Daughter of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “This one comes alone,” Nayland Smith murmured. He studied him through the glasses. “Unplaceable. But strangely like a Turk…”

  The tall man was admitted—and the iron-studded door closed once more.

  Nayland Smith stood up again and began beating his fist into the palm of his hand, walking up and down in a state of tremendous excitement.

  “We must do something!” he said in a low voice—“we must do something! Hell is going to be let loose on the world. Tonight, we could nip this poisonous thing in the bud, if only…” he paused. Then: “Weymouth,” he rapped, “you have official prestige. Go back to el-Khârga—make yourself known to the mudîr and force him to raise a sufficient body of men to surround this house! You can’t go alone, therefore Dr. Petrie will go with you…”

  “But, Smith!…”

  “My dear fellow,”—Nayland Smith’s voice altered entirely— “there’s no room for sentiment! We’re not individuals tonight, but representatives of sanity opposed to a dreadful madness. Greville here has a peculiarly intimate knowledge of Arab life. He speaks the language better than any of us. This you will both admit. I must keep him by me, because my job may prove to be the harder. Off you go, Weymouth! I’m in charge. Get down the dip behind us and circle round the way we came. Don’t lose a moment!”

  There was some further argument between these old friends, but finally the dominating personality of Nayland Smith prevailed; and Weymouth and Dr. Petrie set out. As they disappeared into the hollow behind us:

  “Heaven grant I haven’t bungled this thing!” said Nayland Smith and gripped my arm fiercely. “But I’ve stage-managed it like an amateur. Only sheer luck can save us now!”

  He turned aside and focused his glasses on the distant angle of the wall. A minute passed—two—three—four. Then came a sudden outcry, muffled, but unmistakable.

  “My God!” Smith’s voice was tragic. ‘They’ve run into another party! Come on, Greville!”

  Breaking cover we hurried across in the moonlight. Regardless of any watcher who might be concealed behind that iron-studded door in the long wall, we raced head-long to the corner. I was hard and fit; but, amazing to relate, I had all I could do to keep pace with Nayland Smith. He seemed to be a man who held not sluggish human blood but electricity in his veins.

  Around the corner we plunged… and almost fell head-long over a vague tangle of struggling figures!

  “Petrie!” Nayland Smith cried. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, by the grace of God!” came pantingly…

  “Weymouth?”

  “All clear!”

  Dense shadow masked the combatants; and risking everything, I dragged out my torch and switched on the light.

  Dr. Petrie, rather dishevelled and, lacking his tarboosh, was just standing up. A forbidding figure, muffled in a shapeless camel-hair garment, lay near. Weymouth was resting his bulk upon a second.

  “Light out!” snapped Nayland Smith.

  I obeyed. Weymouth’s voice came through the darkness.

  “Do you remember, Sir Denis, that other meeting in London? There was only one Lama monk there. There are two here!”

  His words explained a mystery which had baffled me. These were Tibetan monks!

  “They must have heard us approaching,” Petrie went on. “They were hiding in the shadows. And as we climbed up onto the path, they attacked us. I may add that they were men of their hands. Personally I’m by no means undamaged, but by sheer luck I managed to knock my man out.”

  “I think I’ve strangled mine!” said Weymouth grimly. “He was gouging my eye,” he added.

  “Petrie!” said Nayland Smith. “We’re going to win! This is the hand of Providence!”

  For one tense moment none of us grasped his meaning; then:

  “By heavens, no. It’s too damned dangerous,” Weymouth exclaimed. “For God’s sake don’t risk it!”

  “I’m going to risk it!” Smith snapped. “There’s too much at stake to hesitate. If they were in our place, there’d be two swift executions. We can’t stoop to that. Gags we can improvise. But how the devil are we going to tie them up?”

  At which moment the man on whose body Weymouth was kneeling uttered a loud cry. The cry ceased with significant suddenness; and:

  “Two of us wear turbans,” said Weymouth: “that’s twelve feet of stout linen. What more do we want?”

  We gagged and bound the sturdy Tibetans, using torchlight sparingly. One of them struggled a lot; but the other was still. Petrie seemed to have achieved a classic knockout. Then we dragged our captives down into the shadow of the hollow; and Nayland Smith and I clothed ourselves in those hot, stuffy, camel-hair garments.

  “Remember the sign,” he rapped—“Si-Fan!… then the formal Moslem salute.”

  “Good enough! But these fellows probably talked Chinese…”

  “So do I!” he rapped. “Leave that to me.” He turned to Weymouth. “Your job is to raise a party inside half an hour. Off you go! Good luck, Petrie. I count on you, Weymouth.”

  But when a thousand and one other things are effaced—including that difficult parting—I shall always retain my memories of the moment, when Nayland Smith and I, wearing the cowled robes of the monks, approached that iron-studded door.

  My companion was a host in himself; his splendid audacity stimulated. I thought, as he raised his fist and beat seven times upon the sun-bleached wood, that even if this adventure should conclude the short tale of my life, yet it would not have been ill-spent since I had met and been judged worthy to work with Sir Denis Nayland Smith.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KLI

  Almost immediately the door opened.

  Conscious of the fact that our hoods were practically our only disguise, that neither of us possessed a single Mongol characteristic, I lowered my head apprehensively, glancing up into a pair of piercing eyes which alternately regarded my companion and myself.

  The keeper of the door was a tall, emaciated Chinaman!

  “Si-Fan,” said Nayland Smith, and performed the salutation.

  “Si-Fan,” the doorkeeper replied and indicated that he should enter.

  “Si-Fan,” I repeated; and in turn found myself admitted.

  The Chinaman closed and bolted the door. I discovered myself to be standing in a little arbor within the gateway. Shadow of the wall lay like a pall of velvet about us, but beyond I saw a garden and moon-lighted pavilions, and beyond that again a courtyard set with orange trees. The house embraced this courtyard, and from mûshrabîyeh windows dim lights shone out. But there was no movement anywhere. No servants were visible, other than the tall, emaciated Chinaman who had admitted us. I clutched my monkish robe, recovering some assurance from the presence of the repeater which I carried in my belt.

  Extending a skeleton hand, the keeper of the gate indicated that we were to cross the garden and enter the house.

  I had taken my share of ordinary chances, having lived anything but a sheltered life. Yet it occurred to me, as I stood there beside Nayland Smith, looking in the direction of the tree-shaded courtyard, that this was the wildest venture upon which I had ever been launched.

  Our wits alone could save us!

  In the first place it seemed to me that survival hung upon one slender point: Were the Mongolian monks known personally to anyone in the house? If so, we were lost! The several groups assembled in the café at el-Khârga obviously had been strangers to one another… out there might be—must be—some central figure to whom they were all known.

  We had searched the Tibetans for credentials but had found none. And now, suddenly, shockingly, I remembered something!

  “Sir Denis!” We had begun to pace slowly across the garden. “We’re trapped!”

  “Why?” he jerked.

  “The elder of those monks wore a queer silver ring on his index finger, set with a big emerald. I noticed it as I helped to tie him up.”

  Nayland Smith shot his hand out fr
om a loose sleeve of the camel-hair garment. I saw the emerald glittering on his index finger!

  “His evidence of identity?” he suggested. “It was!”

  We crossed the courtyard in the direction of an open doorway. I saw a lobby lighted by one perforated brass lamp swung on chains. There were doors right and left—both of them closed.

  On a divan a very old Chinaman was seated. He wore a little cap surmounted by a coral ball. His wizened face was rendered owlish in appearance by the presence of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. A fur-trimmed robe enveloped his frail body, his ethereal hands relaxed upon crossed knees. I saw that on an index finger he wore just such a ring as that which Nayland Smith had taken from the Tibetan monk! A silver snuff-bowl rested upon the divan beside him; and as we entered:

  “Si-Fan,” he said in a high, thin voice.

  Nayland Smith and I went through the prescribed formula. Whereupon, the Chinaman spoke rapidly to my companion in what I presumed to be Chinese, and extended his right hand.

  Nayland Smith stooped, raised the emaciated hand, and with the ring upon its index finger touched his brow, his lips, his breast.

  Again, the, high, sibilant voice spoke; and Sir Denis extended his own hand. The ritual was repeated—this time, by our singular host. To my intense relief, I realized that I had been taken for granted. Evidently I was a mere travelling companion of my more distinguished compatriot.

  Raising a little hammer, the aged Chinaman struck a gong which stood beside him. He struck it twice. The door right of the divan opened.

  He inclined his head, we both acknowledged the salute and, Smith leading, walked in at the open doorway. As we crossed the threshold he fell back a step, and:

  “The Mandarin Ki Ming!” came a whisper close to my ear. “Pray heaven he hasn’t recognized me!”

  I found myself in a large saloon, scantily furnished as was the lobby. At the further end, approached by three carpeted steps were very handsome double doors, beautifully carved and embellished with semiprecious stones in the patient Arab manner. The place was lighted by a sort of chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling: it consisted of seven lamps. There were divans around the walls and two deep recesses backed by fine, carven windows.

  Seven black cushions placed upon silk-covered mattresses were set in, a crescent upon the polished floor, the points of the crescent toward the double doors. Beside each mattress stood a little coffee table.

  Four of the mattresses were occupied and in the following order:

  That on the left point of the crescent by the tall distinguished-looking man whom Nayland Smith had surmised to be a Turk; the second by two of the Burmans I had seen in the café. Then, center of the crescent, were three vacant places. The next mattress was occupied by the Afghans, and that on the right horn of the crescent by the appalling Thugs.

  Four of the Seven were present. We, fifth to arrive, had been announced by only two strokes of the gong.

  Which of those three vacant places were we intended to occupy?

  This difficulty was solved by the hitherto invisible custodian of the door—who now proved to be a gigantic Negro. Bowing reverently, he led us to the mattress adjoining that of the Afghans. As we crossed, the four groups assembled stood up unanimously, the leaders each raising a right hand upon which I saw the flash of emeralds.

  “Si-Fan!”

  They cried together.

  “Si-Fan,” Nayland Smith replied.

  We took our seats.

  One of the most dreadful-looking old men I had ever seen in my life entered to the sound of three gongs. As cries of “Si-Fan” died away, he took his place on the mattress one removed from ours. He was a Syrian, I thought, and of incalculable age. His fiercely hooked nose had a blade-like edge and from under tufted white brows hawk eyes surveyed the assembly with an imperious but murderous regard.

  Beyond doubt this was the Sheikh Ismail, lineal successor of the devilish Sheikh al-Jébal, and lord of the Hashishîn!

  Upon ourselves, particularly, that ferocious gaze seemed to linger. The atmosphere was positively electrical. It contained, I believe, enough evil force to have destroyed a battalion. I simply dared not contemplate what our fate would be in the. event of discovery. Our lives were in the hands of Weymouth and Petrie!

  One place remained—that in the center of the crescent.

  A gong sounded—once.

  I realized that having admitted the mandarin, the Negro doorkeeper had retired and closed the door. A hush of expectancy came. Then, from somewhere beyond the end of the saloon a silver bell sounded… seven times, and the beautiful doors swung open.

  A woman appeared at the top of the steps, facing us but backed by shadow…

  Her hair was entirely concealed beneath a jeweled headdress. She wore jewels on her slim, bare arms. A heavy girdle which glittered with precious stones supported a grotesquely elaborate robe, sewn thickly with emeralds. From proudly raised chin to slight, curving hips she resembled an ivory statue of some Indian goddess. Indeed, as I watched, I knew she was Kâli, wife of Siva and patronne of Thugs and Dacoits, from whom they derived their divine right to slay!

  All heads were lowered and a word sounding like a shuddering sigh, but to me unintelligible, passed around the assembly.

  I was fascinated—hypnotized—carried out of myself—as from under the sheltering cowl I looked and looked… into those brilliant jade-green eyes of Kâli… Madame Ingomar!

  We had posed ourselves in imitation of the other groups: Nayland Smith reclining beside the black cushion so that his elbow could rest upon it, and I crouching behind him. Any exchange of words at that moment was impossible.

  In such a silence that I believe one could have heard the flight of a moth, Fah Lo Suee began to speak. She spoke first in Chinese, then in Turkish, of which I knew a few words. Her audience was spellbound. Her silver bell voice had a hypnotic quality utterly outside the range of my experience. She employed scarcely any gesture. Her breathing could not visually be detected That slender body retained its ivory illusion. The spell lay in her voice… and in her eyes.

  She uttered a phrase in Arabic.

  Two strokes of a gong sounded from behind me.

  The Mandarin Ki Ming stood up. Fah Lo Suee ceased speaking— and I heard the high, sibilant tones of the Chinaman.

  I saw Sheikh Ismail leap to his feet like the old panther he was. I saw his blood-lustful gaze fixed upon mine.

  We were discovered! Two gong strokes!

  The real Tibetans had escaped—were here!

  A sickly sweet exotic perfume came to my nostrils. I experienced a sudden sense of pressure…

  The illusion persisted. It seemed to have recurred at intervals for many nights and days, many weeks—for an immeasurable period…

  Always, that vague exotic perfume heralded the phase. This, invariably, seemed to arouse me from some state of unconsciousness in which I thought I must have been suspended for long ages. Once, I became victim of a dreadful idea that I had solved the mystery of perpetual life but was condemned to live it in a tomb…

  Then, next, I saw her—the green goddess with eyes of jade. I knew that her smooth body was but a miraculous gesture of some Eastern craftsman immortalized in ivory; that her cobra hair gleamed so because of inlay and inlay of subtly chosen rare woods: her emerald robe I knew for an effect of cunning light, her movements for a mirage.

  But when she knelt beside me, the jade-green eyes held life—cold ivory was warm satin. And slender insidious hands, scented lotus blossoms, touched me caressingly…

  At last came true awakening—and memories.

  Where was I? Obviously, I must be in the house of the Sheikh Ismail where the Council of Seven had met. I lay on a divan propped up with many cushions, in a room small enough to have been called a cabinet.

  If it were day or night I had no means of judging. Heavy plush curtains of green and gold completely obscured what I assumed to be the window. And I felt as weak as a kitten. In fact, when I trie
d to sit up in order to study my strange surroundings, I failed to do so.

  What had happened to me?

  I saw that the floor was covered with a thick green carpet, and directly facing the divan on which I lay was a magnificent ormolu piece occupying the whole of one wall. A square lamp or lantern hung from the center of the ceiling and flooded the room with amber light.

  An ebony carved chair, evidently of Chinese workmanship, stood near me beside a glass-topped table upon which were phials, instruments, and other surgical items!

  Weakly, I looked down at my body. I wore unfamiliar silk pajamas and on my feet were soft Chinese slippers!

  What in heaven’s name had happened to me?

  Now, memory began to function…

  Nayland Smith!

  I remembered! I remembered! We had been betrayed—or had betrayed ourselves at that incredible meeting of the Council outside el-Khârga! I recalled the high, soft voice of the dreadful mandarin who had denounced us; the staring eyes of the terrible Sheikh… I could recall no more.

  Where was Nayland Smith? And where were Petrie and Weymouth?

  Some time had clearly elapsed, a fact to which my inexplicable change of attire bore witness. But why had no rescue been attempted? Good God!—a truly horrible doubt came—Weymouth and Petrie had fallen into a trap!

  They had never reached el-Khârga!

  A dreadful certainty followed. They were dead! I alone had been spared for some unknown reason; and apparently I had been, and still remained, very ill.

  Inch by inch—in some way I seemed to have lost the power of coordinating my muscles—I turned, seeking a view of that side of the room which lay behind me. All I saw was a flat green door set in the dull gold of the wall. There was a second such door, which I had already noted, immediately before me.

  As I reverted, laboriously, to my previous position the latter door. opened. It was a sliding door.

  A Chinaman came in! He wore a long white coat of the kind used by hospital attendants. He closed the door behind him.