Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  Nayland Smith visibly stared — but did not speak.

  “Sir Lionel Barton’s box-trick,” Fu-Manchu went on — his peculiar utterance of the chief’s name producing a horrifying effect upon my mind— “necessitated this hasty journey to Egypt, at great personal inconvenience. I arrived an hour after you. Therefore, Sir Denis, since you know with whom you are dealing, and since with my present inadequate resources I have none about me upon whose service I can rely, is there anything singular in my meeting you personally?”

  “No.” Sir Denis spoke at last, never taking his gaze from that lined, yellow face. “It is characteristic of your gigantic impudence.”

  No expression of any kind could be read upon Dr. Fu-Manchu’s face, except that his eyes, long, narrow, and of a brilliant green colour which I can only term unnatural, seemed momentarily to become slightly filmed.

  “You have played the only card which we couldn’t defeat,” Sir Denis went on; “and here—” he pointed to the case which I had set upon the floor— “is your price. But, before we proceed further…”

  I knew what he was about to say, and I said it for him, shouted it, angrily:

  “Where is Rima?”

  For one instant the long green eyes flickered in my direction. I felt the force of that enormous intellect, and:

  “She is here,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu softly. “I said she would be here.”

  The last words were spoken as if nothing could be more conclusive. I was on the point of challenging them, but, somehow, there was that in their utterance which seemed unchallengeable. The crowning mystery of the thing presented itself nakedly before me.

  How had Fu-Manchu gained access to this place, the entrance to which had been watched from sunset? How had Rima been smuggled in?

  “Your motives,” said Nayland Smith, speaking in the manner of one who holds himself tightly on the curb, “are not clear to me. This movement among certain Moslem sects — which, I take it, you hope to direct — must break down when the facts are published.”

  “To which facts do you more particularly refer?” the Chinese doctor inquired sibilantly.

  “The fact that an extemporised bomb was exploded in the tomb of El Mokanna by Sir Lionel Barton, and that the light seen in the sky on that occasion was caused in this manner; the fact that the relics were brought by him to Egypt and returned to the conspirators under coercion. What becomes of the myth of a prophet reborn when this plain statement is made public?”

  “It will not affect the situation in any way; it will be looked upon as ingenious propaganda of a kind often employed in the past. And since neither Sir Lionel Barton nor anyone else will be in a position to prove that the relics were ever in his possession, it will not be accepted.”

  “And your own association with the movement?”

  “Is welcome, since the ideals of the Si-Fan are in harmony with the aims of those Moslem sects you have mentioned, Sir Denis. Subterfuge between us is useless. This time I fight in the open. One thing, and one thing only, can defeat the New Mokanna… his failure to produce those evidences of his mission which, I presume, you bring to me tonight…”

  His strength and the cool vigour of his utterance had now, as I could see, arrested Sir Denis’s attention as they had arrested mine; and:

  “I congratulate you,” he said dryly. “Your constitution would seem to be unimpaired by your great responsibilities.”

  Dr. Fu-Manchu slightly inclined his head.

  “I am, I thank you, restored again to normal health. And I note with satisfaction that you, also, are your old vigorous self. You have drawn a cordon of Egyptian police around me — as you are entitled to do under the terms of our covenant. You hope to trap me, and have acted as I, in your place, should have acted. But I know that for ten minutes after our interview is concluded I am safe from molestation. I am not blind to the conditions. My safety lies in my knowledge that you will strictly adhere to them.”

  He clapped his hands sharply.

  What I expected to happen, I don’t know. But Nayland Smith and I both glanced instinctively back to the low opening. What actually happened transcended anything I could have imagined.

  A low shuddering cry brought me swiftly about again.

  “Shan!”

  Rima, deathly pale in the strange light of that globular lamp, was standing upright behind the granite coffer!

  My heart leapt, and then seemed to stop, as she fixed her wide-open eyes upon me appealingly. And Sir Denis, that man of steel nerve, exhibited such amazement as I had never known him to show in all the years of our friendship.

  “Rima!” he cried. “Good God! Have you been lying there, hiding?”

  “Yes!” she turned to him. I saw that her hands were clenched. “I promised.” She glanced down at the motionless, high-shouldered figure seated before her. “It was my part of the bargain.”

  Describing a wide circle around the sinister Chinaman, she ran to me, and I had her in my arms. I could feel her heart beating wildly. I held her close, stroking her hair: she was overwrought, on the verge of collapse. She was whispering rapidly — incoherently — other fears for my safety, other happiness to be with me again, when those low even tones came:

  “I have performed what I promised. Sir Denis. It is now your turn…”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE. THE TRAP IS LAID

  My last recollection as I stopped and went out must always remain vivid in my mind.

  Those golden records of the Masked Prophet, one of the unique finds in the history of archaeology, lay glittering upon the narrow table under the light of that strange globular lamp. Dr. Fu-Manchu, his long pointed chin resting upon his crossed hands, his elbows upon the table, watched us unfalteringly.

  One grave anxiety was set at rest. In reply to a pointed question of Nayland Smith’s, he had assured us that Rima had not been subjected to “damnable drugs or Lama tricks” (Sir Denis’s own words). And, fearing and loathing Dr. Fu-Manchu as I did, yet, incredible though it may seem, I never thought of doubting his word. A hundred and one questions I was dying to ask Rima, but first and foremost I wanted to find the sky above my head again.

  The Great Corridor was empty from end to end. And, I leading and Nayland Smith bringing up the rear, we stumbled down to the point where it communicates with the narrower passage. Here I turned, and looked back as far as the light of my lamp could reach.

  Nothing was visible. I could only think that Dr. Fu-Manchu remained alone in the King’s Chamber...

  I glanced at Rima. She was clenching her teeth bravely, and even summoned up a pallid smile. But I could see that she was close to the edge of her resources.

  “Hurry!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Remember — ten minutes!”

  But even when, passing the lowest point, we began to mount towards open air, somehow, I could not credit the idea that Dr. Fu-Manchu had carried out this business unaided. I paused again.

  “It was here that we heard,” I began —

  As though my words had been a cue, from somewhere utterly impossible in those circumstances to define, came the dim note of a gong!

  Rima clutched me convulsively. In that age-old corridor, in the heart of the strangest building erected by the hands of man, it was as uncanny a sound as imagination could have conjured up.

  “Don’t be afraid, Rima,” came Nayland Smith’s voice. “It’s only a signal that we are on the way up!”

  “Oh!” she gasped, “but I can’t bear much more. Please get me out, Shan! — get me out…”

  I led on as swiftly as possible. Had Rima collapsed, it would have been no easy task to carry her along that cramped passage. But the purpose of those signals, apart from the mystery of the hiding place of whoever gave them, was a problem we were destined never satisfactorily to solve.

  As we had arranged, five men with Dr. Petrie were immediately outside the entrance.

  “Thank God, Petrie,” said Nayland Smith hoarsely. “We’ve got her! Here she is! Take care of her, old man.”
r />   Whereupon, at sight of the Doctor, Rima’s wonderful fortitude deserted her. She threw herself into his arms with a muffled scream and began to sob hysterically.

  “Rima, dear,” I exclaimed, “Rima!”

  Petrie, supporting her with one arm, waved to me to go on, at the same time nodding reassuringly.

  “Come on, Greville,” said Nayland Smith. “She’s in safe hands, and better without you at the moment.”

  We had arranged — I confess I had never dared to hope that our arrangements would be carried out — to take her to Mena House. Down on the sands at the foot of the slope Sir Lionel and Hewlett were stationed. And, as I jumped from the last step:

  “Have you got her, Greville? Is she safe?” the chief asked hoarsely.

  “Yes, she’s with Petrie. She’s broken down, poor little lady — and I don’t wonder,” Nayland Smith replied. “But she’s come to no harm, Barton. Keep out of the way — leave her to Petrie.”

  “Where has she been? How did it happen?”

  “It’s impossible to ask until the nerve storm has worn itself out. Anything to report, Hewlett?”

  “I’m staggered. Sir Denis! But thank God you have Miss Barton! There’s only one thing. A few minutes after you went in, as we were closing up on the Pyramid, we heard a most awful wailing sound…”

  “A bull-roarer, Smith!” the chief shouted. “But God knows where the nigger was hidden: we never had a glimpse of him.”

  Nayland Smith glanced aside at me.

  “Possibly the opposite number of the gong signal,” he whispered. “But what came first? — and how did one signaler hear the other?”

  I saw Hewlett glancing at the dial of an illuminated wrist watch.

  “Three minutes to go. Sir Denis,” he announced. “How many are inside?”

  “One only,” Nayland Smith replied, in a curiously dull voice.

  “Only one!” the chief cried incredulously.

  “One, but the biggest one of all.”

  “What! You don’t mean…”

  “Exactly what I do mean. Barton. We left Dr. Fu-Manchu alone in the King’s Chamber.”

  “Good God! Then for all his cunning—”

  “He’s trapped!” Hewlett concluded. “How he got in, and how he got Miss Barton in, is entirely beyond me. But that he can never get out, is certain.”

  He spoke truly; for other than the Grand Hall or Great Corridor along which we had recently come, there is no entrance to the King’s Chamber — and the two exits from the Pyramid were guarded.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. I SEE EL MOKANNA

  Dr. Petrie gave Rima a sleeping draught and saw her off to bed in the big hotel on the edge of the desert. In spite of all our precautions, news had leaked out that something was afoot.

  Whereas, at the time of our arrival, the place had been quiet, with few lights showing, now an air of excitement prevailed. People who seemed to have hastily dressed were standing about in groups. We had smuggled Rima in by a side entrance. But in the lobby and on the terrace outside I met many curious glances.

  And there was another, altogether more disturbing circumstance. In the roadway, and by the gate usually haunted by dragomans during the day, a group of some forty natives had assembled, of a type not usually met with there. They were men from the desert villages for the most part, and although all were oddly silent, I overheard several furtive asides which I construed as definitely hostile.

  I recognized the black turbans of the Rifaiyeh and the red of the Ahmadiyeh. Senussi I saw among them too — and the white headdresses of many Kadiriyeh…

  These were the dervishes who had gathered at Gizeh Village!

  Wildly impatient as I was to join the party at the Pyramid, it was impossible for me to leave for some time. Petrie was with Rima, whom he had placed under the care of a resident nurse. She kept waking up and calling piteously for me. Twice I had been brought to her room to pacify her. Her frame of mind was most mysterious. She seemed to be obsessed with the idea that some harm had befallen me.

  The second time, after she had gone to sleep contentedly, clasping my hand, I had managed to slip away without awakening her. And now, as I roamed restlessly about the lobby, Dr. Petrie suddenly appeared.

  “She’s right enough now, Greville,” he reported, “and Mrs. Adams is with her. A most reliable woman.”

  “Dare we start?” I asked.

  “Certainly! my car’s outside. But we shall be too late for—”

  I knew what he would have said; equally, I knew why he hesitated. The physical facts of the situation were beyond dispute; but the more I had considered the matter, the more clearly I had appreciated the fact that a man of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s intellect would never voluntarily have walked into such a mouse trap.

  No one knew how he had entered the Pyramid nor how Rima had been taken there. Furthermore, he had introduced that singular lamp into the place, the table and the Arab chair. Now, in addition, he had the relics of the Prophet.

  As we walked down the sanded drive to the road, observed with great curiosity by several residents who obviously suspected that our business was a strange one, we came face to face with that ominous gathering of Arabs near the gate. I saw at a glance that reinforcements had joined them. The black turbans of the Rifaiyeh predominated now.

  “This looks unwholesome, Greville,” said Petrie in an undertone. “What are all these fellows doing here at this time of night?”

  “They are the dervishes! Evidently they assembled at Gizeh Village and then marched here. I have been prowling about for some time, waiting for reports about Rima, and I watched them gathering.”

  We were among them now. Although they made way for us, I liked their attitude less and less.

  “Tribesmen of some sort,” said Petrie close to my ear. “Except in ones and twos, these birds are rarely seen.”

  As we reached his car, which stood a little to the left of the entrance, I looked back uneasily. The dervishes seemed to be watching us.

  “What the devil’s afoot?” Petrie asked, grasping the wheel. “I should think they meant mischief, if they were armed.”

  He started slowly up the slope; and as we passed that silent company I looked into many flashing eyes close beside the window. But no one attempted to obstruct us.

  “A very queer business,” Petrie muttered. “Smith should know at once. It can hardly be a coincidence.”

  We met several stragglers of the same type on that short winding road which leads up to the plateau, presumably going to join those already assembled outside Mena House. But the doctor’s mind, as well as my own, now focused upon the major problem; and as we turned the final bend and the great black mass of the Pyramid loomed above us:

  “You know, Greville,” said Petrie, “a load has been lifted from my mind. Honestly, I don’t think the possession of the relics of Mokanna will do much to help the movement. Rima’s safety would be cheap at the price of every relic in the Cairo Museum.”

  “I feel much the same about it,” I admitted. “Although, of course, those things are unique.”

  “Unique be damned!” said Petrie. “Hello! who’s this?”

  It was a police officer standing with upraised arm.

  “You can’t pass this way, sir,” he shouted, and came forward as Petrie pulled up.

  We both got out, but the night, as I have said, was very dark.

  And as we did so, the policeman directed the ray of the lamp upon us.

  “Oh!” he added. “It’s Dr. Greville and Mr. Petrie, isn’t it?”

  Petrie laughed.

  “The other way about, officer,” he replied.

  “You’ll have to walk from here. Those are my orders, sir.”

  “It makes no difference. We couldn’t have driven much further, anyway. Is there any news?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, sir. I understand that they’re still searching inside—”

  “What!” I exclaimed. “There’s nothing to search — only two rooms. That is, unless t
hey’re searching Davidson’s shaft.”

  “Come on, Greville,” said Petrie curtly. “Let’s go and see for ourselves. You may be of use here. You ought to know every nook and cranny of the place.”

  “I do, but so does the chief — and he’s on the spot.”

  We were challenged again as we reached the foot of the Pyramid, by a sergeant whom I took to be in charge of the cordon.

  “O.K., sir,” he said when he saw me.

  “What’s happened? Who’s inside?”

  “The acting superintendent, sir, Sir Denis Nayland Smith, and Sir Lionel Barton. Three men with them.”

  “And no one has come out?”

  “Not a soul, sir.”

  Petrie turned to me in the darkness. “Shall we go up?” he said.

  We found four men on duty when we had climbed up to the entrance. They passed us immediately, and I was about to lead the way in when a muffled voice reached me from the interior.

  “I tell you it’s a trick, Smith! He’s slipped out in some way…”

  The chief.

  I stepped back again and felt, for I could not see their faces, an atmosphere of tension among the four police officers on duty.

  “There’s treachery. Somebody’s been bought over.”

  That loud, irascible voice was drawing nearer; and:

  “It’s all but incredible, Greville,” said Petrie, in a low voice; “but evidently Fu-Manchu has managed to get out as mysteriously as he got in!”

  “I hope there’s no question about us, sir,” came sharply; and one of the four men, whom on close inspection I recognized for a sergeant, stepped forward. “I’m responsible to the acting superintendent, so I don’t care what the other gentleman says. But you can take my word for it that nobody has come out of this place tonight, since you came out with the lady and Sir Denis.”

  “We don’t doubt it, Sergeant,” Petrie replied. “Sir Denis won’t doubt it, either. You mustn’t pay too much attention to Sir Lionel Barton. He’s naturally very disturbed.”