by Sax Rohmer
“I was wondering,” he mused. “Could you toss me another cigarette?”
He lighted it, and apparently unconscious of the length of chain attached to his ankles, began to pace up and down the narrow compass of floor allowed to him, drawing on the cigarette with the vigour of a pipe smoker, so that clouds issued from his lips.
Hope began to dawn in my hitherto hopeless mind.
“Oh for the brain of a Houdini!” he murmured. “The problem is this, Kerrigan: The keys are hanging less than a foot below this grating behind me, but two feet wide of it. If you will glance at the position of the door you will see that I am right. It is clearly impossible for me to reach them. By no possible contortion could I get within a foot of the keyhole from which they are hanging. You follow me?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very well. What is urgently required — for my jailer will almost certainly take the keys away — is an idea; namely, how to reach those keys and detach them from the lock. There must be a way!”
Following a long silence interrupted only by the clanking of Nayland Smith’s leg irons, periodical moaning of the wind through that unseen opening and the chink of the pendant keys:
“It is not only how to reach them,” I said, “but how to turn the lock in order to detach them.”
“I agree. Yet there must be a way.”
He stood still — in fact, seemed almost to become rigid. I saw where his gaze was set.
The sinew-tearing pincers to which Dr. Fu-Manchu had drawn our attention lay not at the spot from which he had taken them up, but beside the pillar…
“Smith!” I whispered, “can you reach them?”
With never a word or glance he walked forward to the extreme limit of the chain, went down upon his hands and crept forward with a stoat-like movement. Fully extended, his right hand outstretched to the utmost, he was six inches short of his objective!
Even as I heard him utter a sound like a groan:
“Come back, Smith!”
My voice shook ridiculously. He got back onto his feet, turned and looked at me.
Although robbed of my automatic, my clasp knife and anything else resembling a lethal weapon, a small piece of string no more than a foot long which I had carefully untied from some package recently received and, a habit, had neatly looped and placed in my pocket proved still to be there. I held it up triumphantly.
Nayland Smith’s expression changed.
“May I inquire what earthly use you can suggest for a piece of string?”
“Tie one end to the handle of that metal pitcher on the ledge beside you, then crawl forward again and toss the pitcher into the open arms of the tongs. You can draw them across the floor.”
For a moment Smith’s stare was disconcerting, and then: “Top marks, Kerrigan,” he said quietly. “Toss the string across…”
Many attempts he made which were unsuccessful, but at last he lodged the pitcher between the iron arms of the pincers. Breathlessly I watched him as he began to pull…
The pitcher toppled forward: the pincers did not move.
“We are done,” he panted. “It isn’t going to work!”
And at that moment — as though they had been treading on my heart — I heard footsteps approaching.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE. KORÊANI
Those soft footsteps halted outside the door. There followed a provocative rattle of keys, the sound of a lock being turned; then the door opened, light sprang up…
Dr. Fu-Manchu’s daughter came in.
She was dressed as I remembered her in the room with the lotus floor. Her frock was a sheath, clinging to her lithe figure as perfectly as scales to a fish. She wore no jewelry save the Arab necklace. As she entered the cell and looked about her I grasped the fact immediately that she was looking not for me, but for Nayland Smith.
When her long, narrow eyes met my glance their expression conveyed no more than the slightest interest; but as, turning aside, she looked at Smith I saw them open widely. There was a new light in their depths. I thought that they glittered like emeralds.
She stood there watching him. There was something yearning in her expression, yet something almost hopeless. I remembered Dr. Fu-Manchu’s words. I believed that this woman was struggling to revive a buried memory.
“So you are going to join us,” she said.
Fu-Manchu had used a similar expression. There was some mystery here which no doubt Smith would explain, for the devil doctor had said also, “Fah lo Suee is dead. I have reincarnated her as Korêani…”
The spoken English of Korêani was less perfect than that of Ardatha, but she had a medium note in her voice, a soft, caressing note, which to my ears sounded menacing as the purr of one of the great cats — a puma or tigress.
There was no reply.
“I am glad — but please tell me something.”
“What do you want me to tell you?” Nayland Smith’s tones were coldly indifferent. “Of what interest can my life or death be to you?”
She moved more closely to his side, always watching him.
“There is something I must know. Do you remember me?”
“Perfectly.”
“Where did we meet?”
Smith and I had stood up with that, automatic courtesy which prompts a man when a woman enters a room. And now she was so near to him that easily he could have grasped her.
Watching his grim face into which a new expression had come, I wondered what he contemplated.
“It was a long time ago,” he replied quietly.
“But how could it be so long ago? If I remember you how can I have forgotten our meeting?”
“Perhaps you have forgotten your name?”
“That is stupid! My name is Korêani.”
“No, no.” He smiled and shook his head. “Your real name I never knew, but the name given to you in childhood, the name by which I did know you, was Fah lo Suee.”
She drew down her brows in an effort of recollection.
“Fah lo Suee,” she murmured. “But this is a silly name. It means a perfume, a sweet scent. It is childish!”
“You were a child when it was given to you.”
“Ah!” She smiled — and her smile was so alluring that I knew how this woman must have played upon the emotions of those she had lured into the net of Dr. Fu-Manchu. “You have known me a long time? I thought so, but I cannot remember your name.”
For Korêani I had no existence. She had forgotten my presence. I meant no more to her than one of the dreadful furnishings of the place.
“My name has always been Nayland Smith. How long it will remain so I don’t know.”
“What does a name matter when one belongs to the Si-Fan?”
“I don’t want to forget as you have forgotten — Korêani.”
“What have I forgotten?”
“You have forgotten Nayland Smith. Even now you do not recognise my name.”
Again she frowned in that puzzled way and took a step nearer to the speaker.
“Perhaps you mean something which I do not understand. Why are you afraid to forget? Has your life been so happy?”
“Perhaps,” said Smith, “I don’t want to forget you as you have forgotten me.”
He extended his hands; she was standing directly before him. And as I watched, unable to believe what I saw, he unfastened the gold necklace, held it for a moment, and then dropped it into his pocket!
“Why do you do that?” She was very close to him now. “Do you think it will help you to remember?”
“Perhaps. May I keep it?”
“It is nothing — I give it to you.” Her voice, every line of her swaying body, was an invitation. “It is the Takbir, the Moslem prayer. It means there is no god but God.”
“That is why I thank you for it, Korêani.”
A long time she waited, watching him — watching him. But he did not stir. She moved slowly away.
“I must go. No one must find me here. But I had to come!” Still she hesita
ted. “I am glad I came.”
“I am glad you came.”
She turned, flashed a glance at me, and stepped to the open door. There she paused and glanced back over her shoulder.
“Soon we shall meet again.”
She went out, closed the door and extinguished the light.
I heard a jingle of keys, then the sound of her footsteps as she went along the passage.
“For God’s sake, Smith,” I said in a low voice, “what has come over you?”
He raised a warning finger.
* * * *
As I watched uncomprehendingly, Nayland Smith held up the gold necklace. It was primitive bazaar work, tiny coins hanging from gold chains, each stamped with an Arab letter. I saw that it was secured by means of a ring and a clumsy gold hook. Quickly but coolly he removed the string from the handle of the pitcher and tied it to the ring.
Now I grasped the purpose of that strange episode which in its enactment had staggered me. Once more he dropped onto the stone floor and crept forward until he could throw the hook of the necklace into the angle of the pincers. Twice he failed to anchor the hook; the third time he succeeded.
Gently he drew the heavy iron implement towards him — until he could grasp it in his hand.
“Kerrigan, if I never worked fast in my life before I must work fast now!”
His eyes shone feverishly. He rattled out the words in a series of staccato syllables. In a trice he was onto the chair and straining through the iron bars, the heavy instrument designed to tear human tendons held firmly in his hand. By the tenseness of his attitude, his quick, short breathing, I knew how difficult he found his task.
“Can you reach it, Smith?”
That mournful howling arose, followed by a faint metallic rattling… The rattling ceased.
“Yes, I have touched them! But getting the key out is the difficulty.”
More rattling followed. I clenched my hands, held my breath. Smith now extended his left arm through the bars. Stooping down, he began slowly to withdraw his right. I was afraid to speak, until with more confidence he pulled the iron pincers back into the cell — and I saw that they gripped a bunch of keys!
He stepped down, dropped keys and forceps on the floor, and closing his eyes, sat still for a moment…
“Splendid!” I said. “One mistake would have been fatal.”
“I know!” He looked up. “It was a hell of a strain, Kerrigan. But what helped me was — she had forgotten to lock the door. The key slipped out quite easily!”
That short interval over, he was coolly efficient again. Picking up the bunch, he examined each key closely, presently selected one and tried it on the lock of the band encircling his left ankle.
“Wrong!”
He tried another. I heard a dull grating sound.
“Right!”
In a moment his legs were free.
“Quick, Kerrigan! Come right forward. I will slide them across the floor to you. The one I have separated fits my leg iron; it probably fits yours.”
In a moment I had the bunch in my hand. Fifteen seconds later I, too, was free.
“Now the keys! Be quick!”
I tossed them back. He caught them, stood upon the chair, looked out through the iron grating… and threw them onto the floor of the passage!
“Smith! Smith!” I whispered.
He jumped down and turned to face me.
“What?”
“We were free! Why have you thrown the keys back?”
Silently he pointed to the door.
I stared. There was no keyhole!
“Even if we had the key it would be useless to us. There is no means of opening this door from the inside! We must wait. Tuck your feet and the manacles well under your chair. I shall do the same. Soon the yellow jailer will be here. If he crosses first to you I will spring on his back. If he comes to me you attack him.”
“He may cry out.”
Smith smiled grimly. He picked up the iron forceps.
“Will you have them, or shall I? It’s a fifty-fifty chance.”
“Keep them, Smith; you will get an opportunity in any event.”
And scarcely had we disposed ourselves in a manner to suggest that the leg irons were still in place, when I heard quick footsteps approaching along the passage.
“Good! he’s here. Remember the routine, Kerrigan.”
There was a pause outside the door and I heard muttering. Then came a jangle as the man stooped to pick up the keys. Their having fallen from the lock clearly had made him suspicious. When presently he opened the door and stepped in he glanced from side to side, doubt written upon one of the most villainous faces I had ever beheld.
He wore a shirt with an open collar, grey flannel trousers, and those sort of corded sandals which are rarely seen in Europe. By reason of his build, his glossy black hair and the cast of his features, I knew him for one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s Thugs. Indeed, as I looked, I saw the brand of Kâli on his forehead. His yellow face was scarred in such a way that one eye remained permanently closed, and the effect of the wound which reached the upper lip was to produce a perpetual leer.
His doubts were not easily allayed, for he stood staring about him for some time, his poise giving me the impression of a boxer on tiptoes. He had replaced the key in the door with the pendant bunch and now going out again, he returned with a tray upon which was something under a cover, a bowl of fruit and a pitcher. For yet another long moment before he crossed towards Nayland Smith he hesitated and glanced aside at me.
Then, walking over to the alcove, he was about to set the tray upon the ledge when I sprang.
I caught him at a disadvantage, collared his legs and threw him forward, head first. The tray and its contents crashed to the floor. But even as he fell I recognised the type of character with whom I had to deal.
He twisted sideways, took the fall on his left shoulder, and lashing out with his feet, kicked my legs from under me! It was a marvellous trick, perfectly executed. I fell half on top of him, but reached for a hold as I did so.
It was unnecessary…
As the Thug forced his trunk upward on powerful arms Smith brought the forceps down upon the glossy skull! Against this second attack the yellow man had no defence. There was a sickening thud. He dropped flat on his face and lay still.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX. BEHIND THE ARRAS
“We are safe for an hour,” snapped Smith. “Come on!”
“Some sort of weapon would be a good idea,” I said, bruised and still breathless from my fall.
“Quite useless! Brains, not brawn, alone can save us now.”
As we stepped out into the passage came that ghastly moaning and a draught of cold air. It tricked me into a momentary panic, but Nayland Smith turned and examined a narrow grille set near the top of the end of the passage; for here was a cul-de-sac.
“There’s an air shaft above that,” he said. “Judging from the look of this place, we are down below water level. The fact that the actual ventilator above evidently faces towards the sea conveys nothing.”
The passage was about thirty feet long. A bulkhead light was roughly attached to one of the stone walls. It was reflection from this which had shone through the iron bars of our prison. We hurried along. There were other doors with similar grilles on one side, doubtless indicating the presence of more cells. At the end was a heavy door, but it was open.
“Caution,” said Smith.
A flight of stone steps confronted us. We mounted them, I close behind Smith. I saw ahead a continuation of the passage which we had just left, but one wall was wood panelled. This passage also was lighted by one dim lamp.
Creeping to the end, we found similar corridors opening right and left.
Speaking very close to my ear:
“Let’s try right,” Smith whispered.
We stole softly along. Here, again, there was one dim light to guide us, but we passed it without finding any way out of the place. We came to a second door which prove
d to be unlocked. Very cautiously Nayland Smith pushed it open.
We were in a maze… beyond stretched yet another passage! But peering ahead I observed a difference.
The floor was thickly carpeted with felt. There was no lamp, but points of light shone upon the ancient stonework of one wall, apparently coming from apertures in the panels which formed the other. Only by a grasp of his hand did Smith enjoin special caution as we pushed forward to a point, where two of these openings appeared close together.
We looked through.
I recognised a remarkable fact. That rough and ancient woodwork which extended along the whole of the right-hand wall was no more than a framework or stretcher upon which tapestry was supported.
We were in a passage behind the arras of a large apartment.
Something seemed to obscure my vision. Presently I realised what it was: at certain points the tapestry had been cut away and replaced by gauze, painted on the outside, so that to those in the room the opening would be invisible.
I saw a chamber furnished with all the splendour of old Venice, but it was decaying splendour. The carved chairs, richly upholstered in royal purple were damaged and faded; a mosaic-topped table was cracked; the patterned floor was filmed with ancient dust. Tapestry (through one section of which I peered) covered all the walls. Upon it were depicted scenes from the maritime history of the Queen of the Adriatic. But it was mouldy with age.
Four magnificent wrought-iron candelabra, each supporting six red candles, gave light, and a fine Persian carpet was spread before a sort of dais upon which was set a carven ebony chair resembling a throne. Dr. Fu-Manchu, yellow robed, the mandarin’s cap upon his head, sat there — his long ivory hands gripping the arms of the chair, his face, immobile, his eyes like polished jade.
Standing before him, one foot resting on the dais, was a defiant figure: a man wearing evening dress, a man whose straight black hair and black moustache, his pose, must have revealed his identity to almost anyone in the civilised world.
It was Rudolf Adlon!
* * * *
There had been silence as we had crept along the felt-padded floor behind the tapestry; a false step would have betrayed us. This silence remained unbroken, but the clash of those two imperious characters stirred my spirit as no rhetoric could have stirred me — and my conception of the destiny of the world became changed…
