by Sax Rohmer
It was a new point of view—but a startling one.
“Frankly, no.” I admitted. “But we have had experience in the past, Sir Denis, of remarkable behaviour on the part of persons subjected to the poisons of Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“You are thinking of an attempt once made unconsciously by Rima to murder me?” he suggested. I had thought of this. Don’t imagine I haven’t taken it into account. But no agent of Dr. Fu-Manchu, with such an object in mind, could be so clumsy as this.”
He pointed to the tablet upon the table.
“I suppose you’re right,” I said dully. “But all the same, you are not suggesting that I should follow out these instructions?”
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“I am merely suggesting,” he answered, “that you should keep this remarkable clue. It may have its uses later.”
Already he was sniffing at the paper and envelope, scrutinising the writing—holding the sheet up to the light—examining its texture.
“Very remarkable,” he “murmured, and, turning, stared at me fixedly.
Personally, I was on the verge of collapse and knew it. My brain was a veritable circus; my body was deadly weary. Desperately though anxiety rode me, I would have given all I had for one hour of sleep, of forgetfulness, of relief from this fever which was burning me up. Nayland Smith came forward and, seating himself beside me, put his arm around my shoulders.
“Listen, Greville,” he said. “Petrie is due back in a few minutes, now. He won’t have long to spare. But I’m going to make him put you to sleep. You understand?”
I had never in my life stood so near to the borders of hysteria.
“Thanks,” I replied; “of course I do. And I’ll submit to it; but there’s a proviso…”
“What is it?”
“Not for more than an hour. I can’t bear the thought of lying like a log while I might be of use to her.”
He gripped my tightly for a moment, and then stood up.
“You are off duty,” he snapped dryly. “I’m in charge, and you’ll take my orders. When Petrie comes, you’ll do exactly as Petrie directs. In the meantime, have I your permission to examine and photograph this letter? You will then, quite properly, wish to destroy it, as your correspondent directs.”
I agreed. At which very moment the door was thrown open and Petrie came in. One glance he cast at Sir Denis, and then directed that searching professional gaze upon me; the analytical look of a diagnostician. I saw that he was not favourably impressed.
“Smith,” he said, with another glance at Sir Denis, “our friend here must sleep.”
Nayland Smith nodded.
“It’s not going to be easy,” Petrie continued; “you’re most terribly overwrought, Greville. But if you share my opinion that sleep is necessary, I think I can manage you.”
“I do,” I replied.
“In that event, the matter is simple enough. We will go up to your room, now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE MESSENGER
“Wake up, old chap, there’s good news!”
I opened my eyes to find myself staring up into the face of Nayland Smith. My brain was confused; I could not coordinate circumstances, and:
“What is it?” I asked drowsily; “what’s the time?”
“Never mind the time, Greville. Wake up! There’s work for you.”
Then full consciousness came. But before I had time to clear the borderland:
“He will be crowned in Damascus,” said Nayland Smith staring intently into my eyes.
His gaze held me; but in the moment that he spoke I had seen that Dr. Petrie stood behind him, that I was lying in my room. Even as I realised what he was endeavouring to do, I realised also that he had partially succeeded.
For my memory was thrown back as he willed it to be, to the pavement of the Sharia Kamel. Dawn, as I recalled the scene, was not far off. And I was walking in the direction of Shepheard’s. Out of the shadows of the recess where the shops lie back, a ragged figure approached me, whining for bakshish. I saw him clearly; every line and lineament of his dirty face, his straggly gray beard, his ragged garments, his crutch. I could hear it tapping on the pavement...
I saw myself give him alms and turn away; I heard his words: “He will be crowned in Damascus.” I knew again the mystification which had descended upon me in that moment; and felt the depth of wonder about where I had been and of how I came to find myself in that place, at that time.
Starting up in bed:
“It was an old beggarman,” I cried hoarsely, “in the Sharia Kamel, who spoke those words!”
And while Nayland Smith and Petrie listened eagerly I told them all that I had remembered. And, concluding:
“What’s the news?” I demanded, now fully awake, and conscious that my hours of sleep had given me new life.
“It’s as I predicted, Greville,” Nayland Smith replied. “She is being held to ransom.”
I sprang out onto the floor. Queerly enough, that news came like balm to my troubled mind. Rima was in the hands of Dr. Fu-Manchu! A dreadful thought, one would suppose—but better, far, far better than doubt. One thing at least I knew definitely: that if terms had been demanded by the Chinaman, it remained only strictly to carry them out.
The most evil man I had ever known, he was also, according to his own peculiar code, the most honourable. I met Nayland Smith’s glance and knew that he understood me.
“I have burned your letter, Greville,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” I replied. “And now, tell me: Who brought the news?”
“The messenger is in Barton’s room,” Dr. Petrie answered, watching me with keen professional interest. “How do you feel? Fairly fit?”
“Thanks to you, I feel a new man.”
Nayland Smith smiled and glanced aside at Petrie.
“You may recall,” he said, “that no less an authority than Dr. Fu-Manchu always regarded your great talents as wasted, Petrie!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MR. ADEN’S PROPOSAL
“Leave this to me, Barton,” Nayland Smith said sharply. “If you interfere in any way I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”
Sir Lionel clenched his fists and glared at our visitor; then, crossing, he stood with his back to us, looking out of the window. He was dishevelled, unshaven, wrapped in his dilapidated old dressing gown, and in a mood as dangerous as any I had ever known.
Professional duties had compelled Dr. Petrie to leave, and so there were four of us in the long pleasant room, with its two windows overlooking the garden. I was little better groomed than the chief, for I had been fast asleep five minutes before, thanks to Petrie’s ministrations. But Sir Denis, although his gray suit had seen much wear, looked normally spruce.
I stared with murderous disfavour at a man seated in an armchair over by the writing table.
Heavily built, he wore the ordinary morning dress of a business man, and indeed was of a type which one may meet with in any of the capitals of the world. His face, inclined to be fat, was of a dead white colour. Thick iron-gray hair was cut close to his skull, and he had a jet-black moustache. I hated his dark, restless eyes.
“This is Mr.—er—Aden,” Nayland Smith continued; “and as the business upon which he has come interests you personally, Greville, I thought you should be present.”
Mr. Aden bowed and smiled. My detestation grew by leaps and bounds.
“Mr. Aden is a solicitor practising in Cairo. By the way—” suddenly turning to our visitor—“I believe I met your brother some years ago.”
“That is not possible,” said the Greek; and his oily voice did nothing to redeem his character in my eyes.
“No?” Sir Denis queried rapidly. “Not a Mr. Samarkan, one-time manager of the New Louvre Hotel in London? But surely?”
Mr. Aden visibly started, but endeavoured to conceal the fact with an artificial cough and a swiftly upraised hand.
“You are mistaken. Sir Denis,�
�� he declared suavely, “not possibly in the resemblance, but certainly in the relationship. I never heard of Mr. Samarkan.”
“Indeed!” snapped Nayland Smith, and turned aside. “Let it pass, then. Briefly, Greville the position is this: Mr.—er—Aden, here in the ordinary way of his professional duties—”
“Damned nonsense!” shouted the chief, stamping one slippered foot upon the floor, but not turning around. “He’s one of the gang and an impudent liar!”
“Barton!” Nayland Smith interrupted angrily, “I have requested you to leave this matter to me. If you insist upon interrupting, I shall order you to do so.”
“Order be damned!”
“I have the necessary authority.”
Some few moments of ominous silence followed, during which Nayland Smith stood staring at the broad back of Sir Lionel. The latter remained silent, and:
“Very well,” Sir Denis went on. “As I was explaining, Greville, Mr.—er—the name persistently escapes me…”
“Adrian Aden,” our visitor prompted smoothly.
“Yes. Mr. Aden has been instructed by one of his clients to approach Barton professionally.”
“The situation is difficult,” Mr. Aden explained, extending a fat white hand. “But what could I do? I act for the great interests in Egypt. I cannot afford to offend.”
“Ah!” shouted the chief, “truth at last! I admit you’re not the man to offend Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“Dr. Fu-Manchu?” Mr. Aden murmured. “That name also is unfamiliar to me.”
Nayland Smith glanced in Barton’s direction, snapped his fingers irritably, and:
“The name of your client it is unnecessary to discuss at the moment,” he said. “But I gather your instructions to be these: A body of religious fanatics has abducted Miss Rima Barton. Your client has learned that she will be returned unharmed if the demands of these religious fanatics are complied with?”
“Ah!” beamed Mr. Aden, “but this is common sense, Sir Denis. How perfectly you understand my position.”
“If you understood it,” growled the chief, “you would know that you might be kicked through the window at any moment.”
“This is the lowest and foulest kind of blackmail,” I broke in savagely. “If you are what you claim to be, a solicitor, you deserve to be struck off the rolls.”
“Really, Greville,” said Nayland Smith, “you are unduly hard upon Mr. Aden. I have no doubt that he has undertaken infinitely more delicate cases.”
Mr. Aden shot a quick glance at the speaker, but either missed the point or professed to do so.
“You speak hastily, Mr. Greville,” he replied. “I act for those who would help you.”
“His clients, you see, Greville,” Nayland Smith continued dryly, “seem to know all that goes on in the Near East. They deeply deplore the outrage which has been committed—I understood you to say so, Mr. Aden.”
“Oh, but completely!”
“And they suggest a means by which Miss Barton’s release may be secured. In fact, the exact terms are mentioned, I believe?”
“But certainly!” But certainly!” the Greek assured him. “They claim, these religious people, that Sir Lionel Barton has stolen property which belongs to them.”
To my intense surprise the chief did not speak, did not move.
“They say also, my clients inform me, that, if this property is returned, the missing lady will also be returned.”
“Quite reasonable,” Sir Denis murmured. “Have you details of the property which they claim has been stolen?”
“I have it here.”
Mr. Aden opened a portfolio lying beside him on the floor and extracted a sheet of paper.
“A sword or scimitar of Damascus steel inlaid with gold, having a curved, double-edged blade and the hilt encrusted with emeralds, rubies, and pearls…”
He slipped on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, the better to read, and continued:
“A mask of thin gold finely engraved; and fifteen thin gold plates sixteen inches long by twelve inches wide, bearing the text of the New Koran of El Mokanna.”
He ceased speaking, took off his spectacles, and looked up.
As he did so, Sir Lionel turned. And before Nayland Smith could check him:
“Suppose I admitted that I had these things in my possession,” he said, glaring down upon the white-faced Greek, “what would you do?”
“I should believe you.”
“Thanks. But how much better off would Rima be?”
“Barton,” said Nayland Smith, “absolutely for the last time—will you either shut up or get out!”
The chief plunged his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, glared down at the Greek again, and glared at Sir Denis. Then, walking across to a settee, he threw himself upon it, stamping his feet on the floor.
“We will assume,” Nayland Smith continued, “that the objects you enumerate are actually in Sir Lionel’s possession. What next?”
“I understand that those who have her in charge will give up Miss Barton in exchange for these relics.”
“Under what conditions?”
I was positively boiling over, and hot words leapt to my tongue; but Sir Denis stared me down.
“You will bring those things which I have specified to an appointed place,” Mr. Aden replied, “and there you will meet Miss Rima Barton.”
“Sounds like an ambush,” Nayland Smith snapped.
The Greek shrugged his fat shoulders.
“I should be glad to communicate any other suggestion you might care to make. But first—my instructions on this point are explicit—”he turned with unconcealed nervousness to Sir Lionel: “I must see these items, please,” he held up the sheet of paper, “and notify my clients that all is correct.”
“Don’t speak, Barton,” said Nayland Smith. “The suitcase is under the settee, just by your feet. Haul it out, unstrap it, unlock it, and comply with Mr. Aden’s request.”
The chief’s face grew positively purple as he angrily sustained the fixed stare of Sir Denis.
“Neither Greville nor I can understand your hesitation,” the latter added. “Nothing else counts while Rima is in the hands of—Mr. Aden’s client.”
At those words Sir Lionel’s furious glare was transferred to Mr. Aden, upon whose white forehead I could see beads of perspiration. Then he stooped, hauled forth the heavy suitcase, and unfastened it.
Out from the interior he lifted and laid upon a small table those priceless relics of the Masked Prophet, the possession of which had brought about such disaster and in its consequences driven me to the verge of madness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A STRANGE RENDEZVOUS
We sat on the terrace in a corner near the entrance to the American Bar. It was getting on towards lunch time, and this was a fairly busy season in Cairo. I had seen several people I knew, but had deliberately avoided them. Now I faced Sir Lionel across the cane-topped table, and:
“There’s one thing I can’t stand, Greville,” he said, “and that’s being ordered about! Latterly, I’ve had too much of it—altogether too much of it.” He brought his fist down on the table with a bang. “But we shall see who scores in the end. As for that slimy swine Aden, he’s no more a solicitor than I’m a barber.”
“Wrong again, Barton,” came quietly, and glancing up I saw that Nayland Smith had just come through the doors behind us.
“I’m apparently always wrong,” growled the chief.
“Not always,” said Sir Denis, drawing up a chair. “But it happens that the Mr. Samarkan whom I mentioned an hour ago—you remember him, of course?”
“My memory isn’t failing me. Smith! He died in England, in those damned caves—near my own place. Of course I remember him! Thanks to you, the sticky business was hushed up!”
“Ah!” murmured Nayland Smith, and his stern face suddenly broke into a smile.
That smile rather cleared the air.
“You know, Barton,” he went on, “al
though you’re the last man to admit it, you’ve been behaving like a sick cow ever since Rima disappeared. I understand your feelings, but I don’t understand why you should vent them on your friends. However (it was Petrie who gave me the clue), the record of M. Samarkan—one-time manager of a hotel no great distance from this, and, later, of the New Louvre in London—is filed at Scotland Yard. Therefore I happen to know that he had a brother. I know also that his brother changed his name by deed poll and took out naturalisation papers.”
He paused, staring hard at Sir Lionel.
“I saw the resemblance, of course,” the chief admitted, “but…”
“So did I,” Nayland Smith went on. “But it was Petrie who placed him. I have just been checking up on the gentleman. He has a legal practice in Cairo, as he stated. But it’s of a very shady character.”
“So I imagine,” I interjected.
“In short, there’s no doubt whatever that his main source of revenue is the affairs of the Si-Fan. He’s one of their spies, and an agent of Dr. Fu-Manchu, as his brother was before him.”
Simply eaten up with impatience and anxiety, I could scarcely contain myself during this conversation. And, as Sir Denis paused again:
“This doesn’t help me in the least to understand,” I said, “why you let the brute slip!”
“Same here,” growled the chief. “Personally, I should have thrown him out of the window.”
Sir Denis lay back in his chair, giving an order to a waiter who had just come up; and, as the man went away:
“Your primitive tactics, Barton,” he remarked coldly, “would probably result in the total disappearance of Rima. If that’s what you are after—take charge.”
“But—” the chief began.
“There’s no ‘but’!” snapped Nayland Smith impatiently. “We have absolutely no clue to Rima’s whereabouts. Greville, here, has been doped—his brain on that point is useless. The man you wanted to throw out of the window probably knows no more than we know. But he’s a link—a link which you would have snapped!”
