Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  When at last, and very reluctantly, I turned in that night, common sense told me that Sir Lionel had pulled off his daring trick and risked Rima’s life in the process. But, once in Europe, I believed that we had little to fear on this score, since the religious-political unity of the relics by then would have become nil. Only by their immediate recovery could Dr. Fu-Manchu hope to re-establish the claims of the new prophet, already challenged by reason of their absence. A week would make all the difference.

  But, in destroying this daring scheme of the greatest, and most evil man I had ever known, what had we done?

  His mentality was incalculable. I believed him too great to waste an hour of his time in so futile a purpose as vengeance. But in this I knew that I might be mistaken. He was a Chinaman, and I knew little of Chinese mentality. He was unscrupulous, valuing human life no more highly than the blades of grass one treads upon. But in this he conformed to his own peculiar code.

  No desire for personal aggrandisement inspired him, Nayland Smith had assured me. He aimed to lift China from the mire into which China had fallen. He was, according to his peculiar lights, a great patriot. And, this I knew, according to those same peculiar lights, he was scrupulously honourable.

  True, the terms he had extorted upon the strength of the abduction of Rima had been blackmail at its vilest, but blackmail of a kind acceptable to his own code. We had agreed to his terms and had set our names to that agreement. Such implicit trust had he placed in our English honour that he had met us alone — the gesture of a great man if a great villain.

  And in all good faith on the part of Nayland Smith and myself we had tricked him! Would he have tricked us in that way? Was it what his inscrutable Chinese conscience would regard as fair warfare, or was it not?

  I doubted, and, to be perfectly honest, I feared. I had warned Rima to bolt her door before I said goodnight to her, and now, entering my own cabin, I did the same. I made sure that the sword of God was in my golf bag concealed among the clubs, and the gold plates in the pocket of my Burberry before I began to undress. The wooden chest, nailed up again, stood at the end of a blind alleyway leading to the chief’s suite.

  The Mediterranean was calm as a great lake, and there was little motion perceptible from stem to stem of the Indramatra. My cabin was forward on the port side and only two removed from that occupied by Sir Lionel. These cabins opened on a narrow gallery overlooking the dining saloon, and Rima’s was nearly opposite my own.

  I had experienced a pang of uneasiness on realising that the stewards were almost exclusively Javanese, some of them of a very Mongolian type: silent, furtive, immobile, squatting like images at the corner of nearly every alleyway — their slippers beside them, their faces expressionless.

  Tonight, however, they had all disappeared. The ship was silent, the saloon a dark well. Only faint vibrations from the screw propellers and that creaking of woodwork inseparable from a ship at sea, disturbed the stillness.

  I had only partially unpacked, and feeling very wide awake, I began to grope among my baggage for a tin of tobacco which I had bought just before leaving Cairo. I had determined to smoke a final pipe before turning in. A final drink would have been welcome, but I doubted if I could obtain one.

  Following some searching, I discovered the tobacco, and I had just raised the lid and begun to fill my pipe when there came a soft rapping upon the door of the cabin...

  CHAPTER FORTY. THE SEAPLANE

  I confess that I was reluctant to open my door. It was perhaps not surprising after the strain which had been imposed upon me during those past few weeks; but I was conscious of a definite decline of morale. I had many unhappy memories and some dreadful ones: not the least of these that strange lacuna in Cairo, throughout which I had obviously been a passive instrument of the Chinese doctor’s will.

  The rapping was repeated, rather more insistently, but yet not loudly.

  I laid my pipe down on the bed and moved towards the cabin door. Save for that slight creaking of woodwork as the ship rode a barely perceptible swell, there was no sound.

  “Who’s there?” I said sharply, but without shooting the bolt back.

  “Urgent radio message for Mr. Greville.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief which must have been audible beyond the door, shot the bolt back, and there stood a Marconi operator.

  “I shouldn’t have disturbed you in the ordinary way,” he explained, “but the message was marked ‘Immediate delivery’.”

  “Thanks,” I said; “I hadn’t turned in.” I took the flimsy envelope. “Goodnight,” I added.

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  I returned and bolted the door. Then, tearing open the message, I read eagerly.

  SOMETHING WILL BE ATTEMPTED TONIGHT STOP STAY AWAKE AND KEEP A SHARP LOOK-OUT NAYLAND SMITHI dropped the message on the bedcover. From what possible source was such an attempt to be looked for? And what should I do?

  Lighting my pipe, I stared at the golf bag propped in a corner of the cabin, a strange repository for a relic which already had such a bloody history; but in Sir Lionel’s opinion a better one than the purser’s safe.

  Cudgel my brains as I would — and I was very wide awake now — I could conceive of no plan — even assuming the real whereabouts of the damnable relics to be known to our enemies — whereby they could obtain possession of them, otherwise than by an open raid on my cabin and that of the chief.

  It was preposterous! Even if it were admissible that Fu-Manchu had servants among the native members of the crew — what could they do?

  Yet, here was the message. What in Heaven’s name did it mean?

  One thing I determined upon: to obey Nayland Smith’s instructions. I would mount guard until daylight, when the normal life of the ship would be resumed. Then, if nothing had occurred, I might safely assume the danger past.

  With this laudable object in view, I removed my coat and threw myself on the bed, taking up a booklet issued by the shipping company and illustrated with charts showing the mileage between ports of call.

  I read on industriously. Once I thought I detected a faint sound out in the alleyway, but, putting the pamphlet down and listening intently it presently resolved itself into a variation of that endless creaking. I realised that the gentle, soothing motion had become more marked; the swell was slightly increasing.

  How long I pursued my reading, I cannot say, for, as often occurs at such times, although I imagined myself to be wide awake, I was actually tired out, and probably no more than a few minutes later I was fast asleep.

  I suppose I slept lightly, for there could be little doubt about what awakened me. I know that I sat up with a start, and at first was utterly confused by my surroundings. Ash was on the counterpane where I had dropped my pipe; fortunately, it had not set fire to it. I sat listening.

  Above the noise of creaking woodwork and the dim vibration of the shaft, a new sound was perceptible. I glanced at my watch. I had slept for two hours.

  Stepping to my cabin door, I shot the bolt, opened, and looked out into the alleyway. Darkness and silence. Nothing moved. I returned and even more plainly, now, could hear this new disturbance.

  I had carefully closed the porthole, having painful memories of the acrobatic methods employed by agents of Dr. Fu-Manchu. I unscrewed the bolts and opened it. The sound became much louder; and curiosity grew overpowering. I was as widely awake as ever now, and I determined to go up on deck for a moment.

  I had discovered that my cabin door possessed a key — which is unusual in English ships. I locked it, went quietly along the alleyway, and mounted the stairs. Not a soul was about. Both entrances were closed, but the sound had seemed to come from the port side, and therefore I opened the port door and stepped out on deck.

  It was a clear, starry night. And as I looked upward and aft my theory was confirmed.

  Some kind of heavy aircraft, to judge from the deep drone of her propellers, was flying on a parallel course and rapidly overtaking the Indramatra. I
went up the ladder to the boat deck, thinking I could obtain a better view. In this I was right.

  She was, I thought, a seaplane, but by reason of her position in relation to the ship, and the darkness of the night, I could not be sure of this. I glanced forward to the bridge.

  The officer of the watch was out on the port wing, his glasses directed upwards; and I had time to wonder if the rigid discipline of the Dutch Mercantile Marine necessitated his logging the occurrence.

  I turned and went back to my cabin. The seaplane, for such I now clearly saw it to be, had passed the ship, and was some little distance ahead of us.

  About to pass the alleyway communicating with the chief’s suite, I pulled up in doubt. The light was bad, but I could not see the wooden crate which formerly had contained the relics of the prophet.

  I tiptoed along, to make sure. Undoubtedly, the crate was gone!

  This, of course, might have been accounted for in several ways; yet I was practically certain that the crate had been there when I turned in. I entered my own cabin, and automatically plunged my hand in the golf-bag. The Sword of God was safe. I felt the pendulous pocket of my Burberry in the wardrobe — and the New Creed remained in its hiding place.

  I had just slipped into my pyjamas when again came a knocking on the cabin door.

  From the jump which I gave, I knew how badly my nerves had suffered.

  “Who is it?” I cried.

  “Very sorry, Mr. Greville! Marconi again.”

  I opened the door.

  “It’s all right,” I said, smiling without effort, for frankly I was relieved. “What is it this time?”

  “It’s another urgent message. It looks as though we had a crook aboard!”

  “What!”

  I took the radiogram and read:

  NO MP NAME OF KENNINGTON IN PRESENT COMMONS STOP ADVISE PURSER AT ONCE AND INTERROGATE PASSENGER NAYLAND SMITHLooking up, I met the glance of the operator.

  “It’s queer, isn’t it?” he commented. “But I don’t see much point in waking the purser at this time of night. Are you by any chance connected with the English police, sir?”

  “No. My correspondent is.”

  “Oh, I see. Well if you want to wake the purser, I can show you his room.”

  “I’ll think it over,” I replied. “I know where to find you if I decide to see him.”

  “Right aft on the boat deck,” he said, and turned.

  “Goodnight!”

  “Goodnight.”

  I had just reclosed the door, and sitting down was considering Nayland Smith’s second message when there came a sudden lull; a queer stillness. At first, I could not account for it. Then, I knew what had happened.

  The engines had been rung off.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE. A RUBBER BALL

  In much the same way, I suppose, as the stopping of a clock will awake a sleeper, the stoppage of the propellers awakened many passengers in the Indramatra. As I pulled on a dressing gown and hurried out into the alleyway, voices and movements were audible all about me.

  Then, staring across the yawning black gap of the dining saloon, I saw Rima, dishevelled, but adorably dishevelled, endeavouring to adjust a hastily grasped bathrobe. Her glance met mine from the opposite gallery.

  “Oh, Shan!” she cried. “What’s happened? I didn’t get to sleep until about half an hour ago; I thought I heard knocking and voices…”

  “I don’t know, darling. I’m going to find out.”

  No sound came from the chief’s cabin: doubtless he was fast asleep. Rima and I apparently were the only two passengers sufficiently curious about the stoppage of the engines to have left our rooms. As I joined her at the foot of the staircase the Indramatra got under way again but was putting about, as I could plainly detect.

  “We’re turning back!” exclaimed Rima. “Let’s go up and see what’s happening.”

  We went up, and having fought with the fastenings of the starboard door, finally got out on deck. The night was clear enough, and I could see no sign of any craft ahead.

  We mounted the ladder to the boat deck. I saw the commander, a seaman of the old school, who, with his fine face and pointed gray beard, might have posed for Vandyck, going forward to the bridge, muffled in a top coat.

  Holding Rima tightly as we craned over between two boats, I saw what had happened.

  The seaplane floated on an oily swell about three lengths away from us. Assuming her to be in difficulties, the officer of the watch had put the ship about. And now, the Indramatra’s searchlight cast a sudden dazzling glare upon the sea; and I saw something else:

  An object which looked like a big football was moving in the direction of the seaplane in the wake of a swimmer wearing a life jacket, who, striking out lustily, was apparently towing the ball behind him!

  “Whatever’s that?” Rima whispered.

  From the bridge of the Indramatra came a roar through a megaphone; the commander doubtless: but since he spoke in Dutch, I could not follow his words. The engines were rung off again. We lay-to very near the sea-and-air craft; but no reply came from her crew.

  The swimmer, towing his singular burden, grasped one of the floats. I saw that a ladder had been thrown down to assist him, and as I watched, he began to clamber up. At which moment:

  “Greville!” came a hoarse voice. “What the hell’s happening?”

  I turned, still holding Rima tightly — and there was the chief, wrapped in his untidy dressing gown.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “But I’m glad you’re here. I have news for you—”

  Another challenge came from the bridge — and brought forth no response. The swimmer climbed on board the seaplane. All that I could make out of him was that he wore bathing kit and had a cap upon his head. The light touched him momentarily.

  That object which resembled a football was hauled up; and, as we watched, I saw the propellers started. There was some commotion before they cleared away. Men were climbing aboard, clearly visible in the glare of the searchlight. Then the seaplane was off, skimming over the surface of the Mediterranean like a seagull; presently to take to the air, rise, bank sharply and sweep back for the coast of Egypt.

  I heard, dimly, a bell, and the engines came to life again. The Indramatra was being put back on her course.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO. THE PURSER’S SAFE

  As we regained the main deck, it became evident that something extraordinary was afoot. The purser, in uniform, but wearing a white muffler in lieu of a collar, was standing by the door of his room with the second engineer and another officer. He looked very pale, I thought, and as Sir Lionel came in Voorden fixed a rather wild gaze upon him.

  Before he had time to speak, the captain also hastily dressed, appeared from an alleyway and joined the group.

  “Something’s wrong!” Rima whispered.

  A sort of embarrassed hush descended when we came down; then:

  “Sir Lionel Barton, I believe?” said the captain, stepping forward. “Your name is well known in my country. But I have not before had the pleasure of meeting you. My name is Vanderhaye.”

  “How d’you do, Captain,” growled the chief, and shook hands. “What’s the trouble?”

  The captain glanced at the purser and shrugged helplessly.

  “I’m afraid, sir,” said the latter, addressing Sir Lionel, “that you have suffered a heavy loss.”

  “What!”

  “It is,” explained Captain Vanderhaye, his steady blue eyes fixed upon the chief, “a case of minor piracy. Nothing of the kind has ever occurred to me in the forty years I have been at sea. I regret your loss. Sir Lionel, more deeply because it has happened in my ship. But here are the facts: you may judge if I or my officers are to blame.”

  He stepped to the door of the purser’s room, which, as I saw now, was open, and indicated the keyhole with an outstretched finger. The chief, Rima and I, grouped around him, and as I bent forward I saw a really amazing thing.

  Where the keyhole had been
, as the fitting belonging to a brass flap clearly indicated, was a jagged hole, perhaps an inch and a half in diameter, going clean through the door!

  It was sufficiently obvious that such a tunnel must have destroyed the lock, leaving the door at the mercy of any intruder.

  “This,” said the captain, “is strange enough. How such a thing could be done silently I cannot explain. But be good enough to step inside.”

  He entered the office. The chief’s face was very grim, but, knowing him, I could see that he was stifling a smile. Rima stayed very close to me.

  “Look!”

  Captain Vanderhaye was pointing to the big safe. The pale-faced purser stood beside him, watching us almost pathetically. And, as I looked, I wondered; looking longer — my wonder grew.

  In one hand the commander held a lock, with the other he pointed to a gap, roughly square and some six or seven inches across, in the steel door of the safe.

  “This steel,” he said, and tapped the lock, “has been cut through like a piece of cheese. No blow lamp could have been used — it would have taken too long and would have aroused some of the people in neighbouring cabins. But see—”

  He ran his forefinger along the edge of the cut-out lock. The frayed steel crumbled away like biscuit!

  Placing the lock on the purser’s table, he shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “It is magic!” he declared. “A safebreaker armed with some new thing of science. What can I say? He sprang overboard with his booty and was picked up by that strange seaplane.” He swung the door widely open. “Look for yourselves. Nothing has been disturbed, except…”

  “Your three sealed parcels, Sir Lionel,” said the purser huskily, “which were here, in the bottom of the safe. They are gone!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE. THE VOICE IN BRUTON STREET

  In the absence of Rima and the chief, the big gloomy house in Bruton Street overpowered me. But with characteristic disregard of my personal wishes Sir Lionel that morning had carried Rima off to Norfolk — true, for two days only. But London, much as I had longed to see it again, can be a lonely spot for a man with few friends.