by Sax Rohmer
This theory to explain their indifference to the presence of a stranger was strengthened a moment later. At the head of some steps against which a boat was tied up, a man dressed almost as I was dressed sat splicing a length of rope. There was no one within twenty yards of the spot, and for this reason I particularly noticed him. His bowed shoulders were turned to me as he bent over his task. I had almost passed him when he spoke: “Don’t stop—don’t look back. Walk straight ahead.”
The speaker was Nayland Smith!
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHRISTOPHER’S PATH
“Smith!” I gasped, “this is a miracle!”
“No. Sound organization and top marks go to Barton. This way, and mind you don’t stumble.”
A coil of rope slung over his shoulder. Smith had slouched along in my wake until, leaving dockside activity behind, I had found myself on the farther shore, pursuing a path overhung by frowning rocks. Then, suddenly, he had caught me up and thrust me into a narrow cavity.
One backward glance I threw across the waters of the inky lake, glittering in synthetic sunshine. I could see gangs at work on the quays. One of the Sharks was submerging: it disappeared with the speed of a moorhen. Ring after ring of gleaming black water spread out from the spot where it bad been.
Then, as I stumbled along behind Smith in impenetrable darkness, he turned, grasped my hand and pulled me up and round a bend into a small cave. Several electric lamps were set on the rocky floor, casting their light upon a group of armed and uniformed men. It was a party of United States Marines!
They had their carbines at the ready.
“Made a capture, sir?” growled the petty officer who was evidently in charge.
“Yes!” snapped Smith, “the one I went for: Mr. Kerrigan.”
A sort of gruff murmur greeted his announcement.
“And now,” Smith continued rapidly, “we have to work fast. Stand easy, you fellows. Come over here, Kerrigan—thank God you are here! And tell me all you can in the fewest possible words.”
Madly excited as I was, frantically keyed up by this unforeseen solution of a problem which had threatened my faith, my principles, my soul, I strove hard to comply. I told him of the infra-azure lamp; described The Snapping Fingers: I named some of those brilliant men who laboured here to bring the world under the domination of Dr. Fu Manchu.
“He has agents everywhere. Smith!” I cried.
“I know that.”
“Six of his submarines could destroy a battle fleet. His planes, armed with Ericksen projectors, can manoeuvre like hawks. Whatever happens to Europe and the rest of the world, it is certain that at the present moment he holds the fate of the United States Navy in his hands.”
“At this stage of history, that means the rest of the world/9 said Smith gravely. He turned. “Stand by here, sergeant,” he directed. “Post your men one in touch with another along the passage. When a search party comes—and it can’t fail to be long, now—all fall back to the ladder, haul it up and leave no sign.”
“All clear, sir.”
In single file we walked up a narrow passage in which there were many bends, and at each of the bends a man dropped out, until at the point where passage seemed to end in a great jagged, natural chamber in the rock, I saw a rope ladder hanging from a ledge high above.
“This was Christophers road to the great cavern,” said Smith. “Just above this point, as we explored, it seemed that we had come to the end. You see, there have been earth tremors during the past century, and in places the way is blocked.” He raised his head. “All ready above there?” he hailed. “All ready, sir,” came a distant reply.
“We brought climbing tackle, and fortunately the kind of men who know how to use it. Hang on to the ladder there. Up you go, Kerrigan.”
There were two more Marines on duty at the head of the ladder. As one helped me to scramble up: “Welcome, Mr. Kerrigan!” he said; “I guess you are lucky to be alive!”
“I think so, too!”
I was in a much wider passage, which, however, was obviously natural; and when Smith had joined me and had given directions to the men, we began to climb up a steep ascent, he carrying an electric lamp,
“Smith,” I said, “at all costs we must rescue Ardatha!”
“Leave Ardatha to me,” he replied shortly. “Her safety is assured. We have a long way to go, Kerrigan, and so we must step out.”
We stepped out, along that mounting, winding rock corridor, the floor of which was icy smooth in places where in some earth agony of long ago streams of lava had flowed down, or, perhaps, steam had spurted up from the great cavern below which had been the crater. The air was foul as that inside a pyramid; colonies of bats clung to the roof in places and sometimes came sweeping down to the light.
Smith, rapped out a staccato, abbreviated account as we climbed: “In distraction caused by your striking at Voice ¯ cursed you at the time but seems to have come out for the best—I dived down into shadow. Invisible Fu Manchu had not had time to indicate me to smeller-out with big sword. Blow had staggered him, and, for reasons understood now, he became partially visible for a moment. Effect on those poor devils—glimpse of ghostly green figure—something I can’t describe. One long wail went up and all fell flat on their faces.”
At a bend in the passage we passed another armed Marine, who saluted.
“All clear. Stand by,” said Smith.
“But what did you do?”
“About you could do nothing. Two masked thugs picked you up as you fell; carried you into the temple. Sticking to shadow of stockade, got back to the gate. Two masks on duty there, but I flashed the master amulet in the moonlight. Never questioned me: just saluted. I made along the path through trees to the rest-house and big clearing, at which it had been arranged for three planes to alight. Got through unchallenged. Saw a sight I shall never forget. Minor ceremony being performed, with drums, feathered witch doctor, and number of Voodoo priestesses, dancing until they fell in convulsions. Everyone dancing; drums beating; scores of panting bodies on the ground; shrieks, half-animal cries . . .
“The rest-house was deserted. I stood there watching the orgy. Often glanced at my watch; wondered if you were dead or alive, counting the minutes, seconds. Then, on the dot of appointed time, came drone of the engines. The scene changed magically. As the fighters circled overhead and then glided down to that perfect landing-ground, every soul scattered to cover! Most of those who had seemed to be insensible staggered to their feet—joined in the rout; others dragged away. Drums ceased, the witch doctor alone continued frenzied dancing. He did not seem to come to his senses until the first plane grounded right beside him.”
“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.
&
nbsp; “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?”
“one 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 XL
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 Haitien, 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 Haitien. 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 Christophers 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 mountain 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 defeatDr. 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.
