by Sax Rohmer
“You asked me a similar question not long ago. But you have forgotten.”
“I have never seen you in my life before—as you are now. But I know you! You are Dr. Fu-Manchu!”
“Your data are inaccurate. But your inference is correct. What are you doing here, you say? You are suffering the inconvenience of one who interferes with my plans. I regret the crude measures used by Koenig to prevent this interference. But his promptitude saved the situation.”
“Where is Dr. Craig?” Camille demanded breathlessly. “What have you done to him?”
He watched her through narrowed eyes and unfolded his clasped arms before he replied:
“I am glad your first, your only, concern is for Dr. Craig.”
“Why?”
“Presently, you shall know.”
And something in that expression, “You shall know,” brought sudden revelation to Camille.
“You are the man who called himself Professor Hoffmeyer!”
“I congratulate you. I had imagined my German-English to be above reproach. I begin to wonder if you cannot be of use to me. As Professor Hoffmeyer, I have been observing the life of Manhattan. I have seen that Manhattan is Babylon reborn—that Manhattan, failing a spiritual revolution, must fall as Babylon fell.”
“Where is Dr. Craig?” Camille repeated, mechanically, desperately. “Why have I been brought here?”
“Because there was no other place to which they could bring you. It surprises me, I confess, that a woman of such keen perceptions failed to learn the fact that Michael Frobisher was a Communist.”
“A Communist? Mr. Frobisher? Oh, no—he is a Socialist—”
“Socialism is Communism’s timid sister. Michael Frobisher is an active agent of the Soviet Union. Before his marriage, he spent many years in Moscow. Dr. Craig’s invention was financed by the Kremlin. Had Frobisher secured it for them, he was promised a post which would have made him virtual dictator of the United States.”
Even in her desolation, despair, this astounding fact penetrated to Camille’s mind.
“Then he was clever,” she murmured.
“Communism is clever. It is indeed clever to force the world’s workers to toil and sweat in order that their masters may live in Oriental luxury.”
“Why do you tell me all this? Why do you talk to me, torture me, but never answer my question?”
“Because, even now, at this eleventh hour, I hope to convert you. You heard me, as Professor Hoffmeyer (the professor, himself, is at work in one of our research centers), outline a design for world harmony. To the perfecting of this design I have given the labor of a long life.”
He paused. A soft, weird cry came from somewhere near. Its effect upon Camille was to shatter her returning composure. To her it portended a threat of death. Had Nayland Smith heard it, he would have recognized the peculiar call of a dacoit, one of that fraternity of Burmese brigands over whom Dr. Fu-Manchu exercised a control hitherto unexplained.
“What was it?”
Camille breathed, rather than spoke, the words.
“A warning. Do not allow it to disturb you. My plans are complete. But my time is limited. You are anxious concerning Dr. Craig. I, too, am anxious. For this reason alone I have talked to you so long. I hope you can induce him to accept the truth. You may succeed where I have failed.”
He turned and walked away. Camille heard the creak of an opening door.
* * *
The warning which Camille had construed as a message of evil omen had been prompted by something occurring on the nearby river front.
To any place, the wide world over, where men go down to the sea in ships, night brings no repose. So that, even at this hour, Manhattan danced on. Winches squealed. Anchor chains rattled. Sea boots clattered along decks. Lights moved hither and thither. Hoarse orders were shouted. Tugboats churned the muddy river. And the outgoing tide sang its eternal song of the ocean, from which it had come, to which it returned.
But no one had time to pay attention to a drunken sailor who came reeling along past deserted dock buildings, blacked-out warehouses, stumbling often, rebuking himself in an alcoholic monotone. He steadied up every once in a while against a friendly doorway, a lamp standard, or a stout pipe.
One such pipe seemed to give him particular satisfaction. Perhaps because it ran down the wall of a building marked for demolition upon the doors of which might still be read the words: “Shen Yan Tea Company.”
This pipe he positively embraced, and, embracing it, sank ungracefully to the sidewalk, and apparently fell asleep.
A few minutes later he had established contact with Regan. He, too, was a Morse expert.
“Yes. John Regan here. Huston Electric. Who are you?”
“Brandt. Police officer. Where are you?”
“Old strong room. Basement. Don’t know what building.”
“Shout. I may hear you.”
“Dumb.”
This message shook Brandt.
“How come?”
“Injection. Attacked in lab Friday night. Get me out.”
“Starving?”
“No. But food and water finished.”
“Any movement overhead right now?”
“Yes. Someone up there.”
“Hang on. Help coming.”
The drunken sailor woke up suddenly. He began to strike matches and to try to light a cigarette. He remained seated beside the pipe. These matches attracted the attention of a patrolman (who had been waiting for this signal) and who now appeared from somewhere, and approached, swinging his club.
But the matches had also attracted the attention of another, highly skilled observer. So that, as the police officer hauled the drunk to his feet and led him off, the call of a dacoit was heard in the empty warehouse.
* * *
“This was formerly the office of a firm of importers known as the Shen Yan Tea Company,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu. “An old friend of mine had an interest in that business.”
Morris Craig swallowed—with difficulty. He had by no means recovered from the strangling grip of those unseen fingers. He would have liked to massage his bruised throat. But his wrists were secured by metal clamps to the arms of his chair, a remarkable piece of furniture, evidently of great age; it had a curious, domed canopy which at some time might have been gilded. He was helpless, mad with anxiety about Camille, but undaunted.
“Strange coincidence,” he replied huskily. “No doubt this attractive and comfortable rest-chair has quite a history, too?”
“A long one, Dr. Craig. I came across it in Seville. It dates from the days of the Spanish Inquisition, when it was known as the Chair of Conversion. I regret that of all those treasured possessions formerly in the Woolton Building, this one must be left behind.”
“Seems a great pity. Cozy little piece.”
Fu-Manchu stood watching him, his long narrow eyes nearly closed, his expression indecipherable. There was that about the tall, fur-capped figure which radiated power. Craig’s nonchalance in the presence of this formidable and wholly unpredictable man demanded an immense nervous effort.
“It may be no more than a national trait, Dr. Craig, but your imperturbable façade reminds me of Sir Denis.”
“You flatter me.”
“You may not know, but it will interest you to learn, that your capture, some hours ago, was largely an accident.”
“Clearly not my lucky day.”
“I doubt if the opportunity would have arisen but for the unforeseen appearance of Miss Navarre. In running to join her, you ran, almost literally, into the arms of two of my servants who were concerned only in retiring undetected.”
“Practically left the poor fellows no choice?”
“Therefore they brought you along with them.”
“Friendly thought.”
Dr. Fu-Manchu turned slowly and crossed the office. Like the adjoining warehouse, it was lighted only by a partly draped lantern which stood on a box beside the Spanish chair. The floo
r, in which were many yawning gaps, was littered with rubbish. A boarded-up window probably overlooked a passage, for there was no sound to suggest that a thoroughfare lay beyond.
Directly facing Craig, a long, high desk was built against the cracked and blackened wall. In this wall were two other windows, level with the top of the desk, and closed by sliding shutters. And on the desk Craig saw a metal-bound teak chest…
Very deliberately Dr. Fu-Manchu lifted this chest, came back, and set it on the box beside the lantern. His nearness produced a tingling nervous tension, as if a hidden cobra had reared its threatening hood.
“Amongst those curious possessions to which I referred,” he continued in his cold, conversational manner (he was unlocking the chest), “is the mummied head of Queen Taia, known to the Egyptians as the ‘witch queen.’ Her skull possesses uncommon characteristics. And certain experiments I am carrying out with it would interest you.”
“Not a doubt of it. My mother gave me a mummy’s head to play with when I was only four.”
“The crystal sets we use in our system of private communication also accompany me to headquarters. This”—he opened the chest—“which I borrowed from there, must never leave my personal possession until I return it.”
Morris Craig’s hands—for only his wrists were constrained—became slowly clenched. Here, he felt, came the final test; this might well be the end.
What he expected to happen, what he expected to see, he could not have put into words. What he did see was an exquisitely fashioned model of just such an equipment as that which had been destroyed in the Huston Building!
The top, front, and sides of the chest were hinged, so that the miniature plant, mounted on its polished teak base, lay fully open to inspection. Wonder reduced Morris Craig to an awed silence. Apart from the fact that there were certain differences (differences which had instantly inflamed his scientific curiosity), to have constructed this model must have called for the labor of months, perhaps of years.
“I don’t understand.” His voice sounded unfamiliar to him. “I don’t understand at all!”
“Only because,” came in cold, incisive tones, “you remain obsessed with the idea that you invented this method of harnessing primeval energy. The model before you was made by a Buddhist monk, in Burma. I had been to inspect it at the time that I first encountered Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Detailed formulae for its employment are in my possession. You, again, after a lapse of years, have solved this problem. My congratulations. Such men were meant to reshape the world—not to destroy it.”
Dr. Fu-Manchu began to reclose the chest.
“I don’t understand,” Craig repeated. “If the principle was known to you, as well as the method of applying it—and I can’t dispute that it was—”
“Why did I permit you to complete your experiments? The explanation is simple. I wanted to know if you could complete them. On my arrival, the main plant had already been set up in the Huston laboratory. I was anxious to learn if the final problem would baffle you. It did not. Such a man is a man to watch.”
Dr. Fu-Manchu locked the teak chest.
“Then it was you who destroyed my work?”
“I had no choice, Dr. Craig. Your work was destined for the use of the Kremlin. I have also your original plans, and every formula. The only blueprints existing I secured tonight. One danger, only, remains.”
“What’s that?”
“Yourself.”
And the word was spoken in a voice which made it a sentence of death.
Dr. Fu-Manchu carried the chest across the cluttered room, and opened what looked like a deep cupboard. He placed the chest inside, and turned again to Craig.
“You will have noted that I am dressed for travel, Dr. Craig. My time is limited. Otherwise, I should employ less mediaeval methods to incline your mind to reason. You seem to have failed to recognize me as Professor Hoffmeyer, but a committee such as I spoke of when we met already exists. It is called the Council of Seven. In our service we have some of the best brains of every continent. We have wealth. We are not criminals. We are idealists—”
A second of those wailing cries, the first of which had terrified Camille, checked his words. Craig started.
“I may delay no longer. You have it in your power, while you live, to destroy all our plans. Therefore, Dr. Craig—I speak with sincere regret—either you must consent to place your undoubted genius at my disposal—or you must die.”
“The choice is made.”
“I trust not, yet.”
Dr. Fu-Manchu opened one of the sliding shutters over the long desk. It disclosed an iron grille through which crept a glimmer of light.
“Miss Navarre!” There was no slightest change of tone, of inflection, in his strange voice. “You were anxious about Dr. Craig. Here he is—perfectly well, as you may judge for yourself.”
And Morris Craig saw Camille’s pale face, her eyes wide with terror, her hair disordered, staring at him through the bars!
A torrent of words, frenzied, scathing, useless words, flooded his brain. But he choked them back—rejected them; and when he spoke, in a whisper, he said simply:
“Camille!”
* * *
“When we move”—Nayland Smith’s expression was very grim—“we must be sure the net has no holes in it. We have Regan’s evidence that there are people in that building. We know who put Regan there. So we know what to expect. Is our cordon wide enough?”
“Hard to make it wider,” Harkness assured him. “But these old places are honeycombs. There are sixty men on the job. I have sent for the keys of all the adjoining buildings.”
“We daren’t wait!” Smith said savagely. “Fu-Manchu has destroyed the last possibility of Craig’s invention being used—except Craig… We daren’t wait.”
“Report coming through,” said Harkness.
The report was one which might have meant next to nothing. A cry had been heard, more than once, in the neighborhood of the closely covered building, which at first hearing had been mistaken for the cry of a cat. Repeated, however, doubt had arisen on this point.
“That settles the matter!” rapped Smith. “It was the call of one of his Burmese bodyguard! Fu-Manchu is there.”
* * *
“There was a pleasant simplicity,” Dr. Fu-Manchu was saying, “in the character of the unknown designer of this chair. I fear I must start its elementary mechanism. The device bears some resemblance to a type of orange-squeezer used in this country.”
He stood behind Craig for a moment; and Craig became aware of a regular, ticking sound, of vibrations in the framework of the chair; he clenched his teeth.
“I am going to ask Miss Navarre to add her powers of persuasion to mine. If you prefer to live—in her company—to devote yourself to the most worthy task of all, the salvation of men from slavery or from destruction, I welcome you—gladly. You are a man of honor. Your word is enough. It is a bond neither you nor I could ever break. Do you accept these terms?”
“Suppose I don’t?”
Morris Craig had grown desperately white.
“I should lock the control, which, you may have noted, lies under your right hand: an embossed gold crown. I should prefer to leave it free. You have only to depress it, and the descent will be arrested. Choose—quickly.”
“Whichever you please. The result will be the same.”
“Words worthy of Molotov! The time for evasion is past. I offer you life—a life of usefulness. I await your promise that, if you accept, you will press the control. Your doing so will mean, on the word of an English gentleman, that you agree to join the Council of Seven. Quickly. Speak!”
“I give you my word”—Morris Craig’s eyes were closed; he spoke all but tonelessly—“that if I press the control it will mean that I accept your offer.”
Dr. Fu-Manchu crossed to the door behind which he had placed the teak chest. As he passed the grilled window:
“The issue, Miss Navarre,” he said, “rests with
you.”
He went out, closing the door.
“No! No! Come back!” Camille clutched the iron bars, shook them frantically. “Come back!… No! No! Merciful God! stop him! Morris! Agree! Agree to anything! I—I can’t bear it…”
The domed canopy, its gilding barely touched by upcast lantern light, was descending slowly.
“Don’t look at me. I shall—weaken—if you look at me…”
“Weaken, Morris, darling, listen to me! Dr. Fu-Manchu is a madman! There can be no obligation to a madman… I tell you he’s mad! Press the control! Do it! Do it!”
The canopy continued to descend, moving in tiny jerks which corresponded to audible ticks of some hidden clockwork mechanism. It was evidently controlled by counterweights, for Craig found the chair to be immovably heavy.
He closed his eyes. He couldn’t endure the sight of Camille’s chalk-white, frenzied face staring at him through those bars. A parade of heretics who had rejected conversion passed before him in the darkness, attired in the silk and velvet, the rags and tatters, of Old Seville. Their heads lolled on their shoulders. Their skulls were crushed.
“Morris! Have you no pity for me? Is this your love…”
He must think. “A bond neither you nor I could ever break.” Those had been the words. That had been the bargain. If he chose life, Dr. Fu-Manchu would claim his services.
“Camille, my dearest, you have faced worse things than this—”
“I tell you he is mad!”
“Unfortunately, I think he’s particularly sane. I even think, in a way, he has the right idea.”
Tick-tick… Tick-tick… Tick-tick. In fractions of an inch, the canopy crept lower.
“I shall lose my reason! O God in heaven, hear me!”
Camille dropped to her knees, hands clasped in passionate supplication. Kneeling, she could no longer see Morris. But, soon, she must look again.
Meaningless incidents from the past, childish memories, trivial things, submerged dreams of a future that was never to be; Morris’s closed eyes; the open, dreadful eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu: all these images moved, in a mocking dance, through her prayers…
A whistle skirled—a long way off. It was answered by another, nearer.
