by Sax Rohmer
And at the very moment that he spoke I knew the worst. I turned and cried shrilly:
“Stand where you are there, for your lives! Don’t cross the line. Smith!” I clutched his arm. “Do you understand what this means?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. The fire had gone from his grey eyes. “I understand.”
“An Ericksen screen,” that guttural voice continued, and now I detected a note of mockery, “has been thrown across the room some fifteen feet in front of me, and another behind you at the point marked by the red line on the floor. You are prisoners, gentlemen, in a cell from which no human power can rescue you, unless I choose to do so.”
“We’ll see about that,” growled Finlay, who had evidently just come into the lobby. “I don’t like the looks of you and I’m taking no chances.”
Followed three sharp, ear-splitting explosions. But Dr. Fu-Manchu never stirred.
“Merciful heaven!” said Finlay hoarsely. “God help us! What is he — a man or a spirit?”
“Both, my friend,” the guttural voice assured him: “as you are,”
The effect of this seemingly supernatural demonstration upon the two men beside me was amazing. Plainly I saw them blanch, and for the first time they lowered their guns, peering into each other’s eyes. Then one turned to me, and:
“What is it, mister?” he asked. “What is it? You seem to know.”
“Yes, I know, but I can’t possibly explain.”
“In your absence. Sir Denis,” Dr. Fu-Manchu went on, “Which I regretted, I chose Mr. Kerrigan as your deputy and gave him an opportunity of glancing over some of my resources. His unaccountable disappearance threatened to derange my plans. But his return in your company suggest to me that he may have acquainted you with these particulars.”
“He has,” Smith replied, tonelessly.
“In that case you are aware that as the result of many years of labour I am at last in a position to dictate to any and every government in the world. The hordes now overrunning Europe could not deter me for a week from any objective I might decide to seize. Their vaunted air force, or, if you prefer it, that of the Allies, I could destroy as readily as I could destroy a wasp’s nest. The methods pursued by the Nazis are a clumsy imitation of my own. I too have my Fifth Column, and it is composed exclusively of men who understand their business. Those, for I am not infallible, who seek to betray me are disposed of.”
He took up the jade snuff-box and delicately raised a pinch of snuff to his nostrils. He was not looking at us now but seemed to be thinking aloud.
“There is a peril threatening the United States which, although it might be defeated, would nevertheless create a maximum of disorder and shake the national unity. I charge you. Sir Denis, to dismiss from your mind your picture of myself as a common criminal. I am no more a criminal than was Napoleon, no more a criminal than Caesar.”
His voice was rising, quivering, and now his eyes were widely open. He was an imposing but an evil figure.
“Transmit the order to the agents and to the troops who have entered these premises to return to their posts outside, until further instructions reach them. Washington has sent you here and I wish you to put before Washington a proposal which I have drawn up, which I shall place in your hands whenever you ask me to do so. Knowing something of your prejudices, of your misconceptions, of your ignorance, I give you time to adjust your outlook. I can grant you one hour. Sir Denis. Word has reached me of a shipwreck which threatens to block my sea-gate. I shall go down to investigate the matter. When I return, no doubt you will have made up your mind. I leave Companion Doughty in your company. As it would be unwise to remove the Ericksen screen at present, you would be well advised to remain nearer the centre of the laboratory. Proximity to the screen is dangerous.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE. AN ELECTRICAL DISTURBANCE
“Barton has done it!”
Smith spoke in a hoarse whisper. The two men of our bodyguard sat on a long bench, mopping their perspiring foreheads and glancing about them with profound apprehension. Dr. Marriot Doughty was seated on the other side of the room, and Finlay alone remained in the lobby beyond the red line. Smith had ordered the others to withdraw. The heat in the windowless laboratory was indescribable, and that “consciousness of cerebral pressure” created by Ericksen waves was all that I could endure.
“Yes, Barton has succeeded; but we are trapped.”
Although no reflection of lightning penetrated, apparently the great storm had not passed but had gathered again overhead. A crash of thunder came which rattled the glass instruments in their racks: the sound of it boomed and rolled and echoed weirdly above and about us. Marriot Doughty stood up and approached.
“If you will permit me to prescribe,” he said, “there are several masks of a kind we wear during Ericksen experiments. I can reach them without leaving the free zone.”
He crossed to a tall cabinet, opened a drawer and took out a number of headpieces resembling those used by radio operators.
“Can we trust him?” whispered Smith.
“Yes. He is thinking primarily of himself, I believe.” Marriot Doughty distributed the headpieces.
“There are six,” he said, “but I fear that the gentleman in the lobby will have to go without one. The lobby, however, is partially insulated.”
We adjusted the thing; and that unendurable sense of inward pressure was immediately relieved.
“Anything like an hour’s exposure,” the physician explained, “might result in cerebral haemorrhage.”
Smith turned to him. With the headpiece framing his lean features, he suddenly reminded me of Horus, the hawk god.
“Dr. Doughty,” he said, “knowing nothing of the circumstances I am not entitled to question your principles; but may I ask some questions?”
“Certainly, and I shall be prepared to answer them.”
“Is there any means of disconnecting the Ericksen apparatus?”
“From our point of view, none. The controls are out of reach.”
“Is there any exit from this room other than that beyond the lobby or that at the other end used by Fu-Manchu?”
“None.”
Smith nodded grimly and attempted to pull at the lobe of his ear; but part of the headpiece foiled him. Marriot Doughty seemed to hesitate, and then:
“There is one feature of our present situation,” he said, “which contains elements of great danger.”
“What is that?” asked Smith.
“Expressed simply, it is a certain affinity which exists between Ericksen waves and lightning. You cannot have failed to notice that the electric storm, which had passed to the east, is now concentrated directly above us. One of the Doctor’s own precepts — which he would seem to have overlooked…”
The sentence was never finished.
A veil of blinding light — I cannot otherwise describe it — descended between me and the farther end of the laboratory. The rubber-covered floor heaved like the deck of a ship; fragments of masonry fell all about! The Ferris Globe crashed from the roof into a cavity which suddenly yawned in the centre of the long room. The whole of one glass wall fell in!
Somewhere, a loud voice was shouting:
“This way! This way! All the floor’s going!”
I remember joining in a panic rush. Who ran beside me I cannot say — nor where we ran. The earth heaved beneath my feet; the night was torn by spears of lightning which seemed to strike down directly upon us. Through a hell beyond my powers to depict I ran — and ran — and ran…
* * * *
“That’s better, Mr. Kerrigan!”
I stared up into the speaker’s face, a sunbrowned, bearded face, not comprehending. Then, aware of an unpleasant nausea, I looked about me. I was in bed; the speaker was a doctor. A dreadful suspicion came — and I sat up.
“Where am I?”
“You are in my house in Cap Haitien. My name is Dr. Ralph—”
“You are not—”
“I am a United States citizen, M
r. Kerrigan,” he said cheerily. “But there is no English physician here, so Mr. Finlay ran you in to me.”
I dropped back, with a long sigh of relief.
“Smith—”
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith is here. His recovery was a quicker business than yours.”
“His recovery?” I sat up again. “What happened to us? Was I struck by something?”
“No, no — fumes. The earth tremor which partially destroyed the San Damien Sisal Works released fumes to which you both succumbed. What were you doing there last night with so large a body of men is none of my business. But, you see” — he tapped me on the chest— “there had been passive congestion in the left lung, and you were more seriously affected than the others. However” — he stood up— “you will be all right now, and I know you would wish to see your friend.”
Dr. Ralph went out; and a moment later Nayland Smith came in.
“Thank God we’re alive Kerrigan!” he said. “We lose the triumph, but we were the instruments of retribution!”
“Smith! What happened? What hellish thing happened?” He began to walk up and down the small room.
“So far as I can make out — I have been over there, all this morning — lightning struck the laboratory and was conducted (possibly down the lift cable) into the great cavern! At any rate, a new gorge has appeared, a gorge of extraordinary depth. It has swallowed up part of the sisal works and the whole of one plantation; in fact, the side of a mountain has moved!”
“Good God!”
“The first blast split the laboratory in half. That was when Doughty went—”
“Then he—”
“Fell into the pit which yawned not five feet from where you were standing! I hauled you back and we all ran out through the gap in the wall. We were half way across the quadrangle when the second blast — which seemed to come from underground — threw us off our feet. The fumes were appalling; but we all managed to struggle on for another hundred yards or so. I don’t remember much more.”
“Good God!” I said again. “Can you picture what happened below-ground!”
“Yes!” he snapped. “I can… and Fu-Manchu was below ground!”
“What news of Barton?”
“Did the job. But they had to put out to sea and make for Port au Prince. All’s well with Barton; and I think, Kerrigan, my long fight is won. Now — I am going to send your nurse to see you.” Before I could utter any word of protest, he went out, but left the door open.
Ardatha came in…
SEVEN SINS
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
1
Black-Out in Babylon
In a somewhat oddly appointed room a man was listening to the nine o’clock news bulletin.
The apartment, in addition to a super radio set, also boasted a large dressing-table with wing mirrors and two tall wardrobe cabinets of the kind seen in a modiste’s establishment. There were several trunks and other items of baggage, a camp bed and three ornate gilt chairs; there was a dictaphone and there was no carpet on the floor. Walls from which musty gray paper hung like elephants’ ears; nails of unknown purpose protruding from unpainted woodwork; a nearly black ceiling: these things did not make harmony with the costly appointments. This room did not add up.
The man seated on one of the three chairs wore a shabby blue suit with a muffler in lieu of a collar. His hands were dirty and he displayed a two days’ beard on his chin. His nose was expensively colored. A small cap, having a greasy peak, rested on the back of his head, to expose a mop of uncombed reddish brown hair resembling a dying dahlia.
His behavior was not without interest. He was attaching a fitting to connect the radio with the dictaphone. When the bulletin came to its rather anaesthetic end, the man pressed a control and the cylinder began to revolve.
“To-night’s postscript,” said the announcer, “will be by Sir Giles Loeder — and here he is.”
Sir Giles Loeder was one of the most popular political broadcasters in England: he had the art of driving home his points to a mixed audience. Formerly member for North Tiverton (Independent), he had resigned his seat soon after the outbreak of war in order to be able to devote more time to what he then described as “direct aid.” In fact, he was chairman of so many committees, contributor to such a number of influential journals, and so tireless a radio speaker that his departure from the House of Commons seemed to be wholly justified.
Certainly, the man with the greasy cap gave undivided attention to Sir Giles’ remarks, sometimes stopping the record during a sentence or two and then starting it again as if anxious to capture the next phrase. At the conclusion of the postscript, he disconnected his apparatus, put the cylinder in a box and the box in a drawer, and switched the light off.
An uncarpeted stair, which he negotiated with the aid of a torch, enabled him to reach the ground floor and to step into a mews where a deserted taxicab was standing. Climbing to the driver’s seat, he pulled out into Windmill Street.
One curious enough, and able, to have followed him, would have learned that he drove at speed, ignoring would-be fares, through the black-out mysteries of Soho and straight up deserted Regent Street. Half way along in spite of his tactics, a pair of unusually determined wanderers appeared from nowhere and ran out to head him off. They were Australian gunners.
“Say, chum, what’s the hurry? We need you.”
“Can’t be done, mates. See — me flag’s dahn. I’m bespoke by a gent at the B.B.C.”
Whether this reference to the British Broadcasting Corporation, or the man’s glittering Cockney, impressed the Diggers may never be known; but they allowed him to proceed unmolested.
The prevalent scarcity of taxis did not facilitate his plans, however. Just outside a Tube station he was delayed by traffic lights, and before he could utter a word of protest, a girl who wore a chiffon cape over a brief dance frock opened the offside door and got in.
“‘Alf a mo!” said the man. “‘Alf a bloomin’ mo!”
He directed the ray of a lamp into the interior; and he saw there a remarkably pretty brunette whose smiling glance caressed him. Her beauty was confident in its young inexperience, and the velvet brown eyes glowed with conquest: she would have attracted a cultured woman-hunter — or a novice.
“Please don’t say you’re engaged. I simply must get to the B.B.C.”
“Oh! the B.B.C? That’s different—” and an appreciative grin spread over the driver’s unshaven face, a grin which revealed flashing white teeth. “I’m goin’ there.”
He drove on, and at the entrance to Broadcasting House the pretty brunette jumped out and fumbled in her bag.
“No charge, lady. Me flag’s dahn. Also — it’s a pleasure. A smile like yours is worth more than a bob.”
And this highly unusual taximan moved away and took his stand in darkness outside the Temple of British radio, a darkness fitfully, and startlingly, dispersed whenever high, fleeting clouds unveiled the harvest moon.
Rather less than four hours later, an interesting conversation took place between two men in an office which, when not blacked-out, overlooked the Thames Embankment.
“Ye will have obsairved foreby,” said the taller man, and his accent was impressive, “unless ye bought the evening paper as a pipe lighter, that there’s a marked decrease o’ crime in the West
End of London.”
He turned hazel eyes, which had an almost leonine quality, in the direction of a smaller man who leaned against a mantelpiece staring vacantly down into an empty grate.
The speaker, large framed, gaunt, his graying hair cropped at the sides of a square, mathematical forehead, and wearing a moustache so closely trimmed as to produce the effect of an unshaven upper lip, might have suggested to some the figure of a Covenanter born out of his generation.
The bare room in which he sat behind a bare desk (it contained a pewter inkpot and pens, a blotting pad, a calendar, a writing block, a wire basket and a telephone) was furnished with such severe simplicity that, excepting the desk and a framed print of Lord Trenchard over the mantelpiece, four chairs and a hatrack would have completed the inventory. This was the Scotland Yard office of Chief Detective Inspector Firth, and the tall man was the celebrated Chief Inspector.
“That’s right,” remarked the smaller man.
From a pocket of his sports jacket he withdrew a tightly rolled copy of an evening newspaper, glanced at it, rolled it up even more tightly and put it back into another pocket. Red faced, clean shaven, with surprised sandy hair, this was the Chief Inspector’s assistant, Detective-sergeant Bluett.
He was never seen without an evening paper; indeed, it was believed that he invariably slept with a Final Edition under his pillow. There was no evidence to show that he ever read one.
“It would be grand news for the likes o’ you and me,” said Firth— “if it happened to be true.” Big Ben, which sounded as though it stood directly outside the darkened window, chimed the half-hour. “Half past one in the morning — and we’re still at it. What’s more, a wasted night.”
Sergeant Bluett produced the rolled newspaper, glanced at it and put it back in the original pocket. “There was a girl dancing at the Green Spider,” he pointed out, “with nothing on but her shoes.”
“I ha’ small doubt,” the Chief Inspector commented, “that had ye mentioned your disapproval, she would ha’ been glad to take them off. The naked women o’ Babylon concern the Church; they are no affair o’ this department. A decrease in crime? Wi’ black-out thugs, two unsolved murders, and a new and highly efficient cat-burglar in the West End.”
