The Mystery of Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “Something, or someone?”

  “ ‘Something’ was the word he used. I searched, but fruitlessly, and he seemed quite satisfied, and returned to his work.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Burboyne. My friend and I would like a few minutes’ private investigation in the study.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE PERFUMED ENVELOPES

  Sir Crichton Davey’s study was a small one, and a glance sufficed to show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding-place. It was heavily carpeted, and over-full of Burmese and Chinese ornaments and curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood several framed photographs which showed this to be the sanctum of a wealthy bachelor who was no misogynist. A map of the Indian Empire occupied the larger part of one wall. The grate was empty, for the weather was extremely warm, and a green-shaded lamp on the littered writing-table afforded the only light. The air was stale, for both windows were closed and fastened.

  Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay beside the blotting-pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open it, but my friend did so. It contained a blank sheet of paper!

  “Smell!” he directed, handing the letter to me.

  I raised it to my nostrils. It was scented with some pungent perfume.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It is a rather rare essential oil,” was the reply, “which I have met with before, though never in Europe. I begin to understand, Petrie.”

  He tilted the lampshade, and made a close examination of the scraps of paper, matches and other debris that lay in the grate and on the hearth. I took up a copper vase from the mantelpiece, and was examining it curiously, when he turned, a strange expression upon his face.

  “Put that back, old man,” he said quietly.

  Much surprised, I did as he directed.

  “Don’t touch anything in the room. It may be dangerous.”

  Something in the tone of his voice chilled me, and I hastily replaced the vase, and stood by the door of the study, watching him search, methodically, every inch of the room—behind the books, in all the ornaments, in table drawers, in cupboards, on shelves.

  “That will do,” he said at last. “There is nothing here, and I have no time to search further.”

  We returned to the library.

  “Inspector Weymouth,” said my friend, “I have a particular reason for asking that Sir Crichton’s body be removed from this room at once and the library locked. Let no one be admitted on any pretence whatever until you hear from me.”

  It spoke volumes for the mysterious credentials borne by my friend that the man from Scotland Yard accepted his orders without demur, and, after a brief chat with Mr. Burboyne, Smith passed briskly downstairs. In the hall a man who looked like a groom out of livery was waiting.

  “Are you Wills?” asked Smith.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It was you who heard a cry of some kind at the rear of the house about the time of Sir Crichton’s death?”

  “Yes, sir. I was locking the garage door, and happening to look up at the window of Sir Crichton’s study, I saw him jump out of his chair. Where he used to sit at his writing, sir, you could see his shadow on the blind. Next minute I heard a call out in the lane.”

  “What kind of call?”

  The man, whom the uncanny happening clearly had frightened, seemed puzzled for a suitable description.

  “A sort of wail, sir!” he said at last. “I never heard anything like it before, and don’t want to again.”

  “Like this?” inquired Smith, and he uttered a low, wailing cry, impossible to describe.

  Wills perceptibly shuddered; and, indeed, it was an eerie sound.

  “The same, sir, I think,” he said, “but much louder.”

  “That will do,” said Smith, and I thought I detected a note of triumph in his voice. “But stay! Take us through to the back of the house.”

  The man bowed and led the way, so that shortly we found ourselves in a small, paved courtyard. It was a perfect summer’s night, and the deep blue vault above was jewelled with myriads of starry points. How impossible it seemed to reconcile that vast, eternal calm with the hideous passions and fiendish agencies which that night had loosed a soul upon the infinite.

  “Up yonder are the study windows, sir. Over that wall on your left is the back lane from which the cry came, and beyond is Regent’s Park.”

  “Are the study windows visible from there?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “Who occupies the adjoining house?”

  “Major-General Platt-Houston, sir; but the family is out of town.”

  “Those iron stairs are a means of communication between the domestic offices and the servants’ quarters, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then send someone to make my business known to the Major-General’s housekeeper; I want to examine those stairs.”

  Singular though my friend’s proceedings appeared to me, I had ceased to wonder at anything. Since Nayland Smith’s arrival at my rooms I seemed to have been moving through the fitful phases of a nightmare. My friend’s account of how he came by the wound in his arm; the scene on our arrival at the house of Sir Crichton Davey; the secretary’s story of the dying man’s cry, “The red hand!”; the hidden perils of the study; the wail in the lane—all were fitter incidents of delirium than of sane reality. So, when a white-faced butler made us known to a nervous old lady who proved to be the housekeeper of the next-door residence, I was not surprised at Smith’s saying:

  “Lounge up and down outside, Petrie. Everyone has cleared off now. It is getting late. Keep your eyes open and be on your guard. I thought I had the start, but he is here before me, and, what is worse, he probably knows by now that I am here, too.”

  With which he entered the house and left me out in the square, with leisure to think, to try to understand.

  The crowd which usually haunts the scene of a sensational crime had been cleared away, and a report had been circulated that Sir Crichton had died from natural causes. The intense heat having driven most of the residents out of town, practically I was alone in the square, and I gave myself up to a brief consideration of the mystery in which I so suddenly had become involved.

  By what agency had Sir Crichton met his death? Did Nayland Smith know? I rather suspected that he did. What was the hidden significance of the perfumed envelope? Who was that mysterious personage whom Smith so evidently dreaded, who had attempted his life, who, presumably, had murdered Sir Crichton? Sir Crichton Davey, during the time that he had held office in India, and during his long term of service at home, had earned the goodwill of all, British and native alike. Who was his secret enemy?

  Something touched me lightly on the shoulder.

  I turned, with my heart fluttering like a child’s. This night’s work had imposed a severe strain even upon my callous nerves.

  A girl wrapped in a hooded opera-cloak stood at my elbow, and, as she glanced up at me, I thought that I never had seen a face so seductively lovely nor of so unusual a type. With the skin of a perfect blonde, she had eyes and lashes as black as a Creole’s, which, together with her full red lips, told me that this beautiful stranger whose touch had so startled me was not a child of our Northern shores.

  “Forgive me,” she said, speaking with an odd, pretty accent, and laying a slim hand, with jewelled fingers, confidingly upon my arm, “if I startled you. But—is it true that Sir Crichton Davey has been—murdered?”

  I looked into her big, questioning eyes, a harsh suspicion labouring in my mind, but could read nothing in their mysterious depths—only I wondered anew at my questioner’s beauty. The grotesque idea momentarily possessed me that, were the bloom of her red lips due to art and not to nature, their kiss would leave—though not indelibly—just such a mark as I had seen upon the dead man’s hand. But I dismissed the fantastic notion as bred out of the night’s horrors, and worthy only of a medieval legend. No doubt she was some friend or acquaintance of Sir
Crichton who lived close by.

  “I cannot say that he has been murdered,” I replied, acting upon the latter supposition, and seeking to tell her what she asked as gently as possible. “But he is—”

  “Dead?”

  I nodded.

  She closed her eyes and uttered a low, moaning sound, swaying dizzily. Thinking she was about to swoon, I threw my arm around her shoulders to support her. But she smiled sadly, and pushed me gently away.

  “I am quite well, thank you,” she said.

  “You are certain? Let me walk with you until you feel quite sure of yourself.”

  She shook her head, flashed a rapid glance at me with her beautiful eyes, and looked away in a sort of sorrowful embarrassment for which I was entirely at a loss to account. Suddenly she resumed:

  “I cannot let my name be mentioned in this dreadful matter, but—I think I have some information—for the police. Will you give this to—whomever you think proper?”

  She handed me a sealed envelope, again met my eyes with one of her dazzling glances, and hurried away. She had gone no more than ten or twelve yards, and I still was standing bewildered, watching her graceful, retreating figure, when she turned abruptly and came back. Without looking directly at me, but alternately glancing towards a distant corner of the square and towards the house of Major-General Platt-Houston, she made the following extraordinary request:

  “If you would do me a very great service, for which I always would be grateful”—she glanced at me with passionate intentness—“when you have given my message to the proper person, leave him and do not go near him any more tonight!”

  Before I could find words to reply she gathered up her cloak and ran. Before I could determine whether or not to follow her (for her words had aroused anew all my worst suspicions) she had disappeared! I heard the whir of a re-started motor at no great distance, and, in the instant that Nayland Smith came running down the steps, I knew that I had nodded at my post.

  “Smith!” I cried, as he joined me, “tell me what we must do!”

  And rapidly I acquainted him with the incident.

  My friend looked very grave; then a grim smile crept around his lips.

  “She was a big card to play,” he said, “but he did not know that I held one to beat it.”

  “What! You know this girl! Who is she?”

  “She is one of the finest weapons in the enemy’s armoury, Petrie. But a woman is a two-edged sword, and treacherous. To our great good fortune she has formed a sudden predilection, characteristically Oriental, for yourself. Oh, you may scoff, but it is evident. She was employed to get this letter placed in my hands. Give it to me.”

  I did so.

  “She has succeeded. Smell.”

  He held the envelope under my nose, and with a sudden sense of nausea I recognized the strange perfume.

  “You know what this presaged in Sir Crichton’s case? Can you doubt any longer? She did not want you to share my fate, Petrie.”

  “Smith,” I said unsteadily, “I have followed your lead blindly in this horrible business, and have not pressed for an explanation, but I must insist before I go one step further upon knowing what it all means.”

  “Just a few steps further,” he rejoined, “as far as a cab. We are hardly safe here. Oh, you need not fear shots or knives. The man whose servants are watching us now scorns to employ such clumsy, tell-tale weapons.”

  Only three cabs were on the rank, and, as we entered the first, something hissed past my ear, missed both Smith and myself by a miracle, and, passing over the roof of the taxi, presumably fell in the enclosed garden occupying the centre of the square!

  “What was that?” I cried.

  “Get in—quickly!” Smith rapped back. “It was attempt number one! More than that I cannot say. Don’t let the man hear. He has noticed nothing. Pull up the window on your side, Petrie, and look out behind. Good! We’ve started.”

  The cab moved off with a metallic jerk, and I turned and looked back through the little window in the rear.

  “Some one has got into another cab. It is following ours, I think.”

  Nayland Smith lay back and laughed unmirthfully.

  “Petrie,” he said, “if I escape alive from this business I shall know that I bear a charmed life.”

  I made no reply, as he pulled out the dilapidated pouch and filled his pipe.

  “You have asked me to explain matters,” he continued, “and I will do so to the best of my ability. You no doubt wonder why a servant of the British Government, lately stationed in Burma, suddenly appears in London in the character of a detective. I am here, Petrie—and I bear credentials from the very highest sources—because, quite by accident, I came upon a clue. Following it up, in the ordinary course of routine, I obtained evidence of the existence and malignant activity of a certain man. At the present stage of the case I should not be justified in terming him the emissary of an Eastern Power, but I may say that representations are shortly to be made to that Power’s ambassador in London.”

  He paused, and glanced back towards the pursuing cab.

  ‘There is little to fear until we arrive home,” he said calmly. “Afterwards there is much. To continue. This man, whether a fanatic, or a duly appointed agent, is, unquestionably, the most malign and formidable personality existing in the known world today. He is a linguist who speaks with almost equal facility in any of the civilized languages, and in most of the barbaric. He is an adept in all the arts and sciences which a great university could teach him. He also is an adept in certain obscure arts and sciences which no university of today can teach. He has the brains of any three men of genius. Petrie, he is a mental giant.”

  “You amaze me!” I said.

  “As to his mission among men. Why did M. Jules Furneaux fall dead in a Paris opera-house? Because of heart failure? No! Because his last speech had shown that he held the key to the secret of Tongking. What became of the Grand Duke Stanislaus? Elopement? Suicide? Nothing of the kind. He alone was fully alive to Russia’s growing peril. He alone knew the truth about Mongolia. Why was Sir Crichton Davey murdered? Because, had the work he was engaged upon ever seen the light, it would have shown him to be the only living Englishman who understood the importance of the Tibetan frontiers. I say to you solemnly, Petrie, that these are but a few. Is there a man who would arouse the West to a sense of the awakening of the East, who would teach the deaf to hear, the blind to see, that the millions only await their leader? He will die. And this is only one phase of the devilish campaign. The others I can merely surmise.”

  “But, Smith, this is almost incredible! What perverted genius controls this awful secret movement?”

  “Imagine a person, tall, lean and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long, magnetic eyes of the true cat-green. Invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giant intellect, with all the resources of science past and present, with all the resources, if you will, of a wealthy government—which, however, already has denied all knowledge of his existence. Imagine that awful being, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the yellow peril incarnate in one man.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE ZAYAT KISS

  I sank into an armchair in my rooms and gulped down a strong peg of brandy.

  “We have been followed here,” I said. “Why did you make no attempt to throw the pursuers off the track, to have them intercepted?”

  Smith laughed.

  “Useless, in the first place. Wherever we went, he would find us. And of what use to arrest his creatures? We could prove nothing against them. Further, it is evident that an attempt is to be made upon my life tonight—and by the same means that proved so successful in the case of poor Sir Crichton.”

  His square jaw grew truculently prominent, and he leapt stormily to his feet, shaking his clenched fists towards the window.

  “The villain!” he cried. “The fiendishly cle
ver villain! I suspected that Sir Crichton was next, and I was right. But I came too late, Petrie! That hits me hard, old man. To think that I knew and yet failed to save him!”

  He resumed his seat, smoking vigorously.

  “Fu-Manchu has made the blunder common to all men of unusual genius,” he said. “He has underrated his adversary. He has not given me credit for perceiving the meaning of the scented messages. He has thrown away one powerful weapon—to get such a message into my hands—and he thinks that, once safe within doors, I shall sleep, unsuspecting, and die as Sir Crichton died. But, without the indiscretion of your charming friend, I should have known what to expect when I received her ‘information’—which, by the way, consists of a blank sheet of paper.”

  “Smith,” I broke in, “who is she?”

  “She is either Fu-Manchu’s daughter, his wife, or his slave. I am inclined to believe the latter, for she has no will but his will, except”—with a quizzical glance—“in a certain instance.”

  “How can you jest with some awful thing—heaven knows what—hanging over your head? What is the meaning of these perfumed envelopes? How did Sir Crichton die?”

  “He died of the Zayat Kiss. Ask me what that is, and I reply, ‘I do not know’. The zayats are the Burmese caravanserais, or resthouses. Along a certain route—in which I set eyes, for the first and only time, upon Dr. Fu-Manchu—travellers who use them sometimes die as Sir Crichton died, with nothing to show the cause of death but a little mark upon the neck, face, or limb, which has earned, in those parts, the title of the ‘Zayat Kiss’. The rest-houses along that route are shunned now. I have my theory, and I hope to prove it tonight, if I live. It will be one more broken weapon in his fiendish armoury, and it is thus, and thus only, that I can hope to crush him. This was my principal reason for not enlightening Dr. Cleeve. Even walls have ears where Fu-Manchu is concerned, so I feigned ignorance of the meaning of the mark, knowing that he would be almost certain to employ the same methods upon some other victim. I wanted an opportunity to study the Zayat Kiss in operation, and I shall have one.”