The Drums of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “The mob killed him, you say? Is that certain?”

  He listened again, nodding grimly. And at last:

  “We knew he had had the notices,” he said in a dull voice, “but he was even more obstinate than Adlon. In fact I am disposed to believe, Egerton, that he distrusted me. You know I was refused admission to the country?”

  I heard the voice of the unseen Egerton talking for a while longer, and then:

  “You may count upon me. I will communicate at once,” said Smith and hung up the receiver.

  He turned, and his expression warned me: Dr. Fu-Manchu had scored again.

  “Yes,” he nodded, “the work of the Si-Fan carries on.”

  “What has happened, Smith?”

  “Something even more spectacular,” he replied bitterly, “than the published facts relating to Rudolf Adlon. The newspapers and news bulletins will have it tonight. All the world must know, for this is something which cannot be suppressed, nor edited. Standing on a black-draped balcony before no less than two hundred thousand people, General Diesler was delivering a funeral oration over the draped shell which does not contain the body of Rudolf Adlon. He said, so Egerton informs me: ‘We have all suffered an irreparable loss. There is a fiendish enemy, by you unsuspected, an enemy in our very midst…’ Those, roughly, were his words…

  “Well, what happened?”

  “They were his last words, Kerrigan.”

  “What!”

  “He stopped, clutched at his breast and fell. The sound of a distant, a very distant report, was heard. He had been shot through the heart.”

  “But, Smith, on such an occasion every place within range would have been emptied, held by the police or the military!”

  “Every place within range—I agree, Kerrigan—that is, within ordinary range. This shot was fired from the top of the cathedral spire—thirty-five hundred yards away!”

  “I don’t understand!”

  “A body of police who happened to be marching through the cathedral close by heard the report from the top of the steeple. They rushed in and caught a man who was hurrying down those hundreds of steps. It was none other than Baron Trenck, the millionaire publisher, ruined and exiled by Adlon, but acknowleged to be one of the three finest big-game shots in Europe!”

  “But, Smith—”

  “The rifle which he carried was fitted with telescopic sights… and a Jasper vacuum charger!”

  “Good God!”

  “You see, the doctor has already made use of that valuable invention, thanks to the work of his daughter, Korêani! In spite of the efforts of the police who endeavoured to escort the baron under arrest, fanatical Adlonites”—he paused for a moment—“I gather that he was practically torn to pieces.”

  * * *

  “I am now going to make a curious request, Kerrigan.”

  “What is it?”

  Let me confess that I had not yet recovered from the shock of that dreadful news.

  “I am going to ask you to look out of the window while I select a hiding place somewhere in your rooms for this portfolio!”

  “A hiding place?”

  “Let me explain. It was to recover this portfolio which I was taking to Scotland Yard that that mad attack was made upon me in Sloane Street. A flying squad car will be here in a few minutes—I authorised the constable to phone for one—in which I propose to leave.”

  “And I to come with you.”

  “Not at all!”

  “What!”

  “Another attempt, although probably not of the same character, is to be expected. I shall be well guarded. Your presence could not save me. But this time the attempt might succeed. Therefore, I am going to hide this valuable thing in your rooms.”

  “Why hide it?”

  “Because if you knew where to find it, Fu-Manchu might discover a means of forcing you to tell him!”

  “But why leave it here at all?”

  “For a very good reason. Be so kind as to do as I ask, Kerrigan.”

  I stared out of the window, thinking into what a mad maze my footsteps had blundered since that first evening when Nayland Smith had rung my bell. I could hear him walking about in an adjoining room, and then he returned. I saw a police car pull up at the door. The bell rang.

  “I shall be in good hands until I see you again,” snapped Smith. “Later I will communicate when I have made arrangements for the safe transfer of the portfolio to a spot where I propose to place its contents before a committee which I must assemble for the purpose.”

  “But what is it, Smith?”

  “Forgive me, Kerrigan, but I don’t want to tell you. You will know in good time. One thing only I ask—and you will serve me best by doing exactly as I direct. Don’t leave your flat tonight until you hear from me, and distrust visitors as I distrust every inch of my route from here to Scotland Yard!”

  When he was gone (and I went down to the front door to satisfy myself that the car really belonged to the flying squad) I sat at my desk for some time endeavouring to get my notes in order, to transfer to paper something of the recent amazing developments in this campaign of the Si-Fan against dictatorship. It was a story hard to believe, harder to tell; yet one that some day must be told, and one well worth the telling.

  A phone call interrupted me. It was from Scotland Yard, and I knew the speaker: Chief Inspector Leighton of the special branch. News of Gallaho. He had escaped with cuts and contusions. The doctors despaired of the life of the driver; and among other casualties great and small occasioned by the apparently insane behaviour of the truckman, was that of this person himself. His neck had been broken in the collision.

  “He was some kind of Asiatic,” said Inspector Leighton. “Sir Denis may be able to recognise him. The firm to whom the lorry belonged know nothing of the matter…”

  I was still thinking over his words when again my phone rang. I took up the receiver.

  “Hello!”

  “Yes,” said a voice, “is that Bart Kerrigan?”

  The speaker was Ardatha!

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  MY DOORBELL RINGS

  By dint of a mighty effort I replied calmly:

  “Yes, Ardatha. How did you find my number? It isn’t in the book.”

  “You should know now”—how I loved her quaint accent—“that private numbers mean nothing to the people I belong to.”

  There was a moment of almost timorous hesitancy.

  “I hate to hear you say that, Ardatha. I am desperately unhappy about you. Thank God you called me! Why did you call me?”

  “Because I had to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I cannot possibly speak to you long from here. I must see you tonight. This is urgent!”

  I continued the effort to control my voice, to bid my thumping heart behave normally.

  “Yes, Ardatha, you must know I am longing to see you. But—”

  “But what?”

  “I cannot go out tonight.”

  “I do not ask you to go out tonight. I will come to you.”

  “Oh, my dear, it’s wonderful! But every time you take such risks for my sake—”

  “This is a risk I must take, or there will be no you, no Nayland Smith!”

  “When shall I expect you?”

  “In five minutes. But, listen. I know the house where you live. You cannot believe how well I know it! Fasten open the catch of the front door, so that I do not have to wait out in the street. I will come up and ring your bell. Please do not look out of the window or do anything to show that you expect anyone. Will you promise?”

  “Of course.”

  Silence.

  I hung up the receiver as a man in a daze. Ardatha was real after all. Nayland Smith was wiser than I, for always he had acted as her counsel when in my despair I had condemned her as a Delilah.

  Then, as if to banish the wild happiness with which my spirit was intoxicated, came a logical thought…

  That mysterious portfolio—so val
uable that Smith had been afraid to take it with him even in a flying squad car! It was here… The Si-Fan knew. Ardatha was coming to find it!

  My hand on the door, I paused, chilled, doubting, questioning.

  Were my instincts betraying me? I could not recall that I had ever proved myself easily glamoured by that which was worthless. If the soul of Ardatha be not a brave and a splendid soul but a hollow, mocking thing, I told myself, then the years of my maturity have been wasted. I am indeed no philosopher.

  In any event, now was the acid test. For if she came with a hidden purpose I should learn it. And whatever the wrench—it would be the finish.

  For the rest I had nothing to fear unless I were overpowered and the flat ransacked. There was no information which I could give, even under torture, for I did not know where Nayland Smith had concealed the portfolio.

  I went downstairs. The lights were on in the little glass arcade which led to the porch. I opened the door and fixed the catch so that a push from outside would give access; then, in that frame of mind which every man in such circumstances has shown, I returned to my flat.

  The interval, though short, seemed interminable…

  My doorbell rang. I walked from the study along the short passage. I was trying to frame words with which I should greet Ardatha, trying to school myself to control hot impulses, and yet not to seem too cold.

  I opened the door… and there on the landing, wearing a French cape and a black soft-brimmed hat, stood Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “ALWAYS I AM JUST”

  When I say that horror, disillusionment, abject misery robbed me of speech, movement, almost of thought, I do not exaggerate the facts. My beliefs, my philosophy, my world, crumbled around me.

  “Mr Kerrigan”—my dreadful visitor spoke softly—“do not hesitate to accept any order I may give.”

  His right elbow rested upon his hip, his long yellow fingers held an object which resembled a silver fountain pen. I wrenched my glance away from those baleful eyes and stared at this thing.

  “Death in the form of disintegration I hold in my hand,” he continued. “Step back. I will follow you.”

  The little silver tube he pointed in my direction. I walked slowly along to the study. I heard Dr. Fu-Manchu close the front door and follow me in. I stood in front of the table, and turning, faced him. I avoided his eyes, but watched the long silver object which he held in his hand.

  I despised myself completely. This man—I judged him to be not less than seventy years of age—held no weapon other than a small tube, yet had me cowed. I was afraid to attack him, afraid to defend myself—for behind this thing which he held I saw all the deadly armament of his genius.

  But my weakness of spirit was not due entirely to cowardice, to fear of the dreadful Chinese doctor. It was due in great part to sudden recognition of the frightful duplicity of Ardatha! She, she whom I longed to worship, she had tricked me into opening my door to this awful being!

  “Do not misjudge Ardatha.”

  Those words had something of the effect of a flash of lightning. In the first place, they answered my unspoken thought (which alone was terrifying), and in the second place, they brought hope to a mind filled with black despair.

  ‘Tonight,” that strange impressive voice continued, “Ardatha lives, or Ardatha dies. One of my purposes is to be present at your interview, for I know that this interview is to take place.”

  Love of a woman goes deep in a man as I learnt at that moment; for, clutching this slender thread of promise—a thread strengthened by Nayland Smith’s assurance that Dr. Fu-Manchu never lied—I found a new strength and a new courage. I raised my eyes.

  “Make no fatal mistake, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said coldly, precisely. “You are weighing your weight against mine, youth against age. But consider this device which I hold in my hand. From a thing which once demanded heavy cables and arc lamps, it is now, as you see”—always pointing in my direction—“a small tube. I dislike that which is cumbersome. The apparatus with which I project those visible and audible images of which you have had experience can be contained in a suitcase. There are no masts, no busy engine rooms, no dynamos.”

  I watched him, but did not move.

  “This is Ericksen’s Ray, in its infancy at the so-called death of its inventor, Doctor Sven Ericksen—rather before your time, I think—but now, perfected. Allow me to demonstrate its powers.”

  He pointed the thing, which I now decided resembled a hypodermic syringe, towards a vase which Mrs Merton had filled that morning with flowers.

  “Do you value that vase, Mr Kerrigan?”

  “Not particularly. Why?”

  “Because I propose to use it as a demonstration. Watch.”

  He appeared to press a button at the end of the silver tube. There was no sound, no light, but where the vase of flowers had been there appeared a momentary cloud, a patch of darkness. I became aware of an acrid smell…

  Vase and flowers had disappeared!

  “Ericksen is a genius. You will observe that I say ‘is.’ For although dead to the world, he lives—to work for me. You will realise now why I said that I held death in my hands. Ardatha is coming to see you. She loves you: and when any of my women becomes thus infatuated with one who does not belong to me, I deal with her as I see fit. If she has betrayed me she shall die… Stand still! If she merely loves, which is fallible but human, I may spare her. I am come in person, Mr Kerrigan, not for this purpose alone, but for that of recovering from you the letter of instruction signed by every member of the Council of Seven, which Sir Denis Nayland Smith—I have always recognised his qualities—secured this afternoon from a house in Surrey.”

  I did not speak; I continued to watch the tube.

  “Love so transforms a woman that even my powers of plumbing human nature may be defeated. I am uncertain how low Ardatha has fallen in disloyalty to the Si-Fan where you have been concerned. I shall learn this tonight. But first, where is the document?”

  I glanced into the brilliant green eyes and quickly glanced aside.

  “I don’t know.”

  He was silent. That deadly tube remained pointed directly at my breast.

  “No. I recognise the truth. He brought it here but left without it. He has concealed it. He was afraid that my agents would intercept him on the way. He was afraid of you. No matter. Answer me. He left it here?”

  I stared dazedly at the tube. The hand of Dr. Fu-Manchu might have been carved of ivory: it was motionless.

  “Look at me—answer!”

  I raised my eyes. Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke softly:

  “He left it. I thought so. I shall find it.”

  My doorbell rang.

  “This is Ardatha.” The voice became guttural, a voice of doom. “You have a fine mushrabîyeh screen here, Mr Kerrigan, which I believe you brought from Arabia when you went there on behalf of your newspaper last autumn. I shall stand behind this screen, and you will admit Ardatha. She has been followed; she is covered. Any attempt to leave the building would be futile. Do not dare to warn her of my presence. Bring her into this room and let her say what she has come to say. I shall be listening. Upon her words rest life or death. Always I am just.”

  Fists clenched, bathed in clammy perspiration, I turned and walked to the door.

  “No word, no hint of warning—or I shall not spare you!”

  I opened the door. Ardatha stood on the landing.

  “My dear!” I exclaimed.

  God knows how I looked, how wild my eyes must have been, but she crept into my extended arms as into a haven.

  “Darling! I cannot bear it any longer! I had to come to save you!”

  I thought that our embrace would never end, except in death.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  THE MUSHRABÎYEH SCREEN

  Ardatha, perhaps with the very next word which she uttered, was about to betray herself to the master of the Si-Fan!

  My inclination was to take her lip an
d race downstairs to the street. But Fu-Manchu’s servants were watching; he had said so, and he never lied. On the other hand, few human brains could hold a secret long from those blazing green eyes. If I tried to warn her, if I failed to return, I was convinced deep within me that it would be the end of us. I thought of that gleaming tube like a hypodermic syringe of which Dr. Fu-Manchu had said:

  “I hold death in my hand.”

  No, I must return to the study, must allow Ardatha to say what she was there to say—and abide by the consequences.

  Her manner was strangely disturbed: I had felt her trembling during those bitter-sweet moments when I had held her in my arms. Remembering her composure on the occasion of that secret visit in Venice, I knew that tonight marked some crisis in her affairs—in mine—perhaps in the history of the world.

  I led her towards the study. At the doorway she looked up at me. I tried to tell her silently with my eyes (but knew how hopelessly I failed) that behind the mushrabîyeh screen Dr. Fu-Manchu was hidden.

  “Sit down, dear, and let me get you a drink.”

  I forced myself to speak casually, but:

  “No, no, please don’t go!” she said. “I want nothing. I had to see you, but I have only a few moments in which to tell I you—oh, so many things! Please listen.” The amethyst eyes were wide open as she raised them to me. “Every second is of value. Just stay where you are and listen!”

  Looking down at her, I stood there. She wore a very simple frock and her adorable creamy arms were bare. The red gleam of her windblown hair filled me with an insane longing to plunge my fingers in its living waves. I watched her. I tried to tell her…

  “Although the affair of Venice was successful in its main purpose,” she went on swiftly, “it failed in some other ways. High officials of the French police know that James Brownlow Wilton was stolen away from the Blue Train, that it was not James Brownlow Wilton who died on the yacht. Sir Denis—! yes?—he knows all about it too. And Baron Trenck, who silenced General Diesler, he was not given safe protection… All these things are charged against the president.”