by Sax Rohmer
“In the old days,” he said on one occasion, “Fu-Manchu was operating under cover, and he stuck at nothing to get rid of those who picked up any clue to his plans. From what you tell me now it appears that in this last job he had nothing to hide.”
This, then, was not the shadow which haunted me: it was the memory of Fah Lo Suee…
To what extent aided by those strange drugs of which her father alone possessed the secret I was unable to decide, but definitely she had power to throw some sort of spell upon me, under which I became her helpless slave. Rima knew something, but not all, of the truth.
She knew that I had followed Fah Lo Suee from Shepheard’s that night in Cairo, but of what had happened later she knew nothing; nor of what had happened in Bruton Street.
But something there was which she knew and had known from the first: that Fah Lo Suee possessed a snake-like fascination to which I, perhaps any man, was liable to succumb. And she knew that this incalculable woman experienced a kind of feline passion for me.
Often, when we had been separated, I surprised a question in her eyes. Perhaps she knew that I dreaded meeting Fu-Manchu’s daughter as greatly as she dreaded it herself.
And all the time, while I looked on, feeling like a complete stranger, arrangements for the wedding proceeded. Sir Lionel dictated chapter after chapter of his book, and at the same time several papers to scientific publications which he occasionally favoured with contributions; interviewed representatives of the Press, quarrelled with the caterers responsible for the reception; wrote insulting letters to The Times; in short, thoroughly enjoyed himself.
I pointed out to him, one day, that since Rima and I would have to live upon my comparatively slender income, our married life would be something of an anti-climax to our wedding.
“You’ve got a good job!” he shouted. “Damn it! I pay you a thousand a year! — and you must make something out of your ridiculous books!”
The discussion was not carried any further. I realised that it was one I should never have begun.
I had his sister Lady Ettrington to cope with, also. She issued an ultimatum to the effect that she would not be present in the church unless it was arranged that I took up my residence elsewhere than under the same roof as her niece Rima.
This led to a tremendous row between brother and sister. It took place in the room where the presents were assembled: a draw, in which both parties exhibited the celebrated Barton temperament in its most lurid form.
“You can go to the devil!” was Sir Lionel’s final politeness. “As to being in the church, personally I don’t remember having invited you…”
It had all blown over, however, which was the way with storms in this peculiar family; and being awakened by Betts one morning, that privileged old idiot opened the curtains and announced:
“The happy day has arrived, sir…”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO. DR. FU-MANCHU BOWS
Not being a society reporter, the wedding at St. Margaret’s must be taken for granted in this account. Suffice to say that it duly took place.
My best man was first rate, and Rima looked so lovely that I was almost reconciled to this dreadful occasion. The crowd inside the church was small in comparison with the crowd outside. Sir Lionel’s gift of showmanship would have put C.B. Cochran out of business, had the chief decided to plunge into the theatrical sphere.
He sailed into the church through a solid avenue of humanity with that dainty bride on his arm, smiling cheerfully, right and left, as who should say, “What did I tell you? Isn’t she a beauty?”
My own entrance took place in a sort of merciful haze, out of which, dimly, I heard reassuring words from my best man. The ceremony itself stunned me.
I am no believer in the marriage service, and neither is Sir Lionel. He would not for the price of a kingdom have taken those awful vows demanded by the priest, but he thoroughly enjoyed hearing me commit myself to that which he would never have undertaken.
When we came out again into the sunshine (as the sentimental Betts had prayed this was a glorious day) a battery of cameras awaited us.
We escaped finally in a Rolls two-seater — one of Sir Lionel’s presents to the bride — in which he had insisted we must drive away, although frankly I was in no fit condition for the job.
However, I managed it without mishap — to find a second camera battery awaiting us in Bruton Street...
Inside the house I found myself lost in a maze of unfamiliar faces. It was like a first night at a London theatre. Even the servants were strangers, many of them, although Sir Lionel had reinforcements there from other of his establishments.
One fleeting glimpse I had of Petrie’s beautiful wife. She waved to me from a distant corner and then disappeared before I could reach her. A queer situation: I was the cause, the centre, of this gathering — and I didn’t seem to know a soul!
The room containing the wedding presents looked promising. I saw Betts there presiding over a sort of extemporised snack-bar. I also saw a detective whom I had chanced to meet in London two years before. He winked at me solemnly — the first man I had recognized at my own wedding reception.
It was one of the queerest experiences of my life. And, owing to my association with Sir Lionel, my days had been far from humdrum.
Exactly what occurred in the interval preceding that strange intrusion which must form the end of this chronicle I cannot definitely state. At one moment I was with Rima; in the next I had lost her… I exchanged greetings with Nayland Smith — and then found myself talking to a perfect stranger… Petrie expressed a wish to drink my health... and we were separated on our way to the buffet...
Over the heads of a group of perfect strangers I presently caught the eye of Betts. He signaled to me.
I extricated myself from the crowd and joined him.
“A somewhat belated visitor, sir, wishes to add his congratulations on this happy day.”
“Who is he, Betts?”
Betts extended a salver, with a perfect gesture. Jostled on all sides, I took up a card, and read:
Dr. Fu-Manchu
There was no address; just those three words.
I became suddenly unaware of everything, and of everybody about me, except Betts and the card of Dr. Fu-Manchu. I spoke — and my voice seemed to come from far away.
“Did you — see the visitor?”
“I showed him up to the Museum Room, sir, which, having been locked, is the only suitable room in the house today. He expressed a wish to see you alone, sir.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yes, sir…”
A band had started playing somewhere.
People spoke to me on my way: I don’t know who they were. One idea, one idea only was burning in my brain: this was a trap, a trap into which the doctor expected that all his enemies assembled in that house would fall!
A final question I threw at Betts:
“He’s a tall man?”
“Very tall, sir, and distinguished; Chinese, I believe…”
I battled my way to the staircase. Couples were seated upon it fully halfway up. I heard the chief’s loud laugh and had a hazy impression that Nayland Smith formed one of the group in the lobby.
They were the two for whom this trap had been laid!
While disavowing any claims to heroism, I must state here that I mounted those stairs to the Museum Room fully expecting to meet destruction. I was determined to meet it alone. The plan should fail. With moderate luck, I might escape; but, even if I crashed, the Chinese doctor would have been foiled.
Sounds of voices, laughter, music, followed me as I threw open the door guarded left and right by phantoms clothed in Saracen armour.
The Museum Room was empty!
For a moment I doubted the evidence of my senses. After all, was it credible that Fu-Manchu should have presented himself at Sir Lionel’s house? Was it possible that he could have crossed the lobby without being recognized by one of the many present who knew him?
; I was aware, of course, that the room had three doors; but, even so, escape to the street without detection was next to impossible.
But definitely there was no one there!
Then, on the table, that memorable table which I had prepared for the private view of the relics, I saw that a small parcel lay.
A dimmed clamour of voices and music reached me, with which mingled the traffic hum of Bruton Street.
Neatly wrapped and sealed it lay before me; that package which I believed to contain — death.
The motives which actuated me I realise now, looking back, were obscure; but I opened the parcel and found it to consist of a small casket apparently of crystal, carved (as I supposed at the time) in a pattern of regular prisms which glittered brightly in the sunlight.
An ebony box was inside the casket. A sheet of thick, yellow notepaper, folded, lay on the lid of the box. I opened the box.
It was lined with velvet; and, resting upon the velvet, I saw a string of pink pearls coiled around a scarab ring.
My brain performed a somersault. Someone was calling my name, but I didn’t heed the interruption. I was unfolding the sheet of thick, yellow notepaper. It was neither headed nor dated. In jet-black, cramped writing it contained these words:
To Mr. Shan Greville. Greeting. You have suffered at my hands, because unwittingly you have sometimes obstructed me. I bear you no ill will. Indeed, I respect you — for you are an honourable man; and I wish you every happiness. The pearls are for your bride. They are the only perfectly matched set of a hundred pink pearls in the world. The casket is also for her. She is beautiful, brave, and virtuous, a combination of qualities so rare that the woman possessing them is a jewel above price. It is set with eighty flawless diamonds and was made to the order of Catherine of Russia — who was brave, but neither beautiful nor virtuous. The ebony box is for you. It will interest Sir Lionel Barton. It bears engraved upon it the seal of King Solomon and came from his temple. The ring, also, I request you to accept. It is the signet ring of Khufu — supposed builder of the Great Pyramid. Commend me to Sir Denis Nayland Smith, to Dr. Petrie, and to Karamenfeh, his wife, and convey my good wishes to Superintendent Weymouth. I desire you every good fortune. Greeting and Farewell. Fu-Manchu.
FU MANCHU’S BRIDE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE. FLEURETTE
CHAPTER TWO. A PURPLE CLOUD
CHAPTER THREE. THE BLOODSTAINED LEAVES
CHAPTER FOUR. SQUINTING EYES
CHAPTER FIVE. THE BLACK STIGMATA
CHAPTER SIX. “654”
CHAPTER SEVEN. IVORY FINGERS
CHAPTER EIGHT. “BEWARE”
CHAPTER NINE. FAH LO SUEE
CHAPTER TEN. GREEN EYES
CHAPTER ELEVEN. AT THE VILLA JASMIN
CHAPTER TWELVE. MIMOSA
CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE FORMULA
CHAPTER FOURTEEN. IN MONTE CARLO
CHAPTER FIFTEEN. FAIRY TRUMPET
CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE DACOIT
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE ROOM OF GLASS
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. DR. FU-MANCHU
CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE SECRET JUNGLE
CHAPTER TWENTY. DREAM CREATURES
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. THE HAIRLESS MAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. HALF-WORLD
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. THE JADE PIPE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR. COMPANION YAMAMATA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. THE LIFE PRINCIPLE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. THE ORCHID
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. IN THE GALLERIES
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. EVIL INCARNATE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE. PURSUIT
CHAPTER THIRTY. NAYLAND SMITH
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE. FU-MANCHU’S ARMY
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. RECALL
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE. I OBEY
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR. DERCETO
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE. THE SECTION DOORS
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. THE UNSULLIED MIRROR
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN. THE GLASS MASK
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT. THE GLASS MASK (CONCLUDED)
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE. SEARCH IN STE CLAIRE
CHAPTER FORTY. THE SECRET DOCK
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE. “I SAW THE SUN”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO. THE RAID
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE. KARMANÈH’S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR. OFFICER OF THE PREFÉT
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE. ON THE DESTROYER
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX. WE BOARD THE LOLA
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN. DR. PETRIE
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT. “IT MEANS EXTRADITION”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE. MAÎTRE FOLI
CHAPTER FIFTY. “THE WORK GOES ON”
CHAPTER ONE. FLEURETTE
All the way around the rugged headland, and beyond, as I sat at the wheel of the easy-running craft, I found myself worrying about Petrie. He was supposed to be looking after me. I thought that somebody should be looking after him. He took his responsibilities with a deadly seriousness; and this strange epidemic which had led the French authorities to call upon his expert knowledge was taxing him to the limit. At luncheon I thought he had looked positively ill; but he had insisted upon returning to his laboratory.
He seemed to imagine that the reputation of the Royal Society was in his keeping...
I had hoped that the rockbound cove which I had noted would afford harbourage for the motorboat. Nevertheless, I was pleasantly surprised when I found that it did.
The little craft made safe, I waded in and began to swim through nearly still water around that smaller promontory beyond which lay the bay and beach of Ste Claire de la Roche. Probably a desire to test my fitness underlay the job; if I could not explore Ste Claire from the land side, I was determined to invade it, nevertheless.
The water was quite warm, and it had that queer odour of stagnation peculiar to this all but tideless sea. I swam around the point, and twenty yards out from the beach my feet touched bottom.
At the same moment I saw her...
She was seated on the smooth sand, her back towards me, and she was combing her hair. As I stumbled, groped, and began to make my way inland, I told myself that this sole inhabitant of Ste Claire was probably one of those fabulous creatures, a mermaid — or, should I say, a siren.
I halted, wading ashore, and watched her.
Her arms, her shoulders, and her back were beautiful. Riviera salt and sun had tanned her to a most delectable shade of brown. Her wavy hair was of a rich red mahogany colour. This was all I could see of the mermaid from my position in the sea.
I made the shore without disturbing her.
It became apparent, then, that she was not a mermaid; a pair of straight, strong, and very shapely brown legs discredited the mermaid theory. She was a human girl with a perfect figure and glorious hair, wearing one of those bathing suits fashionable in Cannes...
What it was, at this moment, which swamped admiration and brought fear — which urged me to go back — to go back — I could not imagine. I fought against this singular revulsion, reminding myself that I was newly convalescent from a dangerous illness. This alone, I argued, accounted for the sudden weird chill which had touched me.
Why, otherwise, should I be afraid of a pretty girl?
I moved forward.
And as I began to walk up the gently sloping beach she heard me and turned.
I found myself staring, almost in a frightened way, at the most perfect face I thought I had ever seen. Those arms and shoulders were so daintily modelled that I had been prepared for disillusionment: instead, I found glamour.
She was bronzed by the sun, and, at the moment, innocent of make-up. She had most exquisitely chiselled features. Her lips were slightly parted showing the whitest little teeth. Big, darkly fringed eyes — and they were blue as the Mediterranean — were opened widely, as if my sudden appearance had alarmed her.
I may have dreamed, as some men do, of flawless beauty, but I had never expected to meet it; when:
“How did you get here?” the vision aske
d and rolled over onto one elbow, looking up at me.
Her voice had a melodious resonance which suggested training, and her cool acceptance of my appearance helped to put me more at ease.
“I just swam ashore,” I replied. “I hope I didn’t frighten you?”
“Nothing frightens me,” she answered in that cool, low tone, her unflinching eyes — the eyes of a child, but of a very clever and very inquisitive child — fixed upon me. “I was certainly surprised.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I should have warned you.”
Her steady regard never wavered; it was becoming disconcerting. She was quite young, as the undisguised contours of her body revealed, but about her very beauty there hovered some aura of mysteriousness which her typically nonchalant manner could not dispel. Then, suddenly, I saw, and it greatly relieved me to see, a tiny dimple appear in her firm round chin. She smiled — and her smile made me her slave.
“Please explain,” she said; “this isn’t an accident, is it?”
“No,” I confessed; “it’s a plot.”
She shifted to a more easy position, resting both elbows on the sand and cupping her chin in two hands.
“What do you mean ‘a plot’?” she asked, suddenly serious again.
I sat down, peculiarly conscious of my angular ugliness.
“I wanted to have a look at Ste Claire,” I replied. “It used to be open to inspection and it’s a spot of some historical interest. I found the road barred. And I was told that a certain Mahdi Bey had bought the place and had seen fit to close it to the public. I heard that the enclosed property ran down to the sea, so I explored and saw this little bay.”
“And what were you going to do?” she asked, looking me over in a manner which struck me as almost supercilious.
“Well...” I hesitated, hoping for another smile. “I had planned to climb up to Ste Claire, and if I should be discovered, explain that I had been carried away by the current which works around the headland and been compelled to swim ashore.”
