by Sax Rohmer
“Normal,” he announced, as he went into an adjoining room which was evidently a bathroom.
I heard him rinsing the thermometer and all the time I was thinking furiously: where had I seen the doctor before? In some way the elusive memory was bound up with another, something to do with undergraduate days and also with the Royal Navy. It was as he came out again that I tied up the links—Peter Marriot Doughty, who was reading medicine and who had the rooms above mine; he was now in the Navy; I had seen him off before I left for Greece. His father, a celebrated Harley Street consultant, had once had tea with Doughty and myself. Probably my change of expression was marked.
“Yes, Mr. Kerrigan—what is bothering you?”
“Am I addressing Dr. Marriot Doughty?”
“John Marriot Doughty, M.D., at your service.”
Momentarily I closed my eyes, doubted my sanity. Clearly now I recalled the long obituary notices; remembered almost the exact words of my telegram of condolence to my friend. Dr. Marriot Doughty, his father, had died in the Spring of 1937—but this was Dr. Marriot Doughty who stood before me!
When I opened my eyes John Marriot Doughty was smiling again.
“You remember me, Mr. Kerrigan? I once had the pleasure of taking tea in your rooms with my son.”
Words failed me; I merely stared.
“Have you recent news of Peter?”
I reconquered control of my tongue.
“He is with the destroyers operating off Libya, doctor. I had word from him last some four weeks ago.”
The dead man who lived, nodded.
“Good. Peter was always best in action. I broke a long family tradition, Mr. Kerrigan, when I abandoned the sea for the surgery. Peter has gone back. I think his mother would have wished it so. And now, I am going to get you on your feet. To lie there any longer, sir, would be pure malingering.”
But nevertheless I lay there, watching him. My complaisant analysis of the situation had been grossly at fault. My heart was behaving erratically. The rearguard had not arrived. Where was Nayland Smith? Since Dr. Marriot Doughty was indisputably dead, logically I also must be dead. Here was just such a passing-over as I had heard described at spiritualist meetings.
Undoubtedly I was dead: this was the Beyond.
Dr. Marriot Doughty’s gaze held a deep compassion; but it was the compassion that belongs to greater knowledge.
“Mr. Kerrigan,” he said, “my part is not to enlighten you regarding your new circumstances; my part is to set you on your feet again. There are toxic elements in your system based upon a faultily-treated wound in your left shoulder and affecting the lung structure, but not gravely. You are a healthy, powerful man. This trouble will disperse; in fact, it shall be my business to disperse it. The blow on the occipital area has resulted in no haemorrhage: forget it. In short—I know what you are thinking, but you are not dead. You are very cogently alive.”
I swung out of bed and stood up. A slight dizziness wore off almost immediately.
“Good,” said Dr. Marriot Doughty. “See that the bath is no more than tepid. Your own clothes are all here—at least, those you were wearing. I believe you will find the cartridge belt missing, and the pistol. When you are dressed I will come back and prescribe your breakfast.”
He turned to go.
“Doctor!”
He pulled up.
“Where is Nayland Smith?”
“Mr. Kerrigan, I would gladly answer your question—if I knew the answer. I shall return in about twenty minutes.”
“One moment! How long—”
“Have you been unconscious? Roughly, four days…”
* * *
As Marriot Doughty signalled to me to precede him, I found myself in a long corridor in which were many white doors, numbered like those in a hotel. An hour had elapsed.
“Some of the staff occupy this annexe,” he said. “It is new, and the apartments, as you have seen, are pleasant. My own quarters are in the main building near the research laboratories.”
He spoke in the manner of one conducting a visitor over a power station. Nothing in my memories of those grim days is more grotesque than the easy conversational style of this physician who had been dead for four years. I could think of no suitable remark.
“Our headquarters at one time were in the South of France,” he went on. “But there we were subject to too much interference. Here, in Haiti, we are ideally situated.”
We came out into a large quadrangle, its tiled paths bordered by palms. I saw that the place we had left resembled a row of bungalows joined together. Most of the windows were open, and there were vases of flowers to be seen on ledges, rows of books. A swim suit hung out of one. It might have been a holiday camp. On the other side of the quadrangle was an extensive range of buildings which I could only assume to be a modern factory, although I saw no smokestack. Several detached structures appeared further off; and in and out of the various buildings men, most of them Haitians and wearing blue overalls, moved in orderly industry. I heard the hum of machinery. Wherever I looked, beyond, forest-robed mountain slopes swept up to the bright morning sky. This was a valley entirely enclosed on all sides. I turned to my guide.
“Where am I? What place is this?”
He smiled.
“Officially, it is the works of the San Damien Sisal Coporation. Geologically, it is the crater of a huge volcano, fortunately extinct. The best sisal in the world is cultivated and treated here. Although the output is small, it is of the very highest quality. The enterprise had been in existence for a long time; but we acquired control less than six years ago.”
“It appears to be most inaccessible.”
“There is a small railway by which produce is sent out. The hemp is grown on the lower slopes behind you. Over a thousand workers are employed by the Corporation.”
So we chatted. There was nothing ominous, no trace of the sinister anywhere. The well-ordered path, flanked by palms, along which we were walking; the fresh mountain air; a cloudless sky; those waves of verdure embracing the valley; all these things spoke of a bountiful nature well and gratefully appreciated. But I looked askance at every figure moving about me, and I had conceived a horror of the proximity of Dr. Marriot Doughty which I found it hard to conceal. I was in the company of a living-dead man—a zombie: were all these workers zombies also?
Before the door of a house which looked older and which was of a character different from the others, my guide paused and pressed a bell.
“Here,” he said, “I hand you over to Companion Horton, with a clean bill of health.” The door was opened by a Haitian. “Tell the manager that Mr. Bart Kerrigan is here.”
As the man stood aside to allow me to enter. Dr. Marriot Doughty nodded cheerily and turned away. The profoundly commonplace character of everyone’s behaviour, that reference to “the manager,” and now, the businesslike office in which I found myself, began insidiously to frighten me. Companion Horton, a lean, slow-spoken American, rose from a workmanlike desk to greet me. Above his chair I noticed a large photograph of a hemp plantation.
“You are very welcome, Mr. Kerrigan. Please sit down and smoke.”
I sat down and accepted a cigarette which he proffered.
“Thanks—Mr. Horton, I presume?”
“James Ridgwell Horton. That’s my name, sir; and I was born in Boston, June first, 1853—”
“Eighteen-fifty-three!”
“Sure thing. I don’t look my age, but then none of us do here. I will admit that there was a time when the thought of going right on living did not appeal. But when I found out that all my faculties became, not dulled but keener; when I realized that I could assemble new ideas and examine them in the light of old experience, why, I changed my mind.”
No doubt my expression made the remark unnecessary, but;
“I don’t think,” I said, trying to speak very calmly, “that I follow.”
“No? Well that’s too bad. May I take it you know that this is the headquarter
s of the Order of the Si-Fan?”
I suppose I had known—for some time past; yet, bluntly stated, the fact made my heart wobble.
“Yes—I know.”
“Just so; and you feel about it the way I felt twenty years ago. To you the Si-Fan is plain and simple a Black Hand gang; an underworld ramp; a bunch of professional crooks. I thought just that way. But if you will consider the methods by which any Totalitarian State makes progress, you will find that the Ancient Order has merely perfected them. Because you have met some of the high officials—maybe one of The Council—in shady quarters, you have jumped to wrong conclusions.”
But now this man’s sophistries began to infuriate me.
“I regard the heads of such States as glorified gunmen, Mr. Horton. Their methods (I grant the parallel) are the methods of any other criminal.”
“But consider how different their ends are from ours.”
“However noble you believe these to be, I cannot agree that the end justifies the means.”
“Well, well—I am instructed to pass you over to someone who may adjust your standpoint, Mr. Kerrigan.” He stood up. “If you will please come this way.”
He opened a door and invited me to follow. I thought he seemed to be a little crestfallen, as if my obstinacy saddened him. Certainly, one less like a desperate criminal than James Ridgwell Horton it would have been difficult to find. And now, as I walked along an uncarpeted and dimly lighted corridor by his side, a ghastly explanation of his presence there occurred to me. He was dead!
I was in the company of a zombie; a soulless intelligence; a robot controlled by a master wizard.
Before an arched opening a green light was burning. Even as Horton stopped, a swift sensation, as of momentary dropping of temperature, warned me of the identity of him to whom I was being conducted. He touched a button, and a heavy panelled door slid noiselessly open. On its threshold stood Hassan, the white Nubian!
“Mr. Kerrigan is expected,” said Horton, and Hassan stood aside.
I went in, and the heavy door closed behind me. But the appearance of Hassan had gone far to revive my waning courage. Did it mean that Ardatha was here?
The place was a lobby, lighted by a square, silk lantern and pervaded by a curious perfume: another door was beyond.
“Wait, please.”
Hassan opened the further door, stepped in and immediately came out again, indicating with a movement of one huge, muscular hand that I should enter. Clenching my teeth, I went into a small library. There were volumes on the shelves of a character which I had never come across before. The only illumination was provided by a globular lamp on a square, black pedestal set on a large desk. Upon this desk lay a number of books and papers and other objects which I had no leisure to observe.
For, seated behind the desk, in a grotesquely carved ebony chair, was Dr. Fu-Manchu!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE ZOMBIES
He wore a white linen coat, similar to that worn by Marriot Doughty; on his head was a black skull-cap. He glanced at me as I entered—and I avoided his glance: it was a protective instinct.
“Be seated, Mr. Kerrigan. You have not failed to note contusion and a slight abrasion in the neighbourhood of my left maxillary muscle. Had your very forceful blow struck me on the bone structure I fear that the damage might have been more serious.”
As I sat down facing him, I ventured to look. His left jaw was bruised and cut. Perhaps his quiet, deliberate speech was responsible (he spoke, in a sense, perfect English, but gave each syllable an equal value which made familiar words sound strange) or perhaps sudden, hot resentment—resentment of all he stood for—inspired me; but, “A long cherished ambition is realized,” I said. “At least I have hit you once.”
He toyed with a jade snuff-box which lay upon the desk; his disconcerting eyes grew filmed. That sensitive hand, with its long, tended finger-nails, fascinated me.
“I bear no malice, Mr. Kerrigan. Animal courage is not one of the higher human qualities; but it is a quality, nevertheless, and I respect it—I can use courage. You have it. I welcome you. I absorb gladly all that is useful in the animal kingdom. Suitably directed, such a specialized army can defeat great—but ignorant—hosts.”
His voice, as always, was acting upon me like a drug. There was something of the inevitable, superhuman, a quality akin to those hidden but known forces of Nature, in his mere presence.
“You have met some of the Companions whom you believed to be dead. No doubt you have studied the tradition of the zombie—a tradition which persists in Haiti. Persistent traditions always rest on fact. It was exactly sixty years ago today that I devoted myself to a close examination of this subject. I had heard, as no doubt you have heard, of dead men working under the orders of witch-doctors: these automata were known as ‘zombies’. There are examples in Haiti at the present moment; and I do not refer to my own experiments.”
During the weeks that had elapsed since I had faced Dr. Fu-Manchu in that underground laboratory beside the Thames a marked change had taken place in him. Then I had thought him dying; now he was restored to his supernormal self.
“Those hapless creatures are not—as superficial observers have supposed—a kind of vampire, a corpse reanimated by sorcery; they are the products of a form of slow poisoning which induces catalepsy. When buried, they are not in fact dead. The Voodoo man disinters them and bends them to his purpose. They have no conscious identity; they remain slaves of his will.”
Opening the jade box, he raised a pinch of snuff to his nostrils.
“After researches which led me from Haiti to Central Africa, to the Sudan, and finally to Egypt, I discovered the nature of the drugs used and the manner of their administration. The process was known to the priests of Thebes. I was quick to realize that its possession placed a power in my hands which should secure for me mastery of every other secret in Nature!”
His voice rose. His brilliant green eyes, fully opened, revealed momentarily the mad fanaticism which inspired him. I had a glimpse of that terrifying genius which more than once had shaken governments.
“I determined, Mr. Kerrigan, to establish a corner in brains. For the purpose of carrying out those numerous experiments in physics, botany, zoology, biology, which I had projected, I would secure a staff of researchers from the best intellects in those sciences.” He tapped the jade snuff-box with a long, varnished finger-nail. “I sought my staff all over the world, employing the resources of the Si-Fan to aid me. I was not invariably successful; nevertheless, I secured a notable collection of first-class brains. My conquest of that age-old mystery, the Elixir Vitae, enabled me to arrest senility in suitable cases—as, for example, in my own.”
He stood up, and stepping to a door recessed between bookcases, pressed a button. The door slid open.
“Since you are to remain with us as an active participant, if you choose, in our work to create a sane world (but since, in any event, you will remain) I shall give you an opportunity of judging of our labours before any decision is demanded of you.”
A man came in, a young man who had an untidy mop of dark brown hair and very steadfast hazel eyes. He was a powerful fellow, wore blue overalls and had the hands of a toiler; but when he spoke I knew that he was a man of culture.
“Companion Allington,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu, “this is Mr. Bart Kerrigan. As you are of about one age, I thought he might appreciate your company as guide. You may show him anything that he wishes to see.”
“Delighted, Mr. Kerrigan, and much obliged to you, sir.”
As I followed my new acquaintance along a short passage and out into a tree shaded courtyard, I thought that he had used just the words and just the tone of one speaking to his commanding officer.
* * *
“Do you mean that you are Squadron Leader Allington?”
“Well I used to be,” said Allington, grinning, cheerfully. “Only regret I’m out of the Service because I’m missing the gorgeous show over there.”
/> “You held the Royal Air Force altitude record.”
“Yes, for a time. Then I tried to be too clever on a non-stop flight and crashed into the Timor Sea. Remember?”
“Well, I remember you were missing. Were you—?”
I hesitated, looking almost furtively into those smiling eyes.
“Killed? Oh, no! I’m not one of the conscripts; I’m a volunteer!”
He laughed gaily, grasping my arm and leading me in the direction of a long, low building on the right. But his reference to “the conscripts” had turned me cold.
“Do you mean that you voluntarily joined the—”
“The Si-Fan? Yes, rather. So will you when the time comes. I was picked up by a steamer which happened to belong to them, you see. You have a lot to learn yet, Kerrigan. Whatever your job may be, this is the most wonderful service in the world.”
He selected a key from a number attached to a chain and opened the door of what I assumed to be one of a range of garages. If there had never been a Fuehrer or a Duce—one who had persuaded an entire nation to believe in his godlike mission—I should have been unable to trust my senses, to credit my reason; but what such men could do, certainly Dr. Fu-Manchu could improve upon.
“Here we are,” said Allington, wheeling the wide doors apart. “You’ve got to see my taxis first, whether you want to or not!”
His buoyant enthusiasm, his typical Air Force manner, at that time and in those circumstances, I bracket in my memories with the informative remarks of Dr. Marriot Doughty as he had conducted me to my interview with Fu-Manchu.
I found myself to be in a place resembling a long garage. Some twenty machines were there in line. At first sight they looked like small monoplanes; further inspection led to confusion. Squadron Leader Allington laughed.
“Screams, aren’t they?” he cried. “No undercarriage, no propeller! And”—he tapped my shoulder knowingly—“how do you suppose we get ’em into the air?”
It was a poser. There was no airfield outside; no runway.
“Look!”
He moved a lever. That section of roof immediately above the machine which I had been inspecting, swung open. I saw the sky.
