Re-enter Fu-Manchu
Page 1
Contents
Cover
Praise
Also by Sax Rohmer
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Appreciating Dr. Fu-Manchu
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
“Insidious fun from out of the past. Evil as always, Fu-Manchu reviles as well as thrills us.”—Joe Lansdale, recipient of the Horror Writers Association Lifetime Achievement Award
“Without Fu-Manchu we wouldn’t have Dr. No, Doctor Doom or Dr. Evil. Sax Rohmer created the first truly great evil mastermind. Devious, inventive, complex, and fascinating. These novels inspired a century of great thrillers!”—Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Assassin’s Code and Patient Zero
“The true king of the pulp mystery is Sax Rohmer—and the shining ruby in his crown is without a doubt his Fu-Manchu stories.”—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Colony
“Fu-Manchu remains the definitive diabolical mastermind of the 20th century. Though the arch-villain is ‘the Yellow Peril incarnate,’ Rohmer shows an interest in other cultures and allows his protagonist a complex set of motivations and a code of honor which often make him seem a better man than his Western antagonists. At their best, these books are very superior pulp fiction… at their worst, they’re still gruesomely readable.”—Kim Newman, award-winning author of Anno Dracula
“Sax Rohmer is one of the great thriller writers of all time! Rohmer created in Fu-Manchu the model for the super-villains of James Bond, and his hero Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie are worthy stand-ins for Holmes and Watson… though Fu-Manchu makes Professor Moriarty seem an under-achiever.”—Max Allan Collins, New York Times bestselling author of The Road to Perdition
“I grew up reading Sax Rohmer’s Fu-Manchu novels, in cheap paperback editions with appropriately lurid covers. They completely entranced me with their vision of a world constantly simmering with intrigue and wildly overheated ambitions. Even without all the exotic detail supplied by Rohmer’s imagination, I knew full well that world wasn’t the same as the one I lived in… For that alone, I’m grateful for all the hours I spent chasing around with Nayland Smith and his stalwart associates, though really my heart was always on their intimidating opponent’s side.”—K. W. Jeter, acclaimed author of Infernal Devices
“A sterling example of the classic adventure story, full of excitement and intrigue. Fu-Manchu is up there with Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan, and Zorro—or more precisely with Professor Moriarty, Captain Nemo, Darth Vader, and Lex Luthor—in the imaginations of generations of readers and moviegoers.”—Charles Ardai, award-winning novelist and founder of Hard Case Crime
“I love Fu-Manchu, the way you can only love the really GREAT villains. Though I read these books years ago he is still with me, living somewhere deep down in my guts, between Professor Moriarty and Dracula, plotting some wonderfully hideous revenge against an unsuspecting mankind.”—Mike Mignola, creator of Hellboy
“Fu-Manchu is one of the great villains in pop culture history, insidious and brilliant. Discover him if you dare!”—Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling co-author of Baltimore: The Plague Ships
“Exquisitely detailed… At times, it’s like reading a stage play… [Sax Rohmer] is a colorful storyteller. It was quite easy to be reading away and suddenly realize that I’d been reading for an hour or more without even noticing. It’s like being taken back to the cold and fog of London streets.”—Entertainment Affairs
“Acknowledged classics of pulp fiction… the bottom line is Fu-Manchu, despite all the huffing and puffing about sinister Oriental wiles and so on, always comes off as the coolest, baddest dude on the block. Today’s supergenius villains owe a huge debt to Sax Rohmer and his fiendish creation.”—Comic Book Resources
“Undeniably entertaining and fun to read… It’s pure pulp entertainment—awesome, and hilarious and wrong. Read it.”—Shadowlocked
“The perfect read to get your adrenalin going and root for the good guys to conquer a menace that is almost supremely evil. This is a wild ride read and I recommend it highly.”—Vic’s Media Room
THE COMPLETE FU-MANCHU SERIES BY SAX ROHMER
Available now from Titan Books:
THE MYSTERY OF DR. FU-MANCHU
THE RETURN OF DR. FU-MANCHU
THE HAND OF FU-MANCHU
THE DAUGHTER OF FU-MANCHU
THE MASK OF FU-MANCHU
THE BRIDE OF FU-MANCHU
THE TRAIL OF FU-MANCHU
PRESIDENT FU-MANCHU
THE DRUMS OF FU-MANCHU
THE ISLAND OF FU-MANCHU
THE SHADOW OF FU-MANCHU
Coming soon from Titan Books:
EMPEROR FU-MANCHU
THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU
RE-ENTER FU-MANCHU
Print edition ISBN: 9780857686145
E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686800
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First published as a novel in the US by Fawcett Gold Medal, 1957
First published as a in the UK by Herbert Jenkins Ltd, 1957
First Titan Books edition: June 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Copyright © 2015 The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors
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Frontispiece illustration by Barye Phillips for the Re-Enter Fu-Manchu first edition paperback cover, Fawcett Gold Medal, July 1957.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Re-Enter Fu-Manchu was the first novel in the series to appear as a paperback original in the U.S., and wasn’t serialized. The cover artist for the first edition was Barye Phillips.
CHAPTER ONE
“Here is the Times advertisement: ‘Wanted, young man, American, unattached. University graduate preferred, athletic, good appearance. Work highly confidential. Business experience unnecessary. Must be prepared to travel. Apply Box—
’ et cetera. And here, Mr. Merrick”—Peter Wellingham looked down, at a typed letter—“is your reply.”
Brian nodded. “I imagine you had quite a big mail.”
“You may be surprised to learn”—Wellingham lay back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together—“that applicants were quite few.”
“I’m certainly surprised.”
“I refer, particularly, to suitable applicants. You, I may say, were quite easily the most promising. I need not tell you that I am acting for a third party. Now let’s see… You are a United States citizen, the son of Senator Merrick. You hold an American degree and have recently also graduated from Oxford. Your record in sports is good. Your degrees, if not outstanding, are respectable.”
Brian picked up a brief case from the carpet. “I have the credentials here.”
Peter Wellingham waved a pale hand. He smiled a pale smile.
“I assure you, Mr. Merrick, applicants’ qualifications have already been checked. My principal is highly efficient. Now—you are unattached?”
“Meaning unmarried?”
“Meaning unmarried and not engaged to marry.”
“All clear.” Brian grinned.
“And you are prepared to travel?”
“I’m eager. My father has given me six months’ leave of absence before I go into the family business—”
“Which, I am told, is a very good business.”
Brian experienced a return of that sense of resentment with which Peter Wellingham had filled him earlier. These FBI methods offended him. If the job were offered to him, he was not at all sure he would accept it. He became more than ever certain that he had been subjected to close scrutiny while he had waited. But, to be fair, what did this mean? Only that these people were looking for a man of exceptional qualities for what must be a highly important job. And the prospect of exciting travel was attractive.
“It’s a good business, all right,” he admitted.
A rap on the door, and the willowy secretary he had seen before came in.
“Sir John is here, Mr. Wellingham. He’s on his way to the House and is pressed for time.”
Peter Wellingham stood up, smiled apologetically.
“I won’t detain you many minutes, Mr. Merrick. My legal adviser is also a member of Parliament. Please excuse me.” He crossed to the door and switched on indirect lighting, so that the crowded bookcases became illuminated. “You might like to look over my library.” He went out and closed the door.
Peter Wellingham was a slender man of uncertain age; pale, with scant fair hair. He was faultlessly groomed and wore correct morning dress. His white hands were slender, and of effeminate beauty. His voice and speech were those of the cultured Englishman, and he wore the sort of short, close-trimmed mustache that Brian associated with the British Army. But somehow he couldn’t imagine Peter Wellingham as a soldier, and, try as he would, he couldn’t like him.
He looked around the small but crowded room, trying to reconsider his first impression of the Honorable Peter Wellingham. The secretary who had received him was an attractive Eurasian, and many of the volumes on the shelves dealt with the Orient. There were antiques, too, placed here and there between the books, all of Eastern origin.
How strangely quiet this room seemed! Hard to believe that he was in the heart of fashionable Mayfair and less than fifty yards from Park Lane. Although his physical senses didn’t support the idea, that uncanny suspicion overcame him again—a suspicion that he wasn’t alone, that someone watched him. It had come to him when he first arrived, while he was waiting for the Honorable Peter.
There was only one point in the room from which an observer might be watching. This was a massive Burmese cabinet of dark wood with a number of fretwork cupboards. It seemed to be built into the wall, and there might be a space behind it.
But it was all too fantastic. He crossed to a bookcase and began to read some of the titles. Many dealt with the tangle in the Near East, and not all were in English.
There was one shelf with no books on it, only a bronze sphinx and several framed photographs.
Brian stood still, staring at one of them. It was of Senator Mclnnes, an old friend of his father’s. At another he stared even longer: a lean-faced man with steady, keen eyes, his hair silvering at the temples.
He was still studying this, holding the frame in his hands, when the door opened and Peter Wellingham came back.
“Do you know Sir Denis?” Wellingham asked in evident surprise.
“Not intimately. But Sir Denis Nayland Smith was my father’s house guest in Washington two years back.”
“Splendid! Sir Denis makes this his base when he’s in London. If we come to terms, he will be your chief.”
“I understood Sir Denis had retired.”
“So he did. But his special knowledge of Eastern problems is unique. He volunteered to act in the present case—I believe at the request of Washington. This is a private appointment. You will be under the orders of no one but Sir Denis. It was Sir Denis’ intention,” Wellingham explained, “that this should be a six-month agreement, renewable by mutual consent. This, I think, would suit your plans?”
“Perfectly.”
“Here is a form of agreement. Will you read it carefully, and if you find it acceptable, sign all three copies.” He rang for his secretary.
Brian found himself walking on air. The terms of employment were generous, and he would receive two months’ salary in advance. He must be ready to leave for Cairo at short notice, and the cost of equipment he would require would be defrayed by his employers.
He signed the three copies without hesitation and passed them across the desk. Peter Wellingham signed in turn, and his secretary signed as witness.
“Draw Mr. Brian Merrick’s check,” Wellingham directed.
The girl went out, and Brian’s glance followed the graceful figure. As she opened the door, an oblique ray of sunshine touched the intricate carving of the Burmese cabinet, and Brian’s glance was diverted, then held…
He suppressed a start. Through the delicately carved panel before one of the small cupboards he thought he saw two brilliant green eyes fixed upon him! He inhaled deeply, looked away. Peter Wellingham was scribbling notes on a pad.
With the closing of the door the apparition had vanished, and Brian tried to tell himself that he was the victim of an illusion. Some shiny object, such as a jade vase, probably stood in the cupboard. His slumbering distrust of Wellingham must not be allowed to upset his judgment. He knew Nayland Smith to be high up in the British Secret Service and a former assistant commissioner of Scotland Yard. Brian had longed to travel before settling down to serious work, but funds were short. Here was a golden opportunity.
Peter Wellingham looked up.
“I needn’t warn you to observe great discretion concerning the nature of your employment, Mr. Merrick. Sir Denis is engaged upon a dangerous assignment and has entrusted me with the job of finding an additional assistant having certain qualifications. I think you are the man he’s looking for.”
The lissom secretary glided in again, laid a check on the desk, and glided out. Brian avoided glancing at the cabinet while Peter Wellingham signed the check.
Five minutes later Brian was striding along Park Lane. Wellingham, at parting, had walked to the doorstep, wished him good luck, and shaken hands.
The slender white fingers were very cold.
As Peter Wellingham returned to the study and before Brian had reached Park Lane, a section of the Burmese cabinet swung open, showing another room beyond.
A tall, gaunt man stepped out, a man with a phenomenally high brow, crowned with a black cap not unlike a biretta; a man whose strange emerald green eyes seemed to gaze, not at Wellingham, but through his skull into his brain. He was unmistakably Chinese, unmistakably an aristocrat and standing there, wearing a plain yellow robe, he radiated force.
He crossed and seated himself behind the desk. Peter Wellingham remained standing.
“For a moment, Mr. Wellingham, I feared”—he spoke pedantically exact English, except that he stressed the sibilants—“that your peculiar personality had produced an unfortunate impression. This I should have regretted. I had Brian Merrick under close observation, and I am satisfied that he will admirably serve my purpose. But he inherits a streak of his father’s obstinacy, and at one time he considered declining the offer. That was why I called you from the room—your cue to draw his attention to the photographs.”
Peter Wellingham’s white forehead was damp. He had detected a note of menace in that strange voice.
“I should have been sorry, Doctor—”
“But too late. With your succession to the title I cannot interfere. But the facts concerning your political views, if suspected by Lord Chevradale, would have disastrous results for you.”
“I did my best, Doctor. I feel sure that he—”
“Be sure of no man. For the only man of whom you may be sure is yourself.”
“Shall I take steps to have Merrick covered during the time he remains in London?”
The brilliant eyes were raised in a penetrating glance. “Such steps have already been taken. I fly to Cairo tonight. Your instructions concerning Brian Merrick will reach you through the usual channels.”
* * *
Brian hurried along Park Lane to his hotel. Lola was lunching with him, and he knew she would be pressed for time, as usual. Lola Erskine was a designer for Michel, a famous Paris house that every season dictated to smart women the world over exactly what they must wear. Equally at home on Paris boulevard, Fifth Avenue, or Bond Street, she was a stimulating companion.
He walked into the crowded lounge, looking eagerly around, and there was Lola, waving to him. He joined her, signaling to a waiter.
“Hello, Brian!” She greeted him with that half-amused and half-affectionate smile that he found so fascinating—although sometimes he vaguely suspected her of secretly laughing at him. “Don’t order anything for me yet. Look, I have one already.”
“Have I kept you waiting?”
“Only five minutes. But I was dying for a drink. I had a desperately tough morning.”