The Island of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Entire crowd took to the woods. Barton was in the second plane. We posted guards and set out helter-skelter for the stockade. Kerrigan—there wasn’t a soul in the place!”

  At this point in our upward climb we passed another Marine.

  “Impossible to give you any idea activity of next few days. Haitian police like a pack of wolves. Suspects rounded up; hundreds of people questioned. But Voodoo is a very powerful force, Kerrigan. Air reconnaissance showed no suspicious movements. Naval units inspected every mile of shore. Marines landed at likely spots. Inquiries extended from coast to coast, beyond Dominican border. Had reasoned that secret base must be masked by some big industrial enterprise. San Damien Sisal Corporation seemed to fill bill. Called personally upon Mr. Horton, the manager. Except for certain strangeness of manner which I was disposed to ascribe to drug habit—”

  “The man is a Zombie” I interrupted. “He is nearly ninety years old!”

  “Ah! this I did not know; his manner quite disarming. Most courteous; good enough to conduct me over the hemp refinery. Even offered to drive me out to largest plantation. This offer I declined. In short, Kerrigan—defeated.”

  I pulled up. The atmosphere of the tunnel was telling upon me, for I had passed through an exacting time.

  “Have we much farther to go, Smith? Or is this passage unending?”

  “No; ends on other side of a ravine immediately facing ruined chapel.”

  “Not in the chapel?”

  “No. Fu-Manchu made a slip. Having inspected original chart, he learned that Barton had tricked him; site of opening faked. Had very little time though to search for it. Therefore blew up chapel?”

  “With what result?”

  “None at all. One thing he had not seen—most important thing of all.”

  “Why had he not seen it, since he had seen the chart?”

  “Because it was written on the back! It read, roughly, ‘The altar faces the entrance, which is on opposite hillside, marked by granite cross set among trees!’”

  “Astounding bit of luck!”

  “Plus Barton’s genius for secrecy. Went to work like galley slaves. Had to work under cover. Posted hidden sentries all round area. Providence with us. Explosion had left altar practically intact; gave us our bearings… Granite cross long since vanished Took Barton two days to find tiny cave, no more than crevice in rock—but only way down to great cavern known to Christophe!”

  “The other entrance, that from the sisal works, was discovered by accident some years ago…”

  I saw a peep of daylight, and a voice hailed us. It was a loud, unmistakable voice—the voice of Sir Lionel Barton!

  “All’s well, Barton!” cried Smith. “I have a surprise for you.” Two armed men were guarding the entrance, which indeed was no more than eighteen inches wide and which opened on to a ledge some ten feet below the crest of a jagged and jungle-choked ravine.

  As I stepped out behind Smith:

  “My God!” cried “Barton. “Kerrigan! Heaven be praised!” He shook my hand so hard that my fingers became limp, and then, pointing west:

  “Look at that,” he said. “We have just time to get back to camp. There’s a hell of a storm brewing.”

  And as we set out I looked into the west and saw that the sky was becoming veiled by a sort of purple haze.

  The camp was an army tent with a smaller one set up behind it near a grove of trees. I observed a quantity of kit, a number of rifles; and here another Marine was on duty. Barton was so happy to see me that he kept throwing his arm around my shoulders and giving me bear-like hugs.

  I suppose the boom of his great voice reached her from afar; for, as we approached, the flap of the smaller tent opened—and Ardatha ran out!

  CHAPTER FORTY

  THE SAN DAMIEN SISAL CORPORATION

  When I had in some measure recovered from a shock of joy which I confess left me trembling, when I had fully appreciated the fact that this was the real Ardatha, the Ardatha who had so mysteriously disappeared in Paris, and not her shadow whom I had met again in London, I had time for wonder and time for questions.

  “But how did it happen?” I asked breathlessly. “Even now I find it hard to believe.”

  “It happened, Bart dear, because even the genius of the Doctor nods—sometimes. You remember that he gave me over to the charge of Hassan. Hassan has served my family ever since I can remember, except that he was black, then, and not white. He came with me when I joined the Si-Fan, but when I left to come to you, in Paris—you remember—”

  “Remember? I remember every hour we spent together, every minute.”

  “Well—” there was a haunting inflection in the way she pronounced the word, “he becomes like all the others, except for one thing: he can never refuse to obey any order which I may give him.”

  “I think I understand.”

  “The work which I have done in the past for them has been away from their headquarters, you see. Those here in Haiti, where I have been only once before, who do not know me, know Hassan. I ordered him to come with me to the gate, and no one stopped us. I ordered him to get into one of the staff cars, of which there are always five or six waiting there, and to sit beside me, like a groom. He obeyed. I drove away. The Doctor had made a mistake. You see, I was myself again, and I knew! I meant to go to the consul at Cap Haitian, but on the way—”

  “On the way,” snapped a familiar voice, and I saw that Smith had joined us, “pardon my interruption—Ardatha met myself and a party of Marines going to join Barton.”

  “And, oh! how glad I was to see you—how glad!”

  “As a result of this meeting,” Smith added, “certain steps were taken in regard to the activities of the San Damien Sisal Corporation. But Ardatha I rarely let out of my sight again.”

  So utterly happy was I in our reunion that ominous claps of thunder, a growing darkness, that present danger to the United States which I knew to lurk in the Caribbean, were forgotten. Smith brought me sharply to my senses.

  “At last,” he said, “we have the game in our hands, if we play our cards carefully. The great brains which support Dr. Fu-Manchu, the machinery which his genius and that of his dupes has brought into being, all are here. I have failed before, but this time I do not mean to fail. In the next twenty-four hours either we win our long battle or hand what is left of the civilized world over to Dr. Fu-Manchu.”

  Darkness increased: thunder growled ominously over the mountains…

  * * *

  “There’s the signal. Barton! Since you are determined—good luck. But you’re in for a rough passage.”

  Smith, Barton and I stood on a jetty at Cap Haitian. The night was completely black, except when bursts of tropical lightning created an eerie, blinding illumination. A signal had been arranged; and a moment before, we had seen a rocket burst against the inky curtain of the storm. A naval cutter was dancing deliriously at our feet.

  “I worked out the bearings and I’m going to check them with the officer in charge,” said Barton. “If Christophe’s chart is wrong in this respect, why, then we fail! Cheerio!”

  He went to the head of the ladder, waited until the cutter rose within two feet of the jetty and jumped. In more respects than one Sir Lionel Barton was a remarkable man. I strained forward and saw him scrambling forward to the bows. As the cutter pulled out:

  “Barton has earned his reputation,” said Nayland Smith. “He fears neither men nor gods. If I know anything about him, he will stop at least one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s rat holes tonight.”

  An old freighter of three thousand tons sunk well below her load-line with a cargo of concrete blocks, was lying off there in the storm, escorted by a United States destroyer. In the interval which had elapsed since I had been swallowed up by the organization of the Si-Fan, Smith and Barton had worked like beavers. The freighter was destined to be scuttled at the spot indicated in the ancient chart as the submarine entrance to Christophe’s
Cavern. Inquiries from local fishermen had revealed that a shelf of rock, or submerged ridge, jutted out there. This ledge must be the lintel of Fu-Manchu’s underwater-gate.

  An American skipper who knew the Haitian coast was in command, and the destroyer was standing by to take off the officers and crew. It would be necessary practically to pile up the ship on the gaunt rocks below which the opening lay—on such a night as this, with a heavy sea running, a feat of seamanship merely to think about which turned me cold.

  I stood there beside Smith, watching. The thunder was so shattering when it came that it seemed to rock the quay, the lightning so vivid in its tropical brilliance as to be blinding. In those awesome flashes I could see both ships lying close off shore; I could see the cutter breasting a white-capped swell as she made for the freighter, riding lumpishly, overladen as she was. How clearly I remember that night, that occasion: for it was the prelude to what I believed and prayed would be the end of Dr. Fu-Manchu and all his works.

  We waited there through blaze after blaze of lightning, until we saw the cutter brought alongside the freighter. By this time a tremendous sea was running, and I trembled for Barton, a heavy man and by no means a young one. I had visions of a jumping ladder, of the smaller craft shattered like an eggshell.

  Then, during a moment of utter blackness, thunder booming hellishly among the mountains, a second rocket split the night.

  “Thank God!” whispered Smith. He stood close beside me. “He’s mad, but he bears a charmed life. He’s on board.”

  It was the agreed signal.

  “Now—to our job.”

  Through that satanic night we set out for the San Damien works. It was a wild drive, a ride of the Valkyries. Sometimes, as we climbed, white-hot flashes revealed forest valleys below the mountain road which we traversed; sometimes, in complete darkness which followed, the maintain seemed to shiver; our headlights resembled flickering candles. Our lives and more than our lives were in the hands of the driver, but as he had been allotted to us by the American authorities as the one man for the job, I resigned myself.

  “I have it in my bones,” said Nayland Smith during a momentary lull, “that tonight we shall finally defeat Dr. Fu-Manchu. The very elements seem to be enraged.”

  But I was silent. I had, in a sense, come closer to Dr. Fu-Manchu than Nayland Smith had ever had an opportunity to do. Something of the almost supernatural dread with which the Chinese scientist had inspired me was gone. He was not an evil spirit; he was a physical phenomenon, and his strength resided in the fact that he had perfected a method for enslaving the genius of the world and bending it to his will. At last I understood that Dr. Fu-Manchu was something which human ingenuity might hope to outwit. But his armament was formidable.

  Of that drive up to the lip of the valley which once had been the crater of a great volcano, I retain strange memories. But memorable above all was that moment when, coming round a hairpin bend on the edge of a sheer precipice, the black curtain of the storm was rent by dazzling light, and there, away beyond a forest-choked valley, an eerie but a wonderful spectacle, I saw for the second time the mighty bulk of The Citadel, upstanding stark, an ogre’s castle, against the blaze.

  Indeed, a jagged dagger of lightning seemed to strike directly down upon its towering battlements. Almost I expected to see them crumble. Darkness fell and there came a crash of thunder so deafening that it might well have echoed the collapse of Christophe’s vast fortress into the depths.

  At long last we turned inland from the road skirting the precipice and plunged into a sort of cutting. I heaved a sigh of relief.

  “There are two sides to this road,” said Smith. “I confess I prefer it.”

  We were now, in fact, very near to our destination; but since I had never seen the outside of the place but only the extensive buildings which surrounded the quadrangle, I was surprised by its modest character. A wide sanded drive opened to the right of the road, and across it was a board on which might be read: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” The drive was bordered by tropical shrubbery and palm trees. Some fifty yards along I saw a bungalow which presumably served the purpose of a gate lodge. Smith checked the driver, and we pulled up just beyond.

  “There are three possibilities,” he said. “One, that we shall find the place deserted except for legitimate employees of the Corporation, against whom it would be difficulty to bring a case. In this event, the presence of the zoological exhibits and of the experimental laboratory might plausibly be accounted for: hemp cultivation after all is conducted today on scientific lines. The glass coffins you describe might be less easy to explain.

  “And the second possibility is—some trap may have been laid for us. I doubt, assuming that the Doctor and his associates have gone below-ground, if it would be possible under any circumstances to obtain access from this point. However, you see, my instructions have been well carried out.”

  In a dazzling blaze of lightning he looked round.

  “I warrant you can find no evidence of the fact, Kerrigan, that a considerable party of Federal agents, supported by two companies of Haitian infantry with machine guns, is covering the area.”

  “There is certainly no sign of their presence. But why did they not challenge the car?”

  “They have orders to challenge nothing going in, but anything or anybody coming out. Now, let us have a report.”

  He flashed a pocket torch, in-out, in-out.

  From a darker gulley in the bank of the road, just above the sanded drive, two men appeared; one was in the uniform of the Haitian army, his companion wore mufti. As they came up. Smith acknowledged the officer’s salute and turning to the other.

  “Anything to report, Finlay?” he asked.

  “Not a thing, chief—except that Major Lemage, here, has got his men under cover, and my boys all know their jobs. What’s the programme?”

  “Are there any lights showing?”

  “Sure. There’s one right in the gate-office. Night porter, I guess.”

  “Anywhere else?”

  “Haven’t seen any.”

  “Then we will stick to our original plan. Come on, Kerrigan.” As we walked past the car and up the sanded drive Finlay dropped back, following at some ten paces.

  “What was the third possibility you had in mind. Smith?” I asked.

  “That Fu-Manchu evidently regards himself as a potential world power. He may still be here. He may attempt to brazen the thing out. Your absence will have puzzled him, but there are numbers of burrows in all volcanic rocks such as those which compose the Cavern, so it seems highly unlikely that he will be able to find out what occurred. But the absence of Ardatha and Hassan is susceptible of only one construction; a major mistake—and Fu-Manchu rarely makes major mistakes. However, we must move with care. You say that the lift is at the end of a sort of tunnel in which are the glass coffins?”

  “Yes, a cellar built, I believe, in the foundations of the laboratory.”

  “Which you can identify?”

  “I think so.”

  The bungalow, when we reached it, was so like a thousand and one inquiry offices at entrances to works, that again, as had occurred many times before, the idea seemed fabulous that anything sinister lurked behind a façade so commonplace. Lightning blazed, and cast ebony shadows of palm trunks bordering the drive, shadows like solid bars, across to the spot where we stood. There was a brass plate on the door, inscribed: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” A light shone from a window.

  Smith pressed the bell, and a sort of tingling excitement possessed me as I stood there waiting to see who would open the door. We had not long to wait.

  A Haitian, his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a lanky fellow smoking a corncob pipe, looked at us with sleepy eyes.

  In the office I saw a cane armchair from which he had evidently just risen, a newspaper on the floor beside it. There was a large keyboard resembling that of a hotel hall porter. At the moment that I observed this the man’s e
xpression changed.

  “What do you want?” he asked sharply. “You do not belong here.”

  “I want to see the manager,” snapped Smith. “It is urgent.”

  “The manager is in bed.”

  “Someone must be on duty.”

  “That is so—I am on duty.”

  “Then go and wake the manager, and be sharp about it. I represent the Haitian Government, and I must see Mr. Horton at once. Go and rouse him.”

  Smith’s authoritative manner was effective.

  “I have to stay here,” the man replied, “but I can call him.”

  He went inside and took up a telephone which I could not see; but then I heard him speaking rapidly in Haitian. Then came a tinkle as he replaced the receiver. He returned.

  “Someone is coming to take you to the manager,” he reported.

  Apparently regarding the incident as closed, he went in and shut the door.

  I stared at Smith.

  “One of the Corporation staff,” he said in a low voice. “I doubt if he knows anything. However—wait and see.”

  We had not waited long before a coloured boy appeared from somewhere.

  “You two gentlemen want to see Mr. Horton?”

  “We do,” said Smith.

  “Come this way.”

  As we moved off behind the boy I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Finlay raise his hand and turn, then flash a light in the darkness behind him. We were being closely covered.

  The boy led along the back of those quarters in which for a time I had occupied an apartment. I saw no lights anywhere. Just beyond, and fronting on the big quadrangle, was a detached bungalow. Some of the windows were lighted and a door was open. The coloured boy rapped upon the door, and James Ridgwell Horton came out, holding reading glasses in his hand and having a book under his arm. The storm seemed to be moving into the east, but dense cloudbanks obscured the moon and the night was vibrant with electric energy. He peered at us in a bewildered way.