by Sax Rohmer
“What’s your plan, Sir Denis?”
“This: If we show ourselves again we may be shot down; but this we can test: I suggest that we place a light on the edge of the wharf, as a beacon, and that you slip quietly into the water. There’s a ladder near to where we stand. Getting your direction from the light, swim across.”
“I’m game. What next?”
“Find out if there is any way of climbing up.”
“In this utter darkness?”
“Palpably impossible! But you have probably swum across a river before now, carrying your valuables under your hat?”
“I have seen it done.”
“My rubber tobacco pouch, which is unusually large, will comfortably accommodate the automatic which I am now slipping into it, and also one of the flash lamps... Pass yours to me.”
Silently, I groped in the blackness, found Sir Denis’s outstretched hand, and transferred my lamp to him.
“I am tying up the pouch in a silk handkerchief,” he murmured... “Here we are—come nearer...”
As I moved cautiously forward, I felt his grasp on my shoulder; some of the man’s amazing vitality was imparted to me: I warmed to the ordeal.
“Tie the loose ends under your chin,” he directed.
And as I endeavoured to the best of my ability to carry out his directions, he went on, speaking in a low voice but urgently:
“If you can get ashore, use the light to find a way up. Keep the gun in your other hand. If you can make no landing, swim back. Is it clear—and can you do it?”
“It’s clear, Sir Denis; and failing interference I think I can do it.”
“Good man! Now, grab my arm, and when I move back move with me!”
I felt him stoop... then suddenly a light sprang up at my feet!
“Back,” he muttered.
He drew me back three paces, and, watching, I saw the light move— it moved slowly towards us... became stationary... moved again!
“I tied a piece of string to it,” he murmured in my ear.
The silence, save for those low-spoken words, remained unbroken, until:
“No snipers!” rapped Sir Denis. “Dr. Fu-Manchu retains his one noble heritage. His word is his bond. Get busy, now Sterling! I’ll place the light...”
Of that swim across the cavern I prefer not to think; therefore I shall not attempt to describe it. The temperature of the water was much lower than in the open sea.
At a point which I estimated to be not more than fifty yards from the wharf, I touched a rock bottom. I experimented, cautiously; found a foothold; and began to grope forward.
Shelves of rock met my questing fingers. I managed to scramble out of the water. Then, half sitting on a ledge, I unfastened my curious headdress and, gripping the tobacco pouch between my teeth, extracted the lamp. I continued to hold it so, the automatic still inside, while I directed a ray of light upward.
It was no easy climb, but I saw that there was a shelf of rock ten or twelve feet up. It sloped at an easy gradient to what looked like a small cave in the wall of the cavern.
I turned, looking back.
The faint beam of light from the lamp, gleaming on that still pool, pointed almost directly towards me.
I began to climb.
There were fewer difficulties than I had looked for. Without very great exertion, I gained the shelf and started for the gap in the rock. When I reached it, I hesitated for a moment. It was much higher and wider than I had thought it to be from below.
Taking the tobacco pouch from between my teeth, I grasped Nayland Smith’s automatic—and went forward.
I found myself in a rock passage not unlike that which we had negotiated on the other side of the pool, except that it was not boarded and that it sloped steeply downward.
Shining my light ahead, I followed this passage.
Its temperature was bitingly low for a naked man: but a tang of the sea came to my nostrils which drew me on.
The passage wound and twisted intricately, growing ever lower and narrower. I pushed on.
There was nothing to show that it was used: it looked like untouched handiwork of Nature; untravelled, undiscovered. The gradient grew so steep as to resemble a crude stair. I stumbled to the foot of it...
And I saw the sun rising over the Mediterranean!
I shouted, exultantly! I was a sun worshipper!
I stood in a tiny, pebbled bay, locked in by huge cliffs. The sea lay before me, but neither to right nor to left could I obtain a glimpse of any coastline.
There was some hint of a path leading steeply upward on one side. I examined it closely. Yes! At some time it had been traversed!
Five paces up, I found a burned match!
I turned back, running in my eagerness. And, in a fraction of the time taken by my outward journey, I found myself at the mouth of the passage, staring across the pool to where that feeble beacon beckoned.
“Sir Denis!” I cried, and waved my flashlight. “Swim across! We’re out!”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE RAID
I looked out across the sea, shimmering under a cloudless morning sky, then turned and stared at my companion. He was hatless, but his crisp grey hair in which were silver streaks was of that kind which defies rough usage and persistently remains well groomed.
His tanned skin, upon which in that keen light many little lines showed, and the fact that he was unshaven added to the gauntness of his features. He wore a grey flannel suit and rubber-soled shoes. The suit was terribly wrinkled, and his tie, which I had watched him knotting, was not strictly in place; but nevertheless I felt that Sir Denis Nayland Smith presented a better front to the world than I did at that moment.
In that keen profile I read something of the force which lies behind a successful career; and looking down at the dirty white overalls in which I was arrayed, a wave of admiration swept over me—admiration for the alert intelligence of my companion in this strange adventure. Who but Sir Denis would have thought of bundling our scanty possessions into a small packing case, and towing it behind him on that same piece of string which had served in his test to unmask a possible sniper?
He was examining the match upon the rock path which alone had given me a clue to the fact that escape from this secret spot was possible. Then I spoke:
“Sir Denis,” I said, “it’s a great privilege to have helped you in any way. You are a very remarkable man.”
He turned and smiled; his smile was thirty years his junior.
“I suppose you must be right, Sterling,” he replied, “otherwise, I shouldn’t have survived. But—”
He stopped.
And blotting out the triumph of our escape from the cavern which Dr. Fu-Manchu had thought to be a Bastille came reality— memories—sorrow.
Petrie had gone to join the ranks of those living dead men. Fleurette!
Fleurette was lost to me forever! No doubt my change of mood was reflected on my face, for:
“I know what you’re thinking, Sterling,” Sir Denis added, “but don’t despair—yet. There’s still hope.”
“What!”
“That this path leads somewhere and does not just lose itself among the rocks, I have little doubt. My own impression is that it leads to the beach of Ste Claire. But this is not the chief point of interest.”
“To me, it seems to be.”
“What do you regard as the most curious features of our recent experience?”
I considered for a moment, then:
“The mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s motive in remaining behind,” I replied, “and the greater mystery of how and when he joined his submersible yacht—whatever a submersible yacht may be.”
Nayland Smith nodded rapidly.
“You are getting near to it,” he rapped. “I am satisfied that the opening above the water cave at the top of the rocks was the place from which he spoke to us. And I think we are unanimous on the point that there is no other means of exit but this. Therefore, I have been asking mysel
f for the last ten minutes: why did he come by this roundabout route when he could have boarded his craft at the wharf, as no doubt the other members of his household did. It’s rather a hazardous guess, but one I like to make.”
“What is it, Sir Denis?”
“I don’t think he joined the submarine at all.”
“What!”
“Whatever the construction of that craft may be, it would offer serious obstacles to the transporting of a sick man.”
“Good heavens! You think—”
“It is just possible that Petrie has been taken another way, under the personal care of the doctor.”
“But,” I protested, “that climb up the rocks?”
“Could easily be performed by native bearers carrying a stretcher or litter, and descent to this point is easy.”
“But—” I pointed along the faintly pencilled track.
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“Not that way, Sterling,” he admitted. “A motorboat has been lying here. Look—there are still traces of oil at the margin of the water, and the beach slopes away very sharply.”
“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 recognize 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-THREE
KARMANÈH’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 corner,” 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 Corniche 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 g
one 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 Préfet,” 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 which 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: