by Sax Rohmer
Smith grasped my arm so hard that I winced.
“That was Barton!” he said, hoarsely. “God forgive me if they—”
His voice broke. Shining the torchlight on the path, he set out headlong for the house.
I have often wondered since what he had planned to do — what would have happened if that Fate which bound two destinies together had not intervened. I can only record what occurred.
We were scrambling across a thorny patch which I judged to be a rose-bed when Smith pulled up, turned, and threw me flat on the ground! His nervous strength in moments of excitement was astounding: I was down before I realized it was he who had thrown me!
“Quiet!” he hissed in my ear; he lay prone beside me. “Look!”
A door had been opened, I saw a silhouette — I should have known it a mile away — that of a girl who seemed to be in wild distress. She raised her arms as if in a gesture of supplication, then pressed her hands over her ears and ran out, turning swiftly right, then vanished.
Smith was breathing as rapidly as I, but:
“Ardatha has opened the door for us,” he said quietly. “Come on, Kerrigan.”
As we ran across and stepped into a lighted lobby Smith was as self-possessed as though we were paying a formal call; I, knowing that we challenged the greatest genius who ever worked for Satan, admired him.
“Gun ready,” he whispered. “Don’t hesitate to shoot.”
Something vaguely familiar about the place in which we stood was explained when I saw an open door beyond which was an empty room, its French windows draped with sombre velvet. This was the lobby I had seen from the other side of the house. It was well furnished, the floor strewn with rugs, and oppressively hot. The air was heavy with the perfume of hyacinths, several bowls of which decorated the place. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly before the newel post of a carpeted staircase. I found myself watching the swing of the pendulum as we stood there, listening. The illumination was scanty, and from beside a partly-opened door in a recess left of the stairs light shone out.
In the room beyond a voice was speaking. Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and advanced, tip-toe. The speaker was Dr. Fu-Manchu!
“I warned you as long as six months ago,” came that singular voice — who, hearing, could ever forget it! “But my warning was not heeded. I have several times attempted, and as often failed, to recover Christophe’s chart from your house in Norfolk. Tonight, my agents did not fail—”
A bearskin rug had deadened the sound of our approach: now Smith was opening the door by decimals of an inch per move.
“You fought for its possession. I do not blame you. I must respect a man of spirit. You might even have succeeded if Dr. Oster had not managed to introduce an intra muscular injection of crataegusin which produced immediate crataegus katatonia — or shall I say, stupor—”
Smith had opened the door nearly six inches. I obtained a glimpse of the room beyond. It looked like a study, and on a long, narrow writing-table a struggling man lay bound: I could not see his face.
“Since this occurred in the street, it necessitated your removal. And now. Sir Lionel, I have decided that your undoubted talents, plus the dangers attendant upon a premature discovery of your body, entitle you to live — and to serve the Si-Fan. My plans for departure are complete. Dr. Oster will operate again, and your perspective be adjusted. Proceed.”
Smith now had the door half open. I saw that the bound man was Barton. They had gagged him. His eyes, wild with horror, were turned to the door. He had seen it opening!
A man who wore black-rimmed spectacles was bending over him, a man whose outstanding peculiarity was a bright yellow complexion. From the constable’s description I recognized Dr. Oster. Barton’s coat had been removed, his shirt sleeves rolled up. The yellow Dr. Oster grasped a muscular arm near the biceps and pinched up a pucker of flesh. The agony in those staring eyes turned me cold — murderously cold. The fang of a hypodermic syringe touched Barton’s skin — Smith threw the door open: Dr. Oster looked up.
To this hour I cannot recall actually pressing the trigger; but I heard the report.
I saw a tiny bluish mark appear in the middle of that yellow forehead. Dr. Oster glared straight at me through his spectacles, dropping the syringe, and, still glaring, voiceless, fell forward across Barton’s writhing body.
CHAPTER FIVE. ARDATHA
“Don’t move, Fu-Manchu! the game’s up this time!”
Smith leaped into the room, and I was close beside him. The dead man slipped slowly to his knees, still staring glassily straight ahead as if into some black hell suddenly revealed, and soundlessly crumpled up on the floor. One swift glance I gave to Barton, strapped on the long table, then spun about to face Dr. Fu-Manchu.
But Dr. Fu-Manchu was not there!
“Good God!”
Smith, for once, was wholly taken aback; he glared around him, one amazed beyond belief. The room, as I supposed, was a study. The wall right of the door through which we had burst in was covered by bookcases flanking an old oak cabinet having glazed windows behind which I saw specimens of porcelain on shelves. No other door was visible. But, although we had heard Fu-Manchu speaking, Fu-Manchu was not in the room…
At the moment that Barton began to utter inarticulate sounds. Smith raised his automatic and fired a shot into the china cabinet.
A crash of glass followed; then, as he ran forward:
“Release Barton!” he cried. “Quick!”
I slipped my Colt into my pocket and bent over the table. Smith had wrenched open the glazed door. I heard a further crashing of glass. I tore the bandage from Barton’s mouth. He stared up at me, his florid face purple.
“Behind the cabinet!” he gasped. “Get him, Smith — the yellow rat is behind the cabinet!”
As I pulled out a pocket-knife to cut the lashings came a second shot — more crashing.
“He’s gone this way!” Smith shouted. “Cut Barton loose and follow!”
As Sir Lionel rose unsteadily and swung his feet clear of the table, something fell to the carpet. It was the hypodermic syringe, the point of which had just touched his skin at the moment that I had fired. Barton rested against the table for a moment, breathing heavily and looking down at the dead man.
“Good shot, Kerrigan. Thank you,” he said.
The sound of a third report, more distant, echoed through the house and, turning, I saw that the china cabinet was a camouflaged door. A gap now yawned beyond.
“I’ll follow, Kerrigan. Find Smith.”
Good old Barton! I had no choice.
Stumbling over shattered china, I entered the hidden doorway. A flash of my torch showed me that I stood in a large, unfurnished room. A second door was open, although no glimmer shone beyond. I ran across and out. I found myself back in the lobby, but the lights were all off!
“Smith!” I cried. “Smith! Where are you?”
From far behind a sound of crunching footsteps reached me. Barton was coming through. Near by, in the shadows, the grandfather clock ticked solemnly. I stepped to the newel post and moved all the switches which I found there.
Nothing happened. The current had been cut off from some main control.
Knowing that the house, only a matter of minutes before, had been occupied by members of the most dangerous criminal group in the world, I stood quite still for a moment, glancing up carpeted stairs. The scent of hyacinths grew overpowering; a foreboding — almost, it seemed, a pre-knowledge of disaster — bore down upon me.
“Kerrigan!” came Barton’s voice, “the damned lights have gone out!”
“This way!” I cried, and was about to step back to guide him, when I saw something.
One of the flower-bowls lay smashed on the floor. A draught of cold, damp air bore the exotic scent of the blooms to my nostrils. The door by which we had entered, the door to the garden, was wide open; and now from out of the blackness beyond came the wail of a police whistle.
“Make your way t
hrough to the garden!” I shouted. “Smith is out there — and he needs help!”
Something in the scent of the hyacinths, in the atmosphere of the house, spoke to me of that Eastern mist out of which Dr. Fu-Manchu had materialized. It was a commonplace London house, but it had sheltered the Chinese master of evil, and his aura lay heavy upon it. I ran out into the garden as one escaping. Dimly the words reached my ears:
“Go ahead! I can take care of myself…”
The skirl of the whistle had died away, but it had seemed to come from a point far to the right of the route which Smith and I had followed when we had approached the house. Now, using my torch freely, I saw that a gravelled path led from the door in that direction: a short distance ahead there were glasshouses.
I grasped a probable explanation; the garage. Fu-Manchu was making for the car. Smith had followed!
As I ran down the path — it sloped sharply — I was mentally calculating the time that had elapsed since Sims, the Yard driver, had gone for a raid squad, and asking myself, over and over again, if Smith had been ambushed. I was by no means blind to my own danger; the friendly Colt was ready in my hand as I passed the glass-houses. Beyond them I pulled up.
Except for a dismal dripping of moisture from the trees the night was uneasily still. I could hear no sound from Barton; but I had heard another sound, and this it was which had pulled me up sharply… a low whistle on three minor notes.
Switching off my light, I stood there waiting. The whistle was repeated, from somewhere nearer; I heard footsteps. And now came a soft call: I could not catch the words.
Then, a faint glimmer of light showed in the darkness.
A high, red-bricked wall surrounded the garden; the forcing-houses were built against it. There was an arched opening, in which perhaps at some time there had been a gate.
There, where reflected rays from the lamp she held struck witch from her disordered hair, stood Ardatha!
Certainly, I had never known, nor have known since, any wild conflict of emotions such as that which shook me. The expression in those wonderful eyes, their deep blue seeming lustrous black in the darkness, was so compounded of terror and of appeal that I knew I must act quickly. I had given my heart to a soulless wanton — and she held it still.
She had seen me, and at the moment that she extinguished the lamp I saw that she carried what looked like a shawl. She turned to run, but I was too swift for her. A vigour not wholly of heaven drove me tonight; things witnessed in that hyacinth-scented house, the ghastly face of Dr. Oster (for whose end I experienced not one jot of remorse) — these had taught me the meaning of “seeing red”.
I leapt through the archway, seized the hooded cape streaming out behind as she ran. She slipped free of it. I stumbled — sprang again — and had her!
As I locked my arms around her she quivered and panted like a wild creature trapped; her head was drumming against mine.
“Let me go!” she cried; “let me go!” and beat at me with clenched fists, nor were the blows light ones.
But I held her remorselessly, perhaps harshly; for her struggles ceased and her words ended on a sound like a sob. She lay, lithe, slender and helpless in my grip. My heart-throbs matched her own as I crushed her to me so that my face touched her hair — and its fragrance intoxicated me.
“Ardatha — Ardatha!” I groaned. “My God, how I love you! How could you do it!”
That beating heart drummed hard as ever, but I detected a relaxation of tensed muscles. No effort of acting could have simulated the agony in my voice: Ardatha knew, but she did not speak.
“I searched the world for you, Ardatha, after you left me in Paris. For weeks I rarely slept. I couldn’t believe, even if you had changed, why you should torture me. And so I thought you must be dead. I came very near to madness. I went to Greece — hoping to die.”
She looked up at me. To this hour I have no idea what lay beyond the brick arch, what surrounded us as we stood there. But, either I saw her psychically, or some faint light reached the spot; for I knew that there were tears on her lashes.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “Because, you must mean — some other Ardatha.”
Every quaint inflection of that elusive accent, the sympathy in her musical voice, tortured me. I turned my head aside. I could no longer trust myself. She spoke as the Ardatha I adored, the Ardatha I had lost; her pretence, her actions, spoke another language.
“There is only one Ardatha. I was the fool, to believe in her. Where is Fu-Manchu? Where is Nayland Smith?”
“Please don’t hurt me.” I had tightened my hold automatically. “I would, indeed, help you if I could. Nayland Smith is my enemy, but you are not my enemy, and I wish you no harm. Only, I tell you that if you stay here you will die—”
“Where is Nayland Smith? He has never been your enemy. Why do you say such a thing? And don’t mock me because I love you.”
She was silent for a moment. Those slim curves enclosed by my arms tainted me. One nervous, slender hand stole up and rested on my shoulder.
“I am not mocking you. You frighten me. I don’t understand. I am very, very sorry for you. I want to save you from danger. But there is some great mistake. You ran after me across Hyde Park tonight, and now, you are here. You tell me” — her voice faltered— “that you love me. How can that be?”
Her fingers were clutching my shoulder, and I knew, although I kept my head averted, that she was looking up; I knew, too, and wondered if war had driven the whole world mad, that there were tears in her eyes.
“It has always been, since the first moment I saw you. It will always be — always, Ardatha. Now lead me to Smith — I shall not let you go until we find him.”
But she clung to me, resisting.
“No, no! wait — let me try to understand. You say, since the first moment you saw me. The first moment I saw you was tonight, when you cried out to me — cried my name — in the Park!”
“Ardatha!”
“Yes — you cried out ‘Ardatha’. I looked back, and I saw you. Perhaps I liked you and wished that I knew you. But I did not know you, and your eyes were glaring madly. So I ran. Now—” I suppose, for the whole situation was illusory, dream-line, that my grasp had changed to a caress; I had stooped to kiss her, liar, hypocrite though she might be. I know that her voice, as she trembled in my arms, had thrust out everything else in the world except my blind hopeless love. “No! you dare not!” She dashed her hand against my lips; I kissed her palm, her fingers. “Do you think I am a courtesan? I don’t even know your name!”
I stood suddenly still, but I did not release her.
“Ardatha,” I said, “has Dr. Fu-Manchu ordered you to torture me?” At those words I felt a quiver pass through her body. She inhaled a sobbing breath, and was silent. “I loved you — I shall love you always — and you ran away. You sent me no message, no word, even to tell me that you were alive. Now, when I find you, you say that you don’t know my name… Ardatha!”
She crushed her head against me and burst into passionate tears.
“I want to believe!” she sobbed; “I want to believe; I cannot understand; but I have no one in all the world to turn to! If it were true, if in some way, I had forgotten, if you were really—” And as I held her, tenderly now, certain words of Nayland Smith’s were singing in my brain: “Don’t despair… Dr. Fu-Manchu once had a daughter.” The significance of the words was not yet clear to me, but I found in them, gladly, something to reconcile the seemingly irreconcilable.
“Ardatha, my dearest, you must believe. How could I know your name — or worship you as I do — if we had never been lovers? You have forgotten — God knows why or how — and it is true.”
She made a perceptible effort to control herself, and when she spoke, although her voice was unsteady it had regained its natural timbre.
“I am trying to believe you — although to do so means that I must have had a mental breakdown and forgotten that, too. You asked me where Nayland Smith had g
one. He ran to the garage: it is straight along this path. I cannot tell you where Dr. Fu-Manchu is: I do not know. But unless you let me go I shall die—”
“Die! why should you die?”
“Next time we meet I will try to tell you.” She pressed her face against my shoulder. “But I am to believe you, then you must believe me. See — I trust you. I took it a long time ago from your pocket—”
And she handed me my Colt!
I released Ardatha and stood there, the automatic in my hand, trying to adjust my ideas to a new scheme of things, when from far away up near the house came Barton’s great voice: “Kerrigan! Where are you? Give me a hail.”
I turned and shouted:
“This way, Barton.”
But, as I swung about again — Ardatha had vanished! Her cloak I held over my arm, the Colt was still grasped in my hand. I dropped it back in my pocket, snatched out the torch and flashed a ray ahead.
Nothing moved, and I could hear no footstep. Water was dripping mournfully from the roof of a glass-house, and a long way off I detected insistent hooting of a motor horn.
The raid squad was coming.
Why was Nayland Smith silent? There was something ominous about it. I have said, and I confess it again, that at first sight of Ardatha every other idea in my mind had been swept out; and whilst I had stood there (my heart was still pounding madly) it was quite possible —
“Have you found Smith?” Barton cried. “Show a light. I’ve caught something, and—”
I turned back and threw a moving fan of light on the path which led to the house. As I did so, an overpowering smell of hawthorn swept down upon me as if home on a sudden breeze. Too late, a decimal of a second too late, I ducked and half turned.
My head was enveloped in what felt like a moist rubber bag… I experienced a sensation of sinking, not swiftly, but as if floating gently downward, into deep clouds of hawthorn blossom.
