Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “I wonder if any of the bodies will ever come ashore?” he said.

  “God knows!” rapped Dunbar; “we can’t even guess how many were aboard. You might as well come along, Sowerby, I’ve just heard from Dr. Cumberly. Mrs. Leroux”...

  “Dead?”

  “Dying,” replied the inspector; “expected to go at any moment. But the doctor tells me that she may — it’s just possible — recover consciousness before the end; and there’s a bare chance”...

  “I see,” said Sowerby eagerly; “of course she must know!”

  The two hastened to Palace Mansions. Despite the lateness of the hour, Whitehall was thronged with vehicles, and all the glitter and noise of midnight London surrounded them.

  “It only seems like yesterday evening,” said Dunbar, as they mounted the stair of Palace Mansions, “that I came here to take charge of the case. Damme! it’s been the most exciting I’ve ever handled, and it’s certainly the most disappointing.”

  “It is indeed,” said Sowerby, gloomily, pressing the bell-button at the side of Henry Leroux’s door.

  The door was opened by Garnham; and these two, fresh from the noise and bustle of London’s streets, stepped into the hushed atmosphere of the flat where already a Visitant, unseen but potent, was arrived, and now was beckoning, shadowlike, to Mira Leroux.

  “Will you please sit down and wait,” said Garnham, placing chairs for the two Scotland Yard men in the dining-room.

  “Who’s inside?” whispered Dunbar, with that note of awe in his voice which such a scene always produces; and he nodded in the direction of the lobby.

  “Mr. Leroux, sir,” replied the man, “the nurse, Miss Cumberly, Dr. Cumberly and Miss Ryland”...

  “No one else?” asked the detective sharply.

  “And Mr. Gaston Max,” added the man. “You’ll find whisky and cigars upon the table there, sir.”

  He left the room. Dunbar glanced across at Sowerby, his tufted brows raised, and a wry smile upon his face.

  “In at the death, Sowerby!” he said grimly, and lifted the stopper from the cut-glass decanter.

  In the room where Mira Leroux lay, so near to the Borderland that her always ethereal appearance was now positively appalling, a hushed group stood about the bed.

  “I think she is awake, doctor,” whispered the nurse softly, peering into the emaciated face of the patient.

  Mira Leroux opened her eyes and smiled at Dr. Cumberly, who was bending over her. The poor faded eyes turned from the face of the physician to that of Denise Ryland, then to M. Max, wonderingly; next to Helen, whereupon an indescribable expression crept into them; and finally to Henry Leroux, who, with bowed head, sat in the chair beside her. She feebly extended her thin hand and laid it upon his hair. He looked up, taking the hand in his own. The eyes of the dying woman filled with tears as she turned them from the face of Leroux to Helen Cumberly — who was weeping silently.

  “Look after... him,” whispered Mira Leroux.

  Her hand dropped and she closed her eyes again. Cumberly bent forward suddenly, glancing back at M. Max who stood in a remote corner of the room watching this scene.

  Big Ben commenced to chime the hour of midnight. That frightful coincidence so startled Leroux that he looked up and almost rose from his chair in his agitation. Indeed it startled Cumberly, also, but did not divert him from his purpose.

  “It is now or never!” he whispered.

  He took the seemingly lifeless hand in his own, and bending over Mira Leroux, spoke softly in her ear:

  “Mrs. Leroux,” he said, “there is something which we all would ask you to tell us; we ask it for a reason — believe me.”

  Throughout the latter part of this scene the big clock had been chiming the hour, and now was beating out the twelve strokes of midnight; had struck six of them and was about to strike the seventh.

  SEVEN! boomed the clock.

  Mira Leroux opened her eyes and looked up into the face of the physician.

  EIGHT!...

  “Who,” whispered Dr. Cumberly, “is he?”

  NINE!

  In the silence following the clock-stroke, Mira Leroux spoke almost inaudibly.

  “You mean... MR. KING?”

  TEN!

  “Yes, yes! Did you ever SEE him?”...

  Every head in the room was craned forward; every spectator tensed up to the highest ultimate point.

  “Yes,” said Mira Leroux quite clearly; “I saw him, Dr. Cumberly... He is”...

  ELEVEN!

  Mira Leroux moved her head and smiled at Helen Cumberly; then seemed to sink deeper into the downy billows of the bed. Dr. Cumberly stood up very slowly, and turned, looking from face to face.

  “It is finished,” he said— “we shall never know!”

  But Henry Leroux and Helen Cumberly, their glances meeting across the bed of the dead Mira, knew that for them it was not finished, but that Mr. King, the invisible, invisibly had linked them.

  TWELVE!...

  THE DEVIL DOCTOR

  OR, THE RETURN OF DR FU-MANCHU

  With this novel, published in Britain in 1916 as The Devil Doctor, we see the return of the master criminal Fu Manchu — “that accursed Chinaman” — to Britain to continue his plans for domination, but also to exact revenge on Dr Petrie and Sir Denis Nayland Smith, expert detective, who foiled his plot two years before in the previous novel, The Mystery of Dr Fu Manchu. The story is again narrated by Petrie. In 1930, a film was made with the same title, starring Warner Oland as the arch criminal, and with a plot loosely based on this story.

  The story opens with two familiar characters, Petrie and the Rev. Eltham, who both featured in the previous Fu Manchu narrative. Petrie is sent on a “wild goose chase” around the suburbs answering false calls for medical help, with Eltham trying to assist. The tension is beautifully built in these opening scenes, as one “hoax” after another, along with atmospheric descriptions of a misty London at night, creates the perfect backdrop for a mystery. Suddenly Nayland Smith is on the scene, and just in time as Eltham is bundled into a car and kidnapped. A car pursuit follows, as Nayland Smith commandeers a car and sets off after a long, sleek limousine into a less salubrious area near the river; and who should Petrie see but the beautiful slave, Karamaneh, who had captured his heart in the previous adventure? It was now clear that Fu Manchu was alive and well, and back in London with his retinue of assassins and slaves. Eltham is saved from terrible torture but Fu Manchu has yet to be found. However, it soon becomes apparent that Naylor Smith is intended to be the first victim of Fu Manchu’s desire for revenge. The range of weapons at Fu Manchu’s disposal is laid before us as the story unfolds, everything from people to poisons and cats, but of the master criminal himself, we see only fleeting moments. It is his trained killers of all kinds who take centre stage in this story, on his behalf, but it is a ploy that works well for Rohmer as Fu Manchu retains his mysterious, elusive charisma as a result. Consequently, Petrie and Naylor Smith — and the London police detectives who are part of the team too — battle an array of assailants and threats in their attempts to reach and defeat Fu Manchu himself, and Petrie has to face up to his growing infatuation with Karamaneh which at one point threatens to cloud his judgement completely. The gorgeous assistant of the criminal leader is able and sly, very much at ease with using her allure to distract and confuse; she can mix as easily in her own circles as in westernised ones, and she seems to be central to many of the events of this story. At the same time she is tormented by her role as handmaiden to Fu Manchu and shows glimpses of a gentle and decent soul beyond the role she is forced into. Is she serious about her desire to help our two heroes, or is it yet another of Fu Manchu’s clever ploys? Poisonings, stake-outs, optical illusions, dangerous animals, attacks, kidnappings and chases abound in this story as the fight between good and evil comes to a head.

  The brisk pace of the first Fu Manchu story continues here and it makes an entertaining read. Again one can either be amused or
indignant at the now archaic sentiments used by the author – at one point, when outclassed in banter by Karamaneh, Petrie thinks incredulously “It was a lesson in logic – from a woman!” The caucasian men all have iron wills and strong, jutting jawlines and the women can be wily but never dominant. The descriptions of London’s streets and those within them are vivid, from the leafy parks and respectable streets to the congested, poverty stricken district of Whitechapel with its diverse immigrant population – this latter has the added advantage of just about avoiding any real xenophobia, so the modern reader can sit back and enjoy the feeling that we are there on the crowded and noisy streets, and also admire the vivid descriptive powers of Rohmer. With the threat of the “Yellow Peril” added to the mix, no doubt respectable middle England would have been thrilled by the events that unfold rapidly in this fast paced story.

  The 1930 film adaptation, the second of three starring Warner Oland as the fiendish Fu Manchu

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  CHAPTER XXXII

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CHAPTER I

  A MIDNIGHT SUMMONS

  When did you last hear from Nayland Smith?” asked my visitor.

  I paused, my hand on the siphon, reflecting for a moment.

  “Two months ago,” I said: “he’s a poor correspondent and rather soured, I fancy.”

  “What — a woman or something?”

  “Some affair of that sort. He’s such a reticent beggar, I really know very little about it.”

  I placed a whisky and soda before the Rev. J. D. Eltham, also sliding the tobacco jar nearer to his hand. The refined and sensitive face of the clergyman offered no indication to the truculent character of the man. His scanty fair hair, already grey over the temples, was silken and soft-looking: in appearance he was indeed a typical English churchman; but in China he had been known as “the fighting missionary,” and had fully deserved the title. In fact, this peaceful-looking gentleman had directly brought about the Boxer Risings!

  “You know,” he said in his clerical voice, but meanwhile stuffing tobacco into an old pipe with fierce energy, “I have often wondered, Petrie — I have never left off wondering—”

  “What?”

  “That accursed Chinaman! Since the cellar place beneath the site of the burnt-out cottage in Dulwich Village — I have wondered more than ever.”

  He lighted his pipe and walked to the hearth to throw the match in the grate.

  “You see,” he continued, peering across at me in his oddly nervous way— “one never knows, does one? If I thought that Dr. Fu-Manchu lived; if I seriously suspected that that stupendous intellect, that wonderful genius, Petrie, er” — he hesitated characteristically— “survived, I should feel it my duty—”

  “Well?” I said, leaning my elbows on the table and smiling slightly.

  “If that Satanic genius were not indeed destroyed, then the peace of the world might be threatened anew at any moment!”

  He was becoming excited, shooting out his jaw in the truculent manner I knew, and snapping his fingers to emphasize his words; a man composed of the oddest complexities that ever dwelt beneath a clerical frock.

  “He may have got back to China, doctor!” he cried, and his eyes had the fighting glint in them. “Could you rest in peace if you thought that he lived? Should you not fear for your life every time that a night-call took you out alone? Why, man alive, it is only two years since he was here amongst us, since we were searching every shadow for those awful green eyes! What became of his band of assassins — his stranglers, his dacoits, his damnable poisons and insects and what-not — the army of creatures—”

  He paused, taking a drink.

  “You” — he hesitated diffidently— “searched in Egypt with Nayland Smith, did you not?”

  I nodded.

  “Contradict me if I am wrong,” he continued; “but my impression is that you were searching for the girl — the girl — Kâramanèh, I think she was called?”

  “Yes,” I replied shortly; “but we could find no trace — no trace.”

  “You — er — were interested?”

  “More than I knew,” I replied, “until I realized that I had — lost her.”

  “I never met Kâramanèh, but from your account, and from others, she was quite unusually—”

  “She was very beautiful,” I said, and stood up, for I was anxious to terminate that phase of the conversation.

  Eltham regarded me sympathetically; he knew something of my search with Nayland Smith for the dark-eyed Eastern girl who had brought romance into my drab life; he knew that I treasured my memories of her as I loathed and abhorred those of the fiendish, brilliant Chinese doctor who had been her master.

  Eltham began to pace up and down the rug, his pipe bubbling furiously; and something in the way he carried his head reminded me momentarily of Nayland Smith. Certainly, between this pink-faced clergyman, with his deceptively mild appearance, and the gaunt, bronzed and steely-eyed Burmese commissioner, there was externally little in common; but it was some little nervous trick in his carriage that conjured up through the smoke-haze one distant summer evening when Smith had paced that very room as Eltham paced it now, when before my startled eyes he had rung up the curtain upon the savage drama in which, though I little suspected it then, Fate had cast me for a leading rôle.

  I wondered if Eltham’s thoughts ran parallel with mine. My own were centred upon the unforgettable figure of the murderous Chinaman. These words, exactly as Smith had used them, seemed once again to sound in my ears: “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, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the ‘Yellow Peril’ incarnate in one man.”

  This visit of Eltham’s no doubt was responsible for my mood; for this singular clergyman had played his part in the drama of two years ago.

  “I should like to see Smith again,” he said suddenly; “it seems a pity that a man like that should be buried in Burma. Burma makes a mess of the best of men, doctor. You said he was not married?”

  “No,” I replied shortly, “and is never likely to be, now.”

  “Ah, you hinted at something of the kind.”

  “I know very little of it. Nayland Smith is not the kind of man to talk much.”

  “Quite so — quite so! And, you know, doctor, neither am I; but” — he was growing painfully embarrassed— “it may be your due — I — er — I have a correspondent, in the interior of China—”

  “Well?” I said, watching him in sudden eagerness.

  “Well, I would not desire to raise — vain hopes — nor to occasion, shall I say, empty fears; but — er ... no, doctor!” He flushed like a girl. “It was wrong of me to open this conversation. Perhaps, when I know more — will you forget my words, for the time?”

  The ‘phone bell rang.

  “Hullo!” cried Eltham— “hard luck, doctor!” — but I could see that he w
elcomed the interruption. “Why!” he added, “it is one o’clock!”

  I went to the telephone.

  “Is that Dr. Petrie?” inquired a woman’s voice.

  “Yes; who is speaking?”

  “Mrs. Hewett has been taken more seriously ill. Could you come at once?”

  “Certainly,” I replied, for Mrs. Hewett was not only a profitable patient but an estimable lady. “I shall be with you in a quarter of an hour.”

  I hung up the receiver.

  “Something urgent?” asked Eltham, emptying his pipe.

  “Sounds like it. You had better turn in.”

  “I should much prefer to walk over with you, if it would not be intruding. Our conversation has ill prepared me for sleep.”

  “Right!” I said, for I welcomed his company; and three minutes later we were striding across the deserted common.

  A sort of mist floated amongst the trees, seeming in the moonlight like a veil draped from trunk to trunk, as in silence we passed the Mound Pond, and struck out for the north side of the common.

  I suppose the presence of Eltham and the irritating recollection of his half-confidence were the responsible factors, but my mind persistently dwelt upon the subject of Fu-Manchu and the atrocities which he had committed during his sojourn in England. So actively was my imagination at work that I felt again the menace which so long had hung over me; I felt as though that murderous yellow cloud still cast its shadow upon England. And I found myself longing for the company of Nayland Smith. I cannot state what was the nature of Eltham’s reflections, but I can guess; for he was as silent as I.

  It was with a conscious effort that I shook myself out of this morbidly reflective mood, on finding that we had crossed the common and were come to the abode of my patient.

  “I shall take a little walk,” announced Eltham; “for I gather that you don’t expect to be detained long? I shall never be out of sight of the door, of course.”

  “Very well,” I replied, and ran up the steps.

  There were no lights to be seen in any of the windows, which circumstance rather surprised me, as my patient occupied, or had occupied when last I had visited her, a first-floor bedroom in the front of the house. My knocking and ringing produced no response for three or four minutes; then, as I persisted, a scantily clothed and half-awake maid-servant unbarred the door and stared at me stupidly in the moonlight.