by Sax Rohmer
It was as if he had opened a refrigerator. Through a window with a balcony outside Tony saw the starry sky, and knew immediately how the Cold Men had got in. The room was a scene of crazy disorder. Dr. Cameron-Gordon lay face down by the window.
A necropolite — a gray, corpselike figure — was forcing Moon Flower back onto a divan; his lean left arm locked around her. She was past speech, but her feeble moans stung Tony to fighting madness. With his right hand the Cold Man stripped the clothing from her shoulders, pressing his loathsome lips to the soft curves he found.
Tony leapt forward and pumped three bullets into the Cold Man’s sinewy gray shoulder. The creature uttered no cry of pain, but its left arm relaxed and then fell limply. Moon Flower staggered back, collapsing on the cushioned divan.
As Nayland Smith sprang forward, the Cold Man turned, a murderous grin on its face.
“Oblige me by stepping aside, gentlemen,” General Huan cried in a tone of command.
Both twisted around, astounded by the words and the manner.
General Huan thrust himself before them. The necropolite plucked a knife from his loincloth. And at that same moment the long, curved blade of the great sword whistled through the air — and the grinning head rolled on the rug-covered floor. The trunk collapsed slowly, then slumped over.
“See,” General Huan held up the blade. “No more blood than if one carved a fish. The creatures are not human.”
* * * *
Cameron-Gordon had been stunned by a blow on his skull from the Cold Man who had silently entered through the window. Tony knelt beside the divan whispering soothing words to Moon Flower. Her experience with a necropolite had brought her to the verge of hysteria, a feminine weakness which she despised.
The icy remains of her attacker, in two parts, had been removed before she recovered from the faint, and General Huan had gone to call those male members of his staff who slept in the servants’ annex to assist in the search for the Cold Men still at large.
Assured by Cameron-Gordon that he had suffered no physical injury, Nayland Smith jumped up and glanced quizzically at Tony.
“Come on, McKay,” he called. “Jeanie will be all right now with her father. We’ve got to get downstairs.”
“Close those shutters,” Tony called to Cameron-Gordon as he started, “and lock the door after us.”
Their assistance proved to be unnecessary, however. Matsukata, fully restored, and Dr. von Wehrner, on their way to the house, had almost stumbled over several Cold Men lying in a state of coma induced by a surfeit of looted food and wine. Another, making his exit in the same way from an upstairs window, had fallen on his head and lay unconscious on a tiled path.
Matsukata’s manner was furtive. From the way in which he glanced at von Wehrner, Tony knew that there were questions he wanted to ask, and from the way he avoided meeting Nayland Smith’s eyes, that there were inquiries he didn’t want to answer. In fact, he seemed to be half dazed.
* * * *
In the light of early morning, Nayland Smith and Tony sat in Huan Tsung-Chao’s study, the room with the large lacquered desk. General Huan was seated behind the desk.
“Isn’t it remarkable, General,” Sir Denis asked, “that Dr. Fu-Manchu should have chosen last night for an attempt on the Soviet station? I had supposed the return of the manuscript before you to be of paramount interest.” General Huan rested his hand on the parchment-bound Si-Fan Register.
“It is of great interest to me, also, Sir Denis. But the Master accepted your word that it would be restored as you accepted his that you and your friends should be free to leave. His reason for moving last night was that he feared the replacement of Dr. von Wehrner might result in more stringent precautions being taken.”
“You tell me you have no news of him. This I don’t understand.”
The lined, remarkable old face relaxed in a smile.
“There are many things, Sir Denis, concerning your own part in the affair which I do not understand. The Cold Men, in three parties, were instructed, hypnotically, to obey Mahmud — a former sergeant-major of the French-Algerian infantry. Contrary to my advice, the Master — aware that these awful creatures are strangely affected by electric storms — set out shortly after Dr. Matsukata and Mahmud to take personal charge.”
He paused, and very deliberately took a pinch of snuff.
“Dr. Matsukata tells me that the third party, whom he held in reserve, revolted. You are aware of what occurred later. You have scrupulously carried out your undertaking, Sir Denis, and I have arranged suitable transport for all of you, as the Master authorized me to do. I have included Dr. von Wehrner, whose presence in your party is one of the things I do not understand.” He smiled again, a sly smile. “If you should call at Lung Chang, please give my best wishes to a mutual friend there. You will be provided with papers ensuring your free passage.”
Many hours later, in Lao Tse-Mung’s library, a setting sun gleamed on the many bound volumes, cabinets, and rare porcelain. Moon Flower was curled up on a cushioned settee; Tony’s glance lingered on her adoringly. Their courteous host had personally conducted his old friend, Cameron-Gordon, and the unexpected guest, von Wehrner, to their apartments, and Nayland Smith lay back in a big rest chair, relighting his pipe and looking gloriously at ease.
“Is it possible, Sir Denis, that Dr. Fu-Manchu is dead?” Tony asked suddenly.
Nayland Smith looked up at him, match in hand. “Judging from long experience, highly improbable.”
“Because, it would be rather a pity, in view of something I have here.” He pulled out the long envelope containing the translation of the cipher manuscript. “The lama advised me not to show it to you until we were out of danger.”
“What the devil is it?” Sir Denis questioned, and took the envelope from Tony.
“It’s the lama’s deciphering of the manuscript.”
“What!” Nayland Smith blew the match out in the nick of time, leapt to his feet. “This is incredible.”
“A list, the lama told me, of every Si-Fan lodge master in China — some of them prominent persons — including General Huan!”
Nayland Smith dropped back in his chair.
“I said, McKay, when you recovered the thing from André Skobolov, that I believed it to be the most powerful weapon against Fu-Manchu which I ever held in my hands. An understatement. It will shatter his dream empire!”
The Short Story Collections
George Robey, for whom Rohmer wrote songs and sketches while working for music halls
TALES OF SECRET EGYPT
Rohmer does a more than creditable job in this short story collection in bringing to life the world of Egypt in all its mysterious beauty. It was published in 1918 by Methuen and in the US in 1919 by McKinlay, Stone and McKenzie, four years after The Romance of Sorcery, and it reflects Rohmer’s continuing interest in Egypt, its history and its culture.
The descriptions of Egypt, its street life, people and even criminal underworld, all come across as vivid and realistic, and must have impressed a war-weary readership with their exotic ambience; the same could apply today, as the majority of modern readers will have no real idea what the Egypt of the early twentieth-century is like. In the first story alone, familiar references to tourists of Cook Ltd, the travel company, and the fact that the narrator is an ordinary businessman from Birmingham living happily in Egypt, make the Western reader feel at home straight away. Minarets, calls to prayer, jewellery bazaars, coffee houses and friendships with local people all add to the picture of an exotic land. For the Western presence in Cairo, Shepheards was “the” hotel to stay in, and it was so ubiquitous that it features in most of Rohmer’s Egyptian tales, including this collection of stories.
In the opening story, The Yashmak of Pearls, an innocent English businessman named Kernaby gets caught up in the affairs of his Egyptian friend Ali Mohammed, who must return a wooden box containing a beautiful pearl encrusted yashmak to a lady to save himself from the wrath of the
magician Abu Tabah. The lady to whom Kernaby was to deliver the box is named Shahmarah, former dancing girl and courtesan, and formerly a favourite of the notorious Yussuf Bey. In order to access Shahmarah, Kernaby must disguise himself as an old woman to access her apartments, and having successfully done this, he comes face to face with the famous beauty and is not disappointed. However, things are not as straightforward as they at first seem. Abu Tabah makes Kernaby another offer and he must decide how much his loyalty to his friend Ali Mohammed means to him.
Other stories continue with the first person narrative that Rohmer always seems to favour in his fiction; in The Secret of Ismail more nationalities are introduced in the form of the businessman of Greek and Cretan parentage, who lives in Egypt and who in the opening of the tale, is encamped at the Wadi Araba waiting to meet an old business contact, Abdul Moharli. Moharli has a secret — the secret of Ismail — he wishes to share with the narrator, but before he can, his tongue is ripped out. Undeterred, our “hero” decides to go off in search of the hidden oasis where the Secret of Ismail can be discovered.
In the Valley of the Sorceress returns to another of Rohmer’s pet topics: archaeology. The story centres on the ancient Queen Hatasu, whose legacy was ruthlessly removed by her successors. No images or statues of her survived the obliteration, and her cartouche (the equivalent of a royal seal, with her name on it) removed from every item it adorned. Assistant-Inspector Neville of Antiquities was of the opinion that Hatasu was a sorceress and that was why she was despised after her death. Attempts to open up her tomb were met with fear, resistance and violence; the archaeologist that came closest to doing it ended up dead and the excavation back-filled to prevent entry. The narrator, another archaeologist named Edward Neville, resolves to solve the Hatasu mystery once and for all, and sets off for the desert himself, but his expedition also faces sinister challenges…
The stories continue in this vein, taking the modern reader back to an age of colonialism, mystery and superstition. One pleasing aspect of the tales is the way in which the Western characters slot in perfectly with their Egyptian hosts. There is no blatant racism on the part of the numerous narrators, who have clearly assimilated well into this strange and alluring culture – as indeed in real life many Westerners settled and worked in all parts of the world.
This is a pleasant collection of stories with the characteristic Rohmer choice of adventures and themes, and they are more than entertaining enough to while away the hours or to dip in to as a holiday read. One rather irritating affectation of Rohmer’s is to indicate the ethnic background of the Egyptians characters by having them say “thee”, “thou”, “hath” and so on, making them sound more like seventeenth century Quakers than exotic inhabitants of a romantic setting! If the reader can overcome this small setback, they will be rewarded with some classic Rohmer.
The first edition
CONTENTS
PART I. TALES OF ABÛ TABH
THE YASHMAK OF PEARLS
THE DEATH-RING OF SNEFERU
THE LADY OF THE LATTICE
OMAR OF ISPAHAN
BREATH OF ALLAH
THE WHISPERING MUMMY
PART II. OTHER TALES
LORD OF THE JACKALS
LURE OF SOULS
THE SECRET OF ISMAIL
HARÛN PASHA
IN THE VALLEY OF THE SORCERESS
POMEGRANATE FLOWER
PART I. TALES OF ABÛ TABH
THE YASHMAK OF PEARLS
The duhr, or noonday call to prayer, had just sounded from the minarets of the Mosques of Kalaûn and En-Nasîr, and I was idly noting the negligible effect of the adan upon the occupants of the neighboring shops — coppersmiths for the most part — when suddenly my errant attention became arrested.
A mendicant of unwholesome aspect crouched in the shadow of the narrow gateway at the entrance to the Sûk es-Saîgh, or gold and silver bazaar, having his one serviceable eye fixed in a malevolent stare upon something or someone immediately behind me.
It is part and parcel of my difficult profession to subdue all impulses and to think before acting. I sipped my coffee and selected a fresh cigarette from the silver box upon the rug beside me. In this interval I had decided that the one-eyed mendicant cherished in his bosom an implacable and murderous hatred for my genial friend, Ali Mohammed, the dealer in antiques; that he was unaware of my having divined his bloody secret; and that if I would profit by my accidental discovery, I must continue to feign complete ignorance of it.
Turning casually to Ali Mohammed, I was startled to observe the expression upon his usually immobile face: he was positively gray, and I thought I detected a faint rattling sound, apparently produced by his teeth; his eyes were set as if by hypnosis upon the uncleanly figure huddled in the shadow of the low gate.
“You are unwell, my friend,” I said.
Ali Mohammed shook his head feebly, removed his eyes by a palpable effort from the watcher in the gateway, but almost instantly reverted again to that fixed and terrified scrutiny.
“Not at all, Kernaby Pasha,” he chattered; “not in the least.”
He passed a hand rapidly over a brow wet with perspiration, and moistened his lips, which were correspondingly dry. I determined upon a diplomatic tour de force; I looked him squarely in the face.
“For some reason,” I said distinctly, “you are in deadly fear of the wall-eyed mendicant who is sitting by the gate of the Sûk es-Saîgh, O Ali Mohammed, my friend.”
I turned with assumed carelessness. The beggar of murderous appearance had vanished, and Ali Mohammed was slowly recovering his composure. I knew that I must act quickly, or he would deny with the urbane mendacity of the Egyptian all knowledge of the one-eyed one; therefore —
“Acquaint me with the reason of your apprehensions,” I said, at the same time offering him one of his own cigarettes; “it may be that I can assist you.”
A moment he hesitated, glancing doubtfully in the direction of the gate and back to my face; then —
“It is one of the people of Tîr,” he whispered, bending close to my ear; “of the evil ginn who are the creatures of Abû Tabâh.”
I was puzzled and expressed my doubt in words.
“Alas,” replied Ali Mohammed, “the Imám Abû Tabâh is neither a man nor an official; he is a magician.”
“Indeed! then you speak of one bearing the curious name of Abû Tabâh, who is at once the holder of a holy office and also one who has dealings with the ginn and the Efreets. This is strange, Ali Mohammed, my friend.”
“It is strange and terrible,” he whispered, “and I fear that my path is beset with pitfalls and slopeth down to desolation.” He pronounced the Takbîr, “Alláhu akbar!” and uttered the words “Hadeed! yá mashûm!” (Iron! thou unlucky!), a potent invocation, as the ginn’s dread of that metal is well known. “There are things of which one may not speak,” he declared; “and this is one of them.”
Sorely puzzled as I was by this most mysterious happening, yet, because of the pious words of my friend, I knew that the incident was closed so far as confidences were concerned; and I presently took my departure, my mind filled with all sorts of odd conjectures by which I sought to explain the matter. I was used to the superstitions of that quarter where almost every gate and every second street has its guardian ginnee, but who and what was Abû Tabâh? An Imám, apparently, though to what mosque attached Ali Mohammed had not mentioned. And why did Ali Mohammed fear Abû Tabâh?
So my thoughts ran, more or less ungoverned, whilst I made my way through streets narrow and tortuous in the direction of the Rondpoint du Mûski. I saw no more of the wall-eyed mendicant; but in a court hard by the Mosque of el-Ashraf I found myself in the midst of a squabbling crowd of natives surrounding someone whom I gathered, from the direction of their downward glances, to be prone upon the ground. Since the byways of the Sûk el-Attârin are little frequented by Europeans, at midday, I thrust my way into the heart of the throng, thinking that some stray patron of Messrs. C
ook and Son (Egypt, Ltd.) might possibly have got into trouble or have been overcome by the heat.
Who or what lay at the heart of that gathering I never learned. I was still some distance from the centre of the disturbance when an evil-smelling sack was whipped over my head and shoulders from behind, a hand clapped upon my mouth and jaws; and, lifted in muscular arms, I found myself being borne inarticulate down stone steps, as I gathered from the sound, into some cool cellar-like place.
II
In my capacity as Egyptian representative of Messrs. Moses, Murphy & Co., of Birmingham, I have sometimes found myself in awkward corners; but in Cairo, whether the native or European quarter, I had hitherto counted myself as safe as in London and safer than in Paris. The unexpectedness of the present outrage would have been sufficient to take my breath away without the agency of the filthy sack, which had apparently contained garlic at some time and now contained my head.
I was deposited upon a stone-paved floor and my wrists were neatly pinioned behind me by one of my captors, whilst another hung on to my ankles. The sack was raised from my body but not from my face; and whilst a hand was kept firmly pressed over the region of my mouth, nimble fingers turned my pockets inside out. I assumed at first that I had fallen into the clutches of some modern brethren of the famous Forty, but when my purse, note-case, pocket-book, and other belongings were returned to me, I realized that something more underlay this attempt than the mere activity of a gang of footpads.
At this conclusion I had just arrived when the stinking sack was pulled off entirely and I found myself sitting on the floor of a small and very dark cellar. Beside me, holding the sack in his huge hands, stood a pock-marked negro of most repulsive appearance, and before me, his slim, ivory-colored hands crossed and resting upon the head of an ebony cane, was a man, apparently an Egyptian, whose appearance had something so strange about it that the angry words which I had been prepared to utter died upon my tongue and I sat staring mutely into the face of my captor; for I could not doubt that the outrage had been dictated by this man’s will.
