by Sax Rohmer
He turned and stared at me across the room. I was back at the Park Avenue looking after a hundred and one interests of the chief’s which centred in London. He, with Rima, remained in Norfolk— where, now that Nayland Smith had left, he might count on peace. Of Nayland Smith’s present movements I knew nothing.
“You’ve hit it!” Weymouth admitted. “I’d like to be in at the death.”
Certainly it was a queer situation for him—for all of us. Dr. Fu-Manchu, most formidable of all those greater criminals who from time to time disturb the world, was alive… and his daughter, no poor second to this stupendous genius, had already proved that she was competent to form the subject of debate in the counsels of the highest.
Weymouth’s expression struck me as ominous; and:
“The death is likely to be that of Nayland Smith,” I said, “judging from our experience at Abbots Hold.”
Weymouth nodded.
“He stands between her and all she aims for,” he replied. “He’s countered two of her best three moves and he’s promised me word within the next hour. But”—he stared at me very grimly—“you and I, Greville, know more about the group called the Si-Fan than most people outside it.”
I laughed—somewhat hollowly, perhaps.
“Get back to Cairo,” I advised. “It’s probably safer than London at the moment—for you.”
Weymouth’s sense of humor on such points always failed him. His blue eyes hardened; he literally glared at me; and:
“I never ran away from Dr. Fu-Manchu,” he replied. “If you think I’m going to run away from his daughter you’re, wrong.”
At that I laughed again, and this time, my laughter rang true. I punched the speaker playfully.
“Don’t you know when I’m pulling your leg?” I asked. “I’d put my last shilling on your being here, job or no job, until the end of this thing is clearly in sight!”
“Oh!” said Weymouth, his naive smile softening the hard mask which had fallen when I had suggested his retiring to Cairo. “Well, I don’t think you’d lose your money.”
But when he had gone, I took his place at the window and stared down on the panorama of Piccadilly. I was thinking of Nayland Smith… “He stands between her and all she aims for.”… How true that was! Yes, he held most of the strings. Fah Lo Suee had started with a heavy handicap. Ibrahîm Bey occupied a cell in Brixton Prison. He would be tried and duly sentenced for attempted robbery with violence. The public would never learn the whole truth. But Ibrahîm Bey might be counted out of the running. The Egyptian authorities, working in concert with the French in Syria, were looking for Sheikh Ismail; and the Mandarin Ki Ming would have to hide very cleverly to escape the vigilance of those who had been advised of his aims…
My phone bell rang. I turned and took up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Is Mr. Shan Greville there?”
“Speaking.”
The voice—that of a man who spoke perfect English but was not an Englishman—sounded tauntingly familiar.
“My name will be known to you, I believe, Mr. Greville. I am called Dr. Amber.”
Dr. Amber! The mysterious physician whose treatment had restored Sir Lionel—whom I had to thank for my own recovery!
“Owing to peculiar circumstances, which I hope to explain to you, I have hitherto been able to help only in a rather irregular way,” he went on. “Because of this—and of the imminent danger to which I am exposed—I must make a somewhat odd request.”
“What is it?”
“It is this: All I have to tell you is at your disposal. But you must promise to treat myself as non-existent. I have approached you in this way because the life of Sir Denis Nayland Smith is threatened— tonight! My record backs my assurance that this is a friendly overture. Have I your promise?”
“Yes—certainly!”
“Good. It will be a short journey, Mr. Greville—not three minutes’ walk. I am staying at Babylon House, Piccadilly; Flat Number 7. May I ask you to step across? You have ample time before dinner.”
“I’ll come right away.” Dr. Amber! Who was Dr. Amber? Where did he fit into this intricate puzzle which had sidetracked so many lives? Whoever he might be, he had shown himself a friend, and without hesitation, but fired by an intense curiosity, I set out for Babylon House—a block of service flats nearly opposite Burlington Arcade.
A lift-man took me to the top floor and indicated a door on the right. I stepped up to it and rang the bell.
The elevator was already descending before the door opened… and I saw before me the Chinese physician who had attended me in that green and gold room in Limehouse!
Fear—incredulity—anger—all must have been readable in my expression, when:
“You gave me your promise, Mr. Greville,” said the Chinaman, smiling. “I give you mine, if it is necessary, that you are safe and with a friend. Please come in.”
The typical and scanty appointments of the apartment into which I was shown possessed a reassuring quality. From a high window with a narrow balcony I could see the entrance to Burlington Arcade and part of one wall of the Albany.
“Won’t you sit down?” said my host, who wore morning dress and looked less characteristically Chinese than he had looked in white overalls.
I sat down.
A small writing desk set before the window was littered with torn documents, and a longer table in the center of the room bore stacks of newspapers. I saw the London Evening News, the Times of India, and the Chicago Tribune amongst this odd assortment. Certain paragraphs appeared to have been cut out with scissors. The floor was littered with oddments. I noticed other definite evidences of a speedy outgoing. A very large steamer trunk bearing the initials L. K. S. in white letters stood strapped in a corner of the room.
“It is my purpose, Mr. Greville,” said Dr. Amber, taking a seat near the desk and watching me steadily, “to explain certain matters which have been puzzling yourself and your friends. And perhaps in the first place, since I wish to be perfectly frank”—he glanced toward the big trunk—“I should tell you that ‘Dr. Amber’ is a pseudonym. I am called Li King Su; I hold a medical degree of Canton; and I once had the pleasure of assisting Dr. Petrie in a very critical major operation. He will probably remember me.
“You are quite naturally laboring under the impression that I belong to the organization controlled by the Lady Fah Lo Suee. This is not so. I belong to another, older, organization…”
He stared at me intently. But I didn’t interrupt him. I was considering that curious expression—“the Lady Fah Lo Suee.”
“I was—shall we say?—a spy in the house in which you first met me. The lady called Fah Lo Suee has now discovered the imposture, and—”
Again he paused, indicating the steamer trunk.
“My usefulness is ended. I am a marked man, Mr. Greville. If I escape alive I shall be lucky. But let us talk of something else… The Tomb of the Black Ape has proved something of a puzzle to Sir Denis Nayland Smith. The solution is simple: A representative of that older organization to which I have referred was present when Lafleur opened the place many years ago. By arrangement with that distinguished Egyptologist, it was reclosed. Later—in fact, early in 1918—a prominent official of our ancient society, passing through Egypt, had reason to suspect that certain treasures in his possession might be discovered and detained by the British authorities— for these were troubled times. He proceeded up the Nile and successfully concealed them in this tomb—the secret of which had been preserved with just such an end in view…”
I suppose I must have known all along; but for some reason at this moment the identity of “a representative of that older organization” and “a prominent official of our ancient society” suddenly burst upon me with all the shock of novelty; and, meeting the glance of those inscrutable eyes which watched me so intently:
“You are speaking of Dr. Fu-Manchu!” I said.
Li King Su permitted himself a slight deprecatory gestur
e.
“It is desirable,” he replied, “that those of whom I speak should remain anonymous!”
But I continued to stare at him with a sort of horror. “By arrangement with that distinguished Egyptologist,” he had said smoothly—
(Good God! What kind of “arrangement”!)”—it was the intention of the hider,” he went on, “that these potent secrets should remain concealed for ever. The activities of Professor Zeitland and Sir Lionel Barton created an unforeseen situation. It was complicated by the action of the Lady Fah Lo Suee. She had recently learned what was hidden there, but she was ignorant of how to recover it… Professor Zeitland imparted his knowledge to her—then came Sir Lionel Barton…”
He paused again, significantly.
“We moved too late, Mr. Greville. An old schism in our ranks had made an enemy of one of the most brilliant and dangerous men in China—the exalted Mandarin Ki Ming. He gave the Lady Fah Lo Suee his aid. But we wasted no more time. I succeeded in gaining admittance to their councils. It was by means of their organization that I intercepted Dr. Petrie’s telegram to Sir Brian Hawkins. You know the use which I made of my knowledge.
“Your present English Government is blind. You will lose Egypt; you have lost India. A great federation of Eastern States affiliated with Russia—a new Russia—is destined to take the place once held by the British Empire. You have one chance to recover…”
The man’s personality was beginning to get me. I had forgotten that I sat inert, listening to a self-confessed servant of Dr. Fu-Manchu: I only knew that he was raising veils beyond which I longed to peer.
“What is it?” I asked.
And, as I spoke, a chill—not figurative but literal—turned me cold. I had detected Li King Su in the act of glancing toward a partially opened door which led to the bedroom…
Definitely, someone was listening!
As if conscious of the fact that he had betrayed himself, “Dr. Amber” went on immediately:
“A counter alliance! But we are getting out of our depth, Mr. Greville. To return to more personal matters: The schemes of the Lady Fah Lo Suee were not approved by us. The authority she has stolen must be restored to those who know how to wield it. In other words, Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s aims and our own are identical— at the moment. But he is marked down!”
“He knows it!”
“He may know it—but tonight he is walking into a trap! Since he left Norfolk—where he failed to arrest the prime mover—you have lost touch with him. He is following up a clue discovered by Inspector Yale. It is a false clue… a snare. He stands in the way: she is afraid to move until he is silenced.
“Here”—he handed me a slip of paper—“is the address to which he is going tonight. Death waits for him.”
I glanced at the writing.
“The garden of this house adjoins the Regent Canal,” Li King Su went on. “And it is intended that Sir Denis’s body shall be found in the Canal in the morning! Here”—he passed a second slip—“is the address at which Sir Denis is hiding.”
The second address was that of a Dr. Murray in a southwest suburb.
“Dr. Murray bought Dr. Petrie’s practice,” the even voice continued, “when the latter went to Egypt. I must warn you against any attempt to communicate by telephone. The Lady Fah Lo Suee has a spy in the house! Take what steps you please, Mr. Greville, but move quickly! For my own part, I leave London in an hour. I can do no more. It is unnecessary to remind you of our bargain.”
At the very moment that I entered the lift, that occult knowledge of being watched left me. It was the same—but intensified—as that which had warned me in Cairo, and later on the road to el-Khârga. Li King Su, on acquaintance, was a remarkable man. But some vastly greater personality had been concealed in that inner room. I could not forget that Dr. Fu-Manchu had been seen a stone’s throw from Babylon House!
Could I trust Li King Su?
Simple enough to test his statements. I had only to take a taxi to Dr. Murray’s address.
But, I thought, as I walked out into Piccadilly, a mistake now might carry unimaginable consequences; better to consult Weymouth or Yale before I committed an irreparable blunder.
Dusk was falling. I saw that the lamps in Burlington Arcade had been lighted as well as those in the Piccadilly Arcade which forms a sort of abbreviated continuation of the older bazaar and breaks through to Jermyn Street. Deep in thought I passed the entrance to the latter. A French sedan was drawn up beside the pavement.
I was level with it when an exclamation of annoyance checked me sharply—and just prevented my collision with a woman who, crossing before me, had evidently been making for the car.
She was a fashionable figure, wearing a fur-trimmed coat, and a short veil attached to her close-fitting hat quite obscured her features. She carried several parcels, one of which she had dropped almost at my feet.
Stooping, I picked it up—a paper-wrapped package fastened with green tape and apparently containing very light purchases. The chauffeur sprang down and opened the door of the car, as:
“Thank you very much,” said the laden lady. “Will you be so kind as to hand it in to me?”
She entered the car. I followed with the dropped package and bent forward into the dark interior. Through the opposite windows I saw the sign above a popular restaurant suddenly become illuminated. I detected a damnably familiar perfume…
I was enveloped. I felt a sudden paralyzing pressure in my spine—a muscular arm levered me into the car… and I realized that I had been garroted in Piccadilly, amid hundreds of passers-by and in sight of my hotel!
I shot up from green depths in which I had been submerged for an immeasurable time. I had dived into a deep lake, I thought, and had become entangled in clinging weeds which sprang from its bed. I could not free my limbs; I knew that I was drowning—that never again should I see the sun and the blue sky above…
Then, the clasp of those octopus tentacles was relaxed. And I shot to the surface like a cork…
Green!… Everything about me was green!
What had happened? Where was I?
Great heavens! I was back in Limehouse!… But, no—this place was green and gold, but smaller—much smaller than the room of my long captivity.
It was a miniature room—something was radically wrong about it. There were two windows, draped in those heavy gold curtains which I remembered; a tracing of green figures was brushed across the gold. There was a tall lacquer cabinet and upon it stood a jade image of Kâli… tiny, minute. There were flat green doors and a green carpet; golden rugs. An amber lamp gave light. Upon a black divan was a second, larger figure of Kâli… as large as a carnival doll.
But, no! This figure resembled Kâli only in her features: she wore a green robe and high-heeled black shoes. In one slender hand, a soft hand nurtured in luxury, was a long cigarette holder. I could see the smoke from the burning cigarette… A doll—but a living doll!
The picture grew smaller yet. The doll became so tiny that I could no longer discern her features. I was a giant in a microscopic room!
And then—the colours became audible!
“I am green,” said the carpet. “We are gold,” the miniature curtains replied…
Raising both hands I clutched my head!
I was mad! I knew it—because I wanted to laugh!
The room began to increase in size! From the dimensions of a doll’s house fashioned by gnomes it swelled to those of a gigantic palace!… I was a mere fly in an apartment which could scarcely have found ground space in Trafalgar Square!
But, now—I recognized that green-draped figure on the black divan. It was Fah Lo Suee!
The mighty roof, higher than that of any mosque, of any cathedral in the world, began to descend: the walls closed in… huge pieces of furniture were pushed towards me. Fah Lo Suee towered above my shrinking body, her monstrous cigarette sending up a column of smoke like that of a sacrifice…
I cried out… and saw the cry!
It issued from my lips in squat green letters! I closed my eyes, and:
“So you are awake, Shan?” said a bell-like voice.
But I was afraid to raise my eyelids.
“Look at me. You are all right now…”
I looked.
My head was swimming and every muscle in my body ached— but the room had taken on normal proportions. It was a large room, filled with modern furniture, except that its scheme was severely green and gold and that there were Oriental pieces placed about.
Fah Lo Suee watched me… but the jade-green eyes were hard.
“You are better,” she continued. “Cannabis indica produces strange delusions—but, as we use it, there is no drug so swift to serve our purpose.”
I considered the situation. I was seated in a big armchair facing the divan upon which Fah Lo Suee reclined indolently watching me. The damnable fumes of the drug began to leave my brain. Fah Lo Suee, slender, sinuous, insolent, was a woman—but a deadly enemy. I knew what Nayland Smith would have done!
Preparatory to a spring, I drew my feet together… a certain distance. Then—
My ankles were fastened to the chair!
Fah Lo Suee dropped ash from her yellow cigarette into a copper bowl upon the low table beside her. I watched the elegant, voluptuous movements of that feline hand with a queer sense of novelty. What a tigress she was!
“The chief purpose of my visit to England,” she said, speaking as though nothing unusual existed between hostess and visitor, “was defeated by Sir Denis Nayland Smith. My further plans are in abeyance—pending his removal.”
My head ached as though my brain were on fire, but:
“He is by way of being rather a nuisance?” I suggested viciously.
Fah Lo Suee smiled, a smile of contempt.
“I could have dealt with him—alone. But one of my own people proved treacherous. In your pocket, Shan, you had two addresses. One was that of Dr. Murray—in whose home your brilliant friend is hiding; the other was that of this house.”
She continued to smile—and she continued to watch me. I tried to conquer my wandering ideas. I tried to hate her. But her eyes caressed me, and I was afraid—horribly afraid of this witch-woman who had the uncanny power which Homer gave to Circe, of stealing men’s souls.