by Sax Rohmer
“She justifies all his adoration, Cumberly. She is the nearest thing to an angel that a human can be. I agree with Earl that there is a fatality in her delay! He is going off again after dinner. You know how dreadfully impulsive he is, and I have always at the back of my brain the idea that we may be deluding ourselves.”
It was close to the dinner hour now, and I hurried to my room to dress. The quaint little window, as I already have mentioned, commanded a view of the south wing, and as I stooped to the oaken window seat, groping for the candles, my gaze strayed across the snow-carpeted lawns to where the shrubbery loomed greyly in the growing December dusk.
Two figures passed hurriedly in by the south entrance, Lawrence Bowman and Marie Van Eyck. They would have quick work to dress. I found the candles, then dropped them and stood peering from the window with a horror upon me greater than any I yet had known in that house.
A few paces behind the pair, footsteps were forming in the snow—the footsteps of one invisible, who followed, who came to the southern door and who entered after them. Faint wreaths as of steam floated over the ghostly trail.
“My God!” I whispered. “My God!”
* * *
How I dressed, Heaven only knows. I have no recollection of anything until, finding myself at the foot of the great staircase, I said to Knowlson, struggling to make my voice sound normal, “Is the Count de Stano in?”
“I think not, sir. I believe he is leaving this evening. But I have never seen the Count personally, sir.”
Looking in at the door of the long apartment which Earl had had converted into a billiard room, I found Bowman adjusting his tie before a small mirror.
“Have you seen the Count?” I asked shortly.
“Yes. He is talking to Marie—to Mrs Van Eyck—in the lounge.”
I set off briskly. There was but one door to the old study, now the lounge. I hoped (and feared, I confess) to meet the Count there face to face.
The place was only lighted by the crackling wood fire on the great hearth and Mrs Van Eyck alone stood leaning against the mantelpiece, the red gleam of the fire upon her bare shoulders.
“I had hoped to find the Count here,” I said, as she turned to me.
“Surely you passed him? He couldn’t have reached farther than the library as you came in.”
I shook my head, and for a moment Mrs Van Eyck looked almost afraid.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I can’t understand it. He is leaving almost immediately, too.”
Her hands were toying with a curious little ornament suspended by a chain about her neck. She saw me looking at it and held it up for my inspection.
“Isn’t it odd?” she laughed rather uneasily. “The Count tells me that it is an ancient Assyrian love charm.”
It was a tiny golden calf, and, unaccountably, I knew that I paled as I looked at it.
The gong sounded.
I met Lister Hanson at the door of the banqueting hall. His quest had proved as futile as mine.
We were a very merry dinner party. Again it seemed impossible to credit the idea that malign powers were at work in our midst. Earl Ryland made himself the object of much good-humoured jest by constantly glancing at his watch.
“I know it’s rude,” he said, “but you don’t know how anxious I am about Mona.”
When at last dinner was over, he left the old people to do the honours and rushed away in his impetuous, schoolboy fashion to the waiting car, and so off to the station.
Hanson touched me on the shoulder.
“To the Count’s room first,” he whispered.
We slipped away unnoticed and mounted the staircase. On the landing we met Mrs Van Eyck’s maid carrying an armful of dresses.
“Are you packing?” rapped Hanson, with, a sudden suspicion in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” replied the girl. “My lady has had a message and must leave tonight.”
“Have you seen the Count de Stano?”
“A tall, dark gentleman, carrying a black stick? He has just gone along the passage, sir.”
Hanson stood looking after the maid for a moment.
“I have heard of no messenger,” he said, “and Van Eyck is due on Christmas morning.”
Along the oak-lined passage and up into the south wing we went. The Count’s room was empty. There was no fire in the hearth, but the heat of the place was insupportable, although the window was open.
Something prompted me to glance out. From the edge of the lawn below, across to the frosted shrubbery, extended a track of footprints.
“Look Hanson!” I said and grasped his arm. “Look! And tell me if I dream!”
A faint vapour was rising from the prints.
“Let’s get our coats and see where they lead,” he said quietly.
It was with an indescribable sense of relief that I quitted the room which the Count de Stano had occupied. We got our coats and prepared to go out. With a suddenness which was appalling, the wind rose and, breaking in upon the frozen calm of the evening, shrieked about Devrers Hall with all the fury of a high gale. With it came snow.
Through that raging blizzard, we fought our way around the angle of the house, leaving the company preparing for the dance in the banqueting hall.
Not a track was to be seen, and the snow was falling in swirling clouds.
We performed a complete circuit of the hall, and in the huge yard we found lamps and lanterns burning. Lawrence Bowman’s man was preparing his car for the road; he was driving Mrs Van Eyck to the station, the man said. But both Hanson and I quickly noted that young Bowman’s luggage was strapped in place.
Retracing our steps, we saw two snow-covered figures ahead of us, a woman in a dull-red cloak and a man in a big motor coat. They passed on to the terrace, and into the light streaming from the open doors. Eary Ryland had returned. His big Panhard stood at the steps.
“My God! Look!” gasped Hanson, and dragged me back.
I knew what to expect, yet at sight of it my heart stood still. Steaming footprints appeared, hard upon those of Mrs Van Eyck and Bowman. They pursued a super-natural course on the terrace steps, stopped, and passed away around the north angle of the hall.
“May Heaven protect all here tonight!” prayed the clergyman fervently. “Follow, follow, Cumberly! At all costs we must follow!” he continued hoarsely.
Which of us trembled the more violently, I do not know. Passing the cheery light of the open doors, we traced the devilish tracks before us. The wind had dropped as suddenly as it had arisen, but snow still fell lightly. Then, from the angle of the great house, we saw a sight which robbed us of what little courage we retained.
Glaring in at the window of the room known as the lantern room, with the light of a great log fire and many candles playing fully upon its malignant face, crouched a red-robed figure. A demon of the Dark Ages it seemed, that clutched and mewed and muttered as it glared. It crouched lower, and lower, then drew back and held its arms before its awful face, thrusting away from it that which approached the window from within. It turned and fled with a shriek unlike anything human or animal, and was gone, leaving behind it steaming footprints in the snow.
A slim shape showed darkly behind the lattice, and the cold light reflected from the snow touched the pure, oval face of Mona Verek.
We fought our way back to the terrace.
“The curse of Devrers Hall in its true form,” muttered Hanson, “in the red robe of Maccabees Nosta, the Uniform of Satan!”
* * *
We could not and dared not, speak of what we had seen, but the gaieties of the night left us cold. As the hours passed and still nothing occurred to break the serenity of the happy gathering, my forebodings grew keener.
Yet, whenever I looked at Mona Verek, fair and fragile, with wonderful blue eyes—which often made me fear that already she was more than half a creature of another sphere—I found new courage.
It was Hanson who first noticed that Mrs Van Eyck and Bowman were missing.
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br /> He drew my attention to it at the instant when the tempest, for a while quiescent, awoke to renewed fury.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered.
I saw Earl glance up quickly from an intimate chat with Mona.
Mingled with the song of the storm had arisen fiendish laughter again and the sound of dull flapping. It seemed like the signal for what was to befall.
Knowlson, ghastly white, rushed into the hall.
“Mr Ryland! Mr Ryland!” he cried unceremoniously.
In an instant we were all flocking about the door. Bowman’s man, trembling, stood outside.
“I don’t know what’s become of him, sir,” he said tremulously. “He and Mrs Van Eyck were to have started at eleven-thirty, and, going in to look for him in the lounge—Oh, my God, sir!—I saw something like a great owl go in at the window.”
We delayed no longer. Out into the blizzard we poured and over the snow to the south wing.
Blue, spirituous flames were belching from the window of the astrologer’s study! One shrill scream reached our ears, to be drowned by the mighty voice of the wind.
“Impossible to get in the window,” cried Ryland. “Around through the library. Form up a line to pass buckets, Knowlson!”
As we rushed up the snow-carpeted terrace steps, Hanson fell. Someone stayed to attend to him. Ryland and I ran on through the house and entered the library together. It was in darkness, but the ancient, iron-studded door leading down into the study was outlined in blue light.
I leapt forward in the gloom, my hand outstretched, and something interposed between me and the door—something fiery. With a muffled yell, I drew back…
Ryland passed me. His form vaguely silhouetted against that weird glow, I saw him raise his arms as if to shield his face. An evidently irresistible force hurled him back, and he fell with a crash at the feet of those who crowded the entrance to the library.
“Oh! My God!” he groaned, struggling to his feet. “What is before that door?”
A sound like the roaring of a furnace came from within, with a dull beating on the oak. We stood there in the dark, watching the door. Someone pushed to the front of the group.
“Keep back, Masters,” said Ryland huskily. “My arms are burned to the elbows. Some hellish thing stands before the door. Keep back, man, till we get lights: Bring lights! Bring lights!”
At that we withdrew from the dark library, until we all stood outside in the hall. Some of us muttered what prayers we. knew, while the furnace roared inside and the storm shrieked outside.
There have been some with whom I have discussed these events, who were convinced that these were the result of hallucination combined with the unsuspected presence of an accomplished illusionist and remorseless jester, but I am convinced otherwise.
Mona Verek approached from the direction of the banqueting hall, two trembling servants following with lights. She was very pale, but quite composed.
“Mona!” began Earl, huskily. “There’s devil’s work! This is no place—”
She stopped him with a quiet little gesture, and took a lamp from one of the men.
“Mr Hanson has explained to me, Earl,” she said. “He is disabled, or he would be here. I quite understand that there is nothing in the library that can harm me. It. can only harm those who fear it. I will unlock the door, Earl, I have promised.”
“Mona! Hanson has asked you—”
“You don’t understand. He has asked me, because for me there is no danger.”
He would have stopped her, but he forgot his injured arms, and was too late. She went in, believing she would be protected.
Protected she was.
No invisible flame seared her, nothing contested her coming. Entering behind her, we saw her stoop and unlock the door. A cloud of oily, blue-black smoke belched out.
We had thought to find those within past aid, but up the steps Lawrence Bowman staggered, dragging the insensible form of Marie Van Eyck.
“Thank God!” said old Mr Ryland devoutly.
There was a piercing, frenzied shriek. All heard it with horror. One of the Library windows banged open, and a cloud of snow poured into the room.
“There’s someone getting out,” cried a man’s voice.
“De Stano!” yelled Earl.
Several of us leaped to the window. In the stormy darkness, a red something was racing over the snow towards the beech avenue. The wind dropped, and from the monastery a bell rang.
“The midnight service,” I said.
At the first stroke the red figure stopped dead, turned, and seemed to throw up its arms. It was at that moment, I was told by those near the door, that the strange flames died away in the ancient study, leaving only some charred woodwork to show where the fire had been. The blizzard howled again madly. I was not the only one there who heard amid its howling the sound as of flapping wings.
Mona Verek and Bowman were bending over the insensible woman. Upon her flesh was burned a clear impression of a calf, but the little image itself was missing.
The wind died away, no more snow fell and suddenly, as if a curtain had been raised from before it, the moon sailed into the skies. Marie Van Eyck opened her eyes and looked about her with an expression I shall never forget.
“The fire!” she whispered. “The fire! What is it?”
The bell ceased tolling.
“It is Christmas morning!” said Mona Verek.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sax Rohmer was born Arthur Henry Ward in 1883, in Birmingham, England, adding “Sarsfield” to his name in 1901. He was four years old when Sherlock Holmes appeared in print, five when the Jack the Ripper murders began, and sixteen when H.G. Wells’ Martians invaded.
Initially pursuing a career as a civil servant, he turned to writing as a journalist, poet, comedy sketch writer, and songwriter in British music halls. At age 20 he submitted the short story “The Mysterious Mummy” to Pearson’s magazine and “The Leopard-Couch” to Chamber’s Journal. Both were published under the byline “A. Sarsfield Ward.”
Ward’s Bohemian associates Cumper, Bailey, and Dodgson gave him the nickname “Digger,” which he used as his byline on several serialized stories. Then, in 1908, the song “Bang Went the Chance of a Lifetime” appeared under the byline “Sax Rohmer.” Becoming immersed in theosophy, alchemy, and mysticism, Ward decided the name was appropriate to his writing, so when “The Zayat Kiss” first appeared in The Story-Teller magazine in October, 1912, it was credited to Sax Rohmer.
That was the first story featuring Fu-Manchu, and the first portion of the novel The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu. Novels such as The Yellow Claw, Tales of Secret Egypt, Dope, The Dream Detective, The Green Eyes of Bast, and Tales of Chinatown made Rohmer one of the most successful novelists of the 1920s and 1930s.
There are fourteen Fu-Manchu novels, and the character has been featured in radio, television, comic strips, and comic books. He first appeared in film in 1923, and has been portrayed by such actors as Boris Karloff, Christopher Lee, John Carradine, Peter Sellers, and Nicolas Cage.
Rohmer died in 1959, a victim of an outbreak of the type A influenza known as the Asian flu.
APPRECIATING DR. FU-MANCHU
BY LESLIE S. KLINGER
The “yellow peril”—that stereotypical threat of Asian conquest—seized the public imagination in the late nineteenth century, in political diatribes and in fiction. While several authors exploited this fear, the work of Arthur Henry Sarsfield Ward, better known as Sax Rohmer, stood out.
Dr. Fu-Manchu was born in Rohmer’s short story “The Zayat Kiss,” which first appeared in a British magazine in 1912. Nine more stories quickly appeared and, in 1913, the tales were collected as The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu (The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu in America). The Doctor appeared in two more series before the end of the Great War, collected as The Devil Doctor (The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu) and The Si-Fan Mysteries (The Hand of Fu-Manchu).
After a fourteen-year absence, the Doctor reappe
ared in 1931, in The Daughter of Fu-Manchu. There were nine more novels, continuing until Rohmer’s death in 1959, when Emperor Fu-Manchu was published. Four stories, which had previously appeared only in magazines, were published in 1973 as The Wrath of Fu-Manchu.
The Fu-Manchu stories also have been the basis of numerous motion pictures, most famously the 1932 MGM film The Mask of Fu-Manchu, featuring Boris Karloff as the Doctor.
In the early stories, Fu-Manchu and his cohorts are the “yellow menace,” whose aim is to establish domination of the Asian races. In the 1930s Fu-Manchu foments political dissension among the working classes. By the 1940s, as the wars in Europe and Asia threaten terrible destruction, Fu-Manchu works to depose other world leaders and defeat the Communists in Russia and China.
Rohmer undoubtedly read the works of Conan Doyle, and there is a strong resemblance between Nayland Smith and Holmes. There are also marked parallels between the four doctors, Petrie and Watson as the narrator-comrades, and Dr. Fu-Manchu and Professor Moriarty as the arch-villains.
The emphasis is on fast-paced action set in exotic locations, evocatively described in luxuriant detail, with countless thrills occurring to the unrelenting ticking of a tightly-wound clock. Strong romantic elements and sensually described, sexually attractive women appear throughout the tales, but ultimately it is the fantastic nature of the adventures that appeal.
This is the continuing appeal of Dr. Fu-Manchu, for despite his occasional tactic of alliance with the West, he unrelentingly pursued his own agenda of world domination. In the long run, Rohmer’s depiction of Fu-Manchu rose above the fears and prejudices that may have created him to become a picture of a timeless and implacable creature of menace.
* * *
A complete version of this essay can be found in The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu, also available from Titan Books.
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS:
THE COMPLETE FU-MANCHU SERIES
Sax Rohmer
Available now:
THE MYSTERY OF DR. FU-MANCHU
THE RETURN OF DR. FU-MANCHU