The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories

by Sax Rohmer

  “I fail to follow.”

  Maurice Bode manipulated the head of the leopard in some way so that the top came off in his hand. Inserting a finger and a thumb into the aperture, he drew forth a small ball of sparkling crystal. “Examine that,” he said, handing it to me.

  It was no larger than a full-sized walnut, but had all the brilliancy of a precious gem. I was gazing into its changeful depths when an idea occurred to me—an idea that caused me to return the thing with a shudder of revulsion.

  “You do not, surely, suggest—” I began.

  “I suggest nothing,” said Bode; “but by way of an experiment I propose acting thus.”

  Raising the crystal above his head, he dashed it with all his force on to the marble hearth. I had just time to observe that it was shattered, when the electric light went out.

  Dense fumes seemed to fill the room, and there was a buzzing in my ears. Then suddenly I caught my breath and listened; for it appeared to me that I had detected the sound of a low, clear voice—singing. Before I could determine whether it were imaginary or otherwise, the sound died away and the electric lamps became relighted.

  There was a faint blue vapour in the air. Bode was standing on the other side of the room, and his tense attitude betrayed him.

  “You heard it?” I inquired.

  “I heard something,” he replied. “The extinction of the electric light was highly instructive.” Seeing me about to speak again, “I have no theory,” he said. “The only one that can cover all the facts is too incredible to be entertained.”

  “I wanted to ask you what you make of the sudden death of Professor Bayton and M’Quown.”

  “Again I have no theory. We should, however, remember that the incidents you mention, though singular, do not justify us—with our present inadequate knowledge of the circumstances under which they occurred—in placing them outside the province of coincidence. But I may mention that when I endeavoured to arouse you this evening, I at first failed to do so. It was not until I treated you as a hypnotised subject, and employed the usual means of restoring consciousness after hypnosis, that you revived.”

  THE MYSTERY OF THE FABULOUS LAMP

  They lived in what had been, described as an “artistic apartment”. Bram always referred to it as a “walk down”. Lorna was delighted with it.

  If you happened to be passing a reconstructed New York brownstone house between Lexington and Third Avenue, at night, and if the shades weren’t drawn, looking down you had a glimpse of the living-room, lit by a lamp with a square shade of plaited straw which gave out a pleasant glow.

  You saw chairs upholstered in golden brown, an olive-green bookcase, painted by Lorna and well-stocked with books. Some modern light maple furniture. A small buffet of English walnut, decorated with a Wedgwood salad bowl (wedding present), displayed a few pieces of good crystal.

  Four steps led down to a tiny forecourt and a blue door, with bright brass fittings. Two sky-blue window boxes were filled with geraniums. Bram had always suspected that the blue door stood for $10 a month on the rent. The boxes Lorna had decorated.

  But a sense of happy contentment crept over him when he halted at the top of the steps that evening and surveyed this little home-—his and Lorna’s…

  He had his key ready, but Lorna had heard his footsteps. The blue door opened as if by magic.

  “Darling!” she cried, as she broke away from his arms. “I bought a lamp, second-hand. It cost $20.”

  Bram stifled a groan. He adored his pretty wife. She was a gay companion and a practical housekeeper; but two months of marriage had proved her to be, also, a fanatical interior decorator.

  “Our budget’s getting low, honey.”

  “I know, Bram. But I simply couldn’t stand the flying saucer any longer!”

  The flying saucer was a standard ceiling fixture—a dull glass bowl—supplied by the landlord in the entrance foyer of their apartment, and Lorna hated it.

  “Oh, Bram.” she said, clinging to him. “You’ve never regretted what we did?”

  Bram grabbed her, held her hard.

  At the time Lorna came alone and changed his way of life, Bram had saved up $2,000 and had planned to put it into the publishing business where he was a promising junior editor. This would have meant postponing their marriage for at least a year, and Bram hadn’t hesitated for a moment. He had chosen Lorna, and the $2,000 had gone to set them up in their little apartment.

  “Don’t be cross with me, darling!” Lorna drew back, turned his gaze. “Look!”

  Bram looked.

  * * *

  An Arab brass lamp with panels of coloured glass hung where the living saucer had been.

  The effect was remarkable. Their nine-foot square hall, walls and ceiling bathed in subdued coloured rays, resembled the end of a rainbow. An enlarged snap of Bram in uniform on a camel in front of the Sphinx had taken on the violet hue of an Egyptian afterglow. The coffee table was bathed in mysterious golden light. The long, narrow settee lurked in deep shadows.

  Lo‘a was explaining eagerly: “I had Stobell fix it, Bram. I knew you’d be tired when you got home, and superintendents are used to fixing lights. Don’t you think it’s cute?”

  “Certainly is. Marvellous.”

  Lorna was standing right under the lamp, pointing up.

  Bram caught his breath, shut his eyes, looked again, and then: “Lorna—” he spoke quietly—”come over here, honey. I want to find out if you see what I’ve seen.”

  “What?” Lorna was anxious. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing to worry about. Just come over here, and let me stand under the light.” He crossed and stood under the lamp, facing Lorna. “Do you notice anything?”

  “Oh!” Lorna’s hands stole up to her face in a helpless sort of gesture. “Bram—you look simply terrible! Pale green; and—well, I can almost see your bones! Come away. You frighten me.”

  Bram came over and gave her what she called his “trust-me grin”. He put his arms round her. “You frightened me when you stood there. Don’t let it bother you.”

  “But it does, Bram. It’s uncanny.”

  “It’s just some sort of effect, produced by all the coloured glass being reflected directly downward. What we want to do is cover the holes at the bottom. Maybe you could think something up that would do it.”

  After dinner had been cleared away, Bram settled himself at the desk in the corner with some work he had brought home from the office. Lorna was painting tiny coloured designs on cellulose tape, which she intended to cut out with nail scissors and fix over the perforations at the base of the lamp.

  The doorbell rang. Bram crossed the rainbow lobby, opened the blue door. A tall man stood there, his heavy features oddly lighted by the rays of the lamp. He wore a tan coat and a black Homburg hat. His eyes, which were dark also, looked past Bram. Their gaze was fixed on the lamp. He lowered them and bowed stiffly.

  “Mr Bramwell Barton?”

  “That’s my name.”

  “Pardon me if I disturb you.” He spoke with a marked accent. “My name is Ramoulian. I have called to make a proposition, Mr Barton, which I hope you will think it profitable to accept.”

  Mr Ramoulian removed his Homburg, uncovering glossy black hair. Lorna was standing up when they came in.

  “Mr Ramoulian has called on business, Lorna,” Bram explained. “This is my wife. Please sit down.”

  Mr Ramoulian repeated his stiff bow and sat down.

  “You are a business man, Mr Barton—yes?”

  “Not exactly.” Bram dropped back into his chair. “I’m an editor in a publishing house.”

  “I see. And, perhaps, also an author?”

  “In a modest way.”

  “Good. You have the artistic conscience. You will understand—and sympathise. I am here tonight, Mr Barton, and madame, on the instruction of the Sherif of Mecca.”

  “The Sherif of Mecca!”

  “But exactly. Let me try to explain. Some mont
hs ago, while the holy places were crowded with pilgrims, a great sacrilege was committed in the tomb of the Prophet at Ab-Madinen. One of the lamps which for generations had lighted the tomb was stolen—”

  Lorna started to speak, but Mr Ramoulian raised his hand, a quiet, but impressive command. “Apart from its history, the lamp was not of sufficient value to justify so great a risk. It was reported to be in Mecca. By one hour the custodians were too late to recover it. Again, it vanished. Then I was assigned to trace the lamp.”

  “Do I understand you’re a detective?” Bram wanted to know.

  “I am an antiquarian expert. I could identify the lamp of the Prophet among 1,000 other lamps. One of my agents traced it to Cairo. It was in the possession of an American tourist, who refused to part with it. I followed her here. She had died before I arrived. All her property had been sold at auction. I interviewed the auctioneers today. The lamp, with a number of other articles, had been bought in one lot, cheaply, by a small dealer on Third Avenue—”

  “Mr Lincke!” Lorna spoke the name on a high key.

  “But exactly. Late this evening I called on Mr Lincke. And again I was too late. Once more, the lamp had been sold. But, fortunately, he knew the name and address of the purchaser. You were the purchaser, Mrs Barton, and there”—he turned, pointed—“hangs the lamp of the Prophet!”

  Stupefied silence fell like a curtain on those last words. It was Bram who broke the spell.

  “I suppose you want us to re-sell the lamp?”

  “But exactly.” The dark eyes became focused on him. “Mrs Barton paid $20 for it. I offer you $100.”

  Bram said: “I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer. The recovery of a thing so highly valued that you’re sent half around the world to trace it is worth more than $100. If you’d started the bidding at $1,000, we might have talked business.”

  Mr Ramoulian sighed. “And I thought I was dealing with an artist.”

  Bram laughed. Mr Ramoulian took out a cheque book and a pen.

  “Very well. A thousand dollars, you say?”

  “I said I’d consider a bid of $1,000, Mr Ramoulian. I need time to think this thing out.”

  “As you wish.”

  Mr Ramoulian replaced pen and cheque book and stood up. He bowed to Lorna, bowed to Bram, and took up his black hat. “I shall leave you, Mr Barton, and your charming wife to discuss this matter. I shall return.”

  Bram closed the door. Lorna heard heavy footsteps mounting to the street.

  “Bram!” She ran to him as he turned. “Why ever did you let him go? A thousand dollars! Oh, Bram!”

  Bram’s long repressed excitement burst. He grasped Lorna, held her so tightly that she winced.

  “Don’t you see, honey—don’t you see? Whether the tale about the Prophet’s tomb is the truth or not this lamp is a treasure of some sort. I want another opinion—”

  “But we don’t know Ramoulian’s address!”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be back. I’m going to call Jim Crowley. He’s one of the Spink and Barrett’s experts, and he lives only a few blocks away. He’ll come when I ask him.”

  Jim Crowley came, but he was in a furious hurry. He mounted a chair and inspected the lamp.

  “Have you a flashlight, Bram?”

  “Yes, I’ll get it.”

  “Then switch this thing off.”

  “Right.”

  The rainbow lobby became plunged in shadow. Using the flashlight handed him by Bram, Jim examined the lamp minutely.

  “What did you pay for it?”

  “Twenty dollars,” Bram told him.

  “You were scalped! Except for the bits of glass, which are good, it’s worth not a cent more than five bucks. The glass might fetch another five. So say ten. We wouldn’t touch it at Spink and Barrett’s. Imitation Arab stuff, mass-produced in Europe. Sorry.”

  Jim dashed off.

  “So much for the experts!” Bram laughed when the door closed.

  Lorna said: “Mr Lincke’s been in the business a long time. He didn’t think it was worth much. We have only Mr Ramoulian’s word that it’s old. There’s something very strange about all this. I’m beginning to hope Mr Ramoulian doesn’t come back!”

  “I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t let him go! But Jim just has to be wrong. A sane man doesn’t offer $1,000 for a brass lamp worth $10.”

  “But he’s a strange-looking man, Bram. He may not be sane.”

  Bram shook his head. “It could be the original Aladdin’s Lamp!”

  “It couldn’t.” Lorna sat down. “I should know. I spent an hour this morning polishing it—and no genie appeared! Nothing happened, except to my fingernails.”

  “I have a hunch he’ll come back.”

  * * *

  Two hours later he came. He bowed and walked across the alcove with that noiseless, dignified step which vaguely alarmed Lorna. He glanced back to where Bram was reclosing the blue door. “You have extinguished the lamp, I see.”

  “Just while I gave it a careful check-up,” Bram explained, joining them.

  ‘That was prudent. But tell me—you have decided?”

  Bram sat down facing him. “I have decided, Mr Ramoulian, that if you’ll raise your bid to $2,000 the lamp is yours.”

  Mr Ramoulian’s expression didn’t change in the slightest degree. He merely shrugged.

  “Your artistic conscience is dead, Mr Barton. But I am not accustomed to commercial haggling. May I use your desk?”

  “Sure, with pleasure.”

  Bram jumped up, placed a chair. Mr Ramoulian took out his cheque book and pen and drew a cheque on a Manhattan bank for $2,000, payable to Bramwell Barton. Then, on a sheet of Bram’s notepaper, he wrote a brief form of receipt and stood up.

  “Will you be good enough to sign this, Mr Barton? As you don’t know me, no doubt you will want to make inquiries through your own bank. If I call here at, say eleven in the morning, to remove the lamp—which I wish to do personally—will that be convenient?” Bram nodded, and Mr Ramoulian took his leave.

  * * *

  “It’s hard to believe, Bram, that it all happened a year ago.”

  It was hard to believe, on that sunny afternoon, as Bram and Lorna crossed Fifth Avenue, she holding his hand as she had always done at street crossings. Yet ten months had passed since the strange sale of the Prophet’s’ lamp to Mr Ramoulian.

  They had been ten eventful and happy months. Bram had invested their $2,000 windfall in the business, as originally planned, and the publisher had promoted him.

  “I have a sort of hunch,” Bram declared as they went through revolving doors into one of Manhattan’s more expensive stores, “that we’re going to buy another lamp!”

  “We’re not!” Lorna laughed at him. “We’re only going to look at one. I’m quite glad about the one we have. But the advertisements for the Magus lamps intrigue me. You know how interested I am in lighting effects.”

  Bram knew. He said no more.

  The demonstration which Lorna was set on attending took place on the ninth floor. When they got, there they found themselves in a small room fitted up as a typical living room. It had neutral walls, modern light wood furniture, a few books and non-classic ornaments. A demonstrator welcomed them. Ten or more inquirers were there already.

  “Magus lamps,” she explained, “operate on an entirely new principle of lighting. The one I am using is a medium-price lamp—$100—but it has the full range. By adjusting panels, 21 changes can be made.”

  Lorna drew closer. She saw a graceful silver lamp on a silver pedestal, standing on a table. It had panels of varicoloured glass.

  The demonstrator moved a knob on top of the lamp. A murmur of almost incredulous surprise swept around the audience. The walls had become olive-green. The furniture looked like Spanish mahogany. Every book had changed colour. A white vase was black. And the shapely demonstrator appeared now to be sheathed in scarlet!

  “But you will notice,” the modulated voice went on, “
that no change has taken place in our faces.” People began looking at one. another. “The special bulb supplied by Magus prevents distortion. Suppose we make another change. You are tired of a green-walled room. Very well.”

  She moved the knob. The walls became russet-brown, the furniture silver-grey, the vase rose-pink—and the demonstrator was revealed in deep violet. Lorna looked at Bram. He had been wearing a light-coloured suit. It was brown. Lorna laughed. So did Bram. Lorna’s blue dress was red!

  The musical voice followed them as Lorna grabbed Bram’s hand and led him into an adjoining room: “Sales department next door. There you can see the many attractive models.”

  “Have a heart, honey! You’re not planning to buy one of these crazy things? We don’t want to turn our apartment into—”

  “I just want to look, Bram. I get ideas sometimes.”

  A smart young salesman who prided himself on recognising possible buyers attached himself to Lorna.

  “If you’re interested in acquiring a Magus lamp, I shall be glad to advise you. Those large models—I sold one recently to Mrs Partington Perkins for her Park Avenue apartment—are more suited to ballrooms, restaurants and so on, than to the ordinary home. The model you have seen demonstrated—it comes in three styles—is the most popular for…”

  But Lorna lost the rest of the sales talk. Her gaze was fixed, hypnotically, upon one lamp which hung in a comer of that lamp-laden room. The salesman noted her look.

  “You are surprised to see such a commonplace model in our collection?” he suggested.

  Bram looked where Lorna was looking. Bram, also, became rigid.

  “It isn’t for sale, of course. It’s our special museum piece. The original lamp which Dr Fechter, inventor of the Magus process, used in his experiments… I’ll be right back. Pardon me.”

  He moved away, intercepting another pair of potential buyers.

  Lorna clutched Bram’s hand. “Bram, it’s our lamp!”

  “Was our lamp, honey.”