressed, nor edited. Standing on a black- draped balcony before no less than two hundred thousand people. General Diesler was delivering a funeral oration over the draped shell which does not contain the body of Rudolf Adion. He said, so Egerton informs me: “We have all suffered an irreparable loss. There is a fiendish enemy, by you unsuspected, an enemy in our very midst. . , Those, roughly, were his words . . .”
“Well, what happened?”
“They were his last words, Kerrigan.”
“What!”
“He stopped, clutched at his breast and fell. The sound of a distant, a very distant report, was heard. He had been shot through the heart.”
“But, Smith, on such an occasion every place within range would have been emptied, held by the police or the military!”
“Every place within range—I agree, Kerrigan—that is, within ordinary range. This shot was fired from the top of the cathedral spire—thirty-five hundred yards away!”
“I don’t understand!”
“A body of police who happened to be marching through the cathedral close by heard the report from the top of the steeple. They rushed in and caught a man who was hurrying down those hundreds of steps. It was none other than Baron Trenck, the millionaire publisher, ruined and exiled by Adion, but acknowledged to be one of the three finest big-game shots in Europe!”
“But, Smith—”
“The rifle which he carried was fitted with telescopic sights . . . and a Jasper vacuum charger!”
“Good God!”
“You see, the doctor has already made use of that valuable invention, thanks to the work of his daughter, Korêani! In spite of the efforts of the police who endeavored to escort the baron under arrest, fanatical Adionites”—he paused for a moment—”I gather that he was practically torn to pieces.”
* * *
“I am now going to make a curious request, Kerrigan.”
“What is it?”
Let me confess that I had not yet recovered from the shock of that dreadful news.
“I am going to ask you to look out of the window while I select a hiding place somewhere in your rooms for this portfolio!”
“A hiding place?”
“Let me explain. It was to recover this portfolio which I was taking to Scotland Yard that that mad attack was made upon me in Sloane Street. A flying squad car will be here in a few minutes—I authorized the constable to phone for one—in which I propose to leave.”
“And I to come with you.”
“Not at all!”
“What!”
“Another attempt, although probably not of the same character, is to be expected. I shall be well guarded. Your presence could not save me. But this time the attempt might succeed. Therefore, I am going to hide this valuable thing in your rooms.”
“Why hide it?”
“Because if you knew where to find it, Fu Manchu might discover a means of forcing you to tell him!”
“But why leave it here at all?”
“For a very good reason. Be so kind as to do as I ask, Kerrigan.”
I stared out of the window, thinking into what a mad maze my footsteps had blundered since that first evening when Nayland Smith had rung my bell. I could hear him walking about in an adjoining room, and then he returned. I saw a police car pull up at the door. The bell rang.
“I shall be in good hands until I see you again,” snapped Smith. “Later I will communicate when I have made arrangements for the safe transfer of the portfolio to a spot where I propose to place its contents before a committee which I must assemble for the purpose.”
“But what is it. Smith?”
“Forgive me, Kerrigan, but I don’t want to tell you. You will know in good time. One thing only I ask—and you will serve me best by doing exactly as I direct. Don’t leave your flat tonight until you hear from me, and distrust visitors as I distrust every inch of my route from here to Scotland Yard!”
When he was gone (and I went down to the front door to satisfy myself that the car really belonged to the flying squad) I sat at my desk for some time endeavoring to get my notes in order, to transfer to paper something of the recent amazing developments in this campaign of the Si-Fan against dictatorship. It was a story hard to believe, harder to tell; yet one that someday must be told, and one well worth the telling.
A phone call interrupted me. It was from Scotland Yard, and I knew the speaker: Chief Inspector Leighton of the special branch. News of Gallaho. He had escaped with cuts and contusions. The doctors despaired of the life of the driver; and among other casualties great and small occasioned by the apparently insane behavior of the truckman, was that of this person himself. His neck had been broken in the collision.
“He was some kind of Asiatic,” said Inspector Leighton. “Sir Denis may be able to recognize him. The firm to whom the lorry belonged know nothing of the matter . . .”
I was still thinking over his words when again my phone rang. I took up the receiver.
“Hello!”
“Yes,” said a voice, “is that Bart Kerrigan?”
The speaker was Ardatha!
My Doorbell Rings
By dint of a mighty effort I replied calmly:
“Yes, Ardatha. How did you find my number? It isn’t in the book.”
“You should know now”—how I loved her quaint accent—”that private numbers mean nothing to the people I belong to.”
There was a moment of almost timorous hesitancy.
“I hate to hear you say that, Ardatha. I am desperately unhappy about you. Thank God you called me! Why did you call me?”
“Because I had to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I cannot possibly speak to you long from here. I must see you tonight. This is urgent!”
I continued the effort to control my voice, to bid my thumping heart behave normally.
“Yes, Ardatha, you must know I am longing to see you. But—”
“But what?”
“I cannot go out tonight.”
“I do not ask you to go out tonight. I will come to you.”
“Oh, my dear, it’s wonderful! But every time you take such risks for my sake—”
“This is a risk I must take, or there will be no you, no Nayland Smith!”
“When shall I expect you?”
“In five minutes. But, listen. I know the house where you live. You cannot believe how well I know it! Fasten open the catch of the front door, so that I do not have to wait out in the street. I will come up and ring your bell. Please do not look out of the window or do anything to show that you expect anyone. Will you promise?”
“Of course.”
Silence.
I hung up the receiver as a man in a daze. Ardatha was real after all. Nayland Smith was wiser than I, for always he had acted as her counsel when in my despair I had condemned her as a Delilah.
Then, as if to banish the wild happiness with which my spirit was intoxicated, came a logical thought . . .
That mysterious portfolio—so valuable that Smith had been afraid to take it with him even in a flying squad car! It was here . . . The Si-Fan knew. Ardatha was coming to find it!
My
hand on the door, I paused, chilled, doubting, questioning.
Were my instincts betraying me? I could not recall that I had ever proved myself easily glamoured by that which was worthless. If the soul of Ardatha be not a brave and a splendid soul but a hollow, mocking thing, I told myself, then the years of my maturity have been wasted. I am indeed no philosopher.
In any event, now was the acid test. For if she came with a hidden purpose I should learn it. And whatever the wrench—it would be the finish.
For the rest I had nothing to fear unless I were overpowered and the flat ransacked. There was no information which I could give, even under torture, for I did not know where Nayland Smith had concealed the portfolio.
I went downstairs. The lights were on in the little glass arcade which led to the porch. I opened the door and fixed the catch so that a push from outside would give access; then, in that frame of mind which every man in such circumstances has shown, I returned to my flat.
The interval, though short, seemed interminable . . .
My doorbell rang. I walked from the study along the short passage. I was trying to frame words with which I should greet Ardatha, trying to school myself to control hot impulses, and yet not to seem too cold.
I opened the door . . . and there on the landing, wearing a French cape and a black soft-brimmed hat, stood Dr Fu Manchu!
Always I Am Just
When I say that horror, disillusionment, abject misery robbed me of speech, movement, almost of thought, I do not exaggerate the facts. My beliefs, my philosophy, my world, crumbled around me.
“Mr. Kerrigan”—my dreadful visitor spoke softly—”do not hesitate to accept any order I may give.”
His right elbow rested upon his hip, his long yellow fingers held an object which resembled a silver fountain pen. I wrenched my glance away from those baleful eyes and stared at this thing.
“Death in the form of disintegration I hold in my hand,” he continued. “Step back. I will follow you.”
The little silver tube he pointed in my direction. I walked slowly along to the study. I heard Dr Fu Manchu close the front door and follow me in. I stood in front of the table, and turning, faced him. I avoided his eyes, but watched the long silver object which he held in his hand.