by Sax Rohmer
Now I grasped the purpose of that strange episode which in its enactment had staggered me. Once more he dropped onto the stone floor and crept forward until he could throw the hook of the necklace into the angle of the pincers. Twice he failed to anchor the hook;
the third time he succeeded.
Gently he drew the heavy iron implement towards him—until he could grasp it in his
“Kerrigan, if I never worked fast in my life before I must work fast now!”
His eyes shone feverishly. He rattled out the words in a series of staccato syllables. In a trice he was onto the chair and straining through the iron bars, the heavy instrument designed to tear human tendons held firmly in his hand. By the tenseness of his attitude, his quick, short breathing, I knew how difficult he found his task.
“Can you reach it, Smith?”
That mournful howling arose, followed by a faint metallic rattling . . . The rattling ceased.
“Yes, I have touched them! But getting the key out is the difficulty-More rattling followed. I clenched my hands, held my breath.
Smith now extended his left arm through the bars. Stooping down, he began slowly to withdraw his right. I was afraid to speak, until with more confidence he pulled the iron pincers back into the cell—and I saw that they gripped a bunch of keys!
He stepped down, dropped keys and forceps on the floor, and closing his eyes, sat still for a moment . . .
“Splendid!” I said. “One mistake would have been fatal.”
“I know!” He looked up. “It was a hell of a strain, Kerrigan. But what helped me was—she had forgotten to lock the door. The key slipped out quite easily!”
That short interval over, he was coolly efficient again.
Picking up the bunch, he examined each key closely, presently selected one and tried it on the lock of the band encircling his left ankle.
“Wrong!”
He tried another. I heard a dull grating sound.
“Right!”
In a moment his legs were free.
“Quick, Kerrigan! Come right forward. I will slide them across the floor to you. The one I have separated fits my leg iron; it probably fits yours.”
In a moment I had the bunch in my hand. Fifteen seconds later I, too, was free.
“Now the keys! Be quick!”
I tossed them back. He caught them, stood upon the chair, looked out through the iron grating . . . and threw them onto the floor of the passage!
“Smith! Smith!” I whispered.
He jumped down and turned to face me.
“What?”
“We were free! Why have you thrown the keys back?”
Silently he pointed to the door.
I stared. There was no keyhole!
“Even if we had the key it would be useless to us. There is no means of opening this door from the inside! We must wait. Tuck your feet and the manacles well under your chair. I shall do the same. Soon the yellow jailer will be here. If he crosses first to you I will spring on his back. If he comes to me you attack him.”
“He may cry out.”
Smith smiled grimly. He picked up the iron forceps.
“Will you have them, or shall I? It’s a fifty-fifty chance.”
“Keep them, Smith; you will get an opportunity in any event.”
And scarcely had we disposed ourselves in a manner to suggest that the leg irons were still in place, when I heard quick footsteps approaching along the passage.
“Good! he’s here. Remember the routine, Kerrigan.”
There was a pause outside the door and I heard muttering. Then came a jangle as the man stooped to pick up the keys. Their having fallen from the lock clearly had made him suspicious. When presently he opened the door and stepped in he glanced from side to side, doubt written upon one of the most villainous faces I had ever beheld.
He wore a shirt with an open collar, grey flannel trousers, and those sort of corded sandals which are rarely seen in Europe. By reason of his build, his glossy black hair and the cast of his features, I knew him for one of Dr Fu Manchu’s Thugs. Indeed, as I looked, I saw the brand of Kali on his forehead. His yellow face was scarred in such a way that one eye remained permanently closed, and the effect of the wound which reached the upper lip was to produce a perpetual leer.
His doubts were not easily allayed, for he stood staring about him for some time, his poise giving me the impression of a boxer on tiptoes. He had replaced the key in the door with the pendant bunch and now going out again, he returned with a tray upon which was something under a cover, a bowl of fruit and a pitcher. For yet another long moment before he crossed towards Nayland Smith he hesitated and glanced aside at me.
Then, walking over to the alcove, he was about to set the tray upon the ledge when I sprang.
I caught him at a disadvantage, collared his legs and threw him forward, head first. The tray and its contents crashed to the floor. But even as he fell I recognized the type of character with whom I had to deal.
He twisted sideways, took the fall on his left shoulder, and lashing out with his feet, kicked my legs from under me! It was a marvelous trick, perfectly executed. I fell half on top of him, but reached for a hold as I did so.
It was unnecessary . . .
As the Thug forced his trunk upward on powerful arms Smith brought the forceps down upon the glossy skull! Against this second attack the yellow man had no defense. There was a sickening thud. He dropped flat on his face and lay still.
Behind The Arras
“We are safe for an hour,” snapped Smith. “Come on!”
“Some sort of weapon would be a good idea,” I said, bruised and still breathless from my fall.
“Quite useless! Brains, not brawn, alone can save us now.”
As we stepped out into the passage came that ghastly moaning and a draught of cold air. It tricked me into a momentary panic, but Nayland Smith turned and examined a narrow grille set near the top of the end of the passage; for here was a cul-de-sac.
“There’s an air shaft above that,” he said. “Judging from the look of this place, we are down below water level. The fact that the actual ventilator above evidently faces towards the sea conveys nothing.”
The passage was about thirty feet long. A bulkhead light was roughly attached to one of the stone walls. It was reflection from this which had shone through the iron bars of our prison. We hurried along. There were other doors with similar grilles on one side, doubtless indicating the presence of more cells. At the end was a heavy door, but it was open.
“Caution,” said Smith.
A flight of stone steps confronted us. We mounted them, I close behind Smith. I saw ahead a continuation of the passage which we had just left, but one wall was wood paneled. This passage also was lighted by one dun lamp.
Creeping to the end, we found similar corridors opening right and left.
Speaking very close to my ear:
“Let’s try right,” Smith whispered.
We stole softly along. Here, again, there was one dim light to guide us, but we passed it without finding any way out of the place. We came to a second door which proved to be unlocked. Very cautiously Nayland Smith pushed it open.
We were in a maze . . . beyond stretched yet another passage! But peering ahead I observed a difference.
The floor was thickly carpeted with felt. There was no lamp, but points of light shone upon the ancient stonework of one wall, apparently coming from apertures in the panels which formed the other. Only by a grasp of his hand did Smith enjoin special caution as we pushed forward to a point where two of these openings appeared close together.
We looked through.
I recognized a remarkable fact. That rough and ancient woodwork which extended along the whole of the right-hand wall was no more than a framework or stretcher upon which tapestry was supported.
We were in a passage behind the arras of a large apartment.
Something seemed to obscure my vision. Presently I realized what it was:
At certain points the tapestry had been cut away and replaced by gauze, painted on the outside, so that to those in the room the opening would be invisible.
I saw a chamber furnished with all the splendor of old Venice, but it was decaying splendor. The carved chairs richly upholstered in royal purple were damaged and faded; a mosaic-topped table was cracked; the patterned floor was filmed with ancient dust. Tapestry (through one section of which I peered) covered all the walls. Upon it were depicted scenes from the maritime history of the Queen of the Adriatic. But it was moldy with age.
Four magnificent wrought-iron candelabra, each supporting six red candles, gave light, and a fine Persian carpet was spread before a sort of dais upon which was set a carven ebony chair resembling a throne. Dr Fu Manchu, yellow robed, the mandarin’s cap upon his head, sat there—his long ivory hands gripping the arms of the chair, his face immobile, his eyes like polished jade.
Standing before him, one foot resting on the dais, was a defiant figure: a man wearing evening dress, a man whose straight black hair and black moustache, his pose, must have revealed his identity to almost anyone in the civilized world.
It was Rudolf Adion!
* * *
There had been silence as we had crept along the felt-padded floor behind the tapestry; a false step would have betrayed us. This silence remained unbroken, but the clash of those two imperious characters stirred my spirit as no rhetoric could have stirred me—and my conception of the destiny of the world became changed . . .
Then Adion spoke. He spoke in German. Although my Italian is negligible I have a fair knowledge of German. Therefore, I could follow the conversation.
“I have been tricked, trapped, drugged!” The suppressed violence in the orator’s voice startled me. “I find myself here—I realize now that I am not dreaming—and I have listened (patiently, I think) to perhaps the most preposterous statements which any man has ever made. I have one thing to say, and one only: Instantly77—he beat a clenched fist into his palm—”I demand to be set free! Instantly! And I warn you—I will not temporize—that for this outrage you shall suffer!”
He glanced about him swiftly, and as his face which I had always thought to lack natural beauty was turned in my direction, something in those blazing eyes, in the defiant set of his chin, won an admiration which I believed I could never have felt for him.
But Dr Fu Manchu did not move. He might have been not a man, but a graven image. Then he spoke in German. I had not heard that language spoken so perfectly otherwise than by a native of Germany.
“Excellency is naturally annoyed. I have sought a personal interview for one reason only. I could have removed you from office and from life without so much formality. I wished to see you, to talk to you. I believe that as one used to giving but not to receiving orders, the instructions of the Council of Seven of the Si-Fan might have seemed to be unacceptable.”
“Inacceptable?” Rudolf Adion bent forward threateningly. “Inacceptable! You fool! The Si-Fan! I have had more than enough of this nonsense! My time is too valuable to be wasted upon Chinese conjurers. Let this farce end or I shall be reduced to the extremity of a personal attack.”
Fists clenched, nostrils dilated, he seemed about to spring upon that impassive figure enthroned in the ebony chair. Knowing from my own experience what he must be suffering at this moment, of humiliation, ignorance of his whereabouts, a bewilderment complete as that which belongs to an evil dream, I thought that Rudolf Adion was a very splendid figure.
And in that moment I understood why a great, intellectual nation had accepted him as its leader. Whatever his failings, this man was fearless.
But Dr Fu Manchu never stirred. The twenty-four red candles burned steadily. There was no breath of air in that decaying, deadly room. And the gaze of those still eyes checked the chancellor.
“Dictators”—the guttural voice compassed that Germanic word perfectly—”hitherto have served their appointed purpose. Their schemes of expansion I have been called upon to check. The Si-Fan has intervened in Abyssinia. We are now turning our attention to Morocco and Syria. China, my China, can take care of herself. She will always absorb the fools who intrude upon her surface as the pitcher plant absorbs flies. To some small extent I have forwarded this process.”
And Rudolf Adion remained silent.
“I opened the floodgates of the Yellow River”—that note of exultation, of fanaticism, came now into the strange voice. “I called upon those elemental spirits in whom you do not believe to aid me. The children of China do not desire war. They are content to live on their peaceful rivers, in their rice fields, in those white valleys where the opium poppy grows. They are content to die . . . The people of your country do not desire war. “
And Adion still remained silent, enthralled against his will . . .
“My agents inform me that a great majority desires peace. There are no more than twelve men living today who can cause war. You are one of them. Your ideals cross mine. You would dispense with Christ, with Mohammed, with Buddha, with Moses. But not one of these ancient trees shall be destroyed. They have a purpose: they are of use—to me. You have been ordered by the Council of Seven not to meet Pietro Monaghani—yet you are here!”
Some spiritual battle the dictator was fighting—a battle which I had fought and lost against the power in those wonderful, evil eyes . . .
“I forbid this meeting. I speak for the Council of which I am the president. A European conflict would be inimical to my plans. If any radical change take place in the world’s map, my own draughtsmen will make it.”
Adion had won that inner conflict. In one bound he was upon the dais, looking down quiveringly upon the seated figure.
“I give you the time in which I can count ten! We are man to man. You are mad and I am sane. But I warn you—I am the stronger.”
I was so tensed up, so fired to action, that I suppose some movement on my part warned Nayland Smith, for he set a sudden grip upon my wrist which made me wince: it brought me to my senses. I think I had contemplated tearing a way through the tapestry to take my place beside Rudolf Adion.
“From several loopholes,” Dr Fu Manchu continued, his voice now soft and sibilant, “you are covered by my servants. I have explained to you patiently and at some length that I could have brought about your assassination twenty times within the past three months. Because I recognize in your character much which is admirable I have adopted those means which have brought us face to face. You have received the final notice of the Council; you have one hour in which to choose. Leave Venice tonight within that hour and I guarantee your safety. Refuse, and the world will know you no more . . .
The Lotus Floor
Nayland Smith was urging me back in the direction we had come. Having passed the door which we softly opened and closed:
“Why this way?” I whispered.
“You heard Fu Manchu’s words. He was covered by his servants from several loopholes—”
“Probably a lie—he has nerves of steel”
“That he has nerves of steel, I agree, Kerrigan, but I have never known him to lie. No, this is our way.”
We groped back along those dimly lighted passages until we came to the point at which of two ways we had selected that to the right. We now tried the left. And dimly in the darkness, for there was no light here, I saw a flight of wooden steps. Smith leading, we mounted to the top. Another door was there on the landing and it was ajar. Light shone through the opening.
“I expect this is the way my jailer came,” whispered Smith.
Beyond, as we gently pushed the door open, was a narrow lobby. Complete silence reigned . . . But at the very moment of our entrance this silence was interrupted.
Unmistakable sounds of approaching footsteps came from beyond a curtained opening. The footsteps ceased. There came a faint shuffling, and then—unmistakably again—the sound of someone retreating.
“Run for it!” Smith snapped, “or we are trapped!”
Dashing blindly across, I pulled up sharply on the threshold of a room. It was, I think, a horribly familiar perfume which checked me—that of hawthorn blossom! I clutched at Nayland Smith, staring, staring at what I saw . . .
It was the room with the lotus floor!
We had entered it from the other side, and at that door through which I had stepped into oblivion, Ardatha stood, her eyes widely open, her face pale!
“Mercy of God!” she said, “but how did you get here? Don’t move. Stay where you are.”
No word came from Nayland Smith. For a moment I could hear his hard breathing, then:
“Go round it, Kerrigan,” he said. “Stick to the black border. Don’t be afraid, Ardatha, you had nothing to do with this.”
As I reached the other side of the room and stood beside her:
“Ardatha!” I threw my arm about her shoulders. “Come with me! I can’t bear it!”
“No!” She freed herself, her face remained very pale. “Not yet!”
“Go ahead, Kerrigan.” Smith was making his way around the room. “Leave Ardatha to me; she’s in safe hands.”
With one last look into the amethyst eyes, I hurried on—but at the top of the steps which led to the wine cellar paused, stepped back and:
“It’s unnecessary to go the whole way,” I said. “The door of the Palazzo Mori is not locked. For God’s sake, don’t linger, Smith.”
He was standing looking down at her; she made no attempt to retreat . . .
My flashlamp had gone the way of my automatic, but a box of matches for some obscure reason had been left in my pocket. With the aid of these I groped my way through to that noisome passage which led to the old palace. Along I went, moving very slowly and working my way match by match. I wondered why Smith delayed, what he had in mind. Some quibble of conscience, I thought, for clearly it was his duty to arrest Ardatha.
My plan was to learn if the exit by way of the water were still practicable. I knew it must be very late, and I wondered if it would be possible to attract the attention of a passing gondolier. Otherwise we should have to swim for it.
The door remained unfastened as the police had left it Outside the wind howled through a dark night. The surface of the Grand Canal was like a miniature ocean. I could see no sign of any craft.
