by Sax Rohmer
That forceful voice died away unaccountably. My brain suggested that the instrument, operated by an unknown principle, had failed. But then conscious thought petered out altogether, I suppose. The eyes regarding me from the screen, although the image was colourless, seemed, aided by memory, to become green… Then they merged together and became one contemplative eye. That eye grew enormous — it dominated the picture — it became a green lake — and a remorseless urge impelled me to plunge into its depths…
I stood up, or so I thought, from the ottoman on which I had been seated and walked forward into the lake.
Miraculously I did not sink. Stepping across a glittering green expanse, I found myself upon solid land. Here I paused, and the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke:
“Look! — this is China.”
I saw a swamp, a vast morass wherein no human thing could dwell, a limitless and vile corruption… I saw guns buried in the mud; in pools I saw floating corpses: the foetid air was full of carrion, and all about me I heard wailing and lamentations. So desolate was the scene that I turned my head aside until the voice spoke again:
“Look! It is Spain.”
I saw a waste which once had been a beautiful village: the shell of an old church; ruins of a house upon whose scarred walls bougainvillea bloomed gaily. People, among them women and children, were searching in the ruins. I wondered for what they were searching. But out of the darkness the Voice came again:
“Look! This is London.”
From my magic carpet I looked down upon Whitehall. Almost that spectacle conquered the magic of the Voice. I fought against mirage, but the mood of rebellion passed… I saw the cenotaph partly demolished. I heard crashes all around me, muted but awful. Where I thought familiar buildings should be there were gaping caverns. Strange figures, antlike as I looked down upon them, ran in all directions.
“Your world!” said the Voice. “Come, now, into mine…”
And Ardatha was beside me!
It was a rose garden, the scent of the flowers intoxicating. Below where the roses grew I saw steps leading down to a marble pool upon the cool surface of which lotus blossoms floated. Bees droned amid the roses, and gaily plumaged birds darted from tree to tree. An exquisite sense of well being overcame me. I turned to Ardatha — and her lips were irresistible.
“Why did you ever doubt what I told you?” she whispered.
“Only because I was a fool.”
I lost myself in a kiss which realised all the raptures of which I had ever dreamed…
Ardatha melted from my arms… I sought her, called her name— “Ardatha! Ardatha!” But the rose garden had vanished: I was in darkness — alone, helpless, though none constrained me…
Flat on the carpet of Nayland Smith’s apartment, as I had fallen back from the ottoman, I lay! — fully alive to my environment, but unable to speak — to move!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. LIVING DEATH
The screen, the magical screen, was black. Faint light came through the windows. Something — some damnable thing — had happened. I had gone mad — or been bewitched. That power, suspected but now experienced, of the dreadful Chinese doctor had swept me up.
With what purpose?
There seemed to be nothing different about the room — but how long had I been unaware of what was going on? Most accursed thing of all, I could think, but I couldn’t move! I lay there flat on my back, helpless as one dead. My keen mental activity in this condition was a double agony.
As I lay I could see right into the lobby — and now I became aware of the fact that I was not alone!
A small, dark man had opened the outer door quietly, glanced in my direction, and then set down a small handbag which he had seemed to carry with great care. He wore thick-rimmed glasses. He opened the bag, and I saw him doing something to the telephone.
I tried to command nerve and muscle — I tried to move. It was futile.
My body was dead: my brain alone lived…
I saw the man go. Even in that moment of mental torment I must watch passively, for I could not close my eyes!
Here I lay at the point from which my journeys to China, to Spain, to an enchanted rose garden had begun, and so lying, unable to move a muscle, again I heard a key inserted in the door… The door opened and Nayland Smith dashed into the room. He looked down at me.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, and bent over me.
My eyes remained fixed: they continued to stare towards the lobby.
“Kerrigan! Kerrigan! Speak, old man! What happened?”
Speak! I could not stir…
He placed his ear to my chest, tested my pulse, stood up and seemed to hesitate for a moment. I heard and partly saw him going from room to room, searching. Then he came back and again fully into view. He stared down at me critically. He had switched up all the lights as he had entered. He walked across to the lobby, and I knew that, he was about to take up the telephone!
His intentions were obvious. He was going to call a doctor.
A scream of the spirit implored me to awake, to warn him not to touch that telephone. This, was the supreme moment of torture…
I heard the faint tinkling of the bell as Nayland Smith raised the receiver.
* * * *
I became obsessed with the horrible idea that Dr. Fu-Manchu had in some way induced a state of catalepsy! I should be buried alive! But not even the terror caused by this ghastly possibility would make me forget that small, sinister figure engaged in doing something to the telephone.
That it was something which meant death, every instinct told me.
Yet I lay there, myself already in a state of living death!
Smith stood, the receiver in his hand, and I could see and hear him dialling a number.
But it was not to be…
A crashing explosion shook the entire building! It shattered several panes of glass in one window, and it accomplished that which my own brain had failed to accomplish. It provided a shock against which the will of Dr. Fu-Manchu was powerless.
I experienced a sensation exactly as that of some tiny but tough thread which had held the cells of my brain immured in inertia being snapped. It was a terrifying sensation — but its terrors were forgotten in the instant when I realised that I was my own master again!
“Smith!” I cried, and my voice had a queer, hysterical ring— “Smith! Don’t touch that telephone!”
Perhaps the warning was unnecessary. He had replaced the receiver on the hook and was staring blankly across the apartment in the direction of the shattered window.
“Kerrigan!”
He sprang forward as I scrambled to my feet.
I can’t explain yet,” I muttered (the back of my head began to ache madly) “except that you must not touch that telephone.”
He grabbed me by the shoulders, stared into my eyes.
“Thank God you’re all right, Kerrigan! I can’t tell you what I feared — but will tell you later. Somewhere down the river there has been a catastrophe.”
“It has saved us from a catastrophe far greater.”
Smith turned, threw a window open (I saw now that he had been deeply moved) and craned out. Away downstream black smoke was rising over a sullen red glow.
Police whistles shrieked and I heard the distant clangour of a fire engine… Later we learned — and the tragedy was front-page news in the morning — of that disastrous explosion on a munition barge in which twelve lives were lost. At the moment, I remember, we were less concerned with the cause of the explosion than with its effect.
Smith turned from the window and stared at me fixedly.
“How did you get in, Kerrigan? Where is Fey?”
“Fey let me in, then he was called up by Inspector Gallaho from Scotland Yard to meet you there.”
“I have not been there — and I have reason to know that Gallaho is not in London. However, go on.”
“Fey evidently had no doubt that Gallaho was the speaker. He gave me a drink, told me that you would return
directly he, Fey, reached Scotland Yard, and went out.”
“What happened then?”
“Then the incredible happened.”
“You are sure that you feel perfectly restored?”
“Certain.”
Smith pushed me down into an armchair and crossed to the buffet.
“Go on,” he said quietly.
“The television screen lighted up. Doctor Fu-Manchu appeared.”
“What!”
He turned, his hand on a syphon and his expression very grim.
“Yes! You wondered for what purpose he had caused the thing to be installed here, Smith. I can give you an example of one use he made of it! Perhaps I am particularly susceptible to the influence of this man. I think you believe I am, for you observed on a former occasion that I was behaving strangely as I watched those awful eyes. Well this time I succumbed altogether. I had a series of extraordinary visions, almost certainly emanations from the brain of Doctor Fu-Manchu. And then I became fully conscious but quite incapable of movement!”
“That was your condition when I returned,” Smith snapped. He crossed to me with a tumbler in his hand.
“I had been in that condition for some time before your return. A man admitted himself to the lobby with a key.”
“Describe him.”
“A small man with straight black hair, who wore what seemed to be powerful spectacles. He carried a bag which he handled with great care. He proceeded to make some adjustment to the mouthpiece of the telephone, and then with a glance in my direction — I was lying on the floor as you found me — he went out again as quietly as he had come.”
“Clearly,” said Smith, staring into the lobby, “your unexpected appearance presented a problem. They did not know you were coming. It had been arranged for Fey to be lured away by this unknown mimic who can evidently imitate Gallaho’s voice; but you, the unexpected intruder, had to be dealt with in a different manner. I am wondering about two things now, Kerrigan. Do you feel fit to investigate?”
“Perfectly.”
“First: how long you would have remained in that state in which I found you, failing the unforeseen explosion which shocked you into consciousness; and second: what the small man with the black hair did to the telephone.”
“For heaven’s sake be careful!”
He crossed to the lobby and very gently raised the instrument. I stood beside him. Apart from a splitting headache I felt perfectly normal. He tipped up the mouthpiece and stared curiously into it.
“You are sure it was the mouthpiece that he adjusted?”
“Quite sure.”
And now he turned it round to the light which was streaming through the doorway of the sitting room.
We both saw something.
A bead, quite colorless and no larger than a small pea, adhered to the instrument just below the point where a speaker’s lips would come…
“Good God!” Nayland Smith whispered. “Kerrigan! You understand!”
I nodded. I could not find my voice — for the appalling truth had come to me.
“Anyone speaking loudly would burst this bubble and inhale its contents! God knows what it contains — but we know at last how General Quinto and Osaki died!”
“The Green Death!”
“Undoubtedly. It was a subtle brain, Kerrigan, which foresaw that finding you unconscious, I should immediately call a doctor, that my voice would be agitated. The usual routine, as you must see now, was for someone to call the victim and complain that his voice was not audible, thus causing him to speak close to the receiver and to speak loudly.”
Very gently he replaced the instrument.
At this moment the door was partly opened and Fey came in. He glanced from face to face.
“Glad, sir! Frightened! Something funny going on!”
“Very funny, Fey. I suppose when you got to the Yard you found that the summons did not come from there?”
“Yes sir.”
The phone bell rang. Fey stepped forward.
“Stop! On no account are you to touch the telephone, Fey, until further orders.”
“Very good, sir.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. TREMORS UNDER EUROPE
“Doctor Fu-Manchu evidently is losing his sense of humour,” said Nayland Smith with a smile.
It was noon of the following day, and he stood in my room. He was seated at the desk and was reading my notes. Now he laid them down and began to fill his pipe.
“What do you mean, Smith?”
“I mean that two things — your unexpected appearance, and that explosion on the powder barge — together saved my life. By the way, here is an addition to your notes.”
“What is it?”
“The home office analyst’s report. You know the difficulty we had to remove the mouthpiece of the telephone without breaking the bubble. However, it was done, and you will see what Doctor O’Donnell says.”
I took up the report from the home office consultant. It was not his official report but one he had sent privately to Nayland Smith.
“The construction of the small globe or bubble,” I read, “is peculiarly delicate. Examination of the fragments suggests that it is composed of some kind of glass and is probably blown by an instrument which at the same time fills the interior with gas. The effect of breaking the bubble, however, is to leave no trace whatever, apart from a fragment of powder which normally would be indiscernible. It was attached to the mouthpiece by a minute speck of gum, and I should imagine the operation required great dexterity. As to its contents:
“My full report may be consulted, but briefly I may say that the composition of the gas which this bubble contained is unknown to me. It belongs to none of the groups with which I am familiar. It is the most concentrated poison in gaseous form which I have ever encountered: In addition to the other experiments (see report) I smelled this gas — but for a moment. The result was extraordinary. It induced a violent increase of blood pressure, followed by a drumming in my ears which created such an illusion of being external that for a time I was persuaded someone was beating a drum in the neighbourhood…”
As I laid the letter on the table:
“Have you considered,” Nayland Smith asked, “what revolutionary contributions Doctor Fu-Manchu could make to science, particularly to medicine, if he worked for heaven and not for hell?”
“Yes, it’s a damnable thought.”
“The greatest genius living — perhaps as great as has ever been born — toiling for the destruction of humanity!”
“Yet, at the moment, he seems to be working for its preservation.”
“But only seems, Kerrigan. Its preservation for his own purposes — yes! I strongly suspect, however, that his recent attempt upon me was dictated by an uncanny knowledge of my movements.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am being shadowed day and night. There have been other episodes which I have not even bothered to mention.”
“You alarm me!”
“Fortunately for myself, the doctor has his hands full in other directions. If he once concentrated upon me I believe I should give up hope. You see, he knows that I am watching his next move, and with devilish cunning, so far, he has headed me off.”
“His next move…” I stared questioningly.
“Yes. In his war against dictators. At the moment it is concentrated upon one of them — and the greatest.”
“You don’t mean—”
“I mean Rudolf Adlon! In view of the way in which he is guarded and of the many attempts by enemies to reach him which have failed, it seems perhaps absurd that I should be anxious because one more man has entered the lists.”
“But that man is Doctor Fu-Manchu!”
“Not a doubt about it, Kerrigan. Yet, officially, my hands are tied.”
“Why?”
“Adlon has refused to see me, and I cannot very well force myself upon him.”
“Have you definite evidence that Adlon has been threatened?” Nayland
Smith lighted his pipe and nodded shortly.
“I am in the difficult position of having to keep an eye on a number of notable people — many of them, quite frankly, not friends of Great Britain. With a view to doing my best to protect them, the legitimate functions of the secret service up to a certain extent have been switched into this channel, and I had information three days ago that Adlon had received the first notice from the Si-Fan!”
“Good heavens! What did you do?”
“I immediately advised him that whatever he might think to the contrary, he was in imminent peril of his life. I suggested a conference.”
“And he refused to see you?”
“Exactly. Whatever is pending — and rest assured it will affect the fate of the world — it is clearly a matter of some urgency, for I am informed that a second notice has reached Adlon.”
“What do you make of it? What is he planning?”
Nayland Smith stood up, irritably snapping his fingers.
“I don’t know, nor can I find out. Furthermore, for any evidence to the contrary, there might be no such person as Doctor Fu-Manchu in the world. Do you think it conceivable that such a personality is moving about among us — as undoubtedly he is — and yet not one clue fall into the hands of a veritable army of searchers?”
I watched him for some time as he paced nervously up and down the carpet, then:
“Having met Doctor Fu-Manchu,” I replied slowly, “I am prepared to believe anything about him. What is bothering me at the moment, Smith, is this: On your own admission he knows that you are trying to protect Adlon.”
Nayland Smith sighed wearily.
“He knows every move I make, Kerrigan. Almost, I believe, those which I am likely to make but upon which I have not yet decided.”
“In other words your own danger is as great, if not greater, than that of the chancellor.”
He smiled wryly.
“Since one evening in Burma, many years ago — an evening of which I bear cherished memories, for it was then that I first set eyes on Doctor Fu-Manchu — I have gone in hourly peril of assassination. Yet, here I am — thanks to the doctor’s sense of humour! You see” — he began to walk up and down again— “I doubt if ever before have I had the entire power of the Si-Fan directed against me. And so this time, I am wondering…”
