The Drums of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  * * *

  We plodded on our way, and I knew that the thermometer was rising at least two degrees an hour. Presently we found ourselves on the narrow path which we had seen from above, and which hugged the walls of the granite cliff quarried out in some past time, and skirted the edge of a treacherous bog which, under that tropical sun, exhaled a visible mist.

  “Phew!” said Nayland Smith, taking off his hat and mopping his forehead. “By heavens! We might be in Burma.”

  The artificial cliff faced due south, and literally danced with the heat. Around its base clustered rank vegetation. The place was alive with flies and there were cavern-like, unwholesome hollows in the rock. I suppose these conditions had been created by weeks of unprecedented heat, but the entire atmosphere of the place was inherently unwholesome, so that I was glad to find myself upon the open moor and headed for the stone huts.

  At the first of these, Smith paused, curiously.

  “Have you ever realized, Petrie,” he said, “how utterly beyond the power of our imagination it is to conjure up the lives of the men and women who lived in these places? How did they live? What were their aims? Who were their enemies? What shared the moor with them in those days?”

  He crossed the dense black shadow patch of the opening and entered that weird prehistoric home. I was about to follow, when:

  “Petrie!” came hoarsely—“Petrie!”

  I sprang forward. Smith grasped my arm for a second with a hand that quivered… then, bending down, he pointed.

  There, where blazing sunlight poured over the ruined walls onto the floor, lay the body of Jack—Isola Marsburg’s dog!

  * * *

  I shall never forget the expression on Smith’s drawn face, although I despair of describing it, when presently he arose from his knees. His jaws were tightly clenched and his eyes danced in a sort of mad irritation.

  “Do you see it, Petrie? Do you see it?”

  He was pointing to the poor brute’s muzzle, as it lay against the stone floor in a pool of foamy slaver. Mixed up with this, and visible also in patches upon the animal’s head, was a quantity of some bright purple powder.

  I examined the victim closely, gingerly touching the strange powder with my finger and scrutinizing it with interest.

  “I shouldn’t taste it, Petrie,” said Smith grimly.

  “I don’t intend to,” I assured him. “The poor brute has been poisoned with this, whatever it is… But, hello! What have we here?”

  I had noticed a mark on the neck of the dog, visible through the sweat-clotted hair. I parted the hair carefully with my fingers, bending low over the body.

  “Purple marks,” I reported, “dullish, not unlike bruises.”

  “What’s that?” Smith almost shouted. I turned and looked at him. His eyes were blazing, now; his interest was intense. He got to his knees beside me.

  “I have found three,” I went on, “here and here—look! And there’s a fourth!”

  “And you will find a fifth,” he said slowly, “you will find a fifth…”

  I looked—and it was true!

  “It’s the Mark of the Monkey!” he whispered.

  “Smith!” I said sharply, and grasped his arm. “If you know how this dog died, for heaven’s sake tell me, because I have never seen a similar condition in all my experience.”

  “I don’t suppose you have, Petrie,” he returned, and looked at me in a weary way. “Does the arrangement of the marks suggest anything to you?”

  “Certainly! They resemble those which would be made by the grasp of a very small hand…”

  “Such as the hand of a monkey?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That is why this thing is called the Mark of the Monkey.”

  “But what is it?”

  Nayland Smith shook his head.

  “It is known in Nepal as the Hanuman Death, and is reputed to come to those who excite the anger of the Sacred Monkeys.”

  “But this purple froth?”

  “I cannot account for that. Hitherto I have seen only one victim of the Hanuman Death or the Mark of the Monkey, as it is known in Burma. Although the man had evidently died in convulsions, the same purple stuff was present. But here, in England, what the devil does it mean, Petrie? You are sure it’s poison?”

  “I could swear to it. And this,” I brushed the purple dust from my finger, “is the medium used.”

  * * *

  Nayland Smith began to examine the hut with close attention.

  “The dog didn’t find it here,” he said. “He ran in from somewhere else. Look at the trail of saliva.”

  I had already noted it, and merely nodded. “He was poisoned, therefore, somewhere else, but presumably somewhere not far away.”

  I agreed.

  “Therefore, the outstanding fact is this: that the dog died from some unknown poison, yesterday evening, at approximately four miles from his temporary home.” Smith tugged at his ear and stared at me almost fiercely. “What is the curious point that occurs to you?”

  “That anyone,” I replied immediately, “who desired to poison the dog should take the animal four miles to do it.”

  “Right!” said Smith. “Any explanation?”

  “An obvious one,” I replied. “That the body should not be found.”

  Nayland Smith stepped out of the hut and stood looking about him; then:

  “I object to ‘obvious,’” he returned. “The widest and deepest mire on Dartmoor lies three miles nearer to the cottage and is more accessible in every way.” He looked at me. “Any other suggestions?”

  “No!” I confessed, blankly. Your objection—and now others occur to me—leaves me defeated. So does the purpose of such a cruel, useless outrage”

  “That’s my difficulty,” Smith snapped. “I think I can get over the other.”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter now, and I may be wrong, but the significance of this lies not in how it was accomplished, but why it was undertaken. The minor point we must endeavor to clear up first. Work back, Petrie,” he directed, “towards the quarry. I’ll take the other route towards the mine.”

  “But what am I looking for?”

  “Purple powder,” he jerked. “Any trace of it, anywhere.”

  I set off. For fifteen or twenty minutes I searched in vain. Presently, hot and weary, turning and looking back, I saw Nayland Smith coming to rejoin me.

  “Any luck?” I challenged.

  He shook his head savagely.

  “What now?”

  “Back to the quarry, as fast as we can get there—I’ll think on the way.”

  We retraced the path by which we had descended, exchanging never a word until we had reached that point on the top of the quarry from which we had had our first glimpse of the stone huts. Here we paused, for a moment… and suddenly Smith’s muscular grip dug viciously into my arm. It was needless for him to speak.

  Silhouetted against the blazing sun, so that details were indistinguishable, a figure was moving over the slope below!

  Even as I saw him he disappeared in the direction of the huts. Smith pulled me back from the crest, and:

  “Quick!” he said. “I only hope we weren’t seen!”

  He began to race down the slope at a tremendous pace, and, at last, exhaustedly:

  “Where on earth are you going?” I demanded.

  “We must know who that was!” he returned. “It may be unimportant or it may mean everything. I only wish there were a shorter route. And, by Jove! I believe there is. Look!”

  He pulled up suddenly, pointing.

  A mere goat track it showed, steep and boulder-strewn, but clearly leading in the direction of the prehistoric settlement. And so, perilously, we descended by it and presently approached, from the rear, the hut in which we had discovered the dog.

  By mutual instinct we pulled up, and stood still, listening. There was no sound. Then, side by side we circled around the stone building and peered in…

&nbs
p; The body of the dog had disappeared!

  * * *

  We had lunched at the Quarry Inn. My companion was strangely taciturn.

  “This thing is worrying you, Smith,” I said. “And you didn’t come here to worry. After all, the dog may have found some poisonous thing out there on the moor…”

  “He did!” Smith snapped viciously. “But he was led to it. Whoever threw his body into the mire—for that is no doubt where it went—is hiding his tracks.” Suddenly, he stood up.

  “What now?” said I.

  “Over to the cottage.”

  * * *

  It was about two o’clock, daylight-saving time, when we reached the cottage occupied by the Marsburgs. Mrs. Ugglestone admitted us.

  To Smith’s first question—which I admit astonished me: “Any news of the dog?”—Mrs. Ugglestone replied that Miss Marsburg, herself, Mr. Marsburg and Mr. Pine, assisted by men from the local moor farm, had searched all the morning, but nothing had resulted. Miss Marsburg and Mr. Pine had driven into Exeter about twelve o’clock, as the young lady had a lunch appointment there. Mr. Pine was staying the night in Exeter, Miss Marsburg was coming back to dinner. Mr. Marsburg had lunched at home and had gone out only twenty minutes before with his cases and apparatus as usual.

  Nayland Smith shrugged his shoulders, thanked the old lady, and we walked down the short path, through the gate and away from the cottage.

  He was silent again for a long time.

  “You seem disappointed, Smith,” I said.

  He glanced at me sharply; and:

  “Not disappointed, Petrie,” he said, “but puzzled—very badly puzzled. I’m going to lock myself in my room, with a pint of our host’s excellent beer, my pouch and pipe—and think.”

  “You didn’t come here to think,” I reminded him.

  “Nevertheless, that’s what I’m going to do…”

  And so, knowing that no words of mine could move him from this resolution, I found myself with the afternoon on my hands. I wandered about rather aimlessly, surveying the moor from many points and hoping for a glimpse of that shining helmet which rendered the movements of Henry Marsburg conspicuous for miles.

  But I never had a glimpse of him. Then, about half past six, ascending the hillside towards the Quarry Inn, I saw a black and red roadster speeding along the road below. The bare arms and bright blue hat of the driver told me that it was Isola Marsburg returning to dinner at the cottage.

  Back in the Inn, I found Smith. We dined alone in the little parlor, having an excellent meal. Smith and I sat outside the Inn afterward, smoking our pipes. My reflections presently led me in an obvious direction, and:

  “This Mark of the Monkey, Smith,” I said abruptly. “Was this strange form of death confined to the natives?”

  “Yes,” he murmured disinterestedly, obviously pursuing another train of thought—“to the natives.”

  * * *

  Then, as though galvanized, he sprang to his feet and:

  “My God!” he cried, “My God! Now I know!”

  “What do you know?” I asked blankly, rising.

  “I know that there was one victim of the Mark of the Monkey who was not a native! And I know tonight that a human life is at stake.”

  “Whose life?”

  He became silent, gripping my shoulders hard… And listening, I heard it—the sound of rapid footsteps, growing ever nearer. Then I thought I detected short, sobbing cries.”

  Nayland Smith leaned upon me so heavily that I glanced anxiously at him in the dusk.

  “Petrie,” he said, “God forgive me—I’m too late… I’m too late!”

  And into the patch of light cast by the open doorway, Isola Marsburg came stumbling!

  She was deathly white; her heavy-lidded eyes were wild. She staggered forward and collapsed at out feet…

  “Sir Denis,” she whispered. “Sir Denis!” and then clutching at me—“Dr. Petrie… my father… went out today as usual, and… he hasn’t come back…”

  By the time that I had revived the poor girl and persuaded her to remain in the motherly care of the good landlady, a barman had been dispatched on a bicycle to Princetown. His instructions were to ring up the hotel in Exeter at which Mr. Pine was staying, speak to Mr. Pine in person, and tell him to return to the cottage immediately. Henry Marsburg’s big car was garaged there, and he could do it within the hour. This, and to advise the police that a man had disappeared upon the moor. Then, with a grimly set face, Nayland Smith set out, and:

  “We shall find him at the stone huts beyond the quarry! I told you I was too late!”

  We skirted the sheer cliff of the quarry, followed it down to the path bordering the tract of mire. Smith had an electric torch. He began to search feverishly, right and left. Night insects whirled about the light and presently came a distant rumbling of thunder. We came out of the artificial amphitheater of the quarry without having made any discovery.

  Next, the prehistoric huts were examined. Without result. We pressed on.

  “Here’s the old mine,” said Smith harshly. “I explored part of it this morning, but not all.”

  We pushed on feverishly. Suddenly, by the light of the torch, I saw a cave-like gap in the hillside.

  “The main shaft,” said my friend, moving the ray to right and left. “My God! There he is!”

  At the entrance to this prehistoric burrow Henry Marsburg lay, his gray head huddled on a bed of some kind of fungus—of a vivid purple color! And as the light of Smith’s torch moved farther into the opening, I saw that specimens of the thing grew there—monstrously.

  A sort of purple haze lay over the body of the dead man. A glimmering of the truth came to me. These unclean things growing in the tunnel belonged to the genus Lycoperdon—the giant puffball which breaks at a touch. Into this place, the dog had burst—and found his death. Marsburg in his enthusiasm had touched one of the things and shared the fate of the dog.

  “Good God!” said I, “these things don’t belong to England?”

  “They don’t!” My friend’s voice grated harshly. “They belong to Nepal—though they occur sometimes in Burma. Broken by the unwary traveler and their dust inhaled, they evidently produce what is called in those parts The Hanuman Death, or the Mark of the Monkey. Look!”

  He stooped, directing the light of his torch upon Marsburg’s face.

  On the throat were five small purplish marks!

  We were halfway back to the Quarry Inn. Securely tucked away in my pocket was a small amount of the purple dust, wrapped in a handkerchief.

  “I have sacrificed the life of a clever and worthy man,” said Nayland Smith, breaking a long, gloomy silence.

  “For heaven’s sake,” I replied, “be reasonable! How could you conceivably know that a species of fungus, hitherto not met with in England, had sprung up—no doubt as a result of the tropical heat of the last few weeks—in a suitable location in Devon?”

  Nayland Smith made no reply and we tramped along for some time in stolid silence, in fact until the dim lights of the Quarry Inn became visible through the darkness. Then, suddenly:

  “If the dog was led up to the quarry,” he began, “it is only reasonable to suppose…”

  * * *

  He never finished the sentence. He stood still—listening. And presently I heard that which he listened to—the throb of powerful engines on the Exeter road…

  “Petrie!” Smith snapped. “You are hot and tired—so am I. Can you run?”

  “I can try.”

  “Then run!”

  With no idea why we ran or where we ran, nevertheless I set out and, Nayland Smith making the pace, we raced over uneven ground to the Marsburg cottage in what I suppose was fairly good time.

  It was all in darkness. Mrs. Ugglestone had probably gone to join Isola at the Quarry Inn. The door was closed, but the kitchen window was open.

  “Quick!” Smith panted—“in you go!”

  I reached up, pushed the window up to its full extent
and climbed in onto a kitchen table. Smith following. He scrambled onto the floor beside me.

  “Into the front room,” he panted.

  We stumbled into the room, Smith flashing the light of his torch upon the floor before us. I could hear, dimly, the approach of the big car, now no more than half a mile distant.

  I found myself once more in Henry Marsburg’s extemporized study. Smith flashed his light about rapidly, particularly examining the littered table, and suddenly:

  “Ah!” he whispered. “What’s this?”

  I looked over his shoulder. The light of the torch rested upon a large-scale map of Dartmoor, partially opened upon the table. A pencil ring was traced around one of the squares to which my friend’s eye had been automatically drawn, since, as I knew, he had a similar map at the Inn.

  And within this ring in cramped characters was written: “Entrance to main shaft.”

  * * *

  Smith shut the light off and we stood in utter darkness.

  “Do you understand, Petrie?” he asked. “In that square lies the old mine-working—and the writing isn’t Marsburg’s! Back into the kitchen, quick! Don’t make a sound.”

  Together, we stole into the kitchen.

  The big car pulled up before the cottage. There came a dead silence.

  Followed one of those breathless moments in which I heard the sound of a key inserted in the lock and knew that someone had entered by the front door. There was an interval, the scratching of a match; then a dim light. The man who had entered had lighted the oil lamp on the table.

  Smith, nearer the door, craned forward and looked in. Only by an effort could I obtain a glimpse of the room. I saw enough. Mr. Pine, in evening clothes and wearing a soft gray felt hat, was thrusting the Ordnance map into a pocket of his jacket. Suddenly Smith relaxed; he stepped out into the room.

  “One moment. Dr. Gwalia.” he said.

  Pine swung around like a man stung by a snake.

  “Who the devil are you?” he asked coolly. “A burglar?” I made my appearance behind Nayland Smith.

  “Hello!” said Pine. “Two of you!”

  “Two of us. Dr. Gwalia,” Nayland Smith confirmed grimly.

  Pine stared as if puzzled; and then:

  “Of course!” he exclaimed. “You are Sir Denis Nayland Smith and this is Dr. Petrie. I’m afraid you rather startled me. You may perhaps explain why you address me as Dr. Gwalia?”