The Hand of Dr. Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Across the gold curtain, wrought in glittering black, were seven characters, apparently Chinese; before it, supported upon seven ebony pedestals, burned seven golden lamps; whilst, dotted about the black carpet, were seven gold-lacquered stools, each having a black cushion set before it. There was no sign of the marmoset; the incredible room of black and gold was quite empty, with a sort of stark emptiness that seemed to oppress my soul.

  Close upon the booming of the gong followed a sound of many footsteps and a buzz of subdued conversation. Keeping well back in the welcome shadow I watched, with bated breath, the opening of the door immediately opposite.

  The outer sides of its leaves proved to be of gold, and one glimpse of the room beyond awoke a latent memory and gave it positive form. I had been in this house before; it was in that room with the golden door that I had had my memorable interview with the mandarin Ki-Ming! My excitement grew more and more intense.

  Singly, and in small groups, a number of Orientals came in. All wore European, or semi-European garments, but I was enabled to identify two for Chinamen, two for Hindus and three for Burmans. Other Asiatics there were, also, whose exact place among the Eastern races I could not determine; there was at least one Egyptian and there were several Eurasians; no women were present.

  Standing grouped just within the open door, the gathering of Orientals kept up a ceaseless buzz of subdued conversation; then, abruptly, stark silence fell, and through a lane of bowed heads, Ki-Ming, the famous Chinese diplomat, entered, smiling blandly, and took his seat upon one of the seven golden stools. He wore the picturesque yellow robe, trimmed with marten fur, which I had seen once before, and he placed his pearl-encircled cap, surmounted by the coral ball denoting his rank, upon the black cushion beside him.

  Almost immediately afterward entered a second and even more striking figure. It was that of a Lama monk! He was received with the same marks of deference which had been accorded the mandarin; and he seated himself upon another of the golden stools.

  Silence, a moment of hushed expectancy, and ... yellow-robed, immobile, his wonderful, evil face emaciated by illness, but his long, magnetic eyes blazing greenly, as though not a soul but an elemental spirit dwelt within that gaunt, high-shouldered body, Dr. Fu-Manchu entered, slowly, leaning upon a heavy stick!

  The realities seemed to be slipping from me; I could not believe that I looked upon a material world. This had been a night of wonders, having no place in the life of a sane, modern man, but belonging to the days of the jinn and the Arabian necromancers.

  Fu-Manchu was greeted by a universal raising of hands, but in complete silence. He also wore a cap surmounted by a coral ball, and this he placed upon one of the black cushions set before a golden stool. Then, resting heavily upon his stick, he began to speak—in French!

  As one listens to a dream-voice, I listened to that, alternately guttural and sibilant, of the terrible Chinese doctor. He was defending himself! With what he was charged by his sinister brethren I knew not nor could I gather from his words, but that he was rendering account of his stewardship became unmistakable. Scarce crediting my senses, I heard him unfold to his listeners details of crimes successfully perpetrated, and with the results of some of these I was but too familiar; others there were in the ghastly catalog which had been accomplished secretly. Then my blood froze with horror. My own name was mentioned—and that of Nayland Smith! We two stood in the way of the coming of one whom he called the Lady of the Si-Fan, in the way of Asiatic supremacy.

  A fantastic legend once mentioned to me by Smith, of some woman cherished in a secret fastness of Hindustan who was destined one day to rule the world, now appeared, to my benumbed senses, to be the unquestioned creed of the murderous, cosmopolitan group known as the Si-Fan! At every mention of her name all heads were bowed in reverence.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke without the slightest trace of excitement; he assured his auditors of his fidelity to their cause and proposed to prove to them that he enjoyed the complete confidence of the Lady of the Si-Fan.

  And with every moment that passed the giant intellect of the speaker became more and more apparent. Years ago Nayland Smith had assured me that Dr. Fu-Manchu was a linguist who spoke with almost equal facility in any of the civilized languages and in most of the barbaric; now the truth of this was demonstrated. For, following some passage which might be susceptible of misconstruction, Fu-Manchu would turn slightly, and elucidate his remarks, addressing a Chinaman in Chinese, a Hindu in Hindustanee, or an Egyptian in Arabic.

  His auditors were swayed by the magnetic personality of the speaker, as reeds by a breeze; and now I became aware of a curious circumstance. Either because they and I viewed the character of this great and evil man from a widely dissimilar aspect, or because, my presence being unknown to him, I remained outside the radius of his power, it seemed to me that these members of the evidently vast organization known as the Si-Fan were dupes, to a man, of the Chinese orator! It seemed to me that he used them as an instrument, playing upon their obvious fanaticism, string by string, as a player upon an Eastern harp, and all the time weaving harmonies to suit some giant, incredible scheme of his own—a scheme over and beyond any of which they had dreamed, in the fruition whereof they had no part—of the true nature and composition of which they had no comprehension.

  “Not since the day of the first Yuan Emperor,” said Fu-Manchu sibilantly, “has Our Lady of the Si-Fan—to look upon whom, unveiled, is death—crossed the sacred borders. Today I am a man supremely happy and honored above my deserts. You shall all partake with me of that happiness, that honor....”

  Again the gong sounded seven times, and a sort of magnetic thrill seemed to pass throughout the room. There followed a faint, musical sound, like the tinkle of a silver bell.

  All heads were lowered, but all eyes upturned to the golden curtain. Literally holding my breath, in those moments of intense expectancy, I watched the draperies parted from the center and pulled aside by unseen agency.

  A black covered dais was revealed, bearing an ebony chair. And seated in the chair, enveloped from head to feet in a shimmering white veil, was a woman. A sound like a great sigh arose from the gathering. The woman rose slowly to her feet, and raised her arms, which were exquisitely formed, and of the uniform hue of old ivory, so that the veil fell back to her shoulders, revealing the green snake bangle which she wore. She extended her long, slim hands as if in benediction; the silver bell sounded ... and the curtain dropped again, entirely obscuring the dais!

  Frankly, I thought myself mad; for this “lady of the Si-Fan” was none other than my mysterious traveling companion! This was some solemn farce with which Fu-Manchu sought to impress his fanatical dupes. And he had succeeded; they were inspired, their eyes blazed. Here were men capable of any crime in the name of the Si-Fan!

  Every face within my ken I had studied individually, and now slowly and cautiously I changed my position, so that a group of three members standing immediately to the right of the door came into view. One of them—a tall, spare, and closely bearded man whom I took for some kind of Hindu—had removed his gaze from the dais and was glancing furtively all about him. Once he looked in my direction, and my heart leapt high, then seemed to stop its pulsing.

  An overpowering consciousness of my danger came to me; a dim envisioning of what appalling fate would be mine in the event of discovery. As those piercing eyes were turned away again, I drew back, step my step.

  Dropping upon my knees, I began to feel for the gap in the conservatory wall. The desire to depart from the house of the Si-Fan had become urgent. Once safely away, I could take the necessary steps to ensure the apprehension of the entire group. What a triumph would be mine!

  I found the opening without much difficulty and crept through into the empty house. The vague light which penetrated the linen blinds served to show me the length of the empty, tiled apartment. I had actually reached the French window giving access to the drawing-room, when—the skirl of a police whistle split
the stillness ... and the sound came from the house which I had just quitted!

  To write that I was amazed were to achieve the banal. Rigid with wonderment I stood, and clutched at the open window. So I was standing, a man of stone, when the voice, the high-pitched, imperious, unmistakable voice of Nayland Smith, followed sharply upon the skirl of the whistle:—

  “Watch those French windows, Weymouth! I can hold the door!”

  Like a lightning flash it came to me that the tall Hindu had been none other than Smith disguised. From the square outside came a sudden turmoil, a sound of racing feet, of smashing glass, of doors burst forcibly open. Palpably, the place was surrounded; this was an organized raid.

  Irresolute, I stood there in the semi-gloom—inactive from amaze of it all—whilst sounds of a tremendous struggle proceeded from the square gap in the partition.

  “Lights!” rose a cry, in Smith’s voice again—“they have cut the wires!”

  At that I came to my senses. Plunging my hand into my pocket, I snatched out the electric lamp ... and stepped back quickly into the utter gloom of the room behind me.

  Someone was crawling through the aperture into the conservatory!

  As I watched I saw him, in the dim light, stoop to replace the movable panel. Then, tapping upon the tiled floor as he walked, the fugitive approached me. He was but three paces from the French window when I pressed the button of my lamp and directed its ray fully upon his face.

  “Hands up!” I said breathlessly. “I have you covered, Dr. Fu-Manchu!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  AN ANTI-CLIMAX

  One hour later I stood in the entrance hall of our chambers in the court adjoining Fleet Street. Someone who had come racing up the stairs, now had inserted a key in the lock. Open swung the door—and Nayland Smith entered, in a perfect whirl of excitement.

  “Petrie! Petrie!” he cried, and seized both my hands—“you have missed a night of nights! Man alive! we have the whole gang—the great Ki-Ming included!” His eyes were blazing. “Weymouth has made no fewer than twenty-five arrests, some of the prisoners being well-known Orientals. It will be the devil’s own work to keep it all quiet, but Scotland Yard has already advised the Press.”

  “Congratulations, old man,” I said, and looked him squarely in the eyes.

  Something there must have been in my glance at variance with the spoken words. His expression changed; he grasped my shoulder.

  “She was not there,” he said, “but please God, we’ll find her now. It’s only a question of time.”

  But, even as he spoke, the old, haunted look was creeping back into the lean face. He gave me a rapid glance; then:—

  “I might as well make a clean breast of it,” he rapped. “Fu-Manchu escaped! Furthermore, when we got lights, the woman had vanished, too.”

  “The woman!”

  “There was a woman at this strange gathering, Petrie. Heaven only knows who she really is. According to Fu-Manchu she is that woman of mystery concerning whose existence strange stories are current in the East; the future Empress of a universal empire! But of course I decline to accept the story, Petrie! if ever the Yellow races overran Europe, I am in no doubt respecting the identity of the person who would ascend the throne of the world!”

  “Nor I, Smith!” I cried excitedly. “Good God! he holds them all in the palm of his hand! He has welded together the fanatics of every creed of the East into a giant weapon for his personal use! Small wonder that he is so formidable. But, Smith—who is that woman?”

  “Petrie!” he said slowly, and I knew that I had betrayed my secret, “Petrie—where did you learn all this?”

  I returned his steady gaze.

  “I was present at the meeting of the Si-Fan,” I replied steadily.

  “What? What? You were present?”

  “I was present! Listen, and I will explain.”

  Standing there in the hallway I related, as briefly as possible, the astounding events of the night. As I told of the woman in the train—

  “That confirms my impression that Fu-Manchu was imposing upon the others!” he snapped. “I cannot conceive of a woman recluse from some Lamaserie, surrounded by silent attendants and trained for her exalted destiny in the way that the legendary veiled woman of Tibet is said to be trained, traveling alone in an English railway carriage! Did you observe, Petrie, if her eyes were oblique at all?”

  “They did not strike me as being oblique. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I strongly suspect that we have to do with none other than Fu-Manchu’s daughter! But go on.”

  “By Heavens, Smith! You may be right! I had no idea that a Chinese woman could possess such features.”

  “She may not have a Chinese mother; furthermore, there are pretty women in China as well as in other countries; also, there are hair dyes and cosmetics. But for Heaven’s sake go on!”

  I continued my all but incredible narrative; came to the point where I discovered the straying marmoset and entered the empty house, without provoking any comment from my listener. He stared at me with something very like surprised admiration when I related how I had become an unseen spectator of that singular meeting.

  “And I thought I had achieved the triumph of my life in gaining admission and smuggling Weymouth and Carter into the roof, armed with hooks and rope-ladders!” he murmured.

  Now I came to the moment when, having withdrawn into the empty house, I had heard the police whistle and had heard Smith’s voice; I came to the moment when I had found myself face to face with Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  Nayland Smith’s eyes were on fire now; he literally quivered with excitement, when—

  “Ssh! what’s that?” he whispered, and grasped my arm. “I heard something move in the sitting-room, Petrie!”

  “It was a coal dropping from the grate, perhaps,” I said—and rapidly continued my story, telling how, with my pistol to his head, I had forced the Chinese doctor to descend into the hallway of the empty house.

  “Yes, yes,” snapped Smith. “For God’s sake go on, man! What have you done with him? Where is he?”

  I clearly detected a movement myself immediately behind the half-open door of the sitting-room. Smith started and stared intently across my shoulder at the doorway; then his gaze shifted and became fixed upon my face.

  “He bought his life from me, Smith.”

  Never can I forget the change that came over my friend’s tanned features at those words; never can I forget the pang that I suffered to see it. The fire died out of his eyes and he seemed to grow old and weary in a moment. None too steadily I went on:—

  “He offered a price that I could not resist, Smith. Try to forgive me, if you can. I know that I have done a dastardly thing, but—perhaps a day may come in your own life when you will understand. He descended with me to a cellar under the empty house, in which someone was locked. Had I arrested Fu-Manchu this poor captive must have died there of starvation; for no one would ever have suspected that the place had an occupant....”

  The door of the sitting-room was thrown open, and, wearing my great-coat over the bizarre costume in which I had found her, with her bare ankles and little red slippers peeping grotesquely from below, and her wonderful cloud of hair rippling over the turned-up collar, Kâramaneh came out!

  Her great dark eyes were raised to Nayland Smith’s with such an appeal in them—an appeal for me—that emotion took me by the throat and had me speechless. I could not look at either of them; I turned aside and stared into the lighted sitting-room.

  How long I stood so God knows, and I never shall; but suddenly I found my hand seized in a vice-like grip, I looked around and Smith, holding my fingers fast in that iron grasp, had his left arm about Kâramaneh’s shoulders, and his gray eyes were strangely soft, whilst hers were hidden behind her upraised hands.

  “Good old Petrie!” said Smith hoarsely. “Wake up, man; we have to get her to a hotel before they all close, remember. I understand, old man. That day came in my life long
years ago!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  GRAYWATER PARK

  “This is a singular situation in which we find ourselves,” I said, “and one that I’m bound to admit I don’t appreciate.”

  Nayland Smith stretched his long legs, and lay back in his chair.

  “The sudden illness of Sir Lionel is certainly very disturbing,” he replied, “and had there been any possibility of returning to London tonight, I should certainly have availed myself of it, Petrie. I share your misgivings. We are intruders at a time like this.”

  He stared at me keenly, blowing a wreath of smoke from his lips, and then directing his attention to the cone of ash which crowned his cigar. I glanced, and not for the first time, toward the quaint old doorway which gave access to a certain corridor. Then—

  “Apart from the feeling that we intrude,” I continued slowly, “there is a certain sense of unrest.”

  “Yes,” snapped Smith, sitting suddenly upright—“yes! You experience this? Good! You are happily sensitive to this type of impression, Petrie, and therefore quite as useful to me as a cat is useful to a physical investigator.”

  He laughed in his quick, breezy fashion.

  “You will appreciate my meaning,” he added; “therefore I offer no excuse for the analogy. Of course, the circumstances, as we know them, may be responsible for this consciousness of unrest. We are neither of us likely to forget the attempt upon the life of Sir Lionel Barton two years ago or more. Our attitude toward sudden illness is scarcely that of impartial observers.”

  “I suppose not,” I admitted, glancing yet again at the still vacant doorway by the foot of the stairs, which now the twilight was draping in mysterious shadows.

  Indeed, our position was a curious one. A welcome invitation from our old friend, Sir Lionel Barton, the world-famous explorer, had come at a time when a spell of repose, a glimpse of sea and awakening countryside, and a breath of fair, untainted air were very desirable. The position of Kâramaneh, who accompanied us, was sufficiently unconventional already, but the presence of Mrs. Oram, the dignified housekeeper, had rendered possible her visit to this bachelor establishment. In fact it was largely in the interests of the girl’s health that we had accepted.