The Island of Fu-Manchu E-Book

Sax Rohmer

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 436

Beschreibung

"Imagine a person, tall, lean, and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan..." The year is 1941, and the world is engulfed in war. Having consolidated his forces, Fu-Manchu seeks to tip the balance of power by launching assaults from a hidden stronghold in the Carribean. His target: the United States Naval forces, just entering the global conflict. FU-MANCHU "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 DARK RITUALS AND SUPER-SCIENCE To stop the Devil Doctor, Sir Denis Nayland Smith and his ally, Bart Kerrigan, pick up the trail in London during the blackout, following it to New York, then the Panama Canal, and finally the land of voodoo - Haiti. There they face the enemy's deadly combination of advanced technology and deep-rooted mysticism! ALSO IN THIS VOLUME: A LONG-LOST NAYLAND SMITH SHORT STORY!

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Praise for The Island of Fu-Manchu

Also by Sax Rohmer

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One: Something in a Bag

Chapter Two: A Second Visitor

Chapter Three: BXH 77

Chapter Four: The House in Regent’s Park

Chapter Five: Ardatha

Chapter Six: Dr. Fu-Manchu Experiments

Chapter Seven: The River Gate

Chapter Eight: Limehouse Police Station

Chapter Nine: 39B Pelling Street

Chapter Ten: Barton’s Secret

Chapter Eleven: The Hostage

Chapter Twelve: The Snapping Fingers

Chapter Thirteen: What Happened in Sutton Place

Chapter Fourteen: We Hear the Snapping Fingers

Chapter Fifteen: Nayland Smith Fires Twice

Chapter Sixteen: Padded Footsteps

Chapter Seventeen: Christophe’s Chart

Chapter Eighteen: Zazima

Chapter Nineteen: Flammario the Dancer

Chapter Twenty: The Shrivelled Head

Chapter Twenty-One: Concerning Lou Cabot

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Passion Fruit Tree

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Clue of the Ring

Chapter Twenty-Four: Flammario’s Cloak Slips

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Green Hand

Chapter Twenty-Six: Second Notice

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Father Ambrose

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Drums in the Night

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Song of Damballa

Chapter Thirty: The Seven-Pointed Star

Chapter Thirty-One: Queen Mamaloi

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Smelling-Out

Chapter Thirty-Three: Dr. Marriot Doughty

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Zombies

Chapter Thirty-Five: Ardatha Remembers

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Vortland Lamp

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Subterranean Harbour

Chapter Thirty-Eight: “I Give You One Hour”

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Christophe’s Path

Chapter Forty: The San Damien Sisal Corporation

Chapter Forty-One: An Electrical Disturbance

Free Sample of The Turkish Yataghan by William Patrick Maynard

Appreciating Dr. Fu-Manchu

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

Coming soon from Titan Books:

THE SHADOW OF FU-MANCHU

RE-ENTER: FU-MANCHU

EMPEROR FU-MANCHU

THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU

THE ISLAND OF FU-MANCHU

Print edition ISBN: 9780857686121

E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686787

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First published as a novel in the UK by William Collins & Co. Ltd, 1941

First published as a novel in the US by Doubleday, Doran, 1936

First Titan Books edition: September 2014

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 © 2014 The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors

Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

Did you enjoy this book? We love to hear from our readers. Please email us at [email protected] or write to us at Reader Feedback at the above address.

To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive offers online, please sign up for the Titan newsletter on our website: www.titanbooks.com

Frontispiece illustration by Benton Clark, from Liberty, November 16, 1940. Special thanks to Dr. Lawrence Knapp for the illustrations as they appeared on “The Page of Fu-Manchu,” http://www.njedge.net/~knapp/FuFrames.htm.

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.

Smith threw open the door. Dr. Oster looked up. I cannot recall pressing the trigger.

CHAPTER ONE

SOMETHING IN A BAG

“T hen you have no idea where Nayland Smith is?” said my guest.

I carried his empty glass to the buffet and refilled it.

“Two cables from him found me at Salonika,” I replied: “the first from Kingston, Jamaica, the second from New York.”

“Ah! Jamaica and New York. Off his usual stamping ground. Nothing since?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure he isn’t back home?”

“Quite. His flat in Whitehall is closed.”

I set the whisky-and-soda before Sir Lionel Barton and passed my pouch, for he was scraping out his briar. My dining-room seemed altogether too small to hold this huge, overbearing man with a lion’s mane of tawny hair streaked with white; piercing blue eyes shadowed by craggy brows. He had the proper personality for one of his turbulent, brilliant reputation: the greatest Orientalist in Europe is expected to be unusual.

“Do you know, Kerrigan”—he stuffed Rhodesian tobacco into his pipe as though he had been charging a howitzer—“I have known Smith longer than you, and although I missed the last brush with Fu-Manchu—”

“Well?”

“Old Smith and I have been out against him together in the past. To tell you the truth”—he stood up and began to walk about, lighting his pipe as he did so—“I have an idea that we have not seen the last of that Chinese devil.”

“Why?” I asked, and tried to speak casually.

“Suppose he’s here again—in England?”

Sir Lionel’s voice was rising to those trumpet tones which betrayed his army training; I was conscious of growing excitement.

“Suppose, just for argument’s sake, that I have certain reasons to believe that he is. Well—would you sleep soundly tonight? What would it mean? It would mean that, apart from Germany, we have another enemy to deal with—an enemy whose insects, bacteria, stranglers, strange poisons, could do more harm in a week than Hitler’s army could do in a year!”

He took a long drink. I did not speak.

“You”—he lowered his voice—“have a personal interest in the matter. You accepted the assignment to cover the Greek campaign because—”

I nodded.

“Check me when I go wrong and stop me if I’m treading on a corn; there was a girl—wasn’t Ardatha the name? She belonged to the nearly extinct white race (I was the first man to describe them, by the way) which still survives in Abyssinia.”

“Yes, she vanished after Smith and I left Paris, at the end of Fu-Manchu’s battle to put an end to dictators. Nearly two years ago—”

“You—searched?”

“Smith was wonderful. I had all the resources of the Secret Service at my command. But from that hour, Barton, not one word of information reached us, either about Dr. Fu-Manchu, or about—Ardatha.”

“I am told”—he pulled up, his back to me, and spoke over his shoulder—”that Ardatha was—”

“She was lovely and lovable,” I said and stood up.

The struggle in Greece, the wound I had received there, the verdict of Harley Street which debarred me from active service, all these experiences had failed to efface my private sorrow—the loss of Ardatha.

Sir Lionel turned and gave me one penetrating glance which I construed as sympathy. I had known him for many years and had learned his true worth; but he was by no means every man’s man. Ardatha had brought romance into my life such as no one was entitled to expect: she was gone. Barton understood.

He began to pace up and down, smoking furiously; and something in his bearing reminded me of Nayland Smith. Barton was altogether heavier than Smith, but he had the same sun-baked skin, the same nervous vitality: he, also, was a pipe addict. His words had set my brain on fire.

I wondered if an image was before his mental vision, the same vision which was before mine: a tall, lean, cat-like figure; a close-shaven head, a mathematical brow; emerald-green eyes which sometimes became filmed strangely; a voice in its guttural intensity so masterful that Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon might have animated it; Dr. Fu-Manchu, embodiment of the finest intellect in the modern world.

Now, I was wild for news; but deliberately I controlled myself. I refilled Barton’s glass. He belonged to a hard-drinking generation and I never attempted to keep pace with him. I sat down again, and:

“You must realize,” I said, “that you have stirred up—”

“I know, I know! I am the last man to raise hopes which may never materialize. But the fact that Nayland Smith has been in the West Indies practically clinches the matter. I threw myself on your hospitality, Kerrigan, because, to be quite frank, I was afraid to go to a hotel—”

“What!”

“Yes—and my town house as you know, went to the auctioneers on the day war started. Very well. In the small suitcase—all the baggage I carry—is something for which I know Dr. Fu-Manchu has been searching for many years! Since I got hold of it there have been some uncommonly queer happenings up at my place in Norfolk. In fact things got so hot that I bolted!”

I stood up and walked across to the window; excitement grew in my brain by leaps and bounds. There was no man whom I feared as I feared the brilliant Chinese doctor; but if Ardatha lived Fu-Manchu was the one and only link by means of which I might find her.

“Go on,” I said, “I am all attention.”

Grey, wintry dusk was sending over Kensington Gardens. Few figures moved on the path which led from the gate nearly opposite to the Round Pond. At any moment now would come the mournful call of a park-keeper, “All out.” And with the locking of the gates began the long night of black-out.

“I know why Smith has been to the Caribbean,” Barton went on. “There’s something in that bag which would have saved him the journey. The United States government—Hello! what’s wrong?”

A figure was standing at the park gate, looking up at my window; a girl who wore a hooded cape. I suppose I uttered an exclamation as I clutched the ledge and stared across the road.

“What is it, Kerrigan?” cried Barton. “What is it?”

“It’s Ardatha!” I whispered.

CHAPTER TWO

A SECOND VISITOR

I doubt if any man ever descended a long flight of dark stairs faster than I did. A pulse was throbbing in my head as I dashed along the glass-roofed portico that divided the house from the front door. Yet as I threw the door open and ran out, already the hooded figure had vanished.

Then, as I raced across to the gate, I saw her. She had turned back into the park, and was just passing out of the shadow of a big tree near the corner where a path at right angles crossed that leading to the Round Pond. Normally, Bayswater Road at this hour would have been a race track, but war had muted the song of London and few vehicles were on the road.

In the Park, a grey mist swam in among the trees whose leafless branches reached out like lean and clutching arms menacing the traveller. But there, ahead, was the receding, elusive figure.

I continued to run. My condition was by no means all that it might have been, but I found breath enough to call.

“Ardatha!” I cried, “Ardatha!”

Step by step I was overhauling her. Not another pedestrian was in sight.

“Ardatha!”

I was no more than twenty yards behind her as she paused and looked back. In spirit she was already in my arms, her kiss on my lips—when she turned swiftly and began to run!

For one incalculable moment I stood stock still.

Astonishment, mortification, anger, fought for precedence in my mind. What, in sanity’s name, could be the meaning of her behaviour? I was about to cry out again, but I decided to conserve my resources. Fists clenched and head up, I set out in pursuit.

She had reached the path that surrounds the Pond before I really got into my stride. In Rugby days I had been counted one of the fastest men in the pack; but even allowing for loss of form due to my recent illness, an amazing fact demanded recognition. Ardatha was outrunning me easily: she ran with the speed of a young antelope!

Then, from nearby, came the expected mournful cry—“All out!”

I saw the park-keeper at about the same moment that I accepted defeat in the race. Ardatha had passed him like a flash. He had assumed that she was running to reach a Kensington gate before it closed, and had no more than glanced at her speeding figure. For my part I was determined to keep her in sight; but as I bore down on the man, some suspicion seemed to cross his mind—a suspicion which linked my appearance with that of the flying girl. He glanced back at her for a moment—and then stood squarely in my path, arms outstretched!

“Not this way!” he cried. “Too late. Porchester Gate is the only way out!”

Porchester Gate was the gate by which I had come in, and for one mad moment I weighed my chances of bowling the man over and following Ardatha. I think, disastrous though such an assault must have been, that I should have risked it had I not sighted a constable heading in our direction.

I pulled up, breathing heavily, and shrugged my shoulders. That lithe figure was already a phantom in the misty distance. Such a cloud of despair succeeded to the wild joy I had known at the sight of Ardatha, such a madness of frustration, that frankly I think I was on the verge of tears. I clenched my teeth and turned back.

“One moment, sir.”

The park-keeper was following me. Struggling as I was for self-control, I prompted myself: “Don’t hit him. He is only doing his duty. She ran away. You have no case. Be tactful or you will spend the night in a lock-up.”

I slowed my pace.

“Yes—what is it?”

He ranged up alongside. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the nearing figure of the constable.

“I was just wondering why you was in such a hurry, like.”

We were walking along together, now, and I forced a smile, looking at the man’s lined, ingenuous face. I decided that he was an old gamekeeper.

“I wanted to catch somebody,” I said. “I had had a quarrel with my girl friend and she ran away from me.”

“Oh, is that so?” He continued to regard me doubtfully. “Run away had she? Young lady with a cape?”

“Yes. She was wearing a cape. I have no idea where she has gone.”

“Oh, I see. Neither of you lives over on Kensington side, like? “No—neither of us.”

“Oh, I see.” He had accepted me now. “That’s hard luck, sir. She’s a bit high mettled, like, no doubt.”

“She is.”

“Well, them’s sometimes the best, sir, when it comes to a pinch. I reckon when the paddy’s worn out she’ll come back as sweet as honey.”

“I hope so.”

And indeed the man’s simple philosophy had helped to restore me. I was glad that I had not quarrelled with him—and glad that I had told him the truth.

We walked along together through growing dusk. In the shadows about us nothing stirred. Moisture dripped mournfully from the trees. Already, London grew silent at the touch of night. Of Ardatha I dared not think; only I knew that the mystery of her reappearance, and of her flight, belonged to the greater and darker mystery which was Dr. Fu-Manchu.

A sense of evil impending, of some unwelcome truth fighting for admission, oppressed me. When I left Kensington Gardens and heard the gate locked behind me, I stood for a while looking across at my windows.

There was a light in the writing-room and the blinds were not drawn. Except for a big Packard just turning the corner into Craven Terrace, there was no nearby traffic. As I ran across, fumbling for my keys, subconsciously I noted the number-plate of the car: BXH 77. It was rememberable, and I was in that troubled mood when one notes trivialities.

Opening the door, I hurried upstairs. I had much to tell Barton—and much to learn from him. The whole current of my life had changed. I remember that I banged my front door and dashed into the lighted workroom.

Standing by the desk was a tall, thin man, his face tropically brown, his hair nearly white at the temples and his keen eyes fixed upon me. I pulled up suddenly; I could not accept the fact.

It was Nayland Smith!

“Smith—Smith! I was never so glad to see any man in my life!”

He wrung my hand hard, watching me with those questing eyes; but his expression was stem to grimness.

“What has become of Barton?” I asked.

Smith seemed to grow rigid. He positively glared at me.

“Barton!” he exclaimed—“Barton! was Barton here?”

“I left him here.”

He dashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

“My God, Kerrigan!” he said; “and you left your front door open—for so I found it. I have been searching London for Barton, and now—”

My fears, sorrows, forebodings, in that instant became crystallized in a dreadful certainty.

“Smith, do you mean—”

“I do, Kerrigan!” He spoke in a low voice. “Fu-Manchu is in London… and he has got Barton!”

* * *

Smith went racing into the spare bedroom; in broken syllables I had told my tale. At the threshold, as I switched on the lights, we both pulled up.

The room was in wild disorder!

“You see, Kerrigan, you see!” cried Smith. “It was a ruse to get you out of the house. Poor Barton put up a fight, by heaven! Look at that smashed chair!”

“His bag has gone!”

Smith nodded and began ferreting about among the wreckage. A heavy cloisonné vase lay beside the bed, although its proper place was on the mantel. He examined it carefully, although I could not imagine what evidence he hoped it might afford. Then, I saw something else.

The room was equipped with an old-fashioned open grate, beside which rested tongs and poker. The fire was not laid, for I had not anticipated receiving a guest, but the iron poker lay half under an armchair! Taking if up I uttered an exclamation.

“Smith, look!”

The poker was bent in an unmistakable, significant manner. Smith grabbed it, held it under the bedside lamp—for darkness had fallen—and touched it at several points with the tip of his forefinger. He tossed it on to the bed and began to stare around, tugging at the lobe of his left ear, a mannerism which I knew well.

“Barton is a powerful man,” he said. “Something snapped when that poker was bent! Amazing that no one heard the row.”

“Not at all. The rest of the house is empty, and my daily woman was gone before Barton arrived.”

My voice sounded dull in my ears. Ardatha had lured me away, and my poor friend had been left alone to fight for his life… Ardatha—

“There are other curious features, Kerrigan.”

Smith dropped to his knees and began to examine the disordered carpet with close attention. He crawled as far as the door.

“Assuming, as we might, that Fu-Manchu’s agents entered shortly after you went out, they had come on very urgent business—”

“Barton’s bag! He told me that it contained something which would have saved you a journey to the Caribbean.”

“Ah!” He stood up. “As I expected. They came for the chart. Barton put up a fight. Now—if they killed him, why carry a heavy body down all those stairs and run the risk of meeting a policeman outside? If he survived, where is he?”

“You say the street door was open?”

“Yes. Quick, Kerrigan! Let us examine the stairs. But wait—first, all the cupboards and other possible hiding places.”

Outside, in Bayswater Road, I heard a bus go by. I imagined it to be laden with home-bound City workers anxious to reach their firesides. The black tragedy of war oppressed them; yet, not one, in passing, would suspect that within sight from the bus windows, two of their fellows faced a terror deeper than that of the known enemy.

My flat had become a theatre of sinister drama. As Smith and I ran from room to room, sharing a common dread, the possibility that we should come upon Barton’s body checked me more than once. It was Smith who opened the big store-cupboard. Smith who explored an old oak wardrobe.

We found no trace.

“Now, the stairs,” he snapped. “We are wasting precious time, but we cannot act without a clue.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“No body was dragged from the bedroom. I have satisfied myself on that point. But it may have been carried. The stair-carpet should show traces if any load had been dragged downstairs—Hullo! what’s this?”

A bell had begun to ring.

“Street door!”

“Down you go, Kerrigan. Have you got a gun?”

“No, but I’ll get one.”

I hurried to my desk, slipped a friendly old Colt into my pocket and went down. Smith, using a pocket-torch was already crawling about on the landing peering at the carpet.

When I reached the front door and threw it open, I don’t quite know what I expected to find there. I found a constable.

“Is this your house, sir?” he said gruffly.

“No; but I occupy a flat on the second floor.”

“Well, then it’s you I want to see. It’s ten minutes after blackout time and you have lights blazing from all your windows!”

As I stared into the darkness beyond—there was no traffic passing at the moment and the night was profoundly still—I realized, anew, the strange power of Dr. Fu-Manchu. So completely had the handiwork of that Satanic genius disturbed us that Smith and I (he, an ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard) had utterly forgotten regulations, and had offended against the Law!

“Good heavens! you’re right,” I exclaimed. “We must be mad. The fact is, constable, there have been queer happenings here, and—”

“None of my business, sir. If you will go up and draw all the blinds in the first place, I shall then have to take your name, and—”

From behind me came a sound of running footsteps.

“He was not carried out, Kerrigan!” came Smith’s voice. “But there’s blood on the third stair from the bottom and there are spots on the paving—What the devil’s this?”

“A serious business sir,” the constable began, but he stared in a bewildered way. “All the lights—”

Smith muttered something and then produced a card which he thrust into the constable’s hand.

“Possibly before your time,” he said rapidly. “But you’ll still remember the name.”

The constable directed his light on to the card, stared at Smith, and then saluted.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, “if I’ve butted in on something more important; but I was just obeying orders.”

“Good enough,” snapped Smith. “I switched off everything before I came down.” He paused, staring at the stupefied man, and then: “What time did you come on duty?” he asked.

“Half an hour ago, sir.”

“And you have been in sight of this door, how long?”

The constable stared as if Smith’s question had been a reprimand. I sympathized with the man, a freckled young fellow with straightforward blue eyes, keen on his job, and one to whom the name of Sir Denis Nayland Smith was a name to conjure with. It occurred to me that he had been held up on his patrol and that he believed Smith to be aware of the fact.

“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but I can explain my delay,” he said.

Smith snapped his fingers irritably, and I saw that a hope had died.

“It was the car running on to the pavement in Craven Terrace,” the man went on. “There was something funny about the business and I took full particulars before I let ’em go.” He delved in a back pocket and produced a notebook. “Here are my notes. It was a Packard—”

Odd are the workings of a human brain. My thoughts as the constable had been speaking, and, it seemed, speaking of matters beside the vital point, had drifted wretchedly to Ardatha. I had been striving to find some explanation of her behaviour which did not mean the shattering of a dream. Now, as he spoke of a Packard, I muttered mechanically:

“BXH 77.”

“That’s it, sir!” the constable cried. ‘That’s the car!”

“One moment,” rapped Smith. “Tell me, Kerrigan, how you happen to know the number of this car.”

I told him that a Packard bearing the number had turned from the main road into Craven Terrace as I had crossed to the door.

“Quick, constable!” He was suddenly on fire. “Your notes. What was suspicious about BXH 77?”

“Well, sir, I have the particulars here.” The man studied his notebook. “The car barged right on to the pavement and pulled up with a jerk about ten yards in front of me. Several people from neighbouring shops ran out. When I arrived I saw that the driver, a foreign looking man, had fainted at the wheel. In some way which I couldn’t make out—because it wasn’t a serious crash—he had broken his arm—”

“Left or right?”

“Left, sir. It was hanging down limp. He was also bleeding from a cut on the head.”

“Good. Go on.”

“In the back I found a doctor and a patient he was removing to hospital. The patient seemed in a bad way—a big powerful man he was, with reddish hair streaked with white; he was only half-conscious and the doctor was trying to soothe him. A mental case—”

“Do you understand, Kerrigan?” cried Smith, his eyes alight. “Do you understand?”

“Good God, Smith—I understand too well!”

“Describe the doctor,” Smith said crisply.

The constable cleared his throat, and then:

“He had a very yellow face,” he replied; “as yellow as a lemon. He wore spectacles with black rims, and was a shortish, heavily-built man. He was not English.”

“His name?”

“Here’s his card, sir.”

As Smith took the card:

“H’m!” he muttered: “Dr. Rudolph Oster, 101 Wimpole Street, W.1. Is there such a practitioner?”

“I was on my way to a call-box when I saw all the lights blazing upstairs, sir. I was going to ask this gentleman to allow me to use his phone.”

“Have you got the doctor’s number?”

“Yes, sir: Langham 09365.”

“Efficient work, constable,” said Smith: “I’ll see that it is recognized.”

The man’s freckled face flushed.

“Thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you.”

“How did the matter end?” I asked excitedly.

“We got the car back on to the road, and I helped to lift the chauffeur from the driving-seat and put him in the back. That was when I noticed his arm—when he began to come to.”

“How did the patient behave?” Smith asked.

“He just lay back muttering. Dr. Oster explained that it was important to get him to a safe place before he recovered from the effects of an injection he had had to administer.”

Smith uttered a sound like a groan and beat his fist into the palm of his hand.

“A suitcase marked L.B. was beside the driver. It was covered in foreign labels. The doctor took the wheel and drove off—”

“At what time?” snapped Smith.

“According to my watch, sir, at 7.13—that is, exactly five minutes ago.”

CHAPTER THREE

BXH 77

“Stop for nothing,” Smith cried to the driver. “Short of murder!

Use your horn. No regulations apply. Move!”

I had had a glimpse of the efficiency of the Metropolitan Police which had been a revelation. Within the last six minutes we had learned that Dr. Oster was a naturalized British subject, a dermatologist, and was not at home; that BXH 77 had been held up, for using an improperly masked headlight, by a constable on duty in Baker Street; that Dr. Oster, who was driving, said that he was taking a patient to a private clinic at North Gate, Regent’s Park. Five motor-cyclists were out, and every police officer and warden in that area had been advised.

Smith was too tensed up for ordinary conversation, but he jerked out a staccato summary as we sped through the black-out, for this London was a place of mystery, a city hushed; the heart of the world beating slowly, darkly.

“The United States have realized that the Panama Canal has two ends. Strange incidents in the Caribbean. Disappearances. Officers sent to West Indies to investigate. Never returned. Secret submarine base. I followed Fu-Manchu to Jamaica. Lost him in Cuba. Barton has picked up some clue to the site of this base. Suspected before I left. Certain now. Got the facts in Norfolk only this morning. Fu-Manchu has returned to England to silence Barton—and, my God! he has succeeded!”

We seemed to be speeding madly into darkness black as the Pit. I could form no idea of where we were: we might have been in the Grand Avenue of Kamak. Vague, elfin lights I saw in the shadows, to take the place of illuminated windows, blazing sky signs. Sometimes a car would materialize like a form at a spiritualistic séance, only to disappear again immediately. The traffic signals, green, amber and red crosses, appeared and disappeared also like manifestations from another world…

Our car was braked so suddenly that I was nearly pitched out of my seat.

I saw the driver leap to the road and sprint forward to where a torch was flashing—in and out, in and out. Smith was on the running-board when the man came racing back.

“Jump in, sir!” he shouted, “jump in! They passed here only three minutes ago—I have the direction!”

And we were off again into impenetrable darkness. Angry cries I heard as we flashed past crawling traffic, in contravention of the law issuing blasts of warning. Smith had commandeered Scotland Yard’s ace driver. I was wild with the spirit of the chase.

Barton’s life was at stake—and more…

Our brakes shrieked again, and the speeding car skidded to a perilous halt. We were all out in a trice.

In the light of torches carried by Smith and the driver I saw a police cyclist lying beside a wrecked motor-bike almost under our front wheels!

“Are you badly hurt?” cried Smith.

The man raised a pale face to the light. Blood was trickling down from his brow; his black steel helmet had fallen off.

“Broken ankle, I think. This—” he touched his head—“is nothing. Just get me on to the pavement. It wasn’t your car that hit me, sir.”

We lifted him out of the traffic-way, seating him against the railings of a house veiled in darkness. Our driver bent over him.

“If you can bear it, mate,” he said, “give us the news. Have you sighted the Packard? We’re Scotland Yard. This is Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

The man looked up at Smith. Obviously, he was in great pain, but he spoke calmly.

“I followed BXH 77 to this spot, sir. Having identified the number, I passed the car and signalled to the driver to pull up—”

“What happened?” snapped Smith.

“He ran me down!”

“Where did he go?”

“First left, sir—two houses beyond.”

“How long ago?”

“Less than two minutes.”

We were in one of those residential backwaters which are to be found north of Regent’s Park. Reduction and slowing of traffic had so dimmed the voice of London that when the man ceased speaking an almost complete silence fell. Black night cloaked us and in it I could hear no sound of human activity.

“You have done a good job, constable,” said Smith rapidly, “and you won’t lose by it.” He thrust a torch into my hand. “There’s a house behind there, somewhere. Find it, Kerrigan, and phone for an ambulance. Just call ‘police’ and mention my name. Sorry. No other way. Understand how you feel. But I must push on.”

“Turning to the left is a dead-end, sir,” the Yard driver cried back over his shoulder as he sprang to the wheel. “You can’t go wrong, Mr. Kerrigan, in following on foot.”

“Ah!” cried Smith. “Good! We’ve got ’em!”

He jumped in and the Yard car was off again, leaving me standing beside the injured man.

“So that’s Nayland Smith,” he muttered. “I wish we had a few more like him.” He looked up. “Sorry to be a nuisance, sir. I’m fairly new to this district, but I think the gate of the house is just along to your right. The Regent Canal runs behind; that’s why the next turning leads nowhere.”

“I suppose there’s no call-box near?”

“No, sir. But I must stick it till you find a phone.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE HOUSE IN REGENT’S PARK

Up to the moment that I discovered the gate not one pedestrian passed that way.

I groped along a neglected gravel drive bordered by dripping shrubberies and presently found myself before the porch of a house to which it led. There I pulled up. An estate agent’s bill, announcing that “this desirable residence” was for sale, occupied the centre panel of the door. I had found an empty house.

Muttering savagely, I turned away. I suppose I had gone a dozen paces before it occurred to me that there might be a caretaker. I swung about to retrace my steps. As I did so I faced that wing of the ugly Victorian building which lay to the right of the entrance—and I saw a chink of light shining from a long French window.

Wondering why I had not seen it before, I pressed through wet bushes, crossed a patch of lawn and reached the lighted window. It proved to be one of three which opened on to a veranda and I stepped up with the intention of rapping on the glass. Just in time, I checked my hand.

I stood there, suddenly dizzy, my heart leaping furiously.

Heavy velvet curtains were draped inside the windows one of which was slightly ajar, and the disarranged draperies had created that chink through which light shone. I could see right into the room, and beyond an open door into a furnished lobby. It was from this lobby that the light came.

Standing there, looking back, so that I suspected it to have been she who had opened the window, was a girl wearing a hooded cape. The hood, thrown free, revealed a mass of gleaming, bewilderingly disordered curls, a pale lovely face; great eyes, blue in the dusk with the dark blue of lapis lazuli, were turned in my direction.

Ardatha… Ardatha whom I adored, who once had loved me, whom I had torn from the clutches of the Chinese doctor; Ardatha, for whom I had searched, desperately, during many weary months—who, when I had found her, had tricked me, used me, played upon my love so that I had betrayed my friend: Ardatha!

Yet, throwing discretion to the winds and forgetful of the injured man who depended upon me, I was about to spring into the room, when—a second time I checked.

Slow, dragging footsteps and a sound resembling that of a rubber-shod stick became audible from somewhere beyond the corner of the veranda.

I grew suddenly cool, master of myself; my brain ceased to buzz like a nest of wasps: I could think clearly and quickly. A swift calculation told me that I had just time to leap into cover behind a holly bush before the one who walked so laboriously reached the angle of the house. I achieved my objective and threw myself flat on sodden turf.

Holding my breath, I watched. Water dripped from the leaves on to my head. I lay not three paces from the veranda. Quite distinctly I saw Ardatha draw the curtain and look out. Those dragging footsteps passed an unseen corner, and I knew that someone was approaching the window.

At that moment, in my new clarity of mind, I grasped a fact hitherto unsuspected:

The turning into which BXH 77 had been driven communicated with the back premises of this house, probably with a garage. I had blundered into the enemy’s headquarters!

A figure walked slowly along the veranda—that of a very tall, gaunt man wrapped in a heavy overcoat and wearing some kind of cap. He leaned upon a stick as one uncertain of his steps. The French window was thrown open. I saw Ardatha outlined against the light beyond. The gaunt figure went in, passed Ardatha, and then half turned.

“Lock the window,” I heard spoken sibilantly.

It was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

As the window was fastened, the curtain draped and I rose to my knees;

“Ss!” came a hiss from close behind me. “Don’t move, Kerrigan!”

My heart seemed to miss a throb. Nayland Smith was lying less than two yards away!

“You saw her?” he whispered.

“Of course!”

“I quite understand, old man. No wonder we failed to find her. But, even now, don’t despair—”

“Why?” I groaned. “What hope is left?”

Smith’s reply was curious:

“Dr. Fu-Manchu once had a daughter.”

He had drawn nearer, and now he touched my shoulder. At that moment I had no idea what his words meant; but I was to learn, later.

“Come on—this way.”

In darkness I stumbled along behind him until I found myself under a clump of trees in what I divined to be a neglected garden. Beyond, loomed the bulk of the mystery house—the house which harboured the most dangerous man in the world… and Ardatha.

“The lane into which the Packard turned,” he said rapidly, “simply leads to the garage of this house and the one beyond. The latter also is apparently vacant. I grasped the position in time, backed out and came to look for you. Sims, the Yard driver, has gone for a raiding party. He will take the injured man with him.”

“But—Barton?”

“We can only do our best until reinforcements arrive. But one duty we owe to the world—that we do not allow Dr. Fu-Manchu to slip through our fingers!”

“Why didn’t you shoot him where he stood, Smith?”

“For two reasons. The first concerns yourself; the second is, that I know this place to be occupied by agents of the Doctor—and Barton is in their hands… Good God! What’s that?”

I think I began to reply, but the words perished on my tongue.

It was one of those sounds which it is good to forget; a sound which otherwise might haunt one’s dreams. It was a strangled cry, the cry of a strong man in the grip of mortal terror. It died away. From leafless limbs of trees stretching over us came the drip-drip-drip of falling water.

Smith grasped my arm so hard that I winced.

“That was Barton!” he said, hoarsely. “God forgive me if they—”

His voice broke. Shining the torchlight on the path, he set out headlong for the house.

I have often wondered since what he had planned to do—what would have happened if that Fate which bound two destinies together had not intervened. I can only record what occurred.

We were scrambling across a thorny patch which I judged to be a rose-bed when Smith pulled up, turned, and threw me flat on the ground! His nervous strength in moments of excitement was astounding: I was down before I realized it was he who had thrown me!

“Quiet!” he hissed in my ear; he lay prone beside me. “Look!”

A door had been opened, I saw a silhouette—I should have known it a mile away—that of a girl who seemed to be in wild distress. She raised her arms as if in a gesture of supplication, then pressed her hands over her ears and ran out, turning swiftly right, then vanished.

Smith was breathing as rapidly as I, but:

“Ardatha has opened the door for us,” he said quietly. “Come on, Kerrigan.”

As we ran across and stepped into a lighted lobby Smith was as self-possessed as though we were paying a formal call; I, knowing that we challenged the greatest genius who ever worked for Satan, admired him.

“Gun ready,” he whispered. “Don’t hesitate to shoot.”

Something vaguely familiar about the place in which we stood was explained when I saw an open door beyond which was an empty room, its French windows draped with sombre velvet. This was the lobby I had seen from the other side of the house. It was well furnished, the floor strewn with rugs, and oppressively hot. The air was heavy with the perfume of hyacinths, several bowls of which decorated the place. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly before the newel post of a carpeted staircase. I found myself watching the swing of the pendulum as we stood there, listening. The illumination was scanty, and from beside a partly-opened door in a recess left of the stairs light shone out.

In the room beyond a voice was speaking. Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and advanced, tip-toe. The speaker was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

“I warned you as long as six months ago,” came that singular voice—who, hearing, could ever forget it! “But my warning was not heeded. I have several times attempted, and as often failed, to recover Christophe’s chart from your house in Norfolk. Tonight, my agents did not fail—”

A bearskin rug had deadened the sound of our approach: now Smith was opening the door by decimals of an inch per move.

“You fought for its possession. I do not blame you. I must respect a man of spirit. You might even have succeeded if Dr. Oster had not managed to introduce an intra muscular injection of crataegusin which produced immediate crataegus katatonia—or shall I say, stupor—”

Smith had opened the door nearly six inches. I obtained a glimpse of the room beyond. It looked like a study, and on a long, narrow writing-table a struggling man lay bound: I could not see his face.

“Since this occurred in the street, it necessitated your removal. And now. Sir Lionel, I have decided that your undoubted talents, plus the dangers attendant upon a premature discovery of your body, entitle you to live—and to serve the Si-Fan. My plans for departure are complete. Dr. Oster will operate again, and your perspective be adjusted. Proceed.”

Smith now had the door half open. I saw that the bound man was Barton. They had gagged him. His eyes, wild with horror, were turned to the door. He had seen it opening!

A man who wore black-rimmed spectacles was bending over him, a man whose outstanding peculiarity was a bright yellow complexion. From the constable’s description I recognized Dr. Oster. Barton’s coat had been removed, his shirt sleeves rolled up. The yellow Dr. Oster grasped a muscular arm near the biceps and pinched up a pucker of flesh. The agony in those staring eyes turned me cold—murderously cold. The fang of a hypodermic syringe touched Barton’s skin—Smith threw the door open: Dr. Oster looked up.

To this hour I cannot recall actually pressing the trigger; but I heard the report.

I saw a tiny bluish mark appear in the middle of that yellow forehead. Dr. Oster glared straight at me through his spectacles, dropping the syringe, and, still glaring, voiceless, fell forward across Barton’s writhing body.

CHAPTER FIVE

ARDATHA

“Don’t move, Fu-Manchu! the game’s up this time!”

Smith leaped into the room, and I was close beside him. The dead man slipped slowly to his knees, still staring glassily straight ahead as if into some black hell suddenly revealed, and soundlessly crumpled up on the floor. One swift glance I gave to Barton, strapped on the long table, then spun about to face Dr. Fu-Manchu.

But Dr. Fu-Manchu was not there!

“Good God!”

Smith, for once, was wholly taken aback; he glared around him, one amazed beyond belief. The room, as I supposed, was a study. The wall right of the door through which we had burst in was covered by bookcases flanking an old oak cabinet having glazed windows behind which I saw specimens of porcelain on shelves. No other door was visible. But, although we had heard Fu-Manchu speaking, Fu-Manchu was not in the room…

At the moment that Barton began to utter inarticulate sounds. Smith raised his automatic and fired a shot into the china cabinet.

A crash of glass followed; then, as he ran forward:

“Release Barton!” he cried. “Quick!”

I slipped my Colt into my pocket and bent over the table. Smith had wrenched open the glazed door. I heard a further crashing of glass. I tore the bandage from Barton’s mouth. He stared up at me, his florid face purple.

“Behind the cabinet!” he gasped. “Get him, Smith—the yellow rat is behind the cabinet!”

As I pulled out a pocket-knife to cut the lashings came a second shot—more crashing.

“He’s gone this way!” Smith shouted. “Cut Barton loose and follow!”

As Sir Lionel rose unsteadily and swung his feet clear of the table, something fell to the carpet. It was the hypodermic syringe, the point of which had just touched his skin at the moment that I had fired. Barton rested against the table for a moment, breathing heavily and looking down at the dead man.

“Good shot, Kerrigan. Thank you,” he said.

The sound of a third report, more distant, echoed through the house and, turning, I saw that the china cabinet was a camouflaged door. A gap now yawned beyond.

“I’ll follow, Kerrigan. Find Smith.”

Good old Barton! I had no choice.

Stumbling over shattered china, I entered the hidden doorway. A flash of my torch showed me that I stood in a large, unfurnished room. A second door was open, although no glimmer shone beyond. I ran across and out. I found myself back in the lobby, but the lights were all off!

“Smith!” I cried. “Smith! Where are you?”

From far behind a sound of crunching footsteps reached me. Barton was coming through. Near by, in the shadows, the grandfather clock ticked solemnly. I stepped to the newel post and moved all the switches which I found there.

Nothing happened. The current had been cut off from some main control.

Knowing that the house, only a matter of minutes before, had been occupied by members of the most dangerous criminal group in the world, I stood quite still for a moment, glancing up carpeted stairs. The scent of hyacinths grew overpowering; a foreboding—almost, it seemed, a pre-knowledge of disaster—bore down upon me.

“Kerrigan!” came Barton’s voice, “the damned lights have gone out!”

“This way!” I cried, and was about to step back to guide him, when I saw something.

One of the flower-bowls lay smashed on the floor. A draught of cold, damp air bore the exotic scent of the blooms to my nostrils. The door by which we had entered, the door to the garden, was wide open; and now from out of the blackness beyond came the wail of a police whistle.

“Make your way through to the garden!” I shouted. “Smith is out there—and he needs help!”

Something in the scent of the hyacinths, in the atmosphere of the house, spoke to me of that Eastern mist out of which Dr. Fu-Manchu had materialized. It was a commonplace London house, but it had sheltered the Chinese master of evil, and his aura lay heavy upon it. I ran out into the garden as one escaping. Dimly the words reached my ears:

“Go ahead! I can take care of myself…”

The skirl of the whistle had died away, but it had seemed to come from a point far to the right of the route which Smith and I had followed when we had approached the house. Now, using my torch freely, I saw that a gravelled path led from the door in that direction: a short distance ahead there were glasshouses.

I grasped a probable explanation; the garage. Fu-Manchu was making for the car. Smith had followed!

As I ran down the path—it sloped sharply—I was mentally calculating the time that had elapsed since Sims, the Yard driver, had gone for a raid squad, and asking myself, over and over again, if Smith had been ambushed. I was by no means blind to my own danger; the friendly Colt was ready in my hand as I passed the glass-houses. Beyond them I pulled up.