The Shadow of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “You mean—Dr. Craig?”

  “I referred to him—yes.”

  Camille, with desperate courage, stood up and faced Fu-Manchu.

  “And you think I would put that weapon into your hands—even if I could? I should prefer to die—and leave the law to deal with you!”

  But Dr. Fu-Manchu remained unmoved.

  “One who hopes to save civilization cannot afford to respect the law. You are that rare freak of the gods, a personable woman with a brain. Yet, womanlike, you permit emotion to rule you. Why do you wear those pieces of plain glass?”

  He fully opened his strange eyes, raised one long-nailed hand, and pointed at her.

  Camille ceased to possess any individual existence. She found herself in that trancelike condition which had made her dreams so terrible.

  “Take them off.”

  Automatically she obeyed. Something within rose in fierce, angry revolt. But Camille herself was helpless.

  “Shake your hair down.”

  She released her wonderful hair. It cascaded, a fiery torrent, onto her shoulders. Mechanically Camille arranged it with her fingers.

  “Kneel.”

  She knelt at Fu-Manchu’s feet.

  “Bow your head… Sleep.”

  She bowed her head, a beautiful, submissive slave awaiting punishment.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu struck a silver bell which hung on a table beside the divan. Camille did not hear its sweet, lingering note. She was lost in a silent world from which only one sound could recall her—the voice of Fu-Manchu.

  * * *

  A man entered through the archway. He never even glanced at the motionless, kneeling figure. He bowed, briefly but respectfully, to Fu-Manchu. He was short, dark, and thickset, with a Teutonic skull. He wore a long, white-linen coat, like that of a surgeon.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu crossed and seated himself at the table.

  “Koenig—tonight you will go to the Huston Building. The duplicate key you made after Miss Navarre’s last visit opens the private door and also that of the elevator to the thirty-second floor. On the thirty-second floor there is another elevator. The key opens this also. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  “It will take you to the thirty-sixth, where you will enter the office of Dr. Craig. The laboratory adjoins the office. The communicating door is locked. A man called Regan will be on duty in the laboratory. He must be induced to come out. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  “M’goyna will be with you—if this alarms you, say so. Very well. Regan must be overpowered and taken back to the laboratory. M’goyna will then remain there with him. You will make it clear to Regan that should M’goyna be found there, he, Regan, will be strangled. Regan must speak on intercommunication should Dr. Craig call him. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Fu-Manchu clapped his hands sharply.

  “M’goyna!”

  The embroidered curtain which partly concealed a recess in the wall was drawn aside. A gigantic figure appeared. The shoulders of an Atlas, long arms, grotesquely large hands, and a face so scarred as to be incomparable with anything human. A red tarboosh crowned these dreadful features, and the figure wore white Arab dress, a scarlet sash, and Turkish slippers.

  Slowly M’goyna came forward. Every movement was unnatural, like that of an automaton. The huge hands hung limp, insensate—the hands of a gorilla. Like a gorilla, too, he coughed hollowly as he entered.

  Koenig clenched his fists, but stood still. Camille remained kneeling. M’goyna crossed to the long table and came to rest there facing Dr. Fu-Manchu, who addressed him in Turkish.

  “Change to street clothes. You go with Koenig to the Huston Building.”

  “With Koenig to the Huston Building,” M’goyna intoned in a rasping voice.

  “You will be shown a man. You must seize him.”

  “Shown a man. I seize him.”

  “You must not kill him.”

  M’goyna slowly revealed irregular, fanglike teeth and then closed his lips again. He coughed.

  “Must not kill him.”

  “You are under Koenig’s orders. Salute Koenig.”

  M’goyna touched his brow, his mouth, and his breast and inclined his head.

  “You will do as he tells you. At ten o’clock I shall come for you. Repeat the time.”

  “Ten o’clock—you come for me?”

  “At ten o’clock.” Dr. Fu-Manchu turned to Koenig and spoke one word in English. “Proceed.”

  * * *

  Morris Craig’s office was empty. Night had dropped a velvet curtain outside the windows, irregularly embroidered with a black pattern where the darkened building opposite challenged a moonless sky.

  Only the tubular desk lamp was alight, as Craig had left it. So still was the place that when the elevator came up and stopped at the lobby, its nearly silent ascent made quite a disturbance. Then no movement was audible for fully a minute—when the office door opened inch by inch, and Koenig looked in. Satisfied with what he saw, he entered and crossed straight to Camille’s room. This he inspected by the light of a flashlamp.

  Noiseless in rubber soles, he moved to the laboratory door and shone a light onto the steps leading up to it. He examined the safe and went across to the long windows, staring out onto the terrace.

  Then, turning his head, he spoke softly.

  “M’goyna—”

  M’goyna lumbered in. He wore brown overalls and a workman’s cap. That huge frame, the undersized skull, were terrible portents. He stood just inside the door, motionless, a parody of humanity.

  “Close the door.”

  M’goyna did so, and resumed his pose.

  “The man will come out from there.” Koenig pointed towards the laboratory. “Seize him.”

  M’goyna nodded his small head.

  “Choke him enough but not too much—and then carry him back. You understand me?”

  “Yes. Must not kill him.”

  “Hide here, between the couch and the steps. When he comes out, do as I have ordered. Remember—you must not kill him.”

  M’goyna nodded, and coughed.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Koenig switched off the desk lamp. Now it was possible to see that the night curtain beyond the windows was studded with jewels twinkling in a cloudless heaven. Koenig shone the light of his lamp onto a recess between the leather-covered couch and the three steps.

  “Here. Crouch down.”

  M’goyna walked across as if motivated by hidden levers and squatted there.

  Koenig switched his lamp off. He paused for a moment to get accustomed to the darkness, then went up the three steps and beat upon the door with clenched fists.

  “Regan!” he shouted. “Regan!… Regan!…”

  He ran down and threw himself onto the couch beside which M’goyna waited.

  Followed an interval of several seconds—ten—twenty—thirty.

  Then came a faint sound. The steel door was opened. Green light poured out, such a light as divers see below the surface of the ocean; rays giving no true illumination. The office became vibrant with unseen force.

  Regan stood at the top of the steps, peering down.

  “Dr. Craig! Are you there?”

  He began to descend, picking his way.

  And, as his foot touched the bottom step, M’goyna hurled himself upon him, snarling like a wild animal.

  “My God!”

  The words were choked out of Regan. They faded into a gurgle, into nothing.

  “Not too much! Remember!”

  M’goyna grunted. One huge hand clasping Regan’s throat, he lifted him with his free arm and carried him, like a bundle, up the steps.

  Koenig followed.

  The door remained open. Green light permeated the office filled with pulsations of invisible power. Then Koenig reappeared.

  “You understand—he must answer calls. If Dr. Craig, or anyone else, comes in… you have your orders.”


  He closed the door behind him, so that silence, falling again, became a thing notable, almost audible. He stood still for a moment, taking his bearings, then crossed and switched up the desk lamp.

  Noiselessly he went out.

  The elevator descended.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Wake!”

  Camille opened her eyes, rose from her knees, and although her limbs felt heavy, cramped, sprang upright. She stared wildly at Dr. Fu-Manchu, lifting one hand to her disarranged hair.

  “What—what am I doing here?”

  “You are kneeling to me as if I were the Buddha.”

  A wave of true terror swept over her. Almost, for the first time, she lost control.

  “You… Oh, my God! What happened to me?”

  She retreated from the tall, yellow-robed figure, back and back until her calves came in contact with the divan. Dr. Fu-Manchu watched her.

  “Compose yourself. Your chastity is safe with me. I wished to see you without your disguise.”

  “There was—someone else here—a dreadful man…”

  “M’goyna? You were conscious of his presence? That is informative. I regret that I cannot give you an opportunity to examine M’goyna. As a fellow scientist, you would be interested. M’goyna carried my first invitation to you, although I thought you had forgotten.”

  “I had forgotten,” Camille whispered. She was trembling.

  “He can climb like an ape. He climbed from the fire ladders along the coping of the Huston Building in order to present my compliments. You spoke of ‘a dreadful man.’ But M’goyna is not a man. In Haiti he would be called a zombie. He illustrates the possibilities of vivisection. His frame is that of a Turkish criminal executed for strangling women. I recovered the body before rigor mortis had set in.”

  “You are trying to frighten me. Why?”

  “Truth never frightened the scientific mind. M’goyna was created in my Cairo laboratory. I supplied him with an elementary brain—a trifle superior to that of a seal. Little more than a receiving set for my orders. He remains imperfect, however. I have been unable to rid my semi-human of that curious cough. Some day I must try again.”

  And, as the cold, supercilious voice continued, Camille began to regain her composure; for Dr. Fu-Manchu had been unable wholly to conceal a note of triumph. He was a dangerous genius, probably a madman, but he was not immune from every human frailty. He was proud of his own fantastic achievements.”

  She dropped down onto the settee as he crossed, moving with that lithe, feline tread, and resumed his place behind the black table. When he spoke again he seemed to be thinking aloud…

  “There are only a certain number of nature’s secrets which man is permitted to learn. A number sufficient for his own destruction.”

  A high, wailing sound came from somewhere beyond the room. It rose, and fell, rose, and fell—and died away. But for Camille it was almost the last straw.

  Clasping her hands, she sprang up, threatened now by hysteria.

  “My God! What was it—”

  Dr. Fu-Manchu rested his chin on interlaced fingers.

  “It was Bast—my pet cheetah. She thinks I have forgotten her supper. These hunting cats are so voracious.”

  “I don’t believe you… It sounded like…”

  “My dear Miss Navarre, I resent the implication. Sir Denis Nayland Smith would assure you that lying is not one of my vices.”

  Delicately, he took a pinch of snuff from a silver box. Camille sat down again, struggling to recover her lost poise. She forced herself to meet his fixed regard.

  “What is it you want? Why do you look at me like that?”

  “I am admiring your beautiful courage. To destroy that which is beautiful is an evil thing.” He stood up. “You wish for the peace of the world. You have said so… You fear cruelty. You flinched when you heard the cry of a cheetah. You have known cruelty—for there is no cruelty like the cruelty of war. If your wish was sincere only I can hope to bring it true. Will you work with me, or against me?”

  “How can I believe—”

  “In Dr. Fu-Manchu? In an international criminal? No—perhaps it is asking too much, in the time at my disposal—and the very minutes grow precious.” He opened his eyes widely. “Stand up, Camille Navarre. What is your real name?”

  And Camille became swept again at command of the master hypnotist into that grey and dreadful half-world where there was no one but Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  “Camille Mirabeau,” she answered mechanically—and stood up. “Navarre was the name by which I was known to the Maquis.”

  The green eyes were very close to hers.

  “Why were you employed by Britain?”

  “Because of my success in smuggling Air Force personnel out of the German zone. And because I speak several languages and have had science training.”

  “Were you ever married?”

  “No.”

  “How many lovers have you had?”

  “One.”

  “How long did this affair last?”

  “For three months. Until he was killed by the Gestapo.”

  “Have you ceased to regret?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Morris Craig attract you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He will be your next lover. You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “You will make him take you away from the Huston Building not later than half past nine. He must not return to his office tonight. You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Does he find you attractive?”

  “Yes.”

  The insistent voice was beating on her brain like a hammer. But she was powerless to check its beats, powerless to resist its promptings; compelled to answer—truthfully. Her brain, her heart, lay on Dr. Fu-Manchu’s merciless dissecting table.

  “Has he expressed admiration?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what way?”

  “He has asked me not to wear glasses, and not to brush my hair back as I do.”

  “And you love him?”

  Camille’s proud spirit rose strong in revolt. She remained silent.

  “You love him?”

  It was useless. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Tonight you will seduce him with your hair. The rest I shall leave to Morris Craig. I will give you your instructions before you leave. Sleep…”

  There came an agonized interval, in which Camille lay helpless in invisible chains, and then the Voice again.

  “I have forgotten all that happened since I left my office in the Huston Building. Repeat.”

  “I have forgotten all that happened since I left my office in the Huston Building.”

  “When I return I shall remember only what I have to do at nine-fifteen—nine-fifteen by the office clock.”

  “When I return I shall remember only what I have to do at nine-fifteen, by the office clock.”

  “At nine-thirty Dr. Fu-Manchu will call me: repeat the time.”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “The fate of the world rests in my hands.”

  Camille raised her arms, clutched her head. She moaned… “Oh!… I… cannot bear this—”

  “Repeat my words.”

  “The fate… of the world… rests… in… my hands…”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Morris Craig came back, “under convoy” from Nayland Smith’s “quiet restaurant.” Standing before the private door:

  “Your restaurant was certainly, quiet,” he said. “But the check was a loud, sad cry. Come up if you like, Smith. But I have a demon night ahead of me. I must be through by tomorrow. Thanks for a truly edible dinner. Most acceptable to my British constitution. The wine was an answer to this pagan’s prayer.”

  Nayland Smith gave him a long, steely-hard look.

  “Have I succeeded in making it quite clear to you, Craig, that the danger is now, tonight, and for the next twenty-four hours?”

  �
�Septically clear. Already I have symptoms of indigestion. But if I work on into the grey dawn I’m going to get the job finished, because I am bidden to spend the week-end with the big chief in the caves and jungles of Connecticut.”

  Nayland Smith, a lean figure in a well-worn tweed suit, for he had left his topcoat in the car, hesitated for a moment; then he grasped Craig firmly by the arm.

  “I won’t make myself a nuisance,” he said. “But I want to see you right back on the job before I leave you. The fact is—I have a queer, uneasy feeling tonight. We must neglect no precaution.”

  And so they went up to the office together, and found it just as they had left it. Craig hung up his hat and coat, grinning at Smith, who was lighting his pipe.

  “Don’t mind me. Carry on as if you were in your own abode. I’ll carry on as if I were in mine.”

  He crossed to unlock the safe, when:

  “Wait a minute,” came sharply. “I’m going to make myself a nuisance after all.”

  Craig turned. “How come?”

  “The duplicate key is in my topcoat! You will have to let me out.”

  “Blessings and peace,” murmured Craig. “But I promise not to go beyond the street door. There will thus be no excuse for my being escorted upstairs again. Before we start, better let Regan know I’m back.”

  He called the laboratory, and waited.

  “H’m. Silence. He surely can’t have gone to sleep… Try again.”

  And now came Regan’s voice, oddly strained.

  “Laboratory? Regan here.”

  “That’s all right, Regan. Just wanted to say I’m back. Everything in order?”

  “Yes… everything.”

  Craig glanced at Nayland Smith.

  “Sounded very cross, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t wonder. Is he expected to work all night, too?”

  “No. Shaw relieves him at twelve o’clock.”

  “Come on, then. I won’t detain you any longer.”

  They went out.

  That faint sound made by the elevator had just died away, when there came the muffled thud of two shots… The laboratory door was flung open—and Regan hurled himself down the steps. He held an automatic in his hand, as he raced towards the lobby.