by Sax Rohmer
Petrie found himself in a frowsy, evil-smelling passage, the floor covered with worn and cracked linoleum; hideous paper peeling from the walls. There was a room immediately on the left, the door of which was open. He entered, heard the front door close, and the old Chinaman came in behind him.
This was a room which had apparently remained untouched, undecorated and undusted since the days of Queen Victoria. Upon a round mahogany table were wax flowers under a glass case; indescribably filthy horsehair chairs;
a carpet through which the floor appeared from point to point;
a large print on one wall representing King Edward VII as Prince of Wales, and a brass gas chandelier hanging from the centre of a ceiling of the colour of Thames mud.
Petrie set down his suitcase very carefully on the floor, and turned to Sam Pak.
“What now, John?”
“Waitee, please; go be long yet.”
The aged creature went out; and Petrie, staring through indescribably dirty lace curtains upon the prospect outside, saw a Morris car pull up.
It was driven by a man who wore a tweed cap, pulled well down over his eyes, but who almost certainly was an Asiatic . ..
Old Sam Pak, better known to Dr. Petrie as John Ki, returned.
He was carrying a small steel casket. He handled it as though it had been a piece of fragile Ming porcelain, and with one skinny hand indicated the suitcase.
Petrie nodded, and unfastened the case.
A quantity of cotton waste was produced by Sam Pak from somewhere, and wrapped around the steel receptacle; this was then deposited in the case, and the case was closed.
“Key?”
The aged Chinaman extended upon one skinny finger a curiously shaped key attached to a ring.
“Keep—velly particular.”
“I understand.”
Dr. Petrie took it, placed it in his note-case and returned the note-case to his pocket.
Sam Pak signalled from the window and the driver of the Morris came up the steps.
He carried the suitcase out to the car.
“Very careful, my man!” called Petrie, urgently; and realized that, for the first time in his life, he was interested in the survival of Dr. Fu Manchu.
He was indifferent to his destination. He lay back in the car and dully watched a panorama of sordid streets.
CHAPTER
59
LIMEHOUSE
That strange journey terminated at a small house in Felling Street, Limehouse.
The driver of the Morris, who might have been Chinese, but who more probably was a half-caste, jumped down and banged on an iron knocker which took the place of a bell.
The door was opened almost immediately, but Petrie was unable to see by whom.
His driver’s behaviour during this long and dismal journey had been eccentric. Drizzling rain had taken the place of fog, and the crowded City streets under these conditions would have reduced a Sam Weller to despair. Many byways had been explored for no apparent reason. The driver constantly pulled up, and waited, and watched.
Dr. Petrie understood these manoeuvres.
The man suspected pursuit, and was anxious to throw his pursuers off the track.
Now he signalled to Dr. Petrie to come in. Petrie climbed out of the car and walked into the open door-way.
“The bag?” he said.
“Leave now,” the driver replied; “get presently.”
“Those are my orders, Dr. Petrie,” came in a cultured voice.
And Petrie found that a Japanese gentleman who wore spectacles was smiling at him out of the shadows of the little passage-way.
“If those are your orders, good enough.”
The driver went out; the door was closed. And Petrie followed the Japanese to a back room, the appointments of which aroused him from the lethargy into which he was falling.
This might have been a private room in an up-to-date hairdresser’s establishment, or it might have been an actor’s dressing-room. All the impedimenta of make-up was represented and there was a big winged mirror set right of the window. The prospect was that of a wall beyond which appeared a number of chimneys.
“My name is Ecko Yusaki,” said the man who wore the spectacles, “ and it is a great privilege to meet you, Dr. Petrie. Will you please sit in the armchair, facing the light.
Petrie sat in the armchair.
“Your interests are not the same as my own,” the smooth voice continued, and Mr. Yusaki busied himself with mysterious preparations; “but they are, I imagine, as keen. I am one of the most ancient brotherhood in the world, Dr. Petrie—the Si-Fan.” (He made a curious gesture with which Petrie was unpleasantly familiar) “and at last my turn has come to be useful. I am——” he turned displaying a row of large, gleaming teeth—”a specialist in make-up, but recently returned from Hollywood.”
“I see,” said Petrie. “Regard me as entirely in your hands.”
Thereupon, courteously, and with a deft assurance which spoke of the enthusiast, Mr. Yusaki set to work.
Petrie submitted, closing his eyes and thinking of Fleurette, of his wife, of Nayland Smith, of Sterling, of all those caught in the mesh of the dreadful Chinese Doctor.
At last, Mr. Yusaki seemed to be satisfied, and:
“Please glance at this photograph, Dr. Petrie,” he said . . . “No! one moment!” he snatched the photograph away . . . “Through these!”
He adjusted tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles over Petrie’s ears.
Petrie stared at a photograph nearly life size which the Japanese was holding before him. It was that of a man apparently grey-haired, who wore a moustache and a short pointed beard, and who also wore spectacles; a sad looking man nearer sixty than fifty, but well preserved for his years.
“You see?”
“Yes. Who is it?”
“Please look now in the mirror.”
Petrie turned to the big mirror.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Good God!”
He saw the original of the photograph—yet the face at which he looked was his own!
Speech failed him for a moment, and then:
“Who am I?” he asked, in a dull voice.
“You are a member of the Si-Fan——” Again the respectful gesture resembling the Roman Catholic Sign of the Cross— “who to-day is making a great sacrifice for the Cause. My part is done, Dr. Petrie—except for a small change of dress; and the car is waiting. . . .”
CHAPTER
60
DR. PETRIE’S PATIENT
When the Queenstown Bay came to her berth, Dr. Petrie was one of the first visitors aboard.
Shortly after he reached the deck, endeavouring to recall his instructions, an elderly Egyptian, wearing European dress, approached him. The usual scurry characterized the docking of the liner; stewards and porters were rushing about with baggage; visitors were looking for those they had come to meet; cargo was being swung out from the holds; and drizzling rain desended dismally upon the scene.
“Dr. Petrie!”
The man spoke urgently, close to Petrie’s ear.
“Yes.”
“My name is Ibrahim. Please—your dock check.”
Petrie handed the slip to the Egyptian.
“Please wait here. I shall come back.”
He moved along the deck, and presently disappeared amongst a group of passengers crowding towards the gangway.
Petrie felt that he was in a dream. Yet he forced himself to play his part in this grotesque pantomime, the very purpose of which he could not comprehend: the sanity of his daughter was at stake.
Ibrahim rejoined him. He handed him a passport.
“Please see that it is in order,” he said. “You have to pass the Customs.”
Petrie, inured to shock, opened the little book; saw a smaller version of the photograph which Mr. Yusaki had shown him, gummed upon the front page; and learned that he was a Mr. Jacob Edward Crossland, aged fifty-five, of no occupation, and residing at 14, Westminst
er Mansions!
The extent and the powers of the organization called the Si-Fan were so amazing that he had never succeeded in getting used to them. No society, with the possible exception of the Jesuits, ever had wielded such influence nor had its roots so deeply set in unsuspected quarters.
He could only assume that Mr. Crossland, husband of the well-known woman novelist, was one of these strange brethren: assume, too, that Mr. Crossland would slip ashore as a visitor.
And—what?
Disappear from his place in society? Yusaki had said he was making a great sacrifice for the Cause. It was all very wonderful and very terrifying.
“I have tipped the stewards, effendim—and your baggage is already in Custom House. Will you please follow me? . . .”
Dr. Petrie walked down the ladder wearing a white raincoat which he had acquired at the house of Mr. Yusaki, and a grey hat of a colour and style which he detested.
Apparently, Mr. Crossland travelled light. A small cabin-trunk and a suitcase lay upon the Customs bench. The cabin trunk he was requested to open. Ibrahim produced the necessary key, displaying wearing apparel, a toilet case, books and other odds and ends. The two pieces were passed. The porter hired by Ibrahim carried them out towards the dock gates.
“Be careful, please,” the Egyptian whispered.
Detective-inspector Gallaho and Sergeant Murphy were standing at the gate!
Nothing quite corresponding to this had ever occurred in Petrie’s adventurous life. He had joined the ranks of the law breakers!
He must play his part; so much was at stake. He must deceive his friends, those interested, as he was interested, in apprehending the Chinese physician. If his nerve, or the art of Mr. Yusaki should fail him now—all would be lost!
The critical gaze of Gallaho was fixed upon him for a moment, then immediately transferred to Ibrahim.
Petrie passed the detective, forcing himself not to look in his direction. A taxicab was waiting upon which the pieces of baggage were loaded, under the supervision of Ibrahim. Petrie observed with admiration that his own suitcase had already been placed inside.
He knew now where his course lay, and his amazement rose by leaps and bounds.
The presence of Gallaho at the dock gates was explained. The police were covering the Crossland flat. The man, when he had left that morning, had naturally been followed. He was regarded as a factor so important in the case that Gallaho had covered in person. Gallaho would be disappointed. The cunning of the group surrounding Dr. Fu Manchu exceeded anything in Petrie’s experience.
He glanced at the placid, elderly Egyptian seated beside him,and:
“How long have you belonged to the Si-Fan?” he asked, speaking in Arabic.
Ibrahim shrugged his shoulders.
“Sir,” he replied in the same language, “it is not possible for me to reply to your questions. Silence is my creed.”
“Very sound,” Petrie murmured, and gave it up.
His sentiments when he reached Westminster, and was greeted respectfully by the hall porter as Mr. Crossland, were of a kind inexpressible in any language known to man.
Then, as he stepped out of the elevator—Nayland Smith was standing on the landing!
Petrie suppressed an exclamation. One piercing stare of those blue-grey eyes had told him that he was recognized.
But Smith gave no sign, merely bowing and stepping aside as Ibrahim busied himself with the baggage.
Three mintues later, Dr. Petrie stood in the pseudo-Oriental atmosphere of the Crossland flat, and Ibrahim closed the door behind him.
“Please wait a moment.”
The Egyptian walked through the harem-like apartment which opened out of the lobby, and disappeared.
Petrie had time to wonder if the authoress of the celebrated novels of desert love also was a member of the Si-Fan, or if this must be counted a secret of her husband’s life which she had never shared. He wondered what part this man normally played in their activities, and doubted the nationality of Crossland.
Surely no man entitled to his name could link himself with a monstrous conspiracy to subject the Western races to domination by the East?
Above all, to what reward did Crossland look which should make good the loss of his place in the world of decent men?
“If you will please come this way, sir.”
Ibrahim, who had carried out the precious suitcase, now returned without it, and stood bowing before Petrie.
Petrie nodded and followed the Egyptian across that shaded room with its mushrabiyeh windows, and through a doorway beyond, which, in spite of the Oriental camouflage, he recognized to correspond with one in Nayland Smith’s apartment.
He found himself in a large bedroom.
The Eastern note persisted. The place, viewed from the doorway, resembled a stage-set designed by one of the more advanced Germans for a scene in Scheherazade. The bed stood upon a dias; its posts were intricately carved and inlaid, and a canopy of cloth of gold overhung its head. A low couch he saw, too, and a long, inlaid table of Damascus work. Upon this table chemical apparatus appeared, striking a strange note in that apartment. He noted that the contents of his suitcase had been added to the other materials upon the table.
And, in the bed, Dr. Fu Manchu lay. . . .
Petrie stared, and stared again, unable to accept the evidence of his own senses.
Less than two months had elapsed since he had seen the Chinese doctor. In those two months, Fu Manchu had aged incredibly.
He was shrunken; his strange, green eyes were buried in his skull; his long hands lying on the silk coverlet resembled the hands of a mummy. The outline of his teeth could be seen beneath drawn lips. To the keen scrutiny of the physician, the truth was apparent.
Dr. Fu Manchu was dying!
“ ‘0 mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low?’“ came sibilantly through parched lips. “I observe, Dr. Petrie, that this beautiful passage from an otherwise dull play is present in your mind . . . You honour me.”
Petrie started, felt his fists clenching. The body of Fu Manchu was in dissolution, but that phenomenal brain had lost none of its power. The man still retained his uncanny capacity for reading one’s unspoken thoughts.
“I must harbour what little strength remains to me,” the painful whisper continued. “For your daughter’s health of mind and body, you need have no fear. I was compelled, since there is still work for me if I can do it, to impose a command upon her. It nearly exhausted my powers, which are dwindling minute by minute.”
The whispering voice ceased.
Petrie watched that strange face, but no words came to him. In it he had seen, as others had seen, a likeness to the Pharaoh, Seti I—but the Pharaoh as one imagined him in his prime. Now, the resemblance to the mummy which lies in Cairo was uncanny.
Ideas which his scientific mind rejected as superstitious, danced mentally before him. . . .
What was the real age of this man?
“I have removed the command which I imposed upon her,” the whistling voice continued, “because I have accepted your word, as you have always accepted mine. Your daughter, Dr. Petrie, is restored to you as you would wish her to be. I shall never again intrude upon her life in any way.”
“Thank you!” said Petrie—and wondered why he spoke so emotionally.
He was thanking this cold-blooded, murderous criminal for promising to refrain from one of his many crimes! Perhaps the secret of his sentiment lay in the fact hat he knew the criminal to be one whose word was inviolable.
“I have taken these steps——” Fu Manchu’s voice sank lower—”because with all your great skill, which I respect, your assistance may have come too late.”
He paused again. Petrie watched him fascinatedly.
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith has succeeded for the . . . first time in his life in sequestering me from most of those resources upon which normally ... I can draw. ... In these circumstances I was compelled to forego one ... of the periodical treatments upon whi
ch my continued . . . vitality depends. ... I was then cut off from the material. My present condition is outside my experience ... I cannot say if restoration ... is possible. . . .”
Complete resignation sounded in the weak voice.
“In the absence of Dr. Yamamata . . . who usually acts for me, but who unfortunately at present is in China . . . there is no other physician known to me who could possibly . . . assist—in any way. I shall be obliged, Dr. Petrie, if you will give the whole of your attention to ... the written formula which lies . . . upon the table. Any error would be fatal. . . . Only one portion of the essential oil remains in the phial contained in the steel casket. ...”
He ceased speaking and closed his eyes.
His hands had never moved; it was like listening to a dead man speaking from the grave.
CHAPTER
61
THE CROSSLAND’S FLAT
“Detective-inspector Gallaho, sir,” Fey announced.
It was approaching evening when Gallaho called on Nayland Smith; and, entering the lobby, he wrenched his bowler off, threw it on to a chair and walked into the sitting-room.
“Hullo, Gallaho!” said Sir Denis. “A devil of a row going on in the corridor?”
“Yes, sir. The vacant flat has been let—to an Indian Army gentleman, I believe. His stuff is being moved in.”
“You’ve checked up, I see!”
“Well——” Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf— “I’ve got a man posted at each of the four exits, and I’ve sized up the workmen from Staple’s depository on the job. Nobody is going to slip out in the confusion—that is, nobody over six feet in height that I don’t know!”
“Efficient work, Inspector.”
Gallaho stared, chewing invisible gum.
“I have come to a certain conclusion, sir,” he declared. “What I do about it depends upon your answer to a question I am going to ask.”
“What’s the question?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“It’s just this, sir: who’s in charge of this Fu Manchu case?”
“I am.”
“Good enough. That means I am under your orders, definitely.”
“Definitely”
“That saves me a lot of trouble,” sighed Gallaho, leaning upon the mantelpiece. “Because I have certain theories, and I can’t act upon them without your instructions.”
