by Sax Rohmer
“Another door here! I heard someone moving behind it!”
Over the debris and coal dust of years, they ran to join the man who had shouted. He stood in what had evidently been a coal bunker, before a narrow, grimy door.
“It’s locked.”
Keen axes and willing hands soon cleared the obstacle.
A long, sloping passage lay beyond. Up its slope, as the door crashed open, swept a current of cold, damp air. And, halfway down, a retreating figure showed, a grotesque silhouette against reflected light from his dancing flashlamp.
It was the figure of a tall man, wearing a long coat and what looked like a close-fitting cap.
“By God!” Smith shouted, “Dr. Fu-Manchu! This leads to the river—”
He broke off.
Sam had hurled himself into the passage, firing the moment he crossed the threshold of the shattered door! The crash of his heavy revolver created an echo like a thunderstorm. Nayland Smith, following hard behind, saw the figure stumble, pause — run on.
“Cease fire there!” he shouted angrily.
But Sam’s blood was up. He either failed to hear the order, or wilfully ignored it. He fired again — then, rapidly, a third time.
The tall figure stopped suddenly, dropped the flashlamp, and crumpled to the damp floor.
“You fool!” Nayland Smith’s words came as a groan. “This was no end for the greatest brain in the world!”
He forced his way past Sam, stooped, and turned the fur-capped head. As he did so, the fallen man writhed, coughed, and was still.
Nayland Smith looked into a face scarcely human, scarred, a parody of humanity — a face he had never seen before — the face of M’goyna…
He stood up very slowly. The dark, sloping passage behind him seemed to be embossed with staring eyes.
“Outmanoeuvred!” he said. “Fu-Manchu played for time. This poor devil was the last of his rearguards. He has slipped through our fingers!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ten days later, Nayland Smith gave a small dinner party at his hotel to celebrate the engagement of Camille Mirabeau (Navarre) to Dr. Morris Craig. When the other guests had left, these three went to Smith’s suite, and having settled down:
“Of course,” said Smith, in reply to a question from Camille, “the newspapers are never permitted to print really important news! It might frighten somebody.”
“Quite a lot has leaked out, though,” Craig amended. “The cops gave it away. Poor old Regan has been pestered since I resigned. But although he can chatter quite acidly again, he won’t chatter to reporters.”
“How’s Frobisher?”
“Rotten. He’ll recover all right, but carry a crop of scars.”
“Does his wife know the truth?”
“Couldn’t say. What do you think, Camille?”
Camille, lovely in her newfound happiness and a Paris frock, shrugged white shoulders.
“Stella Frobisher is like a cork,” she said. “I think she can stay afloat in the heaviest weather. But I don’t know her well enough to tell you if she suspects the truth.”
“The most astounding thing which the newspapers haven’t reported,” Nayland Smith remarked after an interval, “concerns the body of that ape man — almost certainly the creature of which I had a glimpse at Falling Waters. He’s been examined by all the big doctors. And they are unanimous on one point.”
“What is that?” Camille asked.
“They say the revolver bullets didn’t kill him.”
“What?” Craig exclaimed.
“They state, positively, that he had been dead many years before the shooting!”
And Camille (such was the strange power of Dr. Fu-Manchu) simply shook her red head and murmured, “But that is impossible.”
Yes — that was impossible. It was also impossible, no doubt, that Dr. Fu-Manchu had visited New York, and perhaps, as a result of his visit, given a few more years of uneasy peace to a world coquetting with war. And so, Manhattan danced on…
“Our two Russian acquaintances” — Nayland Smith rapped out the words venomously— “have been quietly deported. But what I really wanted to show you was this.”
From the pocket of his dinner jacket he took a long, narrow envelope. It had come by air mail and was stamped “Cairo.” It was addressed to him at his New York hotel. He passed it to Camille.
“Read it together. There was an enclosure.”
And so, Craig bending over Camille’s shoulder, his cheek against her glowing hair, they read the letter, handwritten in copperplate script:
Sir Denis —
It was a serious disappointment to be compelled to leave New York without seeing you again. I regret, too, that M’goyna, one of my finer products, had to be sacrificed to my safety. But a little time was necessary to enable me to reach the boat which awaited me. I left by another exit. I greet Dr. Craig. He is a genius and a brave man. But his keen sense of honor is my loss. Will you, on my behalf, advise him to devote his great talents to non-destructive purposes? His future experiments will be watched with interest. I enclose a wedding present for his bride.
There was no signature.
Camille and Morris Craig raised their eyes, together.
On his extended palm Nayland Smith was holding out a large emerald. And as Camille, uttering a long, wondering sigh, took the gem between her fingers, Nayland Smith reached for his dilapidated pouch and began, reflectively, to load his blackened briar.
RE-ENTER FU MANCHU
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
“Here is the Times advertisement: ‘Wanted, young man, American, unattached. University graduate preferred, athletic, good appearance. Work highly confidential. Business experience unnecessary. Must be prepared to travel. Apply Box—’ et cetera. And here, Mr. Merrick” — Peter Wellingham looked down, at a typed letter— “is your reply.”
Brian nodded. “I imagine you had quite a big mail.”
“You may be surprised to learn” — Wellingham lay back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together— “that applicants were quite few.”
“I’m certainly surprised.”
“I refer, particularly, to suitable applicants. You, I may say, were quite easily the most promising. I need not tell you that I am acting for a third party. Now let’s see… You are a United States citizen, the son of Senator Merrick. You hold an American degree and have recently also graduated from Oxford. Your record in sports is good. Your degrees, if not outstanding, are respectable.”
Brian picked up a brief case from the carpet. “I have the credentials here.”
Peter Wellingham waved a pale hand. He smiled a pale smile.
“I assure you, Mr. Merrick, applicants’ qualifications have already been checked. My principal is highly efficient. Now — you are unattached?”
“Meaning unmarried?”
“Meaning unmarried and not engaged to marry.”
“All clear.” Brian grinned.
“And you are prepared to travel?”
“I’m eager. My father has given me six months’ leave of absence before I go into the family business—”
“Which, I am told, is a very good business.”
Brian experienced a return of that sense of resentment with which Peter Wellingham had filled him earlier. These FBI methods offended him. If the job were offered to him, he was not at all sure he would accept it. He became more than ever certain that he had been subjected
to close scrutiny while he had waited. But, to be fair, what did this mean? Only that these people were looking for a man of exceptional qualities for what must be a highly important job. And the prospect of exciting travel was attractive.
“It’s a good business, all right,” he admitted.
A rap on the door, and the willowy secretary he had seen before came in.
“Sir John is here, Mr. Wellingham. He’s on his way to the House and is pressed for time.”
Peter Wellingham stood up, smiled apologetically.
“I won’t detain you many minutes, Mr. Merrick. My legal adviser is also a member of Parliament. Please excuse me.” He crossed to the door and switched on indirect lighting, so that the crowded bookcases became illuminated. “You might like to look over my library.” He went out and closed the door.
Peter Wellingham was a slender man of uncertain age; pale, with scant fair hair. He was faultlessly groomed and wore correct morning dress. His white hands were slender, and of effeminate beauty. His voice and speech were those of the cultured Englishman, and he wore the sort of short, close-trimmed mustache that Brian associated with the British Army. But somehow he couldn’t imagine Peter Wellingham as a soldier, and, try as he would, he couldn’t like him.
He looked around the small but crowded room, trying to reconsider his first impression of the Honorable Peter Wellingham. The secretary who had received him was an attractive Eurasian, and many of the volumes on the shelves dealt with the Orient. There were antiques, too, placed here and there between the books, all of Eastern origin.
How strangely quiet this room seemed! Hard to believe that he was in the heart of fashionable Mayfair and less than fifty yards from Park Lane. Although his physical senses didn’t support the idea, that uncanny suspicion overcame him again — a suspicion that he wasn’t alone, that someone watched him. It had come to him when he first arrived, while he was waiting for the Honorable Peter.
There was only one point in the room from which an observer might be watching. This was a massive Burmese cabinet of dark wood with a number of fretwork cupboards. It seemed to be built into the wall, and there might be a space behind it.
But it was all too fantastic. He crossed to a bookcase and began to read some of the titles. Many dealt with the tangle in the Near East, and not all were in English.
There was one shelf with no books on it, only a bronze sphinx and several framed photographs.
Brian stood still, staring at one of them. It was of Senator Mclnnes, an old friend of his father’s. At another he stared even longer: a lean-faced man with steady, keen eyes, his hair silvering at the temples.
He was still studying this, holding the frame in his hands, when the door opened and Peter Wellingham came back.
“Do you know Sir Denis?” Wellingham asked in evident surprise.
“Not intimately. But Sir Denis Nayland Smith was my father’s house guest in Washington two years back.”
“Splendid! Sir Denis makes this his base when he’s in London. If we come to terms, he will be your chief.”
“I understood Sir Denis had retired.”
“So he did. But his special knowledge of Eastern problems is unique. He volunteered to act in the present case — I believe at the request of Washington. This is a private appointment. You will be under the orders of no one but Sir Denis. It was Sir Denis’ intention,” Wellingham explained, “that this should be a six-month agreement, renewable by mutual consent. This, I think, would suit your plans?”
“Perfectly.”
“Here is a form of agreement. Will you read it carefully, and if you find it acceptable, sign all three copies.” He rang for his secretary.
Brian found himself walking on air. The terms of employment were generous, and he would receive two months’ salary in advance. He must be ready to leave for Cairo at short notice, and the cost of equipment he would require would be defrayed by his employers.
He signed the three copies without hesitation and passed them across the desk. Peter Wellingham signed in turn, and his secretary signed as witness.
“Draw Mr. Brian Merrick’s check,” Wellingham directed.
The girl went out, and Brian’s glance followed the graceful figure. As she opened the door, an oblique ray of sunshine touched the intricate carving of the Burmese cabinet, and Brian’s glance was diverted, then held…
He suppressed a start. Through the delicately carved panel before one of the small cupboards he thought he saw two brilliant green eyes fixed upon him! He inhaled deeply, looked away. Peter Wellingham was scribbling notes on a pad.
With the closing of the door the apparition had vanished, and Brian tried to tell himself that he was the victim of an illusion. Some shiny object, such as a jade vase, probably stood in the cupboard. His slumbering distrust of Wellingham must not be allowed to upset his judgment. He knew Nayland Smith to be high up in the British Secret Service and a former assistant commissioner of Scotland Yard. Brian had longed to travel before settling down to serious work, but funds were short. Here was a golden opportunity.
Peter Wellingham looked up.
“I needn’t warn you to observe great discretion concerning the nature of your employment, Mr. Merrick. Sir Denis is engaged upon a dangerous assignment and has entrusted me with the job of finding an additional assistant having certain qualifications. I think you are the man he’s looking for.”
The lissom secretary glided in again, laid a check on the desk, and glided out. Brian avoided glancing at the cabinet while Peter Wellingham signed the check.
Five minutes later Brian was striding along Park Lane. Wellingham, at parting, had walked to the doorstep, wished him good luck, and shaken hands.
The slender white fingers were very cold.
As Peter Wellingham returned to the study and before Brian had reached Park Lane, a section of the Burmese cabinet swung open, showing another room beyond.
A tall, gaunt man stepped out, a man with a phenomenally high brow, crowned with a black cap not unlike a biretta; a man whose strange emerald green eyes seemed to gaze, not at Wellingham, but through his skull into his brain. He was unmistakably Chinese, unmistakably an aristocrat and standing there, wearing a plain yellow robe, he radiated force.
He crossed and seated himself behind the desk. Peter Wellingham remained standing.
“For a moment, Mr. Wellingham, I feared” — he spoke pedantically exact English, except that he stressed the sibilants— “that your peculiar personality had produced an unfortunate impression. This I should have regretted. I had Brian Merrick under close observation, and I am satisfied that he will admirably serve my purpose. But he inherits a streak of his father’s obstinacy, and at one time he considered declining the offer. That was why I called you from the room — your cue to draw his attention to the photographs.”
Peter Wellingham’s white forehead was damp. He had detected a note of menace in that strange voice.
“I should have been sorry, Doctor—”
“But too late. With your succession to the title I cannot interfere. But the facts concerning your political views, if suspected by Lord Chevradale, would have disastrous results for you.”
“I did my best, Doctor. I feel sure that he—”
“Be sure of no man. For the only man of whom you may be sure is yourself.”
“Shall I take steps to have Merrick covered during the time he remains in London?”
The brilliant eyes were raised in a penetrating glance. “Such steps have already been taken. I fly to Cairo tonight. Your instructions concerning Brian Merrick will reach you through the usual channels.”
* * * *
Brian hurried along Park Lane to his hotel. Lola was lunching with him, and he knew she would be pressed for time, as usual. Lola Erskine was a designer for Michel, a famous Paris house that every season dictated to smart women the world over exactly what they must wear. Equally at home on Paris boulevard, Fifth Avenue, or Bond Street, she was a stimulating companion.
&nb
sp; He walked into the crowded lounge, looking eagerly around, and there was Lola, waving to him. He joined her, signaling to a waiter.
“Hello, Brian!” She greeted him with that half-amused and half-affectionate smile that he found so fascinating — although sometimes he vaguely suspected her of secretly laughing at him. “Don’t order anything for me yet. Look, I have one already.”
“Have I kept you waiting?”
“Only five minutes. But I was dying for a drink. I had a desperately tough morning.”
“You don’t look like it. You look like a cover girl. Is that dress by Michel?”
“Why ask me? If I wore anything else I’d be fired on sight. Also, I get them at cost.”
“Lola!” He grasped her arm as a waiter came along. “Don’t finish that Martini or whatever it is. Share a bottle of champagne with me. It’s a celebration. I’ve picked up a wonderful job!”
Lola stared. She had dark gray-blue eyes that never seemed to join in her smiles; abstract, mysterious eyes. “Not that thing I showed you in the Times?”
He nodded. “Waiter, may I have a wine list?”
As the man went away Lola asked, “Is it anything really good? I mean, worth a bottle of champagne?”
“It’s worth a case! Listen — I know you’ll have to rush right after lunch. There’s so much I want to say to you. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
“I can be, Brian — if you’re not being extravagant.”
“I have to leave London at short notice. And I hate that part of it now I’ve met you.”
‘That’s sweet of you. It all depends where you’re going. Michel has branches around the world and my job takes me to all of them.”
“I’m going to Cairo.”
“Cairo? No, we haven’t opened in Cairo so far. What kind of job is this, Brian? Commercial or political?”
The waiter brought the wine list, which Brian handed to Lola.
“I won’t let you be extravagant,” she told him, “and if I’m to eat my lunch it will have to be only a half bottle. Say, a half of Piper Heidsieck, ‘forty-nine.”
As the waiter went away, Brian looked at Lola with frank admiration. She was unlike any woman he had ever known. Yet he felt that he had been looking for her all his life. He longed to know if his interest was returned, but those somber eyes told him nothing.
