“Bring Josef Gorodin here, Matsukata. Then wait in the saloon with two of my Burmese until you hear the gong.”
Matsukata bowed and went out. He returned shortly with a thickset man, also in white, whose heavy Slavonic features were set in what might have been a permanent scowl. He tried to meet the gaze of emerald-green eyes, but had to look aside. He spoke.
“You wished to see me, Comrade Fu Manchu?”
Dr. Fu Manchu continued to watch him. “You may address me either as Excellency, or as Doctor. Comrade—no! I have offered my services—at my own price—to your masters. This does not mean that I kneel at the shrine of Karl Marx. I have something to say. Sit down.”
It was not an invitation; it was a command. Josef Gorodin sat down.
“On the evening I returned here from London,” Fu Manchu went on, “you were at work here upon some experiments which I wished you to carry out in my absence. They had no practical importance. They were designed to test your ability. Your results convinced me that you were not untalented.”
“Thank you,” Gorodin muttered sarcastically.
“I showed you this phial.” Fu Manchu held it up. “I told you that many years ago I had completed my long experiments— those experiments so vainly attempted by the old alchemists—that I had discovered what they termed the Elixir Vitae, the Elixir of Life. I said, ‘The small quantity of the elixir in this phial contains three additional decades of life for any person who knows how to use it.’ You remember?”
“I remember.”
“I told you that by certain familiar symptoms I had been warned that the time had come for me to renew the treatment; that otherwise death might claim me at any hour. You remember?”
Gorodin bowed his head.
“You returned later, Josef Gorodin, and begged me to give you a drop of the preparation for analysis. I consented—for I knew it would defy your analysis. I told you to return the phial to the safe. You remember?”
Gorodin moistened his heavy lips, glanced up, then down again. “I remember.”
Dr. Fu Manchu reached along the table and struck a small silver gong which stood there. Matsukata, silently as an apparition, appeared in the archway, followed by two stocky Asiatics. Gorodin sprang up, fists clenched, but was instantly seized by the experienced man-handlers of the Chinese doctor’s bodyguard. And when Fu Manchu, watching without expression, spoke again, his voice came as a sibilant whisper.
“I am sure your analysis had no result, Josef Gorodin. But I am about to give you conclusive evidence of the nature of this elixir. Seat him there, Matsukata. Slit his sleeve up to the shoulder.”
Gorodin had turned purple with passion. He was a powerful man, but had quickly given up struggling as every movement resulted in violent pain.
“You misjudge your position, and mine!” he shouted. “I am senior aide to the Minister of Scientific Research!”
Dr. Fu Manchu was charging a hypodermic syringe from the phial.
“This one injection will arrest both mental and physical decline, and give you ten more years at your present robust age to pursue your researches for the Ministry.”
“If you dare to harm me you will sign your own death sentence!”
“Hold his arm still, Matsukata.” Fu Manchu spoke softly, holding the
syringe in a steady hand. “Were you attached to my staff merely to watch me—or to destroy me? Answer.”
Gorodin avoided those green eyes, but he began to tremble. He clenched his teeth.
“You daren’t do it!” he muttered.
“You mean Doctor Gorodin, that you fear to have your useful life extended for ten years beyond its normal span?”
The needle point touched Gorodin’s skin.
“Stop!” It was a scream. “What do you want to know?”
The needle point was removed an inch or so. “You heard my question.
Answer it.”
Gorodin swallowed noisily. “There are those who believe that to give you control of all our resources was a dangerous price to pay for your services—that the power once held by Stalin would be seized by you.”
“My poor Gorodin! The power I shall possess will exceed his wildest dreams.” The gaunt face became transfigured. Fu Manchu’s brilliant eyes blazed with the light of fanaticism. “But—no matter. And you, no doubt, are one of those who believe this?”
“Yes.”
“And so you attempted to—what do you term it?— liquidate me?
Where is the phial of elixir?”
“There beside you.”
“I shall repeat my question— once. Where is the phial of elixir?”
“There beside you.”
“Then you must welcome these ten additional years of life.”
And Dr. Fu Manchu injected the contents of the syringe into Gorodin’s arm.
A scream more animal than human came from the man’s lips. He fought like a captive tiger, ignoring the agony which every movement produced. But his bare arm he could not move. Matsukata held it in a grip of steel. Gorodin’s veins bulged like blue cords on his forehead. Then, he relaxed, panting.
“You have murdered me.” He spoke breathlessly. “You will pay with your own life for this.”
“You have courage.” Dr. Fu Manchu studied the inflamed face with scientific curiosity. “From the shape of your head I had not expected it.
Until I have leisure to examine the contents of this phial which you ingeniously substituted for my own, I cannot say if there is any antidote to the poison. Could you enlighten me?”
Gorodin’s lips were turning blue. “There is none.”
“Then you will have the honour to die as you planned I should die.
Recently I watched a rat in its last agonies from this treatment. I have no desire to watch another rat die in the same way.” He dropped the syringe
in a glass bowl and glanced at Matsukata. “Sterilize. Incinerate the body.”
Dr. Fu Manchu turned and walked slowly out of the laboratory… .
*
For Brian Merrick the days that followed in London seemed more like a dream than a reality when, later, he looked back on them. Mr Wellingham, always operating in the background, made all the necessary passport and medical arrangements, fixing appointments at times to suit Brian’s convenience. The organization for which he acted was undeniably efficient. Lola took charge of his shopping list and, whenever possible, went with him to a famous store at which an account had been opened in his name. She sternly checked some of his wilder impulses—such as the purchase of a sun helmet.
“You’d look a fool in Cairo wearing such a thing! If they send you up to the Sudan there are plenty of stores in Cairo where you can buy all you want.”
They lunched, dined and danced together. The sun shone and Brian was ridiculously happy. One afternoon sitting in Hyde Park with Lola he said: “Today I felt as though we were shopping for a honeymoon abroad!
Oh, Lola! If only it had been true!”
He saw her flush, lower her lashes and glance away, then: “We come from a country of hasty marriages,” she told him, softly, her usual composure restored. “Such a marriage, as often as not, is just the first of several more. We enjoy being together. Why get serious about it?”
“Lola, I hate leaving you.”
“I know I shall miss you, too, Brian. But we both have jobs to do and our jobs are interesting. All you know about me is what I’ve told you. But you find me good company and physically attractive. The same applies to you.”
Brian watched the piquant face. “But you won’t drop out of sight?
You’ll write to me?”
“Of course I shall—if I know where to find you.”
“Sure! I hadn’t thought of that! But this is what I’ll do. Directly I reach Cairo I’ll radio my address to you at Michel’s in London.”
“No, Brian dear! Don’t do that. Michel won’t deal with private correspondence. And I might be anywhere. I’ll tell you what, Brian. When I get my sailing
orders I’ll leave a forwarding address at the hotel if I haven’t heard from you by then.”
“It might take weeks to reach you!”
“I’ll tip the hall porter to send it airmail… .”
That night they were out together later than usual, Lola lovely to look
upon in her cunningly simple dance dress, Brian drunk with longing but kept in check by those sudden moods of aloofness which sometimes came over Lola, like a mysterious cloak, changing her entire personality. At one moment all sweet surrender, in the next she became the unattainable woman.
But in the taxi going back to the hotel he took her in his arms and kissed her, passionately… . “Lola,” he murmured, “I love you …”
She returned his kiss, which set him on fire, but gently pushed him away.
“Don’t make love to me now, Brian—when I know we’re parting so soon. I’m very fond of you. But please wait. I feel we shan’t be parted for long.”
He detained her in the dark lounge of the hotel for an unreasonable time; and in the lift when, very tired, she stepped off (Lola lived on the floor below Brian) he felt that he had lost her for ever. A sense of desolation swept over him… .
*
It was approximately at the same hour that an event occurred in the old Arab mansion near the Mosque of El-Ashraf which would have a great influence upon Brian Merrick’s life.
The lofty saloon was dimly lighted by hanging lamps of perforated brass. On a cushioned seat in one of the mushrabiyeh windows Dr. Fu Manchu lay, so that what little breeze there was could reach him from the courtyard outside.
His normally gaunt features were so grey and sunken that now they resembled a death’s head. His eyes were dim. It seemed to Matsukata, the Japanese physician who sat watching him, that only the man’s unquenchable spirit remained alive. When he spoke, the once imperious voice was a mere croak.
“You have never … seen me … in this pitiable condition … before. I knew I had . . . little time. But the . . . dreadful change has … come so suddenly.” Fu Manchu panted for some moments. “Gorodin’s treachery … has destroyed me. …. You have searched … every inch … of his rooms … for the stolen … phial?”
Matsukata bowed his head. “Every fraction of an inch, Excellency. But the Sherif Mohammed has been at work nearly twenty-four hours without sleep or rest on the material.”
Dr. Fu Manchu’s eyes closed. “If I die . . . tonight,” he whispered, “mankind will … not long … survive me.”
He became silent. Matsukata bent over him in sudden anxiety. A door
opened in the other end of the saloon and a man entered quietly, an old, white-bearded man who wore Arab dress. A change crept over Fu Manchu’s grey face. Without opening his eyes: “You have it, Hakim?” he whispered, speaking in Arabic.
“I have it, Excellency, at last.”
From under his black robe, the old physician took out a small phial, half filled with a nearly colourless fluid.
“You are… sure … of the antacoid?” The words were barely audible.
“Positive.”
“Pro … ceed … quickly …”
“His heart”—Matsukata spoke close to the Arab doctor’s ear—”is dangerously weakened.”
“I understand. We have no choice. The convulsions which follow the administration of the elixir are frightful. Be prepared for this. But any attempt to check them would be instantly fatal… .”
*
Brian had a restless night, not falling asleep until dawn was peering in at the window. He was wakened by the buzzing of his bedside phone. As he took up the receiver, he noted vaguely that it was ten o’clock.
“Is that Mr. Merrick?” a woman’s voice inquired.
A hope that the caller was Lola died. “Brian Merrick here.”
“Hold the line for Mr. Wellingham.”
Peter Wellingham came on. Even without seeing the pale face, those tones of false geniality chilled him.
“Good morning, Merrick. Hope I haven’t wakened you up.
Your instructions are just to hand, in the form of a reservation for a BOAC flight to Cairo, leaving at the uncomfortable hour of 5.30 a.m.
tomorrow morning. You’ll be picked up at your hotel at 4, so I thought I’d give you time to pack!”
“Very thoughtful,” Brian murmured.
“A member of Sir Denis’s staff, a Mr. Ahmad, will contact you when you arrive in Cairo. You’ll like him. I’ll send all papers along right away.
Everything else is in order?”
“Everything.”
“I’m off to Paris in an hour, or I should have loved to have you to lunch with me. But I expect you’ll be well occupied with your own affairs.
I saw you in Pall Mall one afternoon with an uncommonly pretty girl. You Americans seem to be damned popular!”
When Wellingham hung up, Brian lay back on his ruffled pillow and tried to figure out just where he stood and how he felt about it.
He had sent a long airmail letter to his father, telling him that a chance to travel had some his way in the form of a job as assistant to no one less than Sir Denis Nayland Smith. The senator had replied, offering good advice and assuring Brian of his support if ever it should be needed. Then had followed some disturbing facts about the situation in the Near East.
“The public,” his father wrote, “don’t appreciate the seriousness of the situation out there. Here at home they think it doesn’t concern them as the trouble is so far away. But I can assure you that the President is deeply disturbed. The U.S.A. is the only partner in the Western bloc with any cash in the bank. This piles a terrible responsibility on to us. I’m sure you know how to take care of yourself, my boy, but be very careful when you get to Egypt. You couldn’t have a better man beside you than Nayland Smith… .”
But now that the moment of departure was near it all seemed unreal. A dream had been realized. He had knocked, and the gate of adventure had opened.
And it meant that he had only one more day with Lola!
He snatched up the phone; asked to be put through to her room.
There was no reply. But she had probably slept late as he had done, and was now in her bath. He hung up, waited impa tiently for ten minutes, and then called again.
No reply.
He jumped out of bed, called room service, ordered coffee, and went into the bathroom. The waiter came while Brian was in there. He rapped on the door.
“Your coffee, sir—and a note for you.”
Brian came out wrapped in a towel before the man had left the room.
On the tray he saw a hotel envelope addressed to him … in Lola’s handwriting!
He tore it open impatiently and read:
Brian dear: I found instructions when I got in last night to take a 9.35
a.m. train to Nottingham where there’s a sale of old lace. Which means I can’t get back until tomorrow! This drove me crazy. But I called the office this morning and asked for tomorrow off. I had to leave at 8.30 and didn’t like to wake you. But we can spend the whole day together.
Love, Brian dear. Lola.
Native Cairo slept. No sound came from the narrow street upon which the gate of a tree-shadowed courtyard opened. Inside the house there was unbroken silence… . And Matsukata and the old Arab physician never stirred.
They had witnessed the appalling convulsions brought about by the injection of the secret elixir. In intervals of exhaustion, the Japanese surgeon had anxiously tested Dr. Fu Manchu’s heart, and had shaken his
head. Even his wonderful composure had almost deserted him. But: “It is always so,” the old Arab had murmured. “Only, his heart is ten years older than the last time.”
For four hours they had been watching there, tirelessly. The convulsive struggles had subsided long before. Dr. Fu Manchu lay still as a dead man, so that his resemblance to the mummy of the long dead Pharaoh Seti I was uncannily increased.
The great change came slowly. First, the grey tinge faded from the face o
f the apparently dead man. Then, hollow cheeks seemed to fill out.
Faintly, and soon more clearly, Fu Manchu’s breath became audible. The two doctors exchanged glances. The old Arab drew a handkerchief from the sleeve of his robe and dried his forehead.
And, at last, Dr. Fu Manchu awoke—a dead man snatched from the tomb by his own superhuman knowledge.
He opened his eyes. They were clouded no longer. They were brilliantly green. He looked from face to face.
“Mankind is spared.” His voice had all its old authority. “My star rises in the East. …”
*
Brian spent a most unhappy morning. He decided that he needed company, and called up everybody he could think of to join him for lunch.
But everybody either was away or had a prior engagement.
His packing was done in half an hour, for he travelled light, and he lunched alone in the hotel grill-room, wondering if he would ever lunch there again with Lola. Now that separation had come, swift as a sword stroke, he realized acutely how much she meant to him. He thought of the wildest plans, such as chartering a plane to Nottingham, but common sense rejected them. It was Fate. He must bow to it. He wouldn’t see her any more before he left for Cairo… .
After a miserable lunch he walked across to Hyde Park, a hotel writing-pad in his pocket, and took a chair at a spot where he could see the boats on the Serpentine. Lola and he had often sat there. He settled down to write her a long letter. It proved to be even a longer letter than he had intended it to be, and he decided to read it through and see if he had repeated himself.
It was at this point that he became aware of a voice. This voice was in some way familiar. The speaker seemed to be seated somewhere behind him, but too far away for Brian to make out what he was saying. Yet he seemed to recognize the voice, its curious intonations.
He tried to tune in to this voice; to blot out other sounds:
oars in rowlocks, shouts of young oarsmen, splashing; to pick out words. And, up to a point, he succeeded.
“. . . no choice . . . instructions are . . . break off. . . association . . .
Sorry … all that …”
Sax Rohmer - Fu Manchu 09 Page 2
