by Sax Rohmer
But the girl with the amethyst eyes had vanished . . .
Three Notices
“She has got clear away,” said Nayland Smith, “thanks to her bodyguard.”
We stood in the library, Smith, myself, Mr. Bascombe and Inspector Leighton. Sir James Clare was seated in an armchair watching us. Now he spoke:
“I understand, Smith, why General Quinto came from Africa to the house of his old friend, secretly and asked me to recall you for a conference. This is a very deep-laid scheme. You are the only man who might have saved him—”
“But I failed.”
Nayland Smith spoke bitterly. He turned and stared at me.
“It appears, Kerrigan, that your charming acquaintance who so unfortunately has escaped—I am not blaming you—differs in certain details from Mr. Bascombe’s recollections of the general’s visitor. However, it remains to be seen if they are one and the same.”
“You see,” the judicial voice of the home secretary broke in, “it is obviously impossible to hush this thing up. A postmortem examination is unavoidable. We don’t know what it will reveal. The fact that a very distinguished man, of totally different political ideas from our own, dies here in London under such circumstances is calculated to produce international results. It’s deplorable—it’s horrible. I cannot see my course clearly.”
“Your course, Sir James,” snapped Nayland Smith, “is to go home. I will call you early in the morning.” He turned. “Mr. Bascombe, decline all information to the press.”
“What about the dead man, sir?” Inspector Leighton interpolated.
“Remove the body when the loiterers have dispersed. Report to me in the morning, Inspector.”
It was long past midnight when I found myself in Sir Denis’ rooms in Whitehall. I had not been there for some time, and from my chair I stared across at an unusually elaborate radio set with a television equipment.
“Haven’t much leisure for amusement, myself,” said Smith, noting the direction of my glance. “Television I had installed purely to amuse Fey! He is a pearl above price, and owing to my mode of life is often alone here for days and nights.”
Standing up, I began to examine the instrument. At which moment Fey came in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “electrician from firm requests no one touch until calls again, sir.”
Fey’s telegraphic speech had always amused me. I nodded and sat down, watching him prepare drinks. When he went out:
“Our return journey was quite uneventful,” I remarked. “Why?”
“Perfectly simple,” Smith replied, sipping his whisky and soda and beginning to load his pipe. “My presence tonight threatened to interfere with the plot, Kerrigan. The plot succeeded. I am no longer of immediate interest.”
“I don’t understand in the least, Smith. Have you any theory as to what caused General Quinto’s death?”
“At the moment, quite frankly, not the slightest. That indefinable perfume is of course a clue, but at present a useless clue. The autopsy may reveal something more. I await the result with interest.”
“Assuming it to be murder, what baffles me is the purpose of the thing. The general’s idea that he could hear drums rather suggests a guilty conscience in connection with some action of his in Africa—a private feud of some kind.”
“Reasonable,” snapped Smith, lighting his pipe and smiling grimly. “Nevertheless, wrong.”
“You mean”—I stared at him—”that although you don’t know how—you do know why General Quinto was murdered?”
He nodded, dropping the match in an ash tray.
“You know of course, Kerrigan, that Quinto was the right-hand man of Pietro Monaghani. His counsels might have meant an international war.”
“It hangs on a hair I agree, and I suppose that Quinto, as Monaghani’s chief adviser, might have precipitated a war—”
“Yes—undoubtedly. But what you don’t know (nor did I until tonight) is this: General Quinto had left Africa on a mission to Spain. If he had gone I doubt if any power on earth could have preserved international peace! One man intervened.”
“What man?”
“If you can imagine Satan incarnate—a deathless spirit of evil dwelling in an ageless body—a cold intelligence armed with knowledge so far undreamed of by science—you have a slight picture of Doctor Fu Manchu.”
In my ignorance I think I laughed.
“A name to me—a bogey to scare children. I had never supposed such a person to exist.”
“Scotland Yard held the same opinion at one time, Kerrigan. But you will remember the recent suicide of a distinguished Japanese diplomat. The sudden death of Germany’s foremost chemist, Erich Schaffer, was front-page news a week ago. Now—General Quinto.”
“Surely you don’t mean—”
“Yes, Kerrigan, the work of one man! Others thought him dead, but I have evidence to show that he is still alive. If I had lacked such evidence—I should have it now. I forced the general’s dispatch box, we failed to find the key. It contained three sheets of note paper—nothing else. Here they are.” He handed them to me. “Read them in the order in which I have given them to you.”
I looked at the top sheet. It was embossed with a hieroglyphic which I took to be Chinese. The letter, which was undated, was not typed, but written in a squat, square hand. This was the letter:
First notice
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan has decided that at all costs another international war must be averted. There are only fifteen men in the world who could bring it about. You are one of them. Therefore, these are the Council’s instructions: You will not enter Spain but will resign your commission immediately, and retire to your villa in Capri.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
I looked up.
“What ever does this mean?”
“I take it to mean,” Smith replied, “that the first notice which you have read was received by General Quinto in Africa. I knew him, and he knew—as every man called upon to administer African or Asiatic people knows—that the Si-Fan cannot be ignored. The Chinese Tongs are powerful, and there is a widespread belief in the influence of the Jesuits; but the Si-Fan is the most formidable secret society in the world: fully twenty-five per cent of the colored races belong to it. However, he did not resign his commission. He secured leave of absence and proceeded to London to consult me. Somewhere on the way he received the second notice. Read it, Kerrigan.”
I turned to the second page which bore the same hieroglyphic and a message in that heavy, definite handwriting. This was the message:
Second notice
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan would draw your attention to the fact that you have not resigned your commission. Failing your doing so, a third and final notice will be sent to you.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
I turned to the last page; it was headed Third Notice and read as follows:
You have twenty-four hours.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
“You see, Kerrigan,” said Nayland Smith, “it was this third notice”—which must have reached him by district messenger at Sir Malcolm’s house—”which produced that state of panic to which Bascombe referred. The Council of Seven have determined to avert war. Their aim must enlist the sympathy of any sane man. But there are fourteen other men now living, perhaps misguided, whose lives are in danger. I have made a list of some of those whose removal in my opinion would bring at least temporary peace to the world. But it’s my job at the moment to protect them!”
“Have you any idea of the identity of this Council of Seven?”
“The members are changed from time to time.”
“But the president?”
“The president is Doctor Fu Manchu! I would give much to know where Doctor Fu Manchu is tonight—”
And almost before the last syllable was spoken a voice replied:
“No doubt you would like a word with me. Sir Denis . . .”
For once in all the years that I knew hi
m. Smith’s iron self-possession broke down. It was then he came to his feet as though a pistol shot and not a human voice had sounded. A touch of pallor showed under the prominent cheekbones. Fists clenched, a man amazed beyond reason, he stared around.
I, too, was staring—at the television screen.
It had become illuminated. It was occupied by an immobile face—a wonderful face—a face that might have served as model for that of the fallen angel. Long, narrow eyes seemed to be watching me. They held my gaze hypnotically.
A murmur, wholly unlike Smith’s normal tones, reached my ears . . . it seemed to come from a great distance.
“Good God! Fu Manchu!”
Satan Incarnate
I can never forget those moments of silence which followed the appearance of that wonderful evil face upon the screen.
The utterly mysterious nature of the happening had me by the throat, transcending as it did anything which I could have imagined. I was prepared to believe Dr Fu Manchu a wizard—a reincarnation of some ancient sorcerer; Apollonius of Tyana reborn with the fires of hell in his eyes.
“If you will be so good, Sir Denis”—the voice was sibilant, unemotional, the thin lips barely moved—”as to switch your lights off, you will find it easier to follow me. Just touch the red button on the right of the screen and I shall know that you have complied.”
That Nayland Smith did so was a fact merely divined from an added clarity in that image of the Chinese doctor, for I was unaware of any movement, indeed, of any presence other than that of Fu Manchu.
The image moved back, and I saw now that the speaker was seated in a carved chair.
“This interesting device,” the precise, slightly hissing voice continued, “is yet in its infancy. If I intruded at a fortunate moment, this was an accident—for I am unable to hear you. Credit for this small contribution belongs to one of the few first-class mechanical brains which the West has produced in recent years.”
I felt a grip upon my shoulders. Nayland Smith stood beside me.
“He was at work upon the principle at the time of his reported death! . . . He has since improved upon it in my laboratories.”
Only by a tightening of Smith’s grip did I realize the fact that this, to me, incomprehensible statement held a hidden meaning.
“I find it useful as a means of communication with my associates, Sir Denis. I hope to perfect it. Do not waste your time trying to trace the mechanic who installed it. My purpose in speaking to you was this: You have recently learned the distressing details concerning the death of General Quinto. Probably you know that he complained of a sound of drums just before the end—a characteristic symptom . . .”
The uncanny speaker paused—bent forward—I lost consciousness of everything save of his eyes and of his voice.
“My drums, Sir Denis, will call to others before I shall have satisfied the fools in power today that I, Fu Manchu and I alone, hold the scales in my hand. I ask you to join me now—for my enemies are your enemies. Consider my words—consider them deeply.”
Smith did not stir, but I could hear his rapid breathing.
“You would not wish to see the purposeless slaughter in Spain, in China, carried into England? Think of that bloody farce called the Great War!” A vibrating guttural note had entered into the unforgettable voice. “I, who have had some opportunities of seeing you in action, Sir Denis, know that you understand the rules of boxing. Your objectives are the heart and the point of the jaw: you strike to paralyze brain and blood supply. That is how I fight. I strike at those who cause, at those who direct, at those who aid war—at the brain and at the heart, not at the arms, the shoulders—the deluded masses who suffer and die in order that arrogant fools may be gratified, that profiteers may grow fat. Consider my words . . .”
Dr Fu Manchu’s eyes now were opened widely. They beckoned, they called to me . . .
“Steady, Kerrigan.”
Darkness. The screen was blank.
A long time seemed to elapse before Nayland Smith spoke, before he stirred, then:
“I have seen that man being swept to the verge of Niagara Falls!” he said, speaking hoarsely out of the darkness. “I prayed that he had met a just fate. The body of his companion—a maddened slave of his will—was found.”
“But not Fu Manchu! How could he have escaped?”
Smith moved—switched up the light. I saw how the incident had affected him, and it gave me courage; for the magnetism of those eyes, of that voice, had made me feel a weakling.
“One day, Kerrigan, perhaps I shall know.”
He pressed a bell. Fey came in.
“This television apparatus is not to be used, not to be touched by anyone. Fey.”
Fey went out.
I took up my glass, which remained half filled.
“This has staggered me,” I confessed. “The man is more than human. But one thing I must know: what did he mean when he spoke of someone—I can guess to whom he referred—who died recently but who, since his death, has been at work in Fu Manchu’s laboratories?”
Smith turned on his way to the buffet; his eyes glittered like steel.
“Were you ever in Haiti?”
“No.”
“Then possibly you have never come across the ghastly tradition of the zombie?”
“Never.”
“A human corpse, Kerrigan, taken from the grave and by means of sorcery set to work in the cane fields. Perhaps a Negro superstition, but Doctor Fu Manchu has put it into practice.”
“What!”
“I have seen men long dead and buried laboring in his workshops!”
He squirted soda water into a tumbler.
“You were moved, naturally, by the words and by the manner of, intellectually, the greatest man alive. But forget his sophistry, forget his voice—above all, forget his eyes. Doctor Fu Manchu is Satan incarnate.”
* * *
“Inspector Gallaho Reports In the days that followed I thought many times about those words, and one night I dreamed of beating drums and woke in a nameless panic. The morning that followed was lowering and gloomy. A fine drizzling rain made London wretched.
When I stood up and looked out of the window across Hyde Park I found the prospect in keeping with my reflections. I had been working on the extraordinary facts in connection with the death of General Quinto and trying to make credible reading of the occurrence in Nayland Smith’s apartment later the same night. All that I had ever heard or imagined about Dr Fu Manchu had been brought into sharp focus. I had sometimes laughed at the Germanic idea of a superman, now I knew that such a demigod, and a demigod of evil, actually lived.
I read over what I had written. It appeared to me as a critic that I had laid undue stress upon the haunting figure of the girl with the amethyst eyes. But whenever my thoughts turned, and they turned often enough, to the episodes of that night those wonderful eyes somehow came to the front of the picture.
London and the Home Counties were being combed by the police for the mysterious broadcasting station controlled by Dr Fu Manchu. A post-mortem examination of the general’s body had added little to our knowledge of the cause of death. Inquiries had failed also to establish the identity of the general’s woman friend who had called upon him on the preceding day.
The figure of this unknown woman tortured my imagination. Could it be, could it possibly be the girl to whom I had spoken out in the square?
I ordered coffee, and when it came I was too restless to sit down. I walked about the room carrying the cup in my hand. Then I heard the doorbell and heard Mrs. Merton, my daily help, going down. Two minutes later Nayland Smith came in, his lean features wearing that expression of eagerness which characterized him when he was hot on a trail, his grey eyes very bright. He nodded, and before I could speak:
“Thanks! A cup of coffee would be just the thing,” he said.
Peeling off his damp raincoat and dropping it on the floor, he threw his hat on top of it, stepped to my desk and began to rea
d through my manuscript. Mrs. Merton bringing another cup, I poured his coffee out and set it on the desk. He looked up.
“Perhaps a little undue emphasis on amethyst eyes,” he said slyly.
I felt myself flushing.
“You may be right, Smith,” I admitted. “In fact I thought the same myself. But you see, you haven’t met her—I have. I may as well be honest. Yes! She did make a deep impression upon me.”
“I am only joking, Kerrigan. I have even known the symptoms.” He spoke those words rather wistfully. “But this is very sudden!”
“I agree!” and I laughed. “I know what you think, but truly, there was some irresistible appeal about her.”
“If, as I suspect, she is a servant of Doctor Fu Manchu, there would be. He rarely makes mistakes.”
I crossed to the window.
“Somehow I can’t believe it.”
“You mean you don’t want to?” As I turned he dropped the manuscript on the desk. “Well, Kerrigan, one thing life has taught me—never to interfere in such matters. You must deal with it in your own way.”
“Is there any news?”
He snapped his fingers irritably.
“None. The man who came to Sir Malcolm Locke’s house to adjust the telephone did not come from the post office, but unfortunately he can’t be traced. The fellow who came to my flat to fix the television set did not come from the firm who supplied it—but he also cannot be traced! And so, you see—”
He paused suddenly as my phone bell began to ring. I took up the receiver.
“Hello—yes? . . . He is here.” I turned to Smith. “Inspector Gallaho wants you.”
He stepped eagerly forward.
“Hello! Gallaho? Yes—I told Fey to tell you I was coming on here.
What’s that!—What?” His voice rose on a high note of excitement. “Good God! What do you say? Yes—details when I see you. What time does the train leave? Good! Coming now.”
He replaced the receiver and turned. His face had grown very stem. Here was a sudden change of mood.
