The Bride of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Fleurette wore a light wrap over a very plain black evening frock. Her hair smouldered under the shaded lights so that it seemed to contain sparks of fire. She had instantly glanced aside. I could not be wrong.

  At first I had experienced intense humiliation, but now my courage returned. True, she had conveyed the message: “Don’t speak to me.” But it had been in the nature of a warning, an admission of a mutual secret understanding, and in no sense a snub.

  She was not, then, inaccessible. She was hedged around, guarded, by the jealous suspicions of her Oriental master.

  I could doubt no longer.

  The man seated with his back to me was the same I had seen in the car driven by the Negro chauffeur. Despite his nonconformity to type, this was Mahdi Bey. And Fleurette, for all her glorious, virginlike beauty, must be his mistress.

  She deliberately avoided looking in my direction again.

  Her companion never moved: his immobility was extraordinary. And presently, through the leaves of the shrubs growing in wooden boxes, I saw the black-and-silver Rolls, almost directly opposite the restaurant.

  My glance moved upward to the parapet guarding a higher road which here dips down and forms a hairpin bend.

  A man stood there watching.

  Difficult though it was from where I sat to form a clear impression of his appearance, I became convinced, nevertheless, that he was one of the tribe of the Dacoits... either the same, or an opposite number, of the yellow-faced horror I had seen in the garden of the Villa Jasmin!

  And at that moment, as my waiter approached, changing the plates in readiness for the first course, I found myself swept back mentally into the ghastly business I had come there to forget. I experienced a sudden chill of foreboding.

  If, as I strongly suspected, one of the murderous Burmans was watching the restaurant—did this mean that I had been followed there? If so, with what purpose? I no longer stood between Petrie’s enemies and their objective; but—I had wounded, probably killed, one of their number. I had heard much of the implacable blood feuds of the Indian thugs; it was no more than reasonable to suppose that something of the same might prevail among the Dacoits of Burma.

  I glanced furtively upward again. And there was the motionless figure leaning against the parapet.

  In dress there was nothing to distinguish the man from an ordinary Monaco workman, but my present survey confirmed my first impression.

  This was one of the yellow men attached to the service of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  I cast my memory back over the route I had so recently traversed. Had any car followed me? I could not recollect that it was so. But, on the other hand, I had been much abstracted, driving mechanically. Dusk had fallen before I had reached Monaco. If an attempt were contemplated, why had it not taken place upon the road?

  The problem was beyond me... But there stood the watcher, motionless by the parapet.

  And at this very moment, and just as the wine-waiter placed a decanter of my favourite Pommard before me, I had a remarkable experience—an experience so disturbing that I sat quite still for several seconds, my outstretched hand poised in the act of taking up the decanter.

  Close beside my ear—as it seemed, out of space, out of nowhere— that same high, indescribable note became audible; that sound which I believe I have already attempted to describe as the call of a fairy trumpet...

  Once before, and once only, I had heard it—on the beach of Ste Claire de la Roche.

  Some eerie quality in the sound affected me now, as it had affected me then. It was profoundly mysterious; but one thing was certain. Unless the sound were purely a product of my own imagination, or the result of some trouble of the inner ear—possibly an aftermath of illness—it could not be coincidence that on the two occasions that I had heard it Fleurette had been present.

  My hand dropped down to the couvert—and I looked across at her.

  Her eyes were fixed on the face of her companion, who sat with his back to me, in that dreamy, faraway regard which I remembered.

  Then her delicate lips moved, and I thought, although I could not hear her words, that she was replying to some question which he had addressed to her.

  And, as I looked and realized that she was speaking, that strange sound ceased as abruptly as it had commenced.

  I saw Fleurette glance aside; her expression changed swiftly. But her eyes never once turned in my direction. I stared beyond her, up through the leaves of the shrubs and towards the parapet on the other side of the street.

  The Burman had disappeared...

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE DACOIT

  “You are wanted on the telephone, Mr. Sterling.”

  I started as wildly as a man suddenly aroused from sleep. A dreadful premonition gripped me icily. I stood up.

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “I believe the name was Dr. Cartier, sir.”

  In that moment, Fleurette and her mysterious companion were forgotten; the lurking yellow man faded from my mind as completely as he had faded from my view. This was news of Petrie; and something told me it could only be bad news.

  I hurried through the restaurant to the telephone booth, and snatched up the receiver.

  “Hullo, hullo!” I called. “Alan Sterling here. Is that Dr. Cartier?”

  Brisson’s voice answered me: his tone prepared me for what was to come.

  “I mentioned Dr. Cartier’s name in case you should not be familiar with my own, Mr. Sterling. I would not have disturbed you—for you can scarcely have begun your dinner yet—had I not promised to report any news at once.”

  “What is it?” I asked eagerly.

  “Prepare yourself to know that it is bad.”

  “Not...?”

  “Alas—yes!”

  “My God!”

  “There was no final convulsion—no change. ‘654’ might have saved him—if we had known what treatment to pursue after the first injection. But the coma passed slowly into... death.”

  As I listened to those words, a change came over my entire outlook on the future. A cold rage, and what I knew to be an abiding rage, took possession of me. The merciless fiends, for no reason that I could possibly hope to imagine, had ended an honourable and supremely useful life; that kindly personality which had lived only to serve had been snatched away, remorselessly.

  Very well... It was murder, calculated, callous murder. This was a game that two could play. What I had done once, I could do again, and again—and every time that I got within reach of any of the foul gang!

  Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  If such a person existed, I asked only to be set face to face with him. That moment, I vowed, should be his last—little knowing the stupendous task to which I vowed myself.

  Fah Lo Suee—a woman; but one of them. The French had not hesitated to shoot female spies during the World War. Nor should I, now.

  I had reached the head of the steps when Victor Quinto touched my shoulder. Details were indefinite, but my immediate objective was plain. One of the Burmans was covering my movements. I planned to find that Burman; and—taking every possible precaution to ensure my own getaway—I planned to kill him...

  “You have had bad news, M. Sterling?”

  “Dr. Petrie is dead,” I said, and ran down the steps.

  I suppose many curious glances followed; perhaps Fleurette had seen me. I didn’t care. I crossed the street and walked up the opposite slope. A man was lounging there, smoking a cigarette—a typical working-class Frenchman; and I remembered that he had stood there for part of the time during which the Dacoit had watched the restaurant.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  The man started and turned.

  “Did you chance to see an Oriental who stood near you here a few minutes ago?”

  “But yes, m’sieur. Someone, I suppose, off one of those foreign yachts in the harbour? He has gone only this last two minutes.”

  “Which way?”

  He pointed downward.

 
“Toward the Jardin des Suicides,” he replied, smiling.

  “Suitable spot, if I catch him there,” I muttered; then, aloud:

  “Drink my health,” I said, thrusting a note into his hand. “I shall need your kind wishes.”

  “Thank you, m’sieur—and goodnight...”

  I remember starting the car and driving slowly down the slope to the corner by the Café de Paris. I had no glimpse of the Burman. Here, viewing the activity which surges around the Casino, seeing familiar figures at the more sheltered café tables, noticing a gendarme in an Offenbach uniform, a hotel bus—I pulled up.

  My determination remained adamant as ever; but I suddenly recognized the hopelessness of this present quest. I must cast my hook wisely; useless to pursue one furtive shark. My place was beside Cartier, beside dear old Petrie—in the centre of the murderous school...

  I set out. I had not dined; nor had I tasted my wine. But I was animated by a vigorous purpose more stimulating than meat and drink.

  That purpose, as I view it now, was vengeance. Some part of me, the Highland, had seen the Fiery Cross. I was out for blood. I had consecrated myself to a holy cause: the utter destruction of Dr. Fu-Manchu and of all he stood for.

  Petrie dead!

  It was all but impossible to accept the fact—yet. I dreaded my next meeting with Sir Denis: his hurt would be deeper even than my own. And throughout the time that these bitter reflections occupied my mind, I was driving on, headlong, my steering controlled by a guiding Providence.

  Without having noted one landmark on the way, I found myself high up on the Corniche road. Beyond a piece of broken parapet outlining a sharp bend, I could see twinkling lights far ahead, and below were, I thought, the lights of Ste Claire de la Roche. I slowed up to light my pipe.

  The night was very still. No sound of traffic reached my ears.

  I remembered having stuck a spare box of matches in a fold of the canvas hood. I turned to get it...

  A malignant yellow face, the eyes close-set and slightly oblique, stared into mine!

  The Dacoit was perched on the baggage rack!

  What that hideous expression meant—in what degree it was compounded of animosity and of fear caused by sudden discovery—I didn’t pause to consider. But that my own cold purpose was to be read in my face, the Burman’s next move clearly indicated.

  Springing to the ground, he began to run.

  He ran back: I had no chance to turn the car. But I was out and after him in less time than it takes me to record the fact. This was a murder game: no quarter given or expected!

  The man ran like Mercury. He was already twenty yards away. I put up a tremendous sprint and slightly decreased his lead. He glanced back. I saw the moonlight on his snarling teeth.

  Pulling up, I took careful aim with the automatic—and fired. He ran on. I fired again.

  Still he ran. I set out in pursuit; but the Dacoit had thirty yards’ start. If he had ever doubted, he knew, now, that he ran for his life.

  In a hundred yards I had gained nothing. My wind was not good for more than another hundred yards at that speed. Then—and if I had had enough breath I should have cheered—he stumbled, tottered, and fell forward on to hands and knees!

  I bore down upon him with grim determination. I was not ten feet off when he turned, swung his arm, and something went humming past my bent head!

  A knife!

  I checked and fired again at close range.

  The Burman threw his hands up, and fell prone in the road.

  “Another one for Petrie!” I said breathlessly.

  Stooping, I was about to turn him over, when an amazing thing happened.

  The man whipped around with a movement which reminded me horribly of a snake. He threw his legs around my thighs and buried fingers like steel hooks in my throat!

  Dragging me down—down—remorselessly down—he grinned like a savage animal cornered but unconquerable... The world began to swim about me; there was a murmur in my ears like that of the sea.

  I thought a car approached in the distance... I saw bloody foam dripping from the Dacoit’s clenched teeth...

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE ROOM OF GLASS

  When I opened my eyes my first impression was that the Dacoit had killed me—that I was dead—and that the Beyond was even more strange and inconsequential than the wildest flight of Spiritualism had depicted.

  I lay on a couch, my head on a pillow. The cushions of the couch were of a sort of neutral grey colour; so was the pillow. They were composed, I saw, of some kind of soft rubber and were inflated. I experienced considerable difficulty in swallowing, and raising a hand to my throat found it to be swollen and painful.

  Perhaps, after all, I was not dead; but if alive, where in the known world could I be?

  The couch upon which I lay—and I noted now that I was dressed in white overalls and wore rubber-soled shoes!—was at one end of an enormously large room. The entire floor, or that part of it which I could see, was covered with this same neutral grey substance which may have been rubber. The ceiling looked like opaque glass, and so did the walls.

  Quite near to me was a complicated piece of apparatus, not unlike, I thought, a large cinematograph camera, and mounted on a movable platform. It displayed a number of huge lenses, and there were tiny lamps here and there in the amazing mechanism, some of them lighted.

  A most intricate switchboard was not the least curious feature of this baffling machine. Farther beyond, suspended from the glass ceiling, hung what I took to be the largest arc lamp I had ever seen in my life. But although it was alight, it suffused only a dim, purple glow, contributing little to the general illumination.

  Half hidden from my point of view stood a long glass table (or a table composed of the same material as the ceiling and the walls) upon which was grouped the most singular collection of instruments and appliances I had ever seen, or even imagined.

  Huge glass vessels containing fluids of diverse colours, masses of twisted tubing, little points of fire, and a thing like an Egyptian harp, the strings of which seemed to be composed of streaks of light which wavered and constantly changed colour, emitting a ceaseless crackling sound...

  I closed my eyes for a moment. My head was aching furiously, and my mouth so parched that it caused me constantly to cough, every cough producing excruciating pain.

  Then I opened my eyes again. But the insane apartment remained. I sat up and swung my feet to the floor.

  The covering had the feeling of rubber, as its appearance indicated. My new viewpoint brought other objects within focus. In a white metal rack was ranged a series of vessels resembling test tubes. The smallest was perhaps a foot high, and from this the others graduated like the pipes of an organ, creating an impression in my mind of something seen through a powerful lens.

  Each tube was about half filled with some sort of thick fluid, and this, from vessel to vessel, passed through shades from deepest ruby to delicate rose pink.

  I stood up.

  And now I could see the whole of that fabulous room. I perceived that it was a kind of laboratory—containing not one instrument nor one system of lighting with which I was acquainted!

  Other items of its equipment now became visible, and I realized that a continuous throbbing characterized the whole place. Some powerful plant was at work. This throbbing, which was more felt than heard, and the crackling of those changing rays, alone disturbed the silence.

  Still doubting if I really lived, if I had been rescued from the thug, I asked myself—assuming it to be so—who was my rescuer, and to what strange sanctuary had he brought me?

  No human figure was visible.

  And now I observed a minor but a curious point: the rubber couch upon which I had been lying was placed in a corner. And upon the floor-covering were two black lines forming a right angle. Its ends, touching the walls, made a perfect square—in which I stood.

  I looked about that cavernous place, pervaded by a sort of violent light,
and I realized that certain pieces of apparatus, and certain tables, were surrounded by similar black marks upon the floor.

  Apparently there was no door, nor could I find anything resembling a bell. If this were not mirage—or death—what was this place in which I found myself; and why was I there alone?

  I set out to explore.

  One step forward I made, and had essayed a second, when I recall uttering a loud cry.

  As my foot crossed the black mark on the floor, a shock ran through my body which numbed my muscles! I dropped to my knees, looking about me—perhaps, had there been any to see, as caged animals glare from their cages.

  What did it mean? That some impassable barrier hedged me in!

  The shock had served a double purpose: it had frightened me intensely—this I confess without hesitation; but as I got to my feet again, I knew that also it had revived that cold, murderous rage which had governed my mind up to the moment that the Dacoit had buried his fingers in my throat.

  “Where the devil am I?” I said aloud; “and what am I doing here?”

  I sprang forward... and fell back as though a cunning opponent had struck me a straight blow over the heart!

  Collapsed on the rubber-covered floor I lay quivering— temporarily stunned. I experienced, now, not so much fear as awe. I was a prisoner of the invisible.

  But, looking about at the nameless things which surrounded me, I knew that the invisible must be controlled by an intelligence. If this were not death—I had fallen into a trap.

  I rose up again, shaken, but master of myself. Then I sat down on the couch. I felt in the pocket of my overalls—and found my cigarette case! A box of Monaco matches (which rarely light) was there also. I lighted a cigarette. My hands were fairly steady.

  Some ghostly image of the truth—a mocking reply to those doubts which I had held hitherto—jazzed spectrally before me. I stared around, looking up at the dull, glassy roof, and at unimaginable instruments and paraphernalia which lent this place the appearance of a Martian factory, devoted to experiments of another age— another planet.