by Sax Rohmer
That the house of the Sheikh Ismail had been raided in the nick of time was clear enough. What had become of Petrie I failed to imagine, nor could I account for the presence of London policemen. Also, I was dreadfully concerned about Nayland Smith.
Weymouth’s appearance—he wore dinner kit—also intrigued me. But I remembered that at least two days had elapsed; and in some way, I supposed wearily, this hiatus must explain these seeming discrepancies.
Then we reached the outside of the house. A big gray car stood before the door. There was a crowd. I saw several constables.
I saw the street…
I saw a long, neglected wall. From a doorway in this wall I had been carried out to the car. Adjoining was a row of drab, two-storied houses. Similar houses faced them from across the narrow way. Some of the doors were open, and in the dim light shining out groups were gathered.
They were Chinese—some of them. Others were non-descript. The crowd about the car, kept in check by two constables, was made up of typical East End London elements!
I was placed comfortably on the cushions. A man whom I suddenly recognized as Fletcher seated himself in front with the chauffeur. Weymouth got in beside me. The car moved off.
“You’re all at sea!” he said, and rested his hand reassuringly on my arm. “Don’t think too much about it yet. I’m going to take you to Dr. Petrie’s hotel. He’ll get you on your feet again.”
“But… where am I?”
“You’re in Limehouse at the moment.”
“What!”
“Keep cool! You didn’t know? Well, it is so.”
“But, two days back, I was in Egypt!”
As the car swung into a wide, populous thoroughfare—West India Dock Road, I learned later—Weymouth turned to me. His expression, blank at first, gradually changed, and then:
“Good heavens, Greville,” he said, “I’m just beginning to understand!”
“I wish I could!”
“Brace yourself up—because it’s going to be a shock; although the facts must have prepared you for it. You said, which you can see now is impossible, that you were in Egypt two days back… Can you stand the truth? You left Egypt a month ago!
A week elapsed. Petrie’s treatment worked wonders. And a day came when, looking down from a hotel sitting room on the busy life of Piccadilly, I realized that the raw edges of the thing had worn off.
I had lost a month out of my life. I had been translated in the manner of the old Arabian tales from the Oasis of Khârga to some place in Limehouse. The smooth channel of my ways had been diverted; and the shock of recognizing this had staggered me. But now, as I say, I was reconciled. Also, better equipped to cope with it: indeed, nearly fit again.
“My extraordinary experience with Sir Lionel,” said Petrie, who stood just behind me, “was of enormous assistance in your own case, Greville.”
“You mean the success of the new treatment suggested by Sir Brian Hawkins?”
“Yes… at least, so I believed.”
I turned away from the window and stared at Petrie curiously. His expression puzzled me.
“I don’t understand, Doctor. You sent a telegram from Luxor to Sir Brian in London, giving him full details about the chief. He cabled back saying that he had communicated these particulars to a Dr. Amber—a former assistant—who was fortunately then in Cairo and who would ring you up.”
“Quite so, Greville. And this Dr. Amber did ring up, discussed the case with me, said he agreed with Sir Brian’s suggestion and despatched, express, a small box. It contained a third of a fluid drachm of some preparation, labeled ‘One minim per day subcutaneously until normal.’ After four injections, Sir Lionel fully recovered—except that he had no recollection of what had taken place from the time of the attack to that when he opened his eyes in his room at the Luxor hotel.”
“That’s plain sailing enough, Petrie, and a big success for Sir Brian Hawkins. You came to the conclusion that I was suffering from the effects of overdoses of the same drug—”
“And so I tried the same cure—with equally marvellous results.”
He paused, staring me hard in the face; then:
“When we got down to Cairo,” he went on—“as you know, I postponed sailing—Dr. Amber had left his hotel. And when we reached London, Sir Brian Hawkins was abroad. He came home this morning.”
“Well?” I said, for he had paused again, staring at me in that peculiar manner.
“Sir Brian Hawkins never received my telegram.”
“What!”
“He was unacquainted with anyone called Dr. Amber—and the preparation, a specimen of which I had taken with me, was totally unknown to him!”
“Good God!”
“Don’t let it worry you, Greville. We’ve been the victims of a cunning plot. But the unknown plotter has saved two valuable lives—and defeated Fah Lo Suee! Excuse me if I run away now. Please stay here and make yourself at home. My wife wants to do some shopping, and I never allow her out alone, even in London. You know why,” he added significantly.
I nodded, as:
“Rima and Sir Lionel are due tomorrow,” he said, “and I know how you’re counting the hours.”
So whilst it was true that to Petrie and to Weymouth I owed the fact that I now stood staring down again on the busy life of Piccadilly, I owed even more to… someone else! I was all but fit. I had taken a stroll in the Park, and with decent precautions for a week or two was competent to reenter the battle of life. But—who was Dr. Amber?
Almost a deeper mystery than that of the hiatus, to me represented by a blank in my existence; and this, heaven knows, was strange enough!
The house of the Sheikh Ismail had been raided by a party under the mudîr of Khârga. This official, it seems, was already suspicious of the strange visitors to the town.
They found not a soul on the premises!
El-Khârga was combed carefully. No trace. The mudîr got in touch with Esna, and all roads were watched. Nothing resulted. The dreadful Seven had dispersed—into thin air! Nayland Smith was missing, I was missing; and Said had disappeared with the car…
Weymouth set the official wires humming. Too late, it had occurred to him that Fah Lo Suee might have retired not upon Esna but upon Asyût. Later, this theory was proved to be the correct one.
A dead man, a piece of baggage, I had been carried across the desert to Asyût, entrained for Port Said, and shipped to England, as cargo is shipped! Three days too late to hold her in the Egyptian port, Weymouth, inspecting the books of the Suez Canal Company, discovered that a Clyde-built steamer chartered by a Chinese firm for some private enterprise had passed through the Canal and cleared Port Said at a date which corresponded with his suspicions. Radio was set humming all over the Mediterranean; and the suspected craft was finally boarded off Cherbourg by the French police.
Her papers were in order; but consignments of goods and a number of her people had already been despatched overland.
This was the state of affairs when the party reached England. Weymouth, of course, had secured leave of absence in the circumstances; and acting upon the policy adopted by poor Nayland Smith in earlier days, had succeeded with the backing of Scotland Yard in keeping all publicity out of the press.
It was the efficiency of Detective-Inspector Yale and of K Division which led to my rescue. For some time they had been watching certain premises in the Limehouse area. Apart from consignments of suspicious goods and of the presence, particularly at night, of Asiatics of a character not usual in that district, a smartly dressed woman had visited the place.
Now, furnished by Weymouth with particulars of those goods sent overland from Cherbourg, Yale secretly inspected some of the crates and packing cases stored in the yard of the suspected premises. As a result of what he found, I was rescued from the green and gold room, and restored to health by Dr. Petrie. But a shadow lay upon all of us—one indeed, which had retarded my convalescence.
“Our last battle against Fu-Manchu,
” said Weymouth sadly, “has opened with a big score for the enemy. We’ve lost our field-marshal.”
Detective-Inspector Yale nodded gloomily. I had met him several times before, and I knew that with Fletcher he had been put in charge of this case, which, in his eyes, had neither beginning nor end.
“It’s a blank mystery to me,” he confessed. “Excepting one badly murdered dwarf, there wasn’t a thing of any use to us in the Limehouse raid.”
“You’re rather overlooking me!”
Detective-Inspector Yale smiled; Weymouth laughed aloud.
“Sorry, sir,” said Yale. “But the fact remains—we drew blank. The house was undoubtedly used by these Si-Fan people. But where are they? I knew when Sir Denis took personal control there was something serious in the wind. He was overdue leave, it’s true, but he was a demon for work; and I saw when he started for Egypt with Fletcher he’d gone for business, not pleasure. Besides, there was a big dossier accumulating.”
He smiled again, turning slightly in my direction.
“The death of Professor Zeitland was a bad show for the Yard,” he admitted. “It was long after the event that we realized his death wasn’t due to natural causes. This in strict confidence, Mr. Greville. There’s been no publicity about the absence of Sir Denis, because we’ve kept on hoping from day to day, and his instructions on that point were explicit. But personally…”
He turned aside and stared out of the window.
“I’m afraid so,” Weymouth whispered.
“It’s a job,” Yale went on, “which I admit is above my weight. Most extraordinary reports are accumulating and the Foreign Office has nearly driven me crazy. I never knew very much about this Dr. Fu-Manchu, outside the department records. I was just a plain detective officer in those days. But it looks to me—and this is where I am badly out of my depth, Superintendent—as though this delayed visit of Swâzi Pasha comes into the case!”
“I’m sure it does!” I replied. “The woman you knew as Madame Ingomar regards the present rulers of Turkey as her enemies. Swâzi Pasha is probably the biggest man in Stamboul today. She told me with her own lips that he was marked!”
“Amazing!” said Yale. “He is to occupy Suite Number 5 in this hotel, and apart from routine measures, I’m going to satisfy myself about the staff.”
I accompanied Weymouth and Yale on their tour of inspection. The suite was on the floor below, and we went down the stairs. Yale had the key and we entered. Everything had been prepared for the comfort of the distinguished visitor and his confidential private secretary.
Suite Number 5 consisted of a reception room entered from a lobby, a dining room, and two bedrooms with bathrooms adjoining. Swâzi Pasha had been detained by illness in Paris, so the press informed us, but would arrive at Victoria that evening.
Detective-Inspector Yale seemed to suspect everything in the place. The principal bedroom he explored as though he anticipated discovering there trap doors, sliding panels, or other mediæval devices. He even turned on the electric heater, an excellent imitation of a coal fire, and considered it carefully; until:
“Once he gets here,” said Weymouth. “He’s safe enough. It’s outside that he’s in danger.”
Yale turned to him, one eyebrow raised interrogatively, and:
“Queer you should say that,” he replied. “I’ve been going carefully through the records—and you ought to know better than I do that if we’re really up against this Asiatic group the best hotel in London isn’t safe!”
I glanced at Weymouth, and saw his expression change.
“True enough,” he admitted. “Dr. Fu-Manchu got a man in the New Louvre once, under our very eyes. Yes, you’re right.”
With enthusiasm he also began to sound walls and to examine fittings, until:
“I have had painful personal evidence of what these people can do,” I said, “but I rather agree with Inspector Yale that the danger to Swâzi Pasha is greater outside than here.”
Yale turned and:
“Outside,” he assured me stolidly, “short of a fanatic who is prepared to pay the price with his life, Swâzi Pasha is as safe as any man in Europe. But in the absence of Sir Denis, I’m responsible for him and, knowing what I know now, I’m prepared for anything.”
When presently I left Weymouth and Yale, I became selfishly absorbed in my own affairs again. The chief had engaged rooms by radio for himself and Rima here at the Park Avenue, and as I wandered back to my own apartment I found myself wondering which rooms they were. Indeed, a perfectly childish impulse prompted me to go down and inquire of the office.
As I entered the corridor in which my own quarters were located as well as those of Dr. Petrie and his wife, I saw a figure hurrying ahead of me. Reaching the door next to my own, he inserted and turned the key in the lock. As he did so, I had a view of his face in profile…
Then he went in, and I heard the door shut.
Entering my own room, I sat down on the bed, lighted a cigarette, and wondered why this chance encounter seemed so important. It was striking discords of memory which I couldn’t solve. I smoked one cigarette and lighted a second, thinking hard all the time, before the solution came, then:
“I’ve got it!” I cried.
This man in the next room was the Turk who had attended the Council of Seven!
I glanced at the telephone. This was a mystery completely beyond my powers—something which Weymouth and Yale should know about at once. I hesitated, realizing that in all probability they were on their way to Victoria. A tremendous unrest seized me. What did it mean? That it meant mischief—and bloody mischief—I felt certain. But what should I do?
I lighted a pipe and stared down into Piccadilly. Inaction was intolerable. What could I do? I couldn’t give this man in charge of the police. Apart from the possibility of a mistake, what evidence had I against him? Finally I grabbed my hat and went out into tine corridor. I had detected no sound of movement in the neighboring room.
Walking over to the lift, I rang the bell. The cage had just arrived and I was on the point of stepping in, when I thought someone passed swiftly behind me.
I turned. My nerves were badly overtuned. The figure had gone, but:
“Who was that?” I said to the lift-boy.
“Who do you mean, sir,” he asked. “I didn’t see anyone.”
I thought that he was looking at me rather oddly, and:
“Ground floor,” I said.
Had this thing got me more deeply than I realized? Small wonder if it were so, considering my own experience. But was I beginning to imagine creatures of Dr. Fu-Manchu, shadows, menaces, where really there was no physical presence? It was a dreadful thought, one to be repelled at all costs by a man who had passed through the nightmare of that month which I had survived.
For I had been dead and I lived again.
Sometimes the horror of it wakened me in the middle of the night. A drug, unknown to Western science, had been pumped into my veins. The skill of an Asiatic physician had brought me back to life. Petrie’s experience—aided by the mysterious “Dr. Amber”—had done the rest. But there might be an aftermath, beyond the control even of this dreadful Chinaman whose shadow again was creeping over Europe.
My present intention was to walk across to Cook’s and learn at what time the S.S. Andaman, in which Sir Lionel and Rima were travelling, docked, and when the boattrain arrived. I was in that state of anxiety in which one ceases to trust that high authority, the hotel hall porter.
This purpose was frustrated by the sudden appearance, as I came down the steps, of Dr. Petrie and his wife. I was instantly struck by the fact that something had terrified Mrs. Petrie. The doctor was almost supporting her…
“Hello, Greville,” he said. “My wife has had rather a shock. Come back with us for a minute.”
The fact was obvious enough. Filled with a sudden new concern, I realized, as I took Mrs. Petrie’s arm and walked back up the hotel steps, that she was in a condition bordering on coll
apse. Well enough I knew that this could mean only one thing. As I had suspected, as Weymouth had suspected—the enemy was near us!
In the lobby she sat down and her husband regarded her anxiously. Normally, she had the most wonderful flower-like complexion—I mean naturally, without artificial aid—of any woman I had ever met. Now she was pale, and her wonderful eyes mirrored a sort of mysterious horror.
“Are you sure, Kara? Are you sure?” Petrie asked with deep concern.
“Could I ever be wrong about him?”
“When you are safely upstairs, dear,” he replied, “I am going back to confirm your suspicion—or disprove it.”
“But,” I exclaimed, “whatever is wrong?”
“He is here.”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Petrie? Who is here?”
She looked up at me, and for all her pallor I knew how beautiful she was. I thought that if those strange, wonderful eyes had beckoned to me before I had known Rima, I should have followed wherever they led. She was, indeed, very lovely, and very terrified; and:
“It seems like madness,” she whispered; “but about this I can never be mistaken. If I had not seen, I should have felt. But I saw.”
“Do you understand, Greville,” Petrie interrupted tersely, “my wife saw—I can’t doubt her; she has never been wrong on this point—someone looking out from a window above a shop in Burlington Arcade.”
“I know it is madness, but I know it is true,” she said.
“When?” I demanded.
“A moment ago.”
“But do you mean—”
Mrs. Petrie nodded.
Her eyes were tragic. She stood up.
“I am going upstairs,” she said. “No, truly, I’m quite all right again. Go back, or it may be too late. But take Mr. Greville with you.”
She walked towards the lift, whilst Petrie and I watched her. As she entered and the lift went up:
“It seems simply incredible to me,” I declared. “But do you mean that in a room over a shop in Burlington Arcade—”
“A dealer in Oriental jewellery, yes!” Petrie took me up quickly. “I could see nothing—the room above was in darkness—but Karamanèh saw Dr. Fu-Manchu looking down!”
