Re-enter Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Brian started upstairs, as the tumult suggested that the police were being pushed back. On the first dark landing he nearly knocked over a water jar that stood near the head of the stairs. But the house seemed to be inhabited only by a variety of stenches. He mounted higher. The battle now was raging immediately outside the door below. Went up another flight, and found himself on the flat roof. He saw all sorts of pans, jars, and indescribable litter lying about, but nobody was up there. Brian crouched and looked over the low parapet down into the street.

  The rioters had been rounded up by the armed police. They were all young, wild-eyed, typical tinder for a rabble-rouser. They were falling back, three of them carrying a wounded comrade. Brian could see a second group of police extended in line before the mosque. The rioters were trapped.

  He sighed with relief. Slightly raising his head, he looked across the street to find out if he had been observed from there. He saw something that staggered him.

  A heavy iron gate in a high wall that he remembered having noticed as he ran into the doorway below opened on the tree-shaded courtyard of a fine old Arab house. Mushrabîyeh windows overhung the courtyard on one side, but directly facing Brian were two large barred windows. Evidently there must be another that he couldn’t see, for the room was well lighted. And in this room, pacing restlessly about, he saw a tall, lean man who smoked a pipe, and who seemed, to be talking angrily to someone else who wasn’t visible from Brian’s viewpoint.

  The shouts below had merged into sullen murmurs as the young rowdies were taken in charge by the police and marched off. Brian scarcely noticed them now. He was watching. And at last he was sure.

  The man in the barred room was Nayland Smith.

  * * *

  Dr. Fu Manchu sat on a divan in the saloon of the old house near the Mosque of El Ashraf. On an ivory and mother-of-pearl coffee table a long-stemmed pipe with a tiny jade bowl lay beside the other equipment of an opium smoker. Before him a girl was kneeling on a rug, her long, lustrous amber eyes raised anxiously to the wonderful but evil face. She wore native dress, but no longer concealed her features with a veil.

  “It was the disturbance made by the students from El Azhar, Master. I lost sight of him and could not get through.”

  “I heard the young fools. Shouting phrases coined by aliens who are planning their destruction. Such half-molded brains are fertile soil for the seeds of violence. All the same, you have failed me. The point at which he disappeared is one dangerously near us.”

  “Master, I—”

  “You shall have one more opportunity. Change into European dress. Go to Brian Merrick’s hotel and make his acquaintance. He will be lonely. Attach yourself to him.”

  He said no more, but watched her go out, then stood up slowly and walked along the saloon to a door, opened it, and went into another lofty room furnished as a studio.

  On a wooden pedestal was a life-sized head of a man modeled in clay. A number of sketches and photographs of the same subject were pinned to the walls. It would appear that the sculptor had worked from these, and not from the living model. It was a fine, virile portrait of a masterful character.

  Dr. Fu Manchu appeared to be particularly interested in the shape of the molded nose. He surveyed it from every side, the all-seeing gaze of green eyes absorbed in the finer lines of the nostrils, the straight bridge. He compared the clay model with the photographs, and at last seemed to be satisfied.

  He passed on. He went down a short stair and entered a fully equipped surgery filled with a nauseating odor of anaesthetics. A patient lay on an operating table, two surgeons bending over him. They sprang upright as Fu Manchu appeared. He ignored them, stooped, studied the face of the man who lay there, and then turned blazing eyes upon the surgeons, one of whom was Matsukata.

  “Who operated?” he demanded.

  The taller surgeon turned a white, nervous face to Dr. Fu Manchu.

  “I operated, Master.” He spoke in French.

  “I thought better of Paris surgery,” Fu Manchu told him, speaking the same language sibilantly. “There will be a scar!”

  “I assure you—”

  ‘There will be a scar—and there is no time to rectify the error. The consequences of this may be grave for me—and also for you…”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The moment the narrow street was cleared of police and rioters, Brian crept downstairs unobserved, looked cautiously left and right, and then started out to try to retrace his route. At the courtyard gate of the old house in which he had seen Nayland Smith he hesitated for a moment, then hurried on. He considered it a stroke of luck that the inhabitants of the ramshackle tenement in which he had sheltered were apparently otherwise engaged.

  More by luck than by good navigation he presently found himself once more in the street leading to the Khan Khalil. He looked around for a stray cab, for he was impatient to solve the mystery of Sir Denis’ presence in Cairo when Mr. Ahmed said he had not yet arrived, and in a house in the heart of the native quarter. What in the name of sanity did it mean?

  He could not very well be wrong about the identity of the man in the room with barred windows. Nayland Smith’s personality was unmistakable, although Brian hadn’t seen him for two years. He had recognized some of his curious mannerisms: the way he held his briar pipe clenched between his teeth; a trick of pulling at the lobe of his ear as he talked.

  Getting back at last, hot, tired, and dusty, he paused in the lobby of the hotel to talk to the all-knowing hall porter. He had consulted him on many matters and tipped him liberally. He described his unpleasant experience with the rioters.

  The uniformed Egyptian smiled. “You should take a good dragoman with you, sir. He would see to it that you avoided such things!”

  “Very likely,” Brian agreed. “Maybe I’m too independent. But perhaps you can tell me something. I got lost, and wandered on into another quarter, ‘way beyond the Khân Khalîl. It wasn’t far from a city gate, and there was mosque.”

  “There are many.”

  “It was near a street where they sold cotton goods and pottery and that sort of thing.”

  “Ah, that would be the Ghurîyeh.”

  “Well, in a narrow street leading into what you call the Ghurîyeh there’s a fine old mansion with a high wall around it. Most unlikely spot for such a house. There’s a courtyard, and—”

  “I know what you have seen, sir. It is the house of the Sherîf Mohammed Ibn el-Ashraf.”

  “And who is he?”

  “A very holy man, sir. A descendant of the Prophet, and the greatest physician in Cairo. Or he was; he is retired from practice now.”

  Brian was more mystified than ever. What possible connection could there be between Sir Denis and the Sherîf Mohammed?

  He called Mr. Ahmad’s number, but failed to get a reply.

  What to do next was the problem. But the more he thought about it, the more completely it baffled him.

  He went into the cocktail bar fairly early in the evening, and saw that he had it to himself. He had made several further attempts to call Mr. Ahmad, but could get no reply. He ordered Scotch on the rocks and sat there sipping his drink and feeling very puzzled and very lonely.

  It was a perfect night, a half-moon sailing in a jeweled sky, and he would have liked to go somewhere, do something; get away from himself.

  He smoked two cigarettes and then ordered another drink. He had made up his mind to take it out onto the terrace. When the bartender served it, Brian picked up the glass, slipped down from the high stool, and turned to go.

  How it happened he could never quite make out. He had heard no sound, had no idea anybody was there. But a girl wearing a strapless gown that displayed her creamy arms and shoulders had apparently been standing just behind him. She raised her hand too late. He had spilled most of the whisky and some of the ice all over her.

  She stifled a squeal. Reproachful eyes were raised to his. Brian grew hot all over. He called to the bartender: “Quick! A nap
kin or something!”

  A napkin was produced. The girl took it from his hand, looking aside, and began to dab at her dress and her bare shoulders.

  “What can I say?” he fumbled. “Of course I shall replace your dress, which I’m afraid is ruined. But there’s no excuse for my clumsiness.”

  She glanced at him. “Oh, I doubt that the dress is ruined.” She had a quaint, fascinating accent. “And truly I think I was to blame. I was looking for someone, and how could you know I was right behind you?”

  “I should have looked. It was entirely my fault. You must let me drive you to wherever you live, so you can change.” He detected the dawning of a smile stealing across her face. “I suppose you must have a dinner date, but please allow me to see you tomorrow and fix everything up for a new dress.”

  “I live in this hotel. I arrived only today. I can go to my room and change my dress. It will clean quite well. But it is very sweet of you to offer to buy another.”

  “That isn’t an offer. It’s a promise!”

  She really smiled now; and Brian realized with a sort of shock that she was a very pretty girl indeed.

  “Perhaps I won’t hold you to it.” She spoke softly. “It would not be fair.”

  “We’ll leave that for the moment. Maybe, when you’re changed, you’ll find time to have a cocktail with me before you go?”’

  “Thank you. I am going nowhere. I meant to dine here in the hotel.”

  “Then you’ll dine with me?”

  “Yes—if you really want it so.”

  When she had gone, Brian had his glass refilled.

  “Do you know that lady’s name?” he asked the barman.

  “No, sir. I never see her before.” He displayed perfect white teeth. “She is a beautiful young lady.”

  Brian sipped his whisky, lighted another cigarette. He was trying to figure out why her wonderful eyes seemed to awaken a memory.

  She returned much sooner than he had expected. She wore now a green dress that sheathed her lithe figure to the hips like a second skin.

  They dined on the terrace, overlooking the Nile. The girl said her name was Zoe Montero, that her family lived in Spanish Morocco. She was on a visit to an aunt and uncle who had a business in Luxor, but who had arranged to meet her in Cairo. She had just received a message saying that her aunt had been taken ill and so they were detained.

  “I shall know tomorrow if they can come or if they want me to go up to Luxor,” she told Brian.

  They danced in the moonlight, and the dark beauty of his graceful partner stirred Brian’s pulses dangerously. He had decided that she was partly of Arab blood. Zoe’s voice, her quaint accent, her natural gaiety fascinated him. Sometimes when he looked into her eyes, that dormant memory awoke. He tried to grab it—and it was gone.

  But he enjoyed the evening. There was no word from Lola.

  It was quite early next morning when Mr. Ahmad called and found Brian having a smoke on the terrace.

  “I have good news,” he announced. “Sir Denis expects to reach Cairo late this afternoon.”

  Mr. Ahmad turned at that moment to bow to a passing acquaintance, or he could hardly have failed to note Brian’s change of expression. All his suspicions had been justified. He had become enmeshed in a cunning plot, a most mysterious plot. If Lola had any part in it he couldn’t be sure. But Peter Wellingham was one of the conspirators, and Mr. Ahmad was another. He was no diplomat and he spoke impetuously:

  “But I saw Sir Denis right here in Cairo yesterday!”

  The effect of those few words upon Mr. Ahmad was miraculous. He changed color alarmingly, clutched at the edge of the table, and stared like a man who has been struck a body blow.

  “You saw him… in Cairo.”

  Words failed Mr. Ahmad, and Brian could have kicked himself; he knew he had been a fool. He had had the game in his hands and had thrown his chance away. If, as he now had fresh reason to believe, Wellingham and Ahmad were conspiring against Nayland Smith, were no more than spies of the enemy (whoever the enemy might be), he could perhaps have exposed their game by the use of a little tact.

  Brian wondered if the situation could yet be saved. He could try.

  “Yes.” He spoke easily. “When I was coming back here last night with a friend, our taxi passed a smart English sports car. I think it was a Jaguar. There were two men in it, and one of them was Sir Denis.”

  Mr. Ahmad moistened his lips with his tongue. “Where was this?”

  “I asked the driver, that, as a matter of fact, and he told me we had just passed the British Consulate.”

  “The British Consulate,” Mr. Ahmad echoed mechanically, his expression ghastly. “You alarm me, Mr. Merrick. I must make immediate inquiries. Sir Denis’ mission is a vital and dangerous one. He has powerful enemies. It is possible that he has returned secretly for some reason of his own.”

  He left soon afterward, a man badly confused, and Brian settled down to try to puzzle out the truth. Mr. Ahmad had behaved like a crook unmasked, but on the other hand, it was possible that there might be a different explanation.

  If Ahmad was on the level, he had done the wrong thing.

  * * *

  Dr. Fu Manchu was writing at a large desk of Arab manufacture, most cunningly inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and semiprecious stones. It was loaded with books, racks of test tubes, manuscripts, and certain queer objects not easy to define. Peko, the tiny marmoset, a companion of Fu Manchu’s travels, crouched on the Doctor’s shoulder, beady eyes moving restlessly.

  There was a faint buzzing. A voice spoke.

  “Abdul Ahmad is here.”

  “I will see him.”

  Dr. Fu Manchu continued to make notes in small, neat characters, in the margin of a bulky faded volume until a door opened and Mr. Ahmad came in. He bowed obsequiously, then stood still. Fu Manchu glanced up.

  “Yes? You wish to report something?”

  “Excellency,” Ahmad stammered, “it is that Brian Merrick claims to have seen Nayland Smith last night!”

  Dr. Fu Manchu closed the large volume and fixed a glance upon Mr. Ahmad that seemed to freeze him to the floor.

  “Tell me what he said, exactly—exactly—and also what you said.”

  Mr. Ahmad evidently had a phenomenal memory, for he repeated the conversation practically, word for word under the barely endurable gaze of those strange green eyes.

  Dr. Fu Manchu looked down at the emerald signet ring he wore and there was silence. The marmoset broke this silence by uttering one of his whistling cries and leaping to the top of a tall cabinet behind the Chinese doctor, where he sat chattering wickedly at Mr. Ahmad. Fu Manchu spoke.

  “Merrick is lying for some reason of his own. There has been bungling. He suspects something. He did not see Nayland Smith where he claims to have seen him. But he may have seen him elsewhere. This we must learn. Vast issues are at stake. Order Zobeida to report to me here immediately.”

  Mr. Ahmad went out, and shortly afterwards Zobeida came in. Brian would have recognized Zobeida as Zoe Montero.

  * * *

  The memory that had been dodging Brian like a will-o’-the-wisp, came out into the open that evening. He was waiting on the hotel terrace for Zoe. He stood up when he saw her coming. Dusk had fallen and she moved gracefully through shadows, into the light of the moon, and out again. Once, when she was quite near, in shadow, a stray moonbeam touched her briefly, lighting up her eyes.

  And he knew where he had seen those beautiful eyes before. She had been in the shop of old Achmed es-Salah, wearing native dress and veiling her face. She had followed him when he left.

  He was entangled in an invisible web. Every move he made was covered. Someone who had known he was going to Achmed’s shop had planted the girl there. She was infernally clever, too. That trick in the cocktail bar had been done beautifully.

  And he could no longer doubt that Lola also was in the plot.

  Zoe smiled and gave him both her hands. She looked very l
ovely tonight.

  “If I kept you waiting I am sorry, Brian. But an old friend of my father’s, an Englishman, heard I am in Cairo and called me. He talked for so long. I am thirsty with talking. Please get me a big, cool drink.”

  Brian clapped his hands for a waiter and gave the order. “Does this old friend of yours live here in Cairo?” he ventured cautiously.

  “Oh, no. He came only yesterday, and from my uncle in Luxor he found out I am here. He is very quick to find things out. He was for many years with the English police.”

  “Is that right? I suppose he’s here on some investigation?”’

  Zoe shook her head. A waiter brought two tall glasses.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But I know from my father that Sir Denis now belongs to the British Secret Service.”

  She took a long drink and sighed contentedly. Brian tried to tell himself that her remark hadn’t stupefied him. “What’s the rest of his name?”

  “Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Brian breathed, and met the regard of wide-open amber eyes.

  “What surprises you, Brian?”

  “Just that I happen to know him, too.”

  Zoe smiled delightedly. “That is wonderful! And you didn’t know he was here?”

  “Well”—he spoke very slowly—“maybe he doesn’t know I’m here.”

  He was doing some hard thinking. In that first starting moment or revelation, when he became suddenly convinced that Zoe and the girl in the bazaar were one and the same, which seemed to reveal this bewitching little tramp as an impostor, a spy set to watch him, he had decided what he would do. But this new development threw the whole plan out of gear.

  Could he possibly have been wrong all along? Prejudiced by his dislike for Peter Wellingham, he might have jumped to a false conclusion that the girl he had seen with him in Hyde Park was Lola, for he had never actually caught even a glimpse of her face. Still hag-ridden by his suspicions, he might also have assumed wrongly that Zoe and the veiled lady of the bazaar were identical, for no better reason than that both had amber eyes. Amber eyes were not uncommon in the East.