by Sax Rohmer
Some black, indefinable doubt which had been astride me like an Old Man of the Sea dropped away. I wondered what I had been worrying about. I could perceive nothing wrong with the world nor with my own condition and place in it.
Dr. Fu-Manchu took up a dull white flask, removed the stopper, and dipped a slender rod into the contents.
“This, Mr. Greville”—holding up a bar of metal—“is Sheffield steel.”
He dropped upon the bar some of the liquid adhering to the rod.
“Now—observe…”
In obedience to a slight signal, the Negroes released my arms; one with surgical scissors, cut the fastenings from my ankles...
But I was conscious of no desire to attack the speaker. On the contrary, I recognized with a sudden overwhelming conviction the fact that my own happiness and the happiness of everyone I knew rested in his hands! He was all-powerful, beneficent, a superman to be respected and obeyed.
I watched him, entranced. Holding the steel bar in his bony fingers, he snapped it as though it had been a stick of chocolate!
“Had I been a burglar, Mr. Greville, this small invention would have been of value to me. You see, even I have my toys…”
He turned and walked slowly from the room with that dignified, yet cat-like gait which I knew. As lightning flickers in a summer sky, the idea crossed my mind that once I had feared, had loathed this Chinese physician. It disappeared, leaving me in a state of mental rapture such as I had never known.
I rejoiced that I was to serve Fu-Manchu. Of the details of my mission I knew nothing, but that it aimed at the ultimate good of us all, I did not doubt. We were in charge of an omnipotent being; it was not for us to question his wisdom.
Led by one of the Slave Coast Negroes whose broad shoulders and slightly bandy legs lent him a distinct resemblance to an ape dressed in human clothing, I found myself passing rapidly along a dimly lighted passage. I was delighted at my discovery that these active little men resembled apes. It seemed to me, in that strange mood, one worthy of reporting to the chief—an addition to scientific knowledge which should not be lost.
I understood, and it was a deep-seated faith, why Dr. Fu-Manchu had willing servants all over the world. Hitherto I had merely existed: this was life. I laughed aloud, and snapped my fingers in time to my swift footsteps.
Down a flight of stairs I was led. A silk-shaded lamp on the landing afforded the only light, but I was aware of a surety of foot which would have enabled me to negotiate the most perilous mountain path with all the certainty of a wild goat. An iron-barred and studded door was opened, and I looked out into a square courtyard.
No cloud obscured the sky, now, which seemed to be filled with a million diamonds.
A landaulet stood before the steps. Respecting its driver, I could be sure only of one thing in that semi-darkness: he wore a tarbush and was therefore presumably an Egyptian.
The Negro opened the door for me, and I stepped in. One of the headlights was switched on momentarily, and I saw a heavy gate being opened. Then, the driver had swung out into a narrow street. It was not that behind the Mosque of Muayyad...
Through a number of such narrow streets, with never a light anywhere, we went at fair speed. I found myself constantly chuckling at the surprise which I had in store for Rima and the chief. Its exact character was not apparent to me, but I was perfectly satisfied that when the time came all would be well.
A shock of doubt, which passed quickly, came, when leaving the last of these streets we bumped up an ill-made road, turned sharply, and at greatly accelerated speed set off along a straight tree-bordered avenue. Beyond question this was the road from Gizeh to Cairo!
Mental confusion resembling physical pain claimed me in that moment. My drugged brain, of course, was trying to force realities upon me. The spasm passed. There was some good reason for this circuitous route…
And now we were nearing Cairo. The moment of the great revelation was fast approaching.
I took very little heed of passing automobiles or pedestrians, nor did I note by what route the driver made his way through to the Sharia Kamel. But almost exactly at the spot where Fah Lo Suee had entered the yellow car, that is, nearly opposite Shepheard’s, we pulled up.
“Stand here, please, in the light,” said the driver, springing out and opening the door for me, “where she can see you when I find her.”
“I know,” I replied eagerly; “I understand perfectly.”
The man nodded and ran across to the terrace steps. The number of waiting cars was not so great as at the time of my departure, but it was obvious that revelry still proceeded.
So unusually warm was the night that fully half a dozen tables on the terrace were occupied by dancers who had evidently come there to seek comparative quiet. Dimly I could hear strains of music. One thing I knew urgently I must avoid above all others—I must not be seen by anyone who knew me.
It was vitally important that Rima alone should know what was afoot.
I saw the driver go up the steps. He looked about him swiftly and then went into the hotel. He was carrying my letter. I became the victim of a devouring impatience.
Rima was not well known at Shepheard’s and perhaps it might prove difficult to find her, unless she chanced to be in her room. All would be lost if Sir Lionel got to know, or even if Sir Denis or Dr. Petrie should suspect what was afoot.
My impatience grew by leaps and bounds.
A group of four people came out onto the terrace, walking down the strip of carpet towards the steps. I shrank back apprehensively. One was a big, heavily built man, and for a moment I mistook him for the chief, until I saw that he wore evening kit. A car drew up, and the party drove away.
Suspense became all but intolerable. Evidently some difficulty was being experienced in finding Rima, and the moments were precious—each one adding to the chances of detection. I found myself regarding failure of the plot with absolute horror!
Such was the genius of Dr. Fu-Manchu…
The doors revolved again. The Egyptian driver came out, walked to the head of the steps, and signaled to me.
I stepped forward into the roadway where I must be clearly visible from the terrace. Rima came out, dressed as I had seen her last, hatless and flushed with excitement. She held an open letter in her hand—mine. And she was staring eagerly across the street in quest of me.
None of the people seated on the terrace took any notice of these manoeuvres; indeed, as I realised joyfully, there was nothing extraordinary in a man calling to pick up a girl from a dance.
Rima saw me, raced down the steps, and ran across.
I noticed, with a quick pang of sorrow—which, however, instantly gave place to that thrilling exaltation which was the keynote of my mood—that she was, or recently had been, very frightened. She threw her arms around me with a little gasping cry and looked into my eyes.
“Shan, Shan darling! You have terrified us all! Wherever have you been? Whose car is this?”
“It is his car, dearest,” I replied. “Quick! get in. It’s important that nobody should see us.”
“His car?”
As I half lifted her in onto the cushions she grasped my arm and looked up with startled eyes at me. The chauffeur already was back at the wheel.
“Shan dear, whatever do you mean? Sir Denis got in touch with police headquarters half an hour ago. And Uncle is simply raving. Dr. Petrie has asked everybody he knows in the hotel if you were seen to leave.”
I held her close as the car moved off, but she began to tremble violently.
“Shan!—my dear, my dear!” she cried, and pulled my head down, trying to search my eyes in that semidarkness. “For God’s sake, where are we going?”
“We are going to him,” I replied.
“My God! He’s mad!”
The words were barely audible—a mere whisper. Thrusting both hands against my breast, Rima tried to push me away—to free herself. Already we had passed the Continental.
“Yo
u don’t understand, darling…”
“God help me, Shan, I do! Make him stop! Make him stop, I tell you!”
An English policeman was on duty at the corner, and as we raced past him, I saw him raise his arm. Rima, wrenching free, leaned from the window, and:
“Help!” she screamed.
But I drew her forcibly back, putting my hand over her mouth before she could utter another word.
“My darling!” I said, holding her very close. “You will spoil everything! You will spoil everything!”
She relaxed and lay very still in my arms...
The way was practically deserted, now, and we passed few lighted patches, but I could see her big, upcast eyes fixed upon me with an intensity of expression which puzzled me. I could see, too, that she had grown very pale. She did not speak again, but continued to watch me in that strange manner.
She seemed to be communicating some silent message and to be changing my mood, cooling that feverish exaltation.
What had she asked? Where we were going? Yes, that was it... And where were we going? Mental turmoil like a physical pain claimed me again as I tried to grapple with that question…
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“HE WILL BE CROWNED IN DAMASCUS”
I have related what really happened on that night in Cairo in the proper order of those events—but in their order as I knew it later. As a matter of fact, quite a long interval elapsed, as will presently appear, before I was able to recall anything whatever from the time when I set out in pursuit of Madame Ingomar to that when I acted as a decoy in the abduction of Rima.
A master player had used me as a pawn. The very seat of reason had been shaken by a drug not to be discovered in any pharmacopoeia. These events and those which immediately followed I was to recover later. I must return now to the conclusion of a phase in my life which I still consider the most remarkable any man has known…
“Shan dear, I know you are very sleepy, but it’s getting cold, and very late…”
I stirred dreamily, opening my eyes. I was pillowed on a warm ivory shoulder, a bare arm encircled my neck, and the silvery voice which had awakened me was tenderly caressing. I hugged my fragrant pillow and felt no desire to move.
A long jade earring touched me coldly. Soothing fingers stroked my hair, and the silvery voice whispered:
“Truly, Shan, you must wake up! I’m sorry, dear, but you must.”
Reluctantly I raised my head, looking into brilliant green eyes regarding me under half lowered lashes. Their glance was a caress as soothing as that of the slender fingers.
Fah Lo Suee, I mused languidly, conscious of nothing but a dreamy contentment, and thinking what perfect lips she had, when, smiling, she bent and whispered in my ear:
“Love dreams are so bitter-sweet because we know we are dreaming.”
But yet I was reluctant to move. I could see a long reach of the Nile, touched to magic by the moon. Dahabeahs were moored against the left bank, their slender, graceful masts forming harmonious lines against a background of grouped palms and straggling white buildings. Of course! I was in Fah Lo Suee’s car; her arms were about me. I turned my head, looking over a silken shoulder to where a bridge spanned the Nile. It must be very late, I mused, later than I had supposed; the Kasr el-Nil bridge was deserted.
Memory began to return—or what I thought then to be memory— from the moment when I determined to follow Fah Lo Suee from the garden of Shepheard’s… I had been uncertain of her identity until she had removed the gold mask…
“I think someone has been watching, Shan, and I am positively shivering. I am going to drive you back now.”
I sat bolt upright, one hand raised to my head, as Fah Lo Suee bent slightly and started the car. With never another glance aside, she drove on, presently to turn, right, into the maze of Cairo’s empty streets.
Furtively I watched the clear profile of the driver. It was beautiful, and strangely like that of the mystery queen, Nefertiti, whose cold loveliness has caused so much controversy. The small chin was delicately but firmly modelled, the straight nose from a strictly classical standpoint was perhaps too large, but very characteristic. I exulted in the knowledge that this brilliant and alluring woman had selected me—Shan Greville—from the rest of mankind.
Cairo’s streets were depopulated as the streets of sleeping Thebes; and at the corner of Sharia el-Maghriabi, which I recognized with a start of awakening, Fah Lo Suee pulled up.
I did not know then, but I knew later, the real character of a kind of wave of remorse which swept over me. It was, of course, my true self fighting against this strange abandonment, partly drug-induced and partly hypnotic, which held me voluptuously...
Rima! How could I ever face Rima? What explanation could I offer which she would accept? And Sir Denis! Oddly enough, it was his grim brown face which appeared most vividly before me in that odd moment of clarity: the chief and Dr. Petrie were mere shadows in a mist background...
I had held a link of a deathly conspiracy in my hand. I could have snapped it; my duty was plain. Instead, I had passed the hours in dalliance with Fah Lo Suee! I clutched my head, trying to recall where we had gone. I could not believe that I had spent the night like some callow undergraduate on a petting party; but:
“You must walk from here, Shan,” said Fah Lo Suee. “I dare not drive you any farther.”
She linked her arms about me and crushed her lips against mine, her long, narrow eyes closed. And in the complete surrender of that parting embrace I experienced a mad triumph which no other conquest could have given me. Rima, Nayland Smith, the chief—all were forgotten!
“Goodnight, dear! And remember me until we meet again…”
I stood on the pavement struggling with the most conflicting emotions, as the car swept around in the empty Sharia el-Maghrabi and disappeared in the direction of Ismailia. The perfume of that parting kiss still lingered on my lips. As a man marooned, condemned, forgotten, I stood there—I cannot say for how long. But at last I turned and stared about me.
Cairo was asleep. What did it matter? I laughed aloud—and began to walk back to Shepheard’s.
I met never a soul in the Sharia Kamel, until just before reaching the terrace. At this point, where there are a number of shops lying back from the street, a hideous object, a belated beggar man, suddenly emerged from the shadows.
Ragged, bearded, indescribably filthy, he hobbled upon a crude crutch. As he ranged up beside me, muttering unintelligibly, I thrust my hand into my trouser pocket, found some small coins, and dropped them in his extended palm.
“He will be crowned in Damascus,” said the mendicant, and hobbled away…
I despair of making my meaning clear; but those words formed the termination of what I can only term the second phase of my dream-like experience. Oddly enough, they remained with me: I mean, when all else was forgotten, I remembered the words, “He will be crowned in Damascus.”
For, as they were spoken, and as I listened to the tap-tap-tap of the mendicant’s crutch receding in the distance, a complete mental blackout came for a third time in that one night!
All that I have related of my experience with Fah Lo Suee, as well as that which went before, I was to recall later, as I shall presently explain; but, so far as I knew at the time, in effect what occurred was this:
I found myself standing, swaying rather dizzily, and with a splitting headache, looking towards the steps of Shepheard’s with the words buzzing in my ears: “He will be crowned in Damascus.”
The sound of the crutch had died away, and I had no idea who had spoken those words! I know now, of course, that they formed part of an amazing sequence of hypnotic suggestions; that they were my cue for final forgetfulness. At the time, I merely knew that, wondering when and where I had heard that sentence spoken, I staggered forward, trying to remember why I was there—and what business had brought me to Cairo.
Then came true memory—I mean memory without interference.
I had reac
hed the foot of the steps when the facts returned to me… That narrow alley behind the Mosque of Muayyad! From the moment I had entered it until the present, I was conscious of nothing but darkness!
How had I reached the Sharia Kamel? I asked myself. Could I have walked? And where had I heard those words: “He will be crowned in Damascus”?
Shepheard’s was in darkness, and it suddenly occurred to me to look at my wrist watch.
Three A.M.
Heavy-footed, I mounted the steps. The door was barred, but I pressed the bell. In the interval of waiting for the night porter to open, I cudgeled my brains for an explanation of what had happened.
I had followed Fu-Manchu’s daughter (of her identity I was all but certain) in a taxicab. I should remember the man. Leaving him at a corner near the Bab ez-Zuwela, I had unwisely run on into a narrow alleyway; and then?
Then… I had found myself a few steps away from the point at which I now stood at three in the morning!
The night porter unbarred the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE HAND OF FU-MANCHU
The night porter, who knew me well, stared like a man who sees a ghost.
“Good heavens, Mr. Greville!”
I saw that the lobby was in the hands of an army of cleaners, removing traces of the night’s festivities. A man standing over by the hall porter’s desk turned and then came forward quickly.
“Where is Sir Lionel Barton?” I had begun when:
“Are you Mr. Shan Greville?” the stranger asked.
He was an alert-looking man wearing dinner kit and carrying a soft felt hat. There was something about him which was vaguely familiar.
“I am,” I replied.
The hall porter had stepped back as the newcomer arrived upon the scene, but he continued to stare at me, in a half-frightened way.
“My name is Hewlett. I’m in charge of police headquarters in the absence of Superintendent Weymouth. I was never more pleased to see a man in my life than I am to see you, Mr. Greville.”
