President Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  A moment he paused, then:

  “This is the invisible President whom you are being bribed to send to the White House!” he said in a low, tense voice, “not in his own person but in the person of his servant, his creature, his slave—Paul Salvaletti! Paul Salvaletti who stands upon the bloody corpse of Harvey Bragg… for I am going to tell you something else which you do not know: Harvey Bragg was assassinated to make way for Paul Salvaletti.”

  Even in the silence of that room where Lola Dumas crouched among the cushions it was possible to imagine the sensation which from coast to coast those words had created.

  “The wedding of the man Salvaletti promises to be an international event, a thing for which distinguished people are assembling. I say it would be an offense for which this country would never be forgiven,” he thundered, “to permit that sacrilegious marriage to take place! I say this for three reasons: first, that Paul Salvaletti is merely the shadow of his Chinese master; second, that Paul Salvaletti is an unfrocked priest; and third, that he is already married.”

  Lola Dumas sprang to the floor and stood rigidly upright.

  “He married an Italian girl—she was just sixteen—Marianna Savini, in a London registry office on March the 25th, 1929. She accompanied him secretly when he came to the United States; she has been with him ever since—she is with him now…”

  * * *

  “It was a good shot,” said Captain Kingswell, “although at such close range that row of lighted windows offered a fine target. But, it isn’t the gunner, it’s the pilot I want to meet. The way he dipped the tower was pretty work.”

  “Very pretty,” said Nayland Smith. “As I happened to be inside the tower, I fully appreciated its excellence. You were chasing this plane, I gather?”

  Captain Kingswell, one of many army aviators on duty that night, nodded affirmatively.

  “I should have caught him! It was the maneuver by the tower that tricked me. You see, I hadn’t expected it.”

  The big armored car sped through the night, its headlights whitening roads and hedges.

  “It is certain that they were driven down?”

  “Lieutenant Olson, who was covering me on the left, reports he forced the ship down near the river somewhere above Tonawanda.”

  “Is there any place around there,” Mark Hepburn asked slowly, “where they might have landed?”

  “I may as well say,” the pilot replied, smiling, “it’s a section I don’t pretend to be familiar with. Landing at night is always touch and go, even if the territory is familiar. It’s only halfway safe on a proper flying ground. Hullo! there’s Gilligham!”

  The headlights picked up a distant figure, arms outstretched, wearing army air uniform. This was an agricultural district where folks were early abed; the country roads were deserted. As the car pulled up the aviator ran to the door:

  “What news, Gilligham,” cried Captain Kingswell.

  “We’re shorthanded to surround the area where they crashed,” replied Gilligham, a young fresh-faced man, immensely excited; “at least, it’s ten to one they crashed. But I’ve done my best, and search parties are working right down to the riverbank.”

  “How far to the river?” jerked Nayland Smith.

  “As the crow flies, from this spot a half mile.”

  Smith jumped out, followed by Hepburn. A crescent moon swam in a starry sky. Directly above their heads as they stood beside the car outflung branches of two tall elms, one on either side of the narrow, straight road, met and embraced to form a deep stripe of shadow.

  “This is the frontier?”

  “Yes, the opposite bank’s in Canada.”

  Through the silence, from somewhere far off, came a sound like that of a ceaseless moan; at times, carried by a light breeze, it rose weirdly on the night, as though long-dead gods of the red man, returning, lamented the conquest of the white.

  Nayland Smith, his eyes bright in the ray of the headlamp; turned to Hepburn questioningly.

  “The rapids,” said Mark. “The wind’s that way.”

  As the breeze died, the mournful sound faded into a sad whisper…

  “Hullo!” Smith muttered, “what are those lights moving over there?”

  “One of our search parties,” Gilligham replied. “We expect to locate the wreck pretty soon…”

  But half an hour had elapsed before the mystery plane was found. It lay at one end of a long, plowed field: the undercarriage had been damaged, but the screw, wings and fuselage remained intact. Again the work of a clever pilot was made manifest. There was no sign of the occupants.

  “This is a Japanese ship,” said Captain Kingswell, on a note of astonishment. “Surely can’t have crossed right to here in the air? Must have been reassembled somewhere. Looks like it carried four of a crew: a pilot, a reserve (maybe he was the gunner) and two others.”

  He had climbed up and was now inside.

  “Here’s a queer torpedo outfit,” he cried, “with three reserve tubes. This is a fighting ship.” He was prowling around enthusiastically, torch in hand. “We’ll overhaul every inch of it. There may be very interesting evidence.”

  “The evidence I’m looking for,” rapped Nayland Smith irritably, “is evidence to show which way the occupants went. But all these footprints”—he flashed his torch upon the ground—“have made it impossible to trace.”

  He turned and stared towards where a red glow in the sky marked a distant town. Away to the east, half masked by trees, he could see outbuildings of what he took to be a farm.

  “Tracks over here, mister!” came a hail from the northern end of the meadow. “Not made by the search party!”

  Nayland Smith, his repressed excitement communicating itself to Hepburn, set out at a run. The man who had made the discovery was shining a light down upon the ground. He was a small, stout, red-faced man wearing a very narrow brimmed hat with a very high crown.

  “Looks like the tracks of three men,” he said: “two walkin’ ahead an’ one followin’ along.”

  “Three men,” muttered Nayland Smith; “there’s the possibility there were four in the plane. Let me see…”

  He examined the tracks, and:

  “I must congratulate you,” he said, addressing their discoverer. “Your powers of observation are excellent.”

  “That’s all right, mister. In these per’lous times a man has to keep his eyes skinned—‘Specially me; I’m deputy sheriff around here: Jabez Siskin—Sheriff Siskin they call me.”

  “Glad to have you with, us, Sheriff. My name is Smith—Federal agent.”

  Two sets of imprints there were which admittedly seemed to march side by side. The spacing indicated long strides; the depth of the impressions, considerable weight. The third track, although made by a substantial-sized shoe, was lighter; there was no evidence to show that the one who had made it had crossed the meadow at the same time as the other two.

  “Move on!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Follow the tracks but don’t disturb them.”

  From point to point the same conditions arose which had led the local officer to assume that the third traveler had been following the other two; that is, his lighter tracks were impressed upon the heavier ones. But never did either of the heavier tracks encroach upon another. Two men had been walking abreast followed by a third; at what interval it was impossible to determine.

  Right to a five-barred gate the tracks led, and there Deputy Sheriff Siskin paused, pointing triumphantly.

  The gate was open.

  Nayland Smith stepped through on to a narrow wheel-rutted lane.

  “Where does this lane lead to?” he inquired.

  “To Farmer Clutterbuck’s,” Sheriff Siskin replied; “this is all part of his land. The league bought it back for him. The farm lays on the right. The river’s beyond.”

  “Come on!”

  It was a long, a tedious and a winding way, but at last they stood before the farm. Clutterbuck’s Farm was an example of the work of those days when men built t
heir own homesteads untrammeled by architectural laws, but built them well and truly: a rambling building over which some vine that threatened at any moment to burst into flower climbed lovingly above a porch jutting out from the western front.

  Their advent had not been unnoticed. A fiery red head was protruded from an upper window above and to the right of the porch, preceded by the barrel of a shotgun, and:

  “What in hell now?” a gruff voice inquired.

  “It’s me, Clutterbuck,” Deputy Sheriff Siskin replied, “with Federals here, an’ the army an’ ev’rything!”

  When Farmer Clutterbuck opened his front door he appeared in gumboots. He wore a topcoat apparently made of rabbit skin over a woolen night-shirt, and his temper corresponded to his fiery hair. He was a big, bearded, choleric character.

  “Listen!” he shouted—“It’s you I’m talkin to, Sheriff! I’ve had more’n enough o’ this for one night. Money ain’t ev’rything when a man has to buy a new boat.”

  “But listen, Clutterbuck—”

  Nayland Smith stepped forward.

  “Mr. Clutterbuck,” he said—“I gather that this is your name—we are government officers. We regret disturbing you, but we have our duty to perform.”

  “A boat’s a boat, an money ain’t ev’rything.”

  “So you have already assured us. Explain what you mean.”

  Farmer Clutterbuck found himself to be strangely subdued by the cold authority of the speaker’s voice.

  “Well, it’s this way,” he said. (Two windows above were opened, and two heads peered out.) “I’m a league man, see? This is a league farm. Can’t alter that, can I? An I’m roused up tonight when I’m fast asleep—that’s enough to annoy a man, ain’t it? I think the war’s started. Around these parts we all figure on it. I take my gun an’ I look out o’ the window. What do I see? Listen to me, Sheriff—what do I see?”

  “Forget the sheriff,” said Nayland Smith irritably; “address your remarks to me. What did you see?”

  “Oh, well! all right. I see three men standin’ right here outside—right here where we stand now. One’s old, with white whiskers an’ white hair; another one, some kind of a colored man, I couldn’t just see prop’ly; but the third one—him that’s lookin’ up”—he paused—“well…”

  “Well?” rapped Nayland Smith.

  “He’s very tall, see? as tall as me, I guess; an’ he wears a coat with a fur collar an he wears a fur cap. There’s a sickle moon, an’ his eyes—listen to this, Sheriff—his eyes ain’t brown, an’ his eyes ain’t blue, an’ they ain’t gray: they’re green!”

  “Quick, man!” Nayland Smith cried. “What happened? What did he want?”

  “He wants my motor-boat.”

  “Did he get it?”

  “Listen, mister! I told you I’m a league man, didn’t I? Well, this is a league official, see? Shows me his badge. He buys the boat. I didn’t have no choice, anyway—but I’d been nuts to say no to the price. Trouble is, now I got no boat; an money ain’t ev’rything when a man loses his boat!”

  “Fu-Manchu knows the game’s up. They had a radio in the place!” said Smith to Hepburn in a low tone vibrant with excitement.

  “Then God help Salvaletti!”

  “Amen. We know he has agents in Chicago. But by heaven we must move, Hepburn: the Doctor is making for Canada!”

  * * *

  At roughly about this time, those who had listened to Patrick Donegal and who now were listening to radio topics received a further shock…

  “Tragic news has just come to hand from Chicago,” they heard. “A woman known as Mrs. Valetti occupied Apartment 36 in the Doric Building on Lakeside. She was a beautiful brunette, and almost her only caller was a man believed to be her husband who frequently visited there. About 8.30 this evening, Miss Lola Dumas, whose marriage to Paul Salvaletti has been arranged to take place next month, came to the apartment. She had never been there before. She failed to get any reply to her ringing but was horrified to hear a woman’s scream. At her urgent request the door was opened by the resident manager, and a dreadful discovery was made.

  “Mrs. Valetti and the man lay side by side upon the day-bed in the sitting-room. On the woman’s arms and on the man’s neck there were a number of blood-red spots. They were both dead, and a window was wide open. Miss Dumas collapsed on recognizing the man as her fiancé, Paul Salvaletti. She is alleged to have uttered the words, ‘The Scarlet Bride’—which the police engaged on the case believe to relate to the dead woman. But Miss Dumas, to whom the sympathy of the entire country goes out in this hour of her unimaginable sorrow, is critically ill and cannot be questioned.

  “The crisis which this tragedy will create in political circles it would be impossible to exaggerate…”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “THUNDER OF WATERS”

  “They’re just landing!” cried the man in the bows of the Customs launch—“at the old Indian Ferry.”

  “Guess those Canadian bums showed ‘emselves,” growled another voice. “We had ‘em trapped, if they’d gone ashore where they planned.”

  Nayland Smith standing up and peering through night-glasses, saw a tall, dark figure on the rock-cut steps. It was unmistakable. It was Dr. Fu-Manchu! He saw him beckon to the second passenger in the little motor-boat; and the other, a man whose hair shone like silver in the moonlight, joined him on the steps. A third remained in the boat at the wheel. Dr. Fu-Manchu, arms folded, stood for a moment looking out across the river. He did not seem to be watching the approaching Customs craft so swiftly bearing down upon him, but rather to be studying the shadowed American bank, the frontier of the United States.

  It came to Nayland Smith, as they drew nearer and nearer to the motionless figure, that Dr. Fu-Manchu was bidding a silent farewell to the empire he had so nearly won…

  Just as words of command trembled on Smith’s lips Fu-Manchu spoke to the occupant of the boat; turned, and with his white-haired companion strode up the steps—steps hewn by the red man in days before any white traveler had seen or heard “The Thunder of Waters.”

  The motor-boat spluttered into sudden life and set off downstream.

  “Stop that man!” rapped Nayland Smith.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu and the other already were lost in the shadow.

  “Heave to—Federal orders!” roared a loud voice.

  Farmer Clutterbuck’s motor-boat was kept on its course.

  “Shall we let him have it?”

  “Yes—but head for the steps.”

  Three shots came almost together. Raising the glasses again, Nayland Smith had a glimpse of a form crouching low over the wheel… then a bluff which protected the Indian Ferry obscured the boat from sight. As they swung into the steps:

  “What was that move?” somebody inquired. “I guess we missed him anyway.”

  But Nayland Smith was already running up the steps. He found himself in a narrow gorge on one side completely overhung by tangled branches. He flashed a light ahead. Three Federal agents came clattering up behind him.

  “What I’m wondering,” said one, “is, where’s Captain Hepburn.”

  Nayland Smith wondered also. Hepburn, in another launch, had been put ashore higher up on the Canadian bank, armed with Smith’s personal card upon which a message had been scribbled…

  Dr. Fu-Manchu and his companion seemed to have disappeared.

  But now, heralded by a roar of propellors, Captain Kingswell came swooping down out of the night, and the first Véry light burst directly overhead! Nayland Smith paused, raised his glasses, and stared upward. Kingswell, flying very low, circled, dipped, and headed down river.

  “He’s seen them!” snapped Smith.

  Came a dim shouting… Hepburn was heading in their direction. A second light broke.

  “By God!” Nayland Smith cried savagely, “are we all blind? Look at Kingswell’s signals. They have rejoined the motor-boat at some place below!”

  Two more army planes flew into view…
r />   “Back to the launch?” Smith shouted.

  But when at last they set out again, the bat-like maneuvers of the aviators and the points at which they threw out their flares indicated that the cunning quarry had a long start. It seemed to Nayland Smith, crouched in the bows, staring ahead, that time, elastic, had stretched out to infinity. Then he sighted the motor-boat. Kingswell, above, was flying just ahead of it. He threw out a light.

  In the glare, while it prevailed, a grim scene was shown. The man at the wheel (probably the same who had piloted the plane) lay over it, if not dead, unconscious; and the silver-haired passenger was locked in a fierce struggle with Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  Professor Morgenstahl’s hour had come! In the stress of that last fight for freedom the Doctor’s control, for a matter of seconds only, had relaxed. But in those seconds Morgenstahl had acted…

  “This is where we check out!” came a cry. “Hard over, Jim!”

  Absorbed in the drama being played before him—a drama the real significance of which he could only guess—Nayland Smith had remained deaf to the deepening roar of the river. Suddenly the launch rolled and swung about.

  “What’s this?” he shouted, turning.

  “Twenty lengths more and we’d be in the rapids!”

  The rapids!

  He craned his head, looking astern. Somewhere, far back, a light broke. Three planes were flying low over the river… and now to his ears came the awesome song of Niagara, “The Thunder of Waters.”

  An icy hand seemed to touch Nayland Smith’s heart…

  Dr. Fu-Manchu had been caught in the rapids; no human power nor his own superlative genius could prevent his being carried over the great falls! The man who had dared to remodel nature’s forces had been claimed at last by the gods he had outraged.

  APPRECIATING DR. FU-MANCHU