by Sax Rohmer
What was the real age of this man?
“I have removed the command which I imposed upon her,” the whistling voice continued, “because I have accepted your word, as you have always accepted mine. Your daughter, Dr. Petrie, is restored to you as you would wish her to be. I shall never again intrude upon her life in any way.”
“Thank you!” said Petrie — and wondered why he spoke so emotionally.
He was thanking this cold-blooded, murderous criminal for promising to refrain from one of his many crimes! Perhaps the secret of his sentiment lay in the fact that he knew the criminal to be one whose word was inviolable.
“I have taken these steps—” Fu-Manchu’s voice sank lower— “because with all your great skill, which I respect, your assistance may have come too late.”
He paused again. Petrie watched him fascinatedly.
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith has succeeded for the... first time in his life in sequestering me from most of those resources upon which normally... I can draw... In these circumstances I was compelled to forego one... of the periodical treatments upon which my continued... vitality depends... I was then cut off from the material. My present condition is outside my experience... I cannot say if restoration... is possible...”
Complete resignation sounded in the weak voice.
“In the absence of Dr. Yamamata... who usually acts for me, but who unfortunately at present is in China... there is no other physician known to me who could possibly... assist — in any way. I shall be obliged, Dr. Petrie, if you will give the whole of your attention to... the written formula which lies... upon the table. Any error would be fatal... Only one portion of the essential oil remains in the phial contained in the... steel casket...”
He ceased speaking and closed his eyes.
His hands had never moved; it was like listening to a dead man speaking from the grave.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE. THE CROSSLANDS’ FLAT
“Detective-inspector Gallaho, sir,” Fey announced.
It was approaching evening when Gallaho called on Nayland Smith; and, entering the lobby, he wrenched his bowler off, threw it on to a chair and walked into the sitting-room.
“Hullo, Gallaho!” said Sir Denis. “A devil of a row going on in the corridor?”
“Yes, sir. The vacant flat has been let — to an Indian Army gentleman, I believe. His stuff is being moved in.”
“You’ve checked up, I see!”
“Well—” Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf— “I’ve got a man posted at each of the four exits, and I’ve sized up the workmen from Staple’s depository on the job. Nobody is going to slip out in the confusion — that is, nobody over six feet in height that I don’t know!”
“Efficient work, Inspector.”
Gallaho stared, chewing invisible gum.
“I have come to a certain conclusion, sir,” he declared. “What I do about it depends upon your answer to a question I am going to ask.”
“What’s the question?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“It’s just this, sir: who’s in charge of this Fu-Manchu case?”
“I am.”
“Good enough. That means I am under your orders, definitely.”
“Definitely.”
“That saves me a lot of trouble,” sighed Gallaho, leaning upon the mantelpiece. “Because I have certain theories, and I can’t act upon them without your instructions.”
He paused, and seemed to be listening.
“I know what you’re listening for,” said Sir Denis. “But I am very happy to be able to tell you, Gallaho, that Miss Petrie is entirely restored. The nurse installed by Dr. Petrie insists that she shall remain in bed. But there isn’t really the slightest occasion for it. Mr. Sterling and the nurse are with her now. She is completely normal.”
“That’s an amazing thing,” growled Gallaho.
Nayland Smith stared past him as if at some very distant object, and then:
“The powers of the mind are amazing,” he said, quietly. “But this theory of yours, Gallaho?”
“Well, sir, my theory is this: that slimy old Arab, Ibrahim, went out this morning and I followed him. I took Murphy along in case we had to split up. He went to West India Dock, and went on board a liner in from Jamaica. He came ashore again, with his employer, Mr. Crossland.”
“I know,” Sir Denis interrupted. “I met them here, as they arrived.”
“Oh, I see...” Gallaho stared very hard. “Well, in my opinion, there’s something funny about it. You see, sir, I had some inquiries made about Mr. Crossland. His wife’s in New York. That’s certain — I mean the woman who writes the books. But Mr. Crossland himself was last heard of in Madeira.”
“He might have joined the ship at some port of call.”
“He might,” Gallaho replied. “In fact, he must have done. But it’s very funny. Except the Egyptian, nobody has come out of that flat since we visited it... I’m wondering who’s still inside—”
Nayland Smith did not answer for some moments, then: “You mean, Gallaho,” he said, “that you don’t think the man who is now presumably in Mr. Crossland’s flat, is really Mr. Crossland at all?”
“I suppose I must be mad,” growled Gallaho, almost rubbing his elbow into the mantelpiece. “His passport was obviously in order; he was accepted by the servants downstairs here, and he was met by Ibrahim, who took charge of his baggage. I suppose I must be barmy. But there’s something about it that isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on the weak spot — but I wish I had your authority to barge into Mr. Crossland’s flat. I think I should find something.”
Nayland Smith walked up and down in silence, but at last: “In my opinion, you are right, Inspector,” he replied. “If my opinion is of any value, I regard you as a man brilliantly equipped for his chosen profession.”
Detective-inspector Gallaho became definitely embarrassed.
“You apparently don’t know the meaning of fear, although you have an active imagination. I owe my life to this singular combination, and this, I shall never forget.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The present Commissioner and myself, do not see eye to eye, but I don’t dispute his brilliance as an organizer. What I mean is this, Gallaho; you have hit the nail on the head.”
Gallaho, watching the speaker, was chewing assiduously, and now:
“Am I to understand, sir,” he asked, “that you agree with my view of this case?”
“I do.”
“You mean you have reason to suppose, as I have reason to suppose, that the proper course, in the interests of justice, would be to secure powers to examine the flat of Mr. Crossland?”
“Exactly.”
There was a further interval of silence. Tramcars rocked upon their way, far below. Some vague hint of activity upon the river reached that high apartment.
“I take it, sir, you are officially in charge?”
“I have told you so.”
“And you don’t wish Mr. Crossland’s apartment to be searched?”
“Definitely, I forbid the step.”
“Very good, sir,”
Gallaho’s eyes strayed in the direction of the door which communicated with the room occupied by Fleurette.
“You see,” said Nayland Smith, “you are not dealing with a common criminal. You are dealing with the Emperor of Lawbreakers. Dr. Petrie and myself have worked side by side for many years, opposing this man’s monstrous plans. I have never succeeded in bringing him to justice. There are reasons why I can do nothing at the moment — nothing whatever...”
He fixed his keen eyes upon Inspector Gallaho.
“I understand, sir. When do I get the O.K.?”
“When Dr. Petrie rejoins us.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO. COMPANION CROSSLAND
Into the oriental bedroom dusk had crept. Long ago Ibrahim had turned the lamps on.
Petrie had lost identity: he was merely a physician battling with the most difficult case ever entrusted to him. He sat beside Dr.
Fu-Manchu, holding the lean, yellow wrist and registering the pulse; watching the mummy-like face, wondering if he had committed any error, and hoping — yes, hoping — that success would crown his hours of effort!
Under no obligation whatever, for no man who had ever met him had doubted the word of Fu-Manchu, he was battling to save the life of this monster, this octopus whose tentacles, stretching out from some place in Asia, touched, it seemed, the races of the world. He was cherishing a plague, fanning into life again an intellect so cold, so exact, that the man in whose body it was set could sacrifice his own flesh and blood in the interests of his giant, impersonal projects.
For one insane moment, the glamor of the Si-Fan swamped common-sense. Petrie found himself questioning his own ideals; challenging standards which he believed to be true. Definitely, the world was awry; perhaps it was possible that this amazing man — for that he was an outstanding genius, none could deny — had a plan to adjust the scheme of things “nearer to the heart’s desire.”
How could he know?
Weighed in the balance with the mandarin doctor, he was a negligible quantity. Perhaps the redemption of mankind, the readjustment of poise, could only be brought about by a remorseless, steely intellect such as that of Dr. Fu-Manchu. Perhaps he was a fool to fight against the Si-Fan... Perhaps the Si-Fan was right, and the Western world wrong!
Night had come, and upon its wings had descended again that demon Fog. Wisps streaked the room...
And the night wore on — until ghostly spears of dawn broke through the shaded windows.
Dr. Fu-Manchu suddenly opened his eyes!
Their brilliant greenness was oddly filmed; a husky whisper reached Petrie’s ears:
“Success!”
He had never believed that he could touch without loathing the person of the Chinese physician, but now, again, he tested his pulse, and as he did so:
“You observe the change?” the weak voice continued. “I have challenged Fate, Dr. Petrie, but again I have won. The crisis is past.”
Petrie stared at him in amazement. Not only his pulse, but his voice, indicated a phenomenal return of vitality.
“The life property — which is the sum,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu, “revivifies swiftly. You are surprised.”
The queer film left his eyes. It appeared to the amazed stare of Petrie that the hollows in those yellow cheeks already were filling out...
“Of the Western physicians whom chance has thrown in my path, I have not yet met your peer. You are a modest man, Dr. Petrie. True healers are rare — but you are one of these. If ever you join me it will be voluntarily. From this day onward you have nothing to fear from any plans I may deem it necessary to undertake.”
The treatment which Dr. Petrie had administered to Fu-Manchu was one which, personally, he should have described as imbecile. The B.M.A. would have disowned any physician employing such measures. He had been unable to discover any element of sanity, any trace of unity, in the drugs which he had been directed to assemble.
The queer oil, with its faint violet tinge, was the only element in the strange prescription which he could not identify. Yes; it was magic! — something transcending the knowledge of the Western world!
Dr. Fu-Manchu was growing younger, hour by hour...
Petrie watched the miracle; and, in the full light of morning:
“You are amazed, Dr. Petrie.” The harsh voice was beginning to regain its normal quality. “Any physician of Europe or America would be amazed. Perhaps you do not realize, even yet, that the old herbalists were not all mad. There is an essential oil — you have used it tonight — which contains those properties the alchemists sought. It is the other ingredients, and they are simple, which convert it into that elixir vitae found only once in the Middle Ages.”
He sat up!
Petrie started back. Before the Fu-Manchu against whom he had fought for so many years, the vital, powerful Fu-Manchu, he found himself an enemy. He faced a menace which had all but wrecked his own happiness; which yet might wreck the structure of Western society.
“My compliments, Dr. Petrie. I had not overestimated your accomplishments.”
Ten years — twenty years — a hundred years — had been shed by the speaker, as a snake discards its old skin. The man who now sat upright in the bed fixing the gaze of his green eyes upon Dr. Petrie, was a phenomenon; the Phoenix had arisen from its ashes.
A vision of what this might mean to the world crossed Petrie’s mind: — a battle-piece red with blood and violence; a ghastly picture of death and destruction.
“You have played your part honorably,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu.
He reached out a long, yellow hand, and pressed a bell. Ibrahim entered — and, realizing the miracle which had taken place, prostrated himself upon the carpet and pronounced a prayer of thanksgiving.
There were sounds of movement in the corridor outside. Vaguely, Petrie recalled that a similar disturbance had occurred during the previous evening — but it had reached him as through a fog.
Ibrahim was followed by a man wearing morning dress — a cleanshaven man whose lined face seemed out of keeping with his jet black hair. At Dr. Petrie — who still wore the make-up imposed by Mr. Yusaki — this man stared amazedly.
“This is Companion Crossland,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu sibilantly. “His counterfeit presentment intrigues him. Companion Crossland has resigned his place in the world which knew him. I am ready.”
He moved towards the door.
“Ibrahim will assist you to resume your normal appearance. I ask for your word that you will remain here until Ibrahim tells you it is time to go.”
“I agree.”
“Dr. Petrie, I salute you — and bid you farewell...”
PRESIDENT FU MANCHU
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE. THE ABBOT OF HOLY THORN
CHAPTER TWO. A CHINESE HEAD
CHAPTER THREE. ABOVE THE BLIZZARD
CHAPTER FOUR. MRS. ADAIR
CHAPTER FIVE. THE SPECIAL TRAIN
CHAPTER SIX. AT WEAVER’S FARM
CHAPTER SEVEN. SLEEPLESS UNDERWORLD
CHAPTER EIGHT. THE BLACK HAT
CHAPTER NINE. THE SEVEN-EYED GODDESS
CHAPTER TEN. JAMES RICHET
CHAPTER ELEVEN. RED SPOTS
CHAPTER TWELVE. NUMBER 81
CHAPTER THIRTEEN. TANGLED CLUES
CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE SCARLET BRIDES
CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE SCARLET BRIDES (CONCLUDED)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN. “BLUEBEARD”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE ABBOT’S MOVE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. MRS. ADAIR REAPPEARS
CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE CHINESE CATACOMBS
CHAPTER TWENTY. THE CHINESE CATACOMBS (CONCLUDED)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. CARNEGIE HALL
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. MOYA ADAIR’S SECRET
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. FU-MANCHU’S WATER-GATE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR. SIEGE OF CHINATOWN
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. SIEGE OF CHINATOWN (CONCLUDED)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. THE SILVER BOX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. THE STRATTON BUILDING
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. PAUL SALVALETTI
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE. A GREEN MIRAGE
CHAPTER THIRTY. PLAN OF ATTACK
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE. PROFESSOR MORGENSTAHL
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. BELOW WU KING’S
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE. THE BALCONY
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR. “THE SEVEN”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE. THE LEAGUE OF GOOD AMERICANS
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. THE HUMAN EQUATION
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN. THE GREAT PHYSICIAN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT. WESTWARD
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE. THE VOICE FROM THE TOWER
CHAPTER FORTY. “THUNDER OF WATERS”
The first edition
CHAPTER ONE. THE ABBOT OF HOLY THORN
Three cars drew up, the leading car abreast of a great bronze door bearing a design representing the beautiful agonized face of the Sav
ior, a crown of thorns crushed down upon His brow. A man jumped out and ran to this door. Ten men alighted behind him. The wind howled around the tall tower and a carpet of snow was beginning to form upon the ground. Four guards, appearing as if by magic out of white shadows, lined up before the door.
“Stayton!” came sharply. “Stand aside.”
One of the guards stepped forward — peered. A tall, slightly built man who had been in the leading car was the speaker. He had a mass of black, untidy hair, and his face, though that of one not yet west of thirty, was grim and square-jawed. He was immediately recognized.
“All right, Captain.”
The man addressed as captain turned to the party and issued rapid orders in a low tone. The leader, muffled up in a leather, fur-collared topcoat, his face indistinguishable beneath the brim of a soft felt hat already dusted with snow, rang a bell beside the bronze door.
It opened so suddenly that one might have supposed the opener to have been waiting inside for this purpose; a short, elegant young man, almost feminine in the nicety of his attire.
The new arrival stepped in and quickly shut out the storm, closing the bronze door behind him. In a little lobby communicating with a large square room equipped as an up-to-date office, but at this late hour deserted, he stood staring at the person who had admitted him.
A churchlike lamp, hung from a bracket on the wall, now cast its golden light upon the face of the man wearing the leather coat. He had removed his hat, revealing a head of crisp, graying hair. His features were angular to the point of gauntness, and his eyes had the penetrating quality of armored steel, while his complexion seemed strangely out of keeping with the climate, being sun-baked to a sort of coffee color.
“Are you James Richet?” he snapped.
The elegant young man inclined his glossy head.
“At your service.”
“Lead me to Abbot Donegal. I am expected.”
Richet perceptibly hesitated; whereupon, plunging his hand with an irritable, nervous movement into some pocket beneath the leather topcoat, the visitor produced a card and handed it to Richet. One glance he gave at it, bowed again in a manner that was almost Oriental and indicated the open gate of an elevator.
