Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “I came back with Ali. He told me — everything about it. So, of course, I had to come.”

  “But what made you go?”

  She nestled her adorable little tousled head against me.

  “I won’t be scolded,” she said— “although I am to blame! No, please, Shan. I truly meant what I said. I did really think I was in the way.”

  “In whose way?”

  “If you talk to me like that I won’t answer. Besides, there isn’t time now. I should have come back tonight even if I had had to come alone. I have something most extraordinary to tell you…”

  But now came the sound of voices.

  “I tell you it wasn’t a dog,” I heard Forester say.

  “It wasn’t either!” Rima whispered. “But you must go, Shan. I’m all right, now. Who is in the big hut?”

  “Dr. Petrie and Superintendent Weymouth—”

  “They were old friends… weren’t they—”

  “Yes, darling. Don’t despair. It sounds absurd to say so, but they have a theory that the chief—”

  “Please tell me.”

  “It’s hardly fair, Rima. I don’t believe it, myself. But they think he may be alive!”

  She clung to me very tightly, and then:

  “But I think so, too!” she whispered.

  “Do you know, Greville,” said Forester. “I never liked this job. Lafleur’s Tomb has a bad name.”

  We were walking back to the hut.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know as much as I do. Nobody has tackled it since Lafleur’s time. But old Zeitland was planning to come out.”

  “He died recently in London.”

  “I know! And what about the Frenchman—”

  “Do you mean Lafleur?”

  “Yes, somewhere in 1908 — or 1909, wasn’t it? Well, I may be wrong” — Forester halted just as we reached the hut— “but didn’t Lafleur disappear?”

  I racked my memory for some moments. Lafleur was before my time and the facts were hazy. But at last:

  “Yes,” I replied slowly. “I believe there was some mystery, Forester. Though oddly enough it had never occurred to me before.”

  “It never occurred to me until we made that astounding discovery tonight. Why should it? But in view of what’s happened, it’s more than odd, don’t you think?”

  “We must tell Weymouth.”

  We went into the hut. Weymouth was sitting where I had left him, his brows still wrinkled in thought… Dr. Petrie was pacing slowly up and down. As we entered, Weymouth raised his kindly blue eyes to Forester, and:

  “Did you catch that dog?” he asked.

  “No,” said Forester, staring hard. “Did it sound like a dog to you?”

  “It wasn’t a dog,” Weymouth replied simply. “This camp is being watched! Has anything occurred which might account for this signaling?”

  “Yes,” I broke in. “Ali Mahmoud has returned — and Rima Barton is with him.”

  “Ah!” Weymouth murmured. “I am glad to hear it…”

  “Greville and I have been thinking—” Forester began, when:

  “One moment!” Weymouth raised his hand. “We shall get muddled. You can help me most, Forester, by letting me plod through the inquiry in my own way. I have the facts up to the time Mr. Greville left last night; now I want to know what happened afterwards.”

  “It’s painfully simple,” Forester replied. “Everything we might be likely to want was moved from here, naturally; so there was no occasion for anyone to enter the place. But deaths, of course, in the climate up here ought to be notified and dealt with promptly.”

  Weymouth nodded.

  “Greville got me to agree to be quiet for the present, and nobody else knew, except Ali.”

  “You’re sure nobody else knew? What about the men?”

  “They live in Kûrna. None were in camp. We removed the chief in the darkness — didn’t we, Greville? — and next morning I gave out that he had gone across to Luxor with Greville, here, and was proceeding down to Cairo. I stopped all work, of course.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “At about dusk tonight — I should say last night — I thought it advisable to — er — inspect the body.”

  “Quite!”

  “I opened the door, looked in, and… the hut was as you see it now.”

  “What about the blanket?”

  “The blanket had disappeared, as well as the body.”

  “You’re sure the door was locked?”

  “Perfectly sure. I unlocked it.”

  “The window?”

  “Fastened on the inside as you found it.”

  “Thank you,” said Weymouth quietly. He stared across at Dr. Petrie and there was a silence of some seconds’ duration; a very odd silence, in which I sensed a mental communion going on between these two men, based upon some common knowledge which Forester and I didn’t share. But at last it was broken by Dr. Petrie.

  “Strangely like his handiwork!”

  I began to be a bit ruffled. I thought the time had come for pooling the known facts. Indeed I was about to say so, when Weymouth spoke again.

  “Was there anyone in the habit of visiting this camp?”

  “No,” said Forester. “The chief wouldn’t allow a soul past the barriers.” He stared across at me. “I except Madame Ingomar,” he added. “But Greville can tell you more about the lady than I can.”

  “Why do you say that?” I cried angrily.

  “Evidently because he thinks so,” said Weymouth in a stern voice. “This is no time, gentlemen, for personal matters. You are assisting at an official inquiry.”

  “I am sorry,” Forester replied. “My remark was quite out of place. The truth is, Superintendent, that neither Greville nor I know very much about Madame Ingomar. But she seemed to favour Greville’s society, and we used to pull his leg about it…”

  My thoughts began to stray again. Had I been blind? And where I had been blind, had Rima seen?

  “Who is this woman?”

  Weymouth’s tense query brought me back to the job in hand.

  Forester laughed dryly, and:

  “A question I have often put to Greville,” he replied, “but which I know he was no more able to answer than anyone else, except the chief.”

  “Oh, I see. A friend of Sir Lionel’s?”

  I nodded. Weymouth was staring in my direction.

  “What nationality?”

  I shook my head blankly.

  “I always said Hungarian,” Forester declared. “Simply because of her name. Greville thought she was Japanese.”

  “Japanese!” Dr. Petrie rapped the word out with startling suddenness. “Why Japanese?”

  “Well,” said Forester, “it wasn’t an unreasonable guess, because her eyes did slant slightly.’

  Weymouth exchanged a rapid glance with Dr. Petrie and stood up.

  “An attractive woman — young?” he challenged — for the words were spoken almost like a challenge.

  “Undoubtedly,” I replied. “Smart, cultured, and evidently well-to-do.”

  “Dark?”

  “Very.”

  “What coloured eyes?”

  “Jade-green,” said Forester.

  Again I detected a rapid exchange of glances between Petrie and Weymouth.

  “Tall?” asked the former.

  “Yes, unusually tall.”

  “An old friend of Sir Lionel’s?”

  “We were given to understand,” said Forester, “that she was the widow of a certain Dr. Ingomar whom the chief knew well at one time.”

  “Was she staying at one of the Luxor hotels?” Weymouth asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” I replied. “She wasn’t staying at the Winter Palace.”

  “You mean neither of you know. Does Miss Barton know?”

  “I have never asked her.”

  “When was she last here?”

  “On Monday,” Forester answered promptly— “the
day the chief switched the quarters around and put up barricades.”

  “But did Sir Lionel never speak of her?” asked Dr. Petrie.

  “No,” I said. “He was a man who gave few confidences, as you are aware.”

  “Was there any suggestion of intimacy between them?” Weymouth was the speaker. “Did Sir Lionel show any jealousy, for instance?”

  “Not that I ever noticed,” Forester replied. “He treated her as he treated everybody — with good-humoured tolerance! After all, the chief must have said good-bye to sixty, Weymouth!”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Petrie commented dryly. “I think, Weymouth, our next step is to establish the identity of this Madame Ingomar. Do you agree with me?”

  “I do,” said Weymouth, “absolutely” — and his expression had grown very grim.

  He stared from me to Forester, and:

  “You’re both getting annoyed,” he said. ‘I can see it. You know that the doctor here and I have a theory which we haven’t shared with you. Very well, you shall know the facts. Ask Rima Barton to join us, and arm Ali Mahmoud. Tell him to mount guard and shoot anything he sees moving!”

  “What on earth does this mean?” Forester demanded.

  “It means,” said Petrie, “that we are dealing with agents of Dr. Fu-Manchu…”

  Dr. Fu-Manchu! When that story was told, the story which Weymouth unfolded in the hut in the wâdi, whilst I can’t answer for Forester, personally I was amazed beyond belief.

  Rima’s sweet face, where she sat half in shadow, was a fascinating study. She had ridden up from Kûrna with Ali Mahmoud. In the tent, when I had found her in my arms, she had worn riding kit; but now she had changed into a simple frock and had even made some attempt to straighten the tangle of her windblown hair. The night ride had whipped a wild colour into her tanned cheeks; her grave Irish eyes seemed even brighter than usual as she listened spellbound.

  Some of the things Weymouth spoke of aroused echoes in my memory. I had been too young at the time to associate these events one with another. But I remembered having heard of them. I was considering the advantages of a legal calling when the war disturbed my promising career. The doings of this great and evil man, some of whose history I learned that morning, had reached me merely as rumours in the midst of altogether more personal business.

  But now I grasped the fact that if these two clever and experienced men were correct in their theories, a veritable plague was about to be loosed upon the world.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  “Sir Lionel and I,” said Dr. Petrie, “and Nayland Smith were last of those on the side of the angels to see him alive. It’s possible he survived, but I am not prepared to believe it. What I am prepared to believe is that someone else may be carrying on his work. What was a Dacoit — probably a Burman — a professional robber and murderer, doing in the courtyard of my house in Cairo last night? We know now, Greville, he was following you. But the cry points to an accomplice. He was not alone! The old net, Weymouth” — he turned to the latter— “closing round us again! Then — this camp is watched.”

  “I have said it before,” Weymouth declared, “but I’ll say it again; if only Nayland Smith could join us!”

  “You refer of course, to Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” said Forester, “one of the assistant commissioners at Scotland Yard? I know people who know him. Used to be a police official in Burma?”

  “He did,” Petrie replied. “He also saved the British Empire, by the way. But if we have many unknown enemies, we have at least one unknown friend.”

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “The well-informed stranger,” Petrie replied, “who wired me in Cairo — and who wired Weymouth. Whoever he may be, he takes no chances. Dr. Fu-Manchu was master of a method for inducing artificial catalepsy. It was one of the most dangerous weapons in his armory. I alone, as I believe, possess a drop of the antidote. The man who sent that telegram knew this!”

  “So much for unknown friends,” said Weymouth. “As to unknown enemies, either you have a Dacoit amongst your workmen or there was a stranger in camp last night.”

  “You’ve found a clue!” Rima cried.

  “I have, Miss Barton. There’s only one fact of which I have to make sure. If I am wrong in that, maybe all my theory falls down.”

  “What’s the fact?” Forester asked, with an eagerness which told how deeply he was impressed.

  “It’s this,” said Weymouth. He fixed a penetrating gaze upon me. “Was Sir Lionel completely undressed when you found him?”

  “No,” I replied promptly. “It was arranged that we all turned out at four to work on the job.”

  “Then he was fully dressed?”

  “Not fully.”

  “Did he carry the key of this hut?”

  “He carried all the keys on a chain.”

  “Was this chain on him when you found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you detach it?”

  “No. We laid him here as we found him.”

  “Partially dressed?”

  “Yes.”

  Weymouth slowly crossed to the mummy case at one end of the hut. The lid was detached and leaned against the wall beside the case.

  “Both you, Greville,” he went on, turning, “and Forester were present when Sir Lionel’s body was brought in here?”

  “Ali and I carried him,” Forester returned shortly. “Greville supervised.”

  “Did Ali leave when you left?”

  “He did.”

  “Good,” Weymouth went on quietly. “But I am prepared to swear that not one of you looked into the recess behind this sarcophagus lid.”

  I stared blankly at Forester. He shook his head.

  “We never even thought of it,” he confessed.

  “Naturally enough,” said Weymouth. “Look what I found there.”

  A lamp stood on the long table; and now, taking a piece of paper from his pocket, and opening the paper under the lamp, the superintendent exposed a reddish, fibrous mass. Rima sprang forward and with Forester and myself bent eagerly over it. Petrie watched.

  “It looks to me like a wad of tobacco, said Forester, “chewed by someone whose gums were bleeding!”

  Petrie bent between us and placed a lens upon the table.

  “I have examined it,” he said. “Give me your opinion, Mr. Forester. As a physician you may recognize it.”

  Forester looked, and we all watched him in silence. I remember that I heard Ali Mahmoud coughing out in the wâdi and realized that he was keeping as close to human companionship that night as his sentry duties permitted.

  Shrugging, Forester passed the glass to me. I peered in turn, but almost immediately laid the glass down.

  Petrie looked at Forester; but:

  “Out of my depth!” the latter declared. “It’s vegetable; but if it’s something tropical I plead ignorance.”

  “It is something tropical,” said Petrie. “It’s betel nut.”

  Weymouth intruded quietly, and:

  “Someone who chewed betel nut,” he explained, “was hiding behind that sarcophagus lid when you brought Sir Lionel’s body into this hut. Now, I’m prepared to hear that before that the door was unlocked?”

  “You’re right,” I admitted; “it was. We locked it after his body had been placed here.”

  “As I thought.”

  Weymouth paused; then:

  “Someone who chewed betel nut,” he went on, “must have been listening outside Sir Lionel’s tent when you decided to move his body to this hut. He anticipated you, concealed himself, and, at some suitable time later, with the key which Sir Lionel carried on his chain, he unlocked the door and removed the body!”

  “I entirely agree,” said Forester, staring very hard. “And I compliment you heartily. But — betel nut?”

  “Perfectly simple,” Petrie replied. “Many Dacoits chew betel nut.”

  At which moment, unexpectedly:

  “Perhaps,” came Rima’s quiet v
oice, “I can show you the man!”

  “What!” I exclaimed.

  “I think I may have his photograph… and the photograph of someone else!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TOMB OF THE BLACK APE

  I might have thought, during that strange conference in the hut, that life had nothing more unexpected to offer me. Little I knew what Fate held in store. This was only the beginning. Dawn was close upon us. Yet before the sun came blushing over the Nile Valley I was destined to face stranger experiences.

  I went with Rima from the hut to the tent. All our old sense of security was gone. No one knew what to expect now that the shadow of Fu-Manchu had fallen upon us.

  “Imagine a person tall, lean, and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan… long, magnetic eyes of the true cat-green…”

  Petrie’s description stuck in my memory; especially “tall, lean, and feline… eyes of the true cat-green…”

  A lamp was lighted in Rima’s tent, and she hastily collected some of her photographic gear and rejoined me as Ali came up shouldering his rifle.

  “Anything to report, Ali Mahmoud?”

  “Nothing, Effendim.”

  When we got back to the hut I could see how eagerly we were awaited. A delicious shyness which I loved — for few girls are shy — descended upon Rima when she realized how we were all awaiting what she had to say. She was so charmingly petite, so vividly alive, that the deep note which came into her voice in moments of earnestness had seemed, when I heard it first, alien to her real personality. Her steady gray eyes, though, belonged to the real Rima — the shy Rima.

  “Please don’t expect too much of me,” she said, glancing round quickly. “But I think perhaps I may be able to help. I wasn’t really qualified for my job here, but… Uncle Lionel was awfully kind; and I wanted to come. Really all I’ve done is wild-life photography — before, I mean.”

  She bent and opened a paper folder which she had put on the table; then:

  “I used to lay traps,” she went on, “for all sorts of birds and animals.”

  “What do you mean by ‘traps,’ Miss Barton?” Weymouth asked.

  “Oh, perhaps you don’t know. Well, there’s a bait — and the bait is attached to the trigger of the camera.”

  “Perfectly clear. You need not explain further.”