Sax Rohmer - Fu Manchu 09

by Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

  A small, lean man, very dark-skinned, was discarding his cloak upon the doorstep of the house in which Brian had once taken shelter from the student rioters. When he stepped out on to the narrow street he wore only a black loincloth and a small, tightly-wound black turban.

  The quarter had sunk into silence. Except for the distant sound of a pipe and the barely audible thud of a drum, nothing disturbed its stillness.

  The little man glanced once to right and left, then crossed the narrow street to the gate of the courtyard opposite. He peered through the bars.

  He could see the house opposite. He peered through the bars. He could see the house of the Sherif Mohammed, its projecting windows outlined against starlight. The windows were dark. Nothing stirred.

  He clasped the metal bars, bare toes and fingers, and with the agility of a monkey climbed to the top. He dropped lightly on the other side, moved across the courtyard and surveyed the front of the building.

  Hesitating for a moment, he ran to the end and looking up, saw what he wanted.

  A sturdy bougainvillaea covered the south wall. On the floor above were several windows. He mounted to the first of these at incredible speed, but found it securely fastened. He swung to another. It was slightly open. He held his ear against the narrow opening, listening intently.

  Then, inch by inch, he raised the window and dropped noiselessly inside the room.

  Motionless, he lay where he had dropped. But there was no sound.

  From his loincloth he pulled out a small flash-lamp; lighted it for a moment. His acute hearing had told him there was no one in the room. He was looking for the door. He found it.

  In a matter of seconds he was out on a tiled corridor. Again he stood still, listening. He moved to the left, attracted by a sound of snoring; peered into an ante-room richly furnished, for it had a large window and the starlight was enough to enable this strangely endowed visitor to see all he wanted to see.

  A fat man lay asleep on a cushioned divan—the man who had first come to the gate when Brian called to demand an interview with the Sherif Mohammed.

  It was the ante-room of the women’s quarter, the harem.

  The keen eyes of the little dark man detected a doorway on the right of this ante-room. He crossed to it, went through, and found a descending stair. It led to another corridor.

  Here, for the first time, he was at fault. But after cautiously opening several doors again, he found what he was looking for: another stair. He went down at extraordinary speed for one running in the dark—and found himself in the paved entrance hall of the house.

  Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dim light he could evidently see as clearly as a cat. And he seemed to know just what he was looking for.

  With complete assurance, and making no sound, he moved around the walls of the large and lofty apartment, and presently, near the entrance door which opened on the courtyard, he found what he sought. At the back of a small room intended for a porter’s lodge there was a strong teak door, iron-studded, the woodwork bleached with age. A bunch of old-fashioned Arab keys hung on a hook beside it.

  And the largest of these fitted the ancient lock.

  A stone stair led the midnight intruder to the cellars. Here he used his flash-lamp without hesitation. He found stores of various kinds, including casks of wine which no True Believer would expect to find in the cellars of a descendant of the Prophet.

  Pressing on farther he came to a smaller cellar, long and narrow.

  There was nothing in it. But on one side were two more of the heavy teak iron-studded doors. They differed from that at the top of the stair in one respect. Each had an iron grille in it. He had thrust the bunch of keys in his accommodating loincloth; was about to pull them out, then stopped dead, as if stricken motionless—a trick of many wild animals when surprised.

  Quite still he stood, and listened.

  The sound was very faint, but this man’s senses were super-normal.

  Someone was sleeping behind one of the doors!

  He remained still for nearly a minute, debating what he should do.

  Then he crossed to the grille from behind which the sound came, peered in, could see nothing, and so shone a momentary ray from his lamp into the blackness.

  “Who’s there?” came an instant challenge.

  The little man switched the light off and glided from the cellar, silent as a phantom. He fled up to the porter’s lodge, relocked the door as he had found it, making more noise than he cared about, and came out into the entrance hall.

  Here he stood still again to listen.

  No sound.

  In niches of the mosaic-covered wall were many rare porcelain pots and other beautiful objects. On some of those the little man shone brief flashes from his lamp …

  He began to examine several windows facing on to the courtyard, selected one of them, opened it slightly, and slipped through like a lizard.

  Once outside, he succeeded in partly closing it again.

  He was over the gate and across the street to the doorway where he had left his cloak with a silent agility more like that of some nocturnal animal than of any human being… .

  *

  Mr. Lyman Bostock, United States representative in Cairo, twirled a cigar between his finger and thumb and stared reflectively across at Sir Nigel Richardson, his British confrere, who lay in a split-cane lounge chair with an iced drink beside him in the hollow of the chair-arm provided for that purpose. Mr. Bostock’s study opened on to a balcony and the balcony overhung a pleasant garden, shadowy on this moonless night.

  “I’m only just finding it out,” Mr. Bostock remarked, with his soothing drawl; “but you’re a queer bunch, you Englishmen.”

  “I happen to be Scotch.”

  “Maybe that’s worse. But what I’m coming to is this: I hand it to you that there’s not much about this country you don’t seem to know—including all the crooks in Cairo!”

  “That’s base ingratitude, Bostock! I’ll let you into a secret, Murdoch, whom you’ve met with me (he has confidential employment in our Embassy), is an ex-officer of Egyptian Police. That was in the days when we ran the show. And what Murdoch doesn’t know about the Cairo underworld could be put in a thimble. You asked me to find the right man.

  I found him.”

  Mr. Bostock glanced at his watch, took a drink, and put his cigar back

  in his mouth.

  “Agreed. I accept the responsibility.”

  “You don’t have to. We’re in this thing together. If your F.B.I, has unearthed a mare’s nest—and that’s my private opinion—there was no alternative so far as I can see. Course of action was left to you. What could you do? Neither you nor I could get a search warrant on a mere suspicion, particularly in the case of so highly respected a citizen as the Sherif Mohammed Ibn-el-Ashraf.”

  “True enough. I could see no alternative to your suggestion—short of declining to act in the matter. But, with apologies to your British gift of understatement, it’s slightly unconstitutional!”

  “Unconstitutional be damned! What do we stand to lose? Let’s examine the facts. Who knows you were asked to make this investigation?”

  “Except yourself——”

  “And Murdoch. I had to let him in.”

  “Nobody but myself and Arkwright, who decoded the message.”

  “Good. Let’s look at possible consequences. Suppose Alt gets pinched.

  It’s unlikely, but he might. He has a record, not only as a cat-burglar but also for jail-breaking. He’s escaped twice, and they’re still looking for him.

  To lock up Ali Yahya is about as useful as to try to hold an eel by the tail.

  He can climb up or down almost anything, slip in and out of incredibly narrow openings. He’s a living legend with the natives, who claim he can make himself invisible. They call him Ali al-Sehliya—Ali the Lizard.”

  “I trust he lives up to it,” Bostock drawled. “But, all the same, suppose he gets … ‘pinched,’ I think
you said?”

  “Pinched was the word. You don’t seriously suggest he would tell the police that he was acting under instructions from the United States Embassy?”

  Mr. Bostock stood up and refreshed their two glasses. Sir Nigel watched him, grinning mischievously, until he sat down again.

  “No,” Bostock admitted. “He would probably choose to escape a third time and collect the price of his crime which you and I promised to pay!”

  “That’s the answer!” Sir Nigel took a long drink. “Nobody knows we have seen him——”

  “Except Murdoch!”

  “Except Murdoch. And Murdoch provided him with a complete plan (which Ali memorized), of the house of the Sherif Mohammed.”

  “Useful man, Murdoch,” Mr. Bostock murmured, looking again at his watch. “Also Scotch, no doubt?”

  “Also Scotch.” Then Sir Nigel, too, consulted his wristwatch. “Ali is about due back.”

  “Pinched!” Mr. Bostock muttered. “He’s ouerdue.”

  Sir Nigel shook his head, smiling. “Our reputations are in safe hands, Bostock! Think of how far he has to travel.”

  “Isn’t Murdoch giving him a lift?”

  Sir Nigel raised his black brows. “Really, my dear fellow! Do you want Murdoch pinched as well?”

  “Meaning that Ali will have to walk here from the Muski?”

  “Ali’s methods of transport are his own secret.”

  They fell into silence, each thinking his own thoughts. A faint breeze arose, rustling the palm fronds outside and making a noise like the crackling of stiff paper. A faint perfume from some night-scented flower in the garden was wafted into the study. A large bat flew past the window.

  So they sat when, unheralded by any sound, a small dark figure materialized on the balcony, glided into the room and performed humble salaam.

  Mr. Bostock nearly dropped a cone of cigar ash on the carpet, but recovered himself in the nick of time. Sir Nigel, though equally startled, hailed the apparition in Arabic.

  “Good evening, Ali Yahya.”

  “Good evening, Richardson Pasha.”

  “What have you to report, Ali?”

  “It is true—what I was told. Someone is there!”

  Mr. Bostock sprang up. “You say someone is there?”

  But in his excitement he used English instead of Arabic, a language which he understood better than he spoke. Ali Yahya stared blankly. He had discarded his cloak and presented a queer figure in that sedately appointed room in his black loincloth and turban. Mr. Bostock corrected himself hastily, and Ali said again:

  “Someone is there, effendi.”

  Bostock glanced at Sir Nigel. “We must get the exact facts, Richardson. You ask the questions. You’re more fluent than I. Let him sit down. The man must be tired.”

  Ali accepted the invitation and dropped down, cross-legged, on the carpet. Then, speaking impassively in simple words, he described what he had found in the Sherif’s cellar.

  “You didn’t see the face of this man?” Sir Nigel asked.

  “No. He slept, it seems, like a desert fox, with one eye open. I obeyed my orders and came away quickly.”

  “That was wise, Ali. You did well. You relocked all doors?”

  “And replaced the keys where I found them.”

  “No one saw you leave?”

  “No one ever sees me, Richardson Pasha, when I do not wish to be seen.”

  From the drawer of a coffee-table Sir Nigel took out a wad of notes

  fastened with an elastic band and tossed it across to Ali, who caught it deftly.

  Ali Yahya salaamed so deeply that his forehead touched the carpet. “0, well of Justice!”

  He tried to thrust the bundle of money into his loincloth, but had some difficulty in doing so. The “well of justice” was watching him.

  “There must be many treasures in the house of the Sherif Mohammed, Ali?”

  “It is true. The Seyyid Mohammed is very wealthy, Richardson Pasha.”

  “So I believe. Tell me, 0 Ali, what is that you have concealed?” Ali Yahya produced a flash-lamp. “No, no! Something more bulky.”

  Ali hesitated for one tremendous moment, his bright eyes flashing sideways to the balcony, then back again to meet the inflexible stare of Sir Nigel.

  “I feared you might misjudge my motive, Richardson Pasha. For this reason I said nothing. But it seemed to me, 0 wise one, that in case a window which I was unable to close properly might arouse suspicion, it would be provident to leave evidence to show that a common sneak-thief had entered the house.”

  “I see. Show us the evidence.”

  With great reluctance Ali the Lizard drew out from his loincloth an object wrapped in a piece of faded silk. He opened the wrapping and held up a small mibkharah, or incense-burner, most delicately chiselled in pure gold, a relic of some sultan’s harem, a museum piece, for which collectors would pay a fabulous price!

  “Good heavens, Richardson!” Mr. Bostock gasped. “We can’t stand for this! He must hand it over!”

  Ali Yahya was rewrapping the treasure. Sir Nigel tried to hide a grin.

  “Do you prefer it to be found in Ali’s possession, or in the United States Embassy?”

  Mr. Bostock dropped back in his chair with a groan. Ali, obeying a silent signal from Sir Nigel, faded away, disappearing silently over the wall of the balcony. A whispered farewell came out of the darkness.

  “May your night be a glad one, 0 Fountain of Wisdom …”

  “We know what we wanted to know,” Mr. Bostock admitted. “But what a price to pay!”

  “Forget that, Bostock. Our problem is: What are we going to do now?”

  Chapter 11

  “Well, my boy!” Senator Merrick held Brian at arms’ length, sizing him up with shrewd hazel eyes. “You look righting fit. If official despatches from Cairo and the word of Sir Denis are to be credited, you have helped to pull off something that may well prove to be a turning point in military history.”

  Brian felt his cheeks flush. “I had next to nothing to do with it, Father.

  All the credit belongs to Sir Denis.”

  “So you say, Junior. And I like you none the less for it. But Sir Denis Nayland Smith is a brilliant man, and he wouldn’t have wanted you if he hadn’t had use for you. Dr. Hessian arrives at the psychological moment.

  If he can prove what he claims, it may be a means of stopping the President, my very good friend, from plunging us into war.”

  “Just what does that mean, Father?”

  “Well, it is a top secret—but there’s an order to the Chief of Staff, already drawn up, which only requires his signature. His military advisers favour it. I don’t, and I’m not alone in my opposition. This country, Brian, is dangerously open to air attack with modern missiles. We should step warily.”

  Nayland Smith was talking to General Rawlins and another Air Force official, and at this moment he brought them across. Brian had already met both that morning.

  “I’m getting into hot water!” Sir Denis declared. “These fighting men tell me they expect orders by this week-end which seem to me to mean a shooting war.”

  “And to me,” Senator Merrick agreed. “But nothing’s signed yet.”

  “It will be signed not later than three days from now.” General Rawlins spoke with calm confidence. “For my part, I doubt the claims of this German scientist, in spite of all we’ve heard—and that’s not much. In the first place, I don’t expect open hostilities to start. In the second place, if they do, the Air Force hasn’t been asleep.”

  “The trouble about democracy,” Brian Merrick Senior growled, “is that it speaks with too many voices all at the same time.”

  “It’s no good flying off the handle, General,” Nayland Smith snapped, “because Dr. Hessian refuses to see you until his plans are complete. I warned you of this before you left Washington, so don’t blame me. He’s a genius, and he’s been through hell. He doesn’t give a damn for you or anybody else. He cursed me i
n German when I told him you were coming. Fortunately, I don’t know much German.”

  “But when,” General Rawlins demanded, “will these plans of his be complete?”

  “So far as I can make out, in the next two days.”

  “When he’ll graciously consent to see us?”

  “His proposal is this: As soon as he’s ready to give a demonstration, he will receive a committee of responsible Service officers, scientists and policy makers, to be selected by Senator Merrick as acting for the President. To me this seems fair and reasonable.”

  “And the President will agree with you,” Senator Merrick declared.

  “World tension is reaching a peak; and I can assure you of the President’s keen interest…. Have I your permission, Sir Denis, to take my son to lunch at my club?”

  *

  Out of darkness complete except for one point of green light which might have been the eye of some nocturnal animal, Fu Manchu’s voice spoke:

  “It is certain that Brian Merrick Junior is ignorant of my purpose?”

  A dull, mechanical voice replied: “There is no evidence to the contrary.”

  “You have not answered my question.”

  “His behaviour gives cause for confidence, Excellency.”

  “Explain your meaning.”

  “He lunched at Senator Merrick’s club.”

  “He was closely covered?”

  “It was difficult. But an agent of The Order waited upon their table.

  He was, of course, very attentive.”

  “Their conversation?”

  “Chiefly concerned Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

  “It was satisfactory?”

  “Entirely.”

  “And after lunch?”

  “Brian Merrick Junior saw his father off. The Senator was joined by two Air Force officers, who had lunched with Sir Denis at the Babylon-Lido.”

  “Retain all contacts. Report hourly.”

  The Si-Fan was watching …

  *

  When Brian returned to the suite in the Babylon-Lido (of which he had a key) he was in a queer frame of mind. Sir Denis sat writing; looking up, nodded.