The Drums of Fu Manchu f-9

by Sax Rohmer

  “Yet I should have foreseen it,” he snapped angrily. “My arrival in the nick of time had been planned.”

  “What!”

  “Oh, I didn’t know Ardatha was coming. For this I had not provided. But my visit to you earlier in the evening, my leaving here, or pretending to leave, the most vital piece of evidence on which I have ever laid my hands, was a leaf torn from Doctor Fu Manchu’s own book!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was laying a trail. I was doing what he has done so often. He knew that I had those incriminating signatures, he knew that failing their recovery, the break-up of the Council of Seven was at least in sight. You are aware of how closely I was covered, how narrowly I escaped death. What I didn’t tell you at the time was this: In spite of my disguise, I had been followed from Sloane Street right to the door of your flat.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I made sure. I intended to be followed.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “I had not hoped, I confess, for so big a fish as the doctor in person, but that you would be raided by important members of the Si-Fan shortly after my departure was moderately certain. They were watching. I saw them as I left in the Yard car. I gave them every opportunity to note that although I had arrived with a bulky portfolio, I was leaving without it!”

  “But, Smith, you might have given me your confidence!”

  Anger, mortification, both were in my tones, but instantly Nayland Smith had his hands on my shoulders. His steady eyes sobered me.

  “Remember the Green Death, Kerrigan. Oh, I’m not reproaching you! But Doctor Fu Manchu can read a man’s soul as you and I read a newspaper. I had men posted in the park (closed at that time), and I had a key of your front door—”

  “Smith!”

  “You were well protected. The arrival of Ardatha presented a new problem. I had not counted on Ardatha—”

  “Nor had I!”

  “But when no fewer than seven suspicious characters were massed in front of the house, and a tall thin man wearing a cloak was reported as having entered—(your front door, apparently being open)—I gave the signal. You know what followed.”

  “I understand now, Smith, how crushing the disappointment must be.”

  “Crushing indeed! I had King Shark in my net—and he bit his way out of it!”

  “But the Ericksen Ray?”

  “He has held the secret of the Ericksen Ray for many years. Doctor Ericksen, its inventor, died or is reported to have died in 1914. As a matter of fact, he (with God knows how many other men of genius) has been working in Doctor Fu Manchu’s laboratories probably up to the present moment!”

  “But this is incredible! You have hinted at it before, but I have never been able to follow your meaning.”

  Automatically Nayland Smith’s hand went to the pocket of his dilapidated coat and out came the briar and the big pouch.

  “He can induce synthetic catalepsy, Kerrigan. I was afraid when I found you in Whitehall the other day that for some reason he had practised this art upon you. Except in cases where I have been notified, these wretched victims have been buried alive.”

  “Good God!”

  “Later, at leisure, his experts disinter them, and they are smuggled away to work for the Si-Fan!”

  “And to where are they smuggled?”

  “I have no idea. Once his base was in Honan. It is no longer there. He has had others, some as near home as the French Riviera. His present headquarters are unknown to me. His genius lies not only in his own phenomenal brain, but in his astonishing plan of accumulating great intellects and making them his slaves. This is the source of his power. He wastes nothing. You see already, as General Diesler’s death proves, he is employing the Jasper vacuum charger. I think we both know the name of the man who invented the television apparatus which you have seen in action. But probably we don’t want to talk about it . . .”

  Up and down the carpet he paced, up and down, restless, over-tensed, and stared out of the window.

  “There lies London,” he said, “in darkness, unsuspecting the presence in its midst of a man more than humanly equipped, a man who is almost a phantom—who is served by phantoms!”

  A second later I sprang madly to his side.

  Heralded by no other sound, there came a staccato crash of glass . . . then I was drenched in fragments of plaster!

  A bullet had come through the window and had buried itself in the wall . . .

  “Smith! Smith!”

  He had not moved, but he turned now and looked at me. I saw blood and was overcome by a sudden, dreadful nausea. I suppose I grew pale, for he shook his head and grasped my shoulder.

  “No, Kerrigan. It was the tip of my ear. Good shooting. The whizz of the bullet was deafening.”

  “But there was no sound of a shot!”

  He moved away from the window.

  “Diesler was killed at a range of three thousand odd yards,” he said. “You remember we were talking about the Jasper vacuum charger?”

  * * *

  “I am disposed to believe that what Ardatha told you was true,” said Nayland Smith.

  He was standing staring down reflectively at something resting in his extended palm: the bullet which had made a hole in my wall. The cut in his ear had bled furiously, but now had succumbed to treatment and was decorated with a strip of surgical plaster.

  “This attempt, for instance”—he held up the bullet—”somehow does not seem to be in the doctor’s handwriting. In spite of its success I doubt if the ‘silencing’ of General Diesler was directed by Fu Manchu. If there is really trouble in the Council of Seven it may mean salvation. Assuming that I live to see it, I think I shall know, without other evidence, when Doctor Fu Manchu is deposed.”

  “In what way?” I asked curiously.

  “Remind me to tell you if it occurs, Kerrigan. Ah! may I put the light out?”

  “Certainly”

  He did so, then glanced from my study window.

  “Here are our escorting cars, I think. Yes! I can see Gallaho below.”

  He turned and began to reload his pipe.

  ‘Tonight’s near-triumph, Kerrigan, was made possible by the remarkable efficiency of Chief Detective Inspector Gallaho. Gallaho will go far. He obtained evidence to show that none other than Lord Weimer, the international banker, is a member of the Si-Fan . . .”

  “What!”

  I cried the word incredulously.

  “Yes—astounding, I admit. In fact, it almost appears that his house in Surrey is the temporary headquarters of Si-Fan representatives at present in England. I obtained a search warrant, paid a surprise visit during Weimer’s absence in the city, and went over the place with a microscope. I experienced little difficulty—such a violent procedure had not been foreseen. Nevertheless, although the staff was kept under observation, news of the raid reached Weimer. . . He has disappeared.”

  “But, Lord Weimer—a member of the Si-Fan!”

  “He is. And a document involving even greater names was there as well. Even as I held it in my hand (I had time for no more than a glance) I wondered if I should ever get through alive with such evidence in my possession. I was not there in my proper person. You know what I looked like when I returned. The proceedings, officially, were in charge of Gallaho, but I adopted a precautionary measure.”

  His pipe filled, he now lighted it with care. I saw a grim smile upon his face: “I sent Detective Sergeant Cromer back to Scotland Yard. He travelled in a Green Line bus, accompanied by one other police officer—and between them they carried evidence to upset the chancelleries of Europe! One idea led to another. I took it for granted that I should be followed, that attempts would be made to intercept me. I led the trail to your door, hoping for a big haul. I had one. But there was a hole in the net.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We are going to Number I0 Downing Street.”

  “What!”

  “This discovery means an internatio
nal situation. The Prime Minister has returned from Chequers and is meeting us there. The commissioner is bringing the documents from Scotland Yard, in person. Here is something for your notes, Kerrigan. I promised you a bigger story than any you had ever had. Come on!”

  Indeed I had never expected to be one of such a gathering. There were three cars, one leading, then that in which I travelled with Nayland Smith, and a third bringing up the rear. The leading car, belonging to the flying squad, was driven at terrific speed through the streets. Under the circumstances I confess I was not surprised that we arrived at our destination without any attempt being made upon us. So vast were the issues at stake that even my fear for Ardatha was numbed.

  Despairingly, I had come to the conclusion that I should never see her again . . .

  In a room made familiar by many published photographs I found the Premier and some other members of the Cabinet. Sir James Clare, the home secretary whom I had met before, was there and two ambassadors representing foreign powers. An air of dreadful apprehension seemed common to all. Somewhat awed by the company, I looked at Nayland Smith.

  He was pacing up and down in his usual restless manner, glancing at his wrist watch.

  “Sir William Bard is late,” murmured the Prime Minister.

  Nayland Smith nodded. Sir William Bard, commissioner of metropolitan police, of all those summoned to this meeting was the only one who had not appeared.

  “Until his arrival, sir,” said Smith,”we can do nothing.”

  But even as he spoke came a rap on the door, and a voice announced:

  “Sir William Bard.”

  What Happened In Downing Street

  “A trifle late, Sir William,” said the Prime Minister genially.

  “Yes sir—I must offer my apologies,” The commissioner bowed perfunctorily to everyone present. “I think the circumstances will explain my delay.”

  A slightly built, alert man with a short jet-black moustache, he had a precision of manner and intonation which suggested, as was the fact, that his training, like that of the home secretary, had been for the legal profession. He laid a bulging portfolio upon the table. The Premier continued to watch him coldly but genially. Everyone else in the room became very restless, as Bard continued:

  “Just as my car was about to turn out of Whitehall, a girl, a lady from her dress and bearing I judged, stepped out almost under my front wheel, and as my chauffeur braked furiously, sprang back again, but tripped and fell on the pavement.”

  “In these circumstances,” said the home secretary, one eye on the rugged brow of the Prime Minister, “your delay is of course explained.”

  “Exactly,” Sir William continued. “I pulled up, of course, and hurried back. Quite a crowd gathered, as always occurs, among them, fortunately, a doctor. The only injury was a sprained ankle. The lady, although one must confess it was her own fault, proved to live in Buckingham Gate, and naturally I gave her a lift home, Doctor Atkin accompanying her to that address. However, sir”—turning to the Prime Minister—”I trust I am excused?”

  “Certainly, Bard, certainly. Anyone would have done the same.”

  Now quite restored, we sat down around the big table, the commissioner produced his keys and glanced at Nayland Smith.

  “A strange attire for so formal an occasion, Smith!” he commented. “But it may be forgiven, I think, in view”—he tapped the portfolio—”of the information which is here. I had had time merely to glance over it, but I may say”—looking solemnly about him—”that in dealing with the facts revealed, the astonishingly unpleasant facts, our united efforts will be called for. And even when we have done our best . . .”

  He shrugged his shoulders. He appeared to find some difficulty in fitting the key to the lock. We were all on tiptoes and all very impatient. I saw a sudden shadow creep over Sir William Bard’s face as he glanced at his own initials stamped on the leather. He shrugged and persevered with the key.

  There was no result.

  “Might I suggest,” snapped Nayland Smith, beginning to tug at his ear but desisting when he detected the presence of the plaster, “that you borrow a pair of stout scissors and force the catch, Sir William?”

  “Always impatient, Smith!” The commissioner looked up, but his expression was not easy. “I don’t understand this.”

  He tried again and then made an angry gesture.

  “I locked it myself before I left Scotland Yard.”

  “Since time is our enemy,” said the Prime Minister drily, “I think Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s suggestion is a good one.”

  He rang a bell, and to a man who entered gave curt orders . . .

  The lock proved to be more obstinate than we had anticipated, but with the aid of a pair of office scissors and the expenditure of considerable force, ultimately it was snapped open. The man withdrew. We were all standing up, surrounding the commissioner. He opened the portfolio.

  I heard a loud cry. For a moment I could not believe Sir William Bard had uttered it. Yet indeed it was he who had cried out . . .

  The portfolio was stuffed with neatly folded copies of The Times!

  One by one with shaking fingers he drew them out and laid them upon the table. Last of all he discovered a square envelope, and from it he drew a single sheet of paper.

  There had been such a silence during this time that I could hear nothing but the breathing of the man next to me, a portly representative of a friendly power.

  Sir William Bard cast his glance over the sheet which the envelope had contained, and then, his face grown suddenly pallid, laid it before the Prime Minister.

  I glanced swiftly at Nayland Smith, and found myself unable to read his expression.

  The statesman, imperturbable even in face of this situation, adjusted his spectacles and read; then clearing his throat, he read again, this time aloud:

  “The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan is determined to preserve peace in Europe. Some to whom this message is addressed share these views—some do not. The latter would be well advised to reconsider their policies, and to confine their attentions to their proper occasions.

  PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL

  “First Notice”

  “Smith! I am a ruined man!”

  Sir William Bard sat in an armchair behind a huge desk laden with official documents, his head sunk in his hands. In that quiet room which was the heart of Scotland Yard, the menace represented by Dr Fu Manchu presented itself more urgently to my tired mind than had been possible in the official sanctum of the British government.

  Out of the charivari which had arisen when we had realized that documents calculated to cast down those in high places had been stolen from none other than the commissioner of metropolitan police, only one phrase recurred to me: the Premier’s inquiry:

  “Do you consider, Sir Denis, that this is a personal threat?”

  Nayland Smith stared at the commissioner, and then, jumping up from his chair: “I don’t think,” he said, “that I should take the thing so seriously. It may be mere arrogance on my part to say so, but with all my experience (and it has been a long one) the particular genius who tricked you tonight has tricked me many times.”

  Sir William Bard looked up.

  “But how was it done? Who did it?”

  “As to how it was done,” Smith replied, “it was a fairly simple example of substitution. As to who did it—Doctor Fu Manchu!”

  “I have accepted the existence of Doctor Fu Manchu with great reluctance, as you know, Smith—although I am aware that my immediate predecessor regarded this Chinese criminal with great respect. Are you sure that it was he who was responsible?”

  “Perfectly sure,” Smith snapped, then glanced swiftly at me.

  “Describe the girl who was nearly run down by your car.”

  “I can do so quite easily, for she was a beauty. She had titian red hair and remarkable eyes of a pansy color; a slender girl, not English, a fact I detected from her slight accent.”

  I did not groa
n audibly: it was my spirit that groaned.

  “Quite sufficient!” Smith interrupted. “Kerrigan and I know this lady. And the doctor?”

  “A tall man, grey-haired, of distinguished appearance, Doctor Maurice Atkin. I have his card here, and also Miss Pereira’s.”

  “Neither card means anything,” said Smith grimly. He turned to me. “This grey-haired aristocrat, Kerrigan, seems to play important parts in Fu Manchu’s present drama. I detect a marked resemblance to that Count Boratov who was a guest of Brownlow Wilton, and of course you have recognized Miss Pereira?”

  I nodded but did not speak.

  “Don’t make heavy weather of it, Kerrigan. Ardatha is in the toils—this task was her punishment.”

  He walked across to the wretched man sunk in the armchair and rested his hand upon his shoulder.

  “May I take it that you usually carry the missing portfolio?”

  The commissioner nodded.

  “From my house to Scotland Yard every day, and to important conferences.”

  “The Si-Fan had noted this. After all, you are officially their chief enemy in London. I suggest that the duplicate portfolio has been in existence for some time. Tonight an occasion arose for its use. Judging from my own experience, farsighted plans of this character have been made with regard to many notable enemies of the Si-Fan.”

  Sir William was watching him almost hopefully.

  ‘To illustrate my meaning,” Smith went on, “they have duplicate keys of my flat!”

  “What!”

  “It’s a fact,” I interpolated; “I have seen the keys used myself.”

  “Exactly.” Smith nodded. “They even succeeded in installing a special radio in my premises. It would not surprise me to learn that they have a key to Number 10 Downing Street. You must appreciate the fact, Bard, that this organization, once confined to the East, now has its ramifications throughout the West. It is of old standing and has among its members, as the missing documents proved, prominent figures in Europe and the United States. Its financial backing is enormous. Its methods are ruthless. Your car, immediately following the pretended accident, was of course surrounded by a crowd.”