by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER SIX. DR. FU-MANCHU EXPERIMENTS
I seemed to break through some brittle surface into a plane of violet light — and silence. There was a rapidly-receding background, a memory of wild action, of the drip of moisture, of a noisome tunnel and moving water. Here, all was still; nothing was visible in that luminous expanse. Then, a long way off, I heard the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
“A member of my family, a mandarin of my rank, is bound by codes stronger than bands of steel. For myself I ask nothing. I hold the key which unlocks the heart of the secret East; holding that key, I command the obedience of an army greater than any ever controlled by one man…”
This must be delirium; for no living thing was in sight: I was alone in a violet void.
“My power rests in the East, but my hand is stretched out to the West. I shall restore the lost grandeur of China. When your civilization, as you are pleased to term it, has exterminated itself, when you have reduced to ashes your palaces and your temples, when in your blindness you have set back the clock which so laboriously you fashioned, I shall stir. Out of the fire I shall arise. The red dusk of the West will have fallen, the golden dawn of the East will come—”
The voice faded, and at the same time that mysterious radiance also grew dim, as though it had been a mirage created by the voice or the aura of the speaker.
I was lying, in a constrained position, upon a cushioned settee which had a metal base, in a long, narrow, low-ceilinged room which possessed no visible windows. It was lighted by hanging lamps and permeated by a carnal smell: I thought of the Morgue. That half of the room which contained the settee or couch was unfurnished except for a tall glass-fronted cabinet. In this cabinet, preserved in jars, were all kinds of anatomical specimens; a collection so gruesome that I doubted the verity of this phase, too.
There were several human hands, black, yellow, and white; there was a brown forearm; there were internal organs which I need not describe: and, half covered by a sheet of gauze, a decapitated Negro head grinned from the largest jar.
The lower half of the room was a small but well equipped laboratory where some experiment was actually in progress. An apparatus resembling a Bunsen burner, but dissimilar in some way which my indifferent knowledge of chemistry did not enable me to define, hissed below a retort fitted with a condenser.
One glance I took at the object in process of distillation, and looked elsewhere. I grew nauseated and closed my eyes for a moment. But I had seen something which might have accounted for the violet mirage.
On a smaller bench there stood a low, squat lamp, resting on what I assumed to be a block of crystal. It produced a strange amethystine radiance — and instantly I thought of the eyes of Ardatha.
With that thought came complete consciousness… Ardatha!
Had she betrayed me? Had she tricked me again, and left me to the mercies of Fu-Manchu’s thugs? I remembered that she had stolen my Colt, and then returned it. Was this evidence of her innocence, or merely of a moment’s remorse prompted by knowledge of those who covered me, who at that instant she had seen behind me?
A door hidden in the wall near the large bench slid soundlessly open. I became aware of a sensation in my skull which resembled that experienced on quickly climbing to a high altitude. A man entered with slow, curiously feline steps, and closed the door behind him. He wore a long coat of what appeared to be varnished green silk. Turning, he stared in my direction.
It was Dr. Fu-Manchu.
He was more emaciated than I remembered him to have been, and as he seated himself at the bench I noted the weariness of his movements. To one who had not met Dr. Fu-Manchu it would be impossible, I suppose, to convey any idea of the peculiar force which he seemed to project.
With the exception of Nayland Smith I had never known one who could stand up to it. And now, alone with him in that long, narrow, sinister room, silent save for the hiss of the burner, I recognized the fact that this power emanated entirely from his eyes.
His imposing figure — tall, angular, high-shouldered — lent him a sort of grotesque majesty; and as he sat there before me, a vitalized skeleton clothed in wrinkled silk, his shrunken skin exposing all the contours of that wonderful skull, no whit of this force was missing. I had sprung up at the moment of his entrance, and now I stood there battling with a fear not unmixed with loathing which he inspired; and I knew that his power resided in a tremendous intellect, for it shone out like a beacon from those strange green eyes, feverishly brilliant in cavernous shadows.
He spoke.
The effort of speech was terrifying. It came to me suddenly as a conviction that Dr. Fu-Manchu was very near his end. It was as though a magician had conjured back a soul into a body dead for generations.
“I trust that you are conscious of no nausea or other unpleasant after-effects. My fellows are adepts with their knives and strangling cords, but clumsy when employing more subtle methods.”
One clawlike hand, the nails long and pointed, resting on the plate-glass which covered the bench, he watched me for a few moments, and I felt, as of old, as if he read every record printed upon my brain.
I plunged my hand into my pocket: it was a gesture of resignation — but my fingers touched the automatic
I had not been disarmed!
“You seriously inconvenienced my plans, Mr. Kerrigan, when you shot Companion Oster. Dr. Oster was a licentiate of Heidelberg and held also a minor London degree. His qualifications, therefore, were limited. Nevertheless, he was useful. Your own powers of observation being not entirely undeveloped, no doubt you noted that his skin displayed unusual pigmentary characteristics?”
That intolerable gaze brooked no denial. I replied:
“He was yellow as a lemon.”
I was clutching the Colt and saying to myself, “You did not hesitate in the case of the lesser scoundrel; why hesitate now?”
“Exactly. This was due to the nature of the experiments which he had carried out under my direction. Be good enough to glance into the cabinet on your right — but avoid crossing the red line which you may have seen painted on the floor.”
I had not seen the red line; but I saw it now: an inch-wide band extending from wall to wall just beyond the cabinet which contained the anatomical specimens, and dividing the long, narrow room into equal parts. I moved forward; it suited me to do so: it brought Dr. Fu-Manchu into a range at which I could not possibly miss him.
“The hands of the Negro,” he went on, his voice low and sibilant, “are of particular interest. Do you agree with me?”
Conquering nausea which threatened to return I looked at those gruesome fragments. One of the hands was clenched, convulsively, and I wondered how the black man had died; the other was rigidly open. But, a certain characteristic they shared in common: on close inspection it became apparent that they were not true black nor even brown, but rather of that deep purplish green which is present in some cultivated tulips. I became fascinated.
“Note the white forearm. It is that of a Lascar. The bright yellow hand, labelled G, was contributed by a blond Bavarian youth…
I suppose it was a belated recognition of the meaning of his words, a sudden, hot understanding of the fact that human beings, black, white, and brown had been sacrificed to some unimaginable scientific experiment, which prompted my action; but, turning to Dr. Fu-Manchu, I snatched the Colt from my pocket, took deliberate aim, and fired, not at his head but at his heart. To make doubly sure of ridding the world of a monster, I fired twice!
In a life which, for one of my years, had been notable for action, I think that those dragging seconds which followed the two shots epitomized all the wonder, all the terror and all the acceptance of laws beyond human understanding which any man has known.
Dr. Fu-Manchu smiled!
He revealed a row of small, even, yellow teeth. It was as though a mummy of one who had lived when the world was young jeered at me. He spoke, but his words sounded as words spoken at the end of a long tunnel.
&nb
sp; “They were live cartridges; they had not been exchanged for blanks. I wished you to attempt to add me to your bag, but I observed that you aimed at my breast. The brain, Mr. Kerrigan, and not the heart, is the seat of power. The Ancient Egyptians knew…”
But I had turned away. I tossed the Colt on to the settee and dropped down beside it. I had witnessed a miracle, and I was shaken to my soul. Only the manner of my death remained in doubt.
That odd, indefinable vibration which I had noted at the moment of his entrance suddenly ceased, as Dr. Fu-Manchu’s voice again broke through the blanket of stupor which had settled upon my brain.
“A consciousness of cerebral pressure is relieved, no doubt? You experience a sense of restful silence. The explanation is a simple one. If you will be good enough to leave your automatic where it lies and accept this chair, we can approach the real purpose of our present interview.”
I stood up and faced him. His eyes were filmy, contemplative; they lacked that emerald lustre which I could never face unmoved. One clawlike hand was stretched across the bench, indicating a metal chair.
With some of the feelings of a whipped cur, I rose and moved forward. At the red line I paused.
“You may cross safely.”
I crossed and dropped down in the chair facing Dr. Fu-Manchu. Save for the hissing sound of the burner, the room was silent. Dr. Fu-Manchu rested his chin upon one skeleton hand: his proximity imparted a sense of chill, as though I had sat with a corpse.
“You observe, Mr. Kerrigan, that I am employing those primitive methods here which gave Paracelsus such excellent results, and by means of which van Helmont performed his transmutations. But before we proceed to the subject of my present experiments — a subject of some personal interest to yourself” (at those words my heart grew cold)— “it is only fair to explain why your bullets failed to reach me.”
I clenched my teeth.
“When you were very young, Dr. Sven Ericksen died, and the newspapers of the world were filled with stories of the Ericksen Ray which that distinguished physicist had never perfected. Although legally dead, he has since completed his inquiries, with some slight assistance from myself.”
This statement evoked ghastly memories; but I remained silent.
“The so-called ‘ray’ is, in fact, a sound wave, or chord. Ericksen discovered that a certain combination of incalculably high notes, inaudible to the human ear, could reduce nearly any substance to its original particles. It was a problem of pure physics: that of disturbing harmonic equilibrium. A belt or curtain of these sound waves can be thrown across this room by merely depressing a switch. Continued exposure to such vibrations, however, is highly injurious. Therefore I have disconnected the apparatus.”
I looked up quickly, and as quickly down again. Dr. Fu-Manchu was watching me; and even when veiled contemplatively I could not sustain the regard of those magnetic eyes.
“Your bullets are still present; not in the form of lead and nickel but in that of their component elements: they are disintegrated. The importance of this discovery it would be difficult to exaggerate. I am acquainted with only one substance capable of penetrating a zone protected by Ericksen Chords…”
I heard a faint buzzing sound — and all the lights went out!
CHAPTER SEVEN. THE RIVER GATE
My first idea, naturally enough, was that Dr. Fu-Manchu had given some signal, unobserved, for my dismissal; that I was to be dispatched in darkness. The burner hissing under the retort and its gruesome contents became silent. I sprang to my feet. At least I could go down fighting. Out of impenetrable gloom came the imperious voice, guttural now:
“Pray remain seated. Owing to certain extemporized measures, power in the laboratory is controlled from an outside switchboard — and it has been cut off. This means an air-raid warning, Mr. Kerrigan; but it need not disturb you.”
An air-raid warning? Then a terrifying idea which I had been grimly repelling — an idea that unconsciousness had lasted for a long time; that this secret laboratory was situated perhaps far away from England — need disturb me no more. However, I remained standing, and with courage greater than I had ever known in the visible presence of Dr. Fu-Manchu:
“You appear to be dangerously ill,” I said.
And the ghostly voice replied:
“I have brought myself close to death. Science is my mistress and I serve her too well. You may have noticed a small lamp (it is extinguished now) producing a violet light. The condition in which you find me is due to my experiments with this lamp. The green jacket I wear affords some slight protection; but I can discover no formula to reinforce the human economy so that it may cancel its deleterious effects. Dr. Oster, my assistant in these inquiries, developed opacity of the crystalline lens accompanied by other notable pigmentary changes; and although, a fact to which the specimens you have inspected bear witness, racial types react variously, none can sustain these emanations without suffering permanent injury. But you remain standing.”
I sat down.
Whether it was imagination, or whether, as I had sometimes suspected, the eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu possessed a chatoyant quality, I thought that I could see them watching me — shining greenly in the dark like the eyes of a great cat.
“I have submitted certain proposals to Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he went on, “Although, thanks to my recovery of the chart found by Sir Lionel Barton, I can take suitable precautions, any interference with my plans in the Caribbean may alter the world’s history. You are my hostage. If Sir Denis refuses to pay your ransom (I gather that you hold a minor science degree) I shall invite you to take the place of Companion Oster — of whose services you deprived me — and to carry on those inquiries, under my direction, which his death has interrupted.”
It is beyond the power of my pen to convey any idea of the cloud of horror which swept down upon me as I listened to his words. Before my mind’s eye they appeared, those ghastly fragments of men who had died martyrs to the lust for knowledge which animated this devil in human shape. To their tormented company I was to be added!
How I should have acted, what reply I should have made to that monstrous statement, I cannot say. Although I had detected no movement, Dr. Fu-Manchu had retired from his place on the other side of the glass-topped bench, for when he spoke again it was from beyond the hidden doorway.
“I must leave you for a time, Mr. Kerrigan. I strongly urge you to remain seated. Many of the objects here are lethal. I will arrange for the lamps to be relighted. You may smoke if you wish.”
A faint sound indicated that the door had been closed.
I was alone — alone with the violet lamp which blinded, which changed men from white to yellow, which had shattered the supernormal constitution of its Chinese creator; alone with the amputated remains of some who had suffered that this dream of Dr. Fu-Manchu might be realized. What was the purpose of these merciless experiments? What power resided in the lamp?
Fumbling in my pocket, I learned that my torch remained undisturbed. Any fate was preferable to the fate ordained by the devil Doctor. I flashed a ray about that awesome room, that silent room which smelled like a mortuary.
It glittered momentarily upon my Colt lying on the couch. It brought to life the head of the Negro grinning in a big jar, and lent uncanny movement to those discoloured hands which for ever had ceased to move.
I stepped towards the red line.
“Consciousness of cerebral pressure” mentioned by Dr. Fu-Manchu was not perceptible; the Ericksen apparatus remained disconnected. I crossed the red line and took up my automatic. At the moment I retrieved the Colt an abnormally-tensed sense of hearing told me that the sliding door had been opened.
In a flash I had turned, a ray focused on the wall behind the bench, my finger alert on the trigger.
No doubt the mystery of the lamp had inflamed my imagination, but I thought that by magic a djinn had been summoned. Although I had the apparition covered by my pistol, consternation threatened me as the torchligh
t wavered on a gigantic figure framed in the doorway. It was that of a herculean man who wore a white robe and a red sash; a tarbush on his head. His thick lips, flattened nostrils and frizzy hair were those of a Nubian — but his skin was white as ivory I Common sense dispersed fantasy. The man was a strangler sent by Dr. Fu-Manchu to dispatch me.
“Put up your hands!” I ordered.
Blinking in the light, the white Negro obeyed, raising thick, sinewy blond hands, and:
“No so loud, sir,” he said hoarsely, “you spoil your chances if you speak so loud.”
That he spoke in English, and spoke with an American intonation, provided a further shock: his seeming friendliness I distrusted.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“My name — Hassan, sir. I want to help you—”
“Why?”
“White Lady wishes.” He touched his brow as he spoke. “When White Lady wishes Hassan obeys.”
And now my heart gave a great leap.
“The White Lady — Ardatha?”
Hassan touched his brow again.
“Her family I serve, and my father, his father before; long, long time before. White Lady’s order more high than Master’s order, more high than any but God Almighty. Follow Hassan.”
A hundred questions I longed to ask, for this man perhaps held the clue to that torturing mystery never far from my mind; but a quick decision was imperative — and I made it.
“Lead the way,” I said, and stepped forward. “I will use my torch.”
“No light,” he whispered— “no light. Come close and take my hand.”
It was in no spirit of childish confidence that I grasped the muscular white hand; but as I had reached the Nubian’s side and finally switched off my torch, those blinking eyes had told me the truth — Hassan was blind.
“No sound,” he said, in a low voice. “Hassan see with inner eye. Trust Hassan…”
Along a short passage apparently covered in rubber he led me. Another silent door he opened and closed. The peculiarly nauseating smell of the laboratory was no longer perceptible; the air was cool. We crept up a stone stair, and stood at the top for a while. I thought that Hassan was listening. I could detect no sound, no glimmer of light.
