by Sax Rohmer
Contents
Cover
Praise
The Complete Fu-Manchu Series: By Sax Rohmer
Title Page
Copyright
The Wrath of Fu-Manchu
The Eyes of Fu-Manchu
The Word of Fu-Manchu
The Mind of Fu-Manchu
Nightmare House
The Leopard-Couch
The Mystery of the Fabulous Lamp
A Date at Shepheard’s
The Mark of Maat
The Treasure of Taia
Crime Takes a Cruise
A House Possessed
About the Author
Appreciating Dr. Fu-Manchu
Also Available from Titan Books
“Without Fu-Manchu we wouldn’t have Dr. No, Doctor Doom or Dr. Evil. Sax Rohmer created the first truly great evil mastermind. Devious, inventive, complex, and fascinating. These novels inspired a century of great thrillers!”
—Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Assassin’s Code and Patient Zero
“The true king of the pulp mystery is Sax Rohmer—and the shining ruby in his crown is without a doubt his Fu-Manchu stories.”
—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Colony
“Fu-Manchu remains the definitive diabolical mastermind of the 20th Century. Though the arch-villain is ‘the Yellow Peril incarnate,’ Rohmer shows an interest in other cultures and allows his protagonist a complex set of motivations and a code of honor which often make him seem a better man than his Western antagonists. At their best, these books are very superior pulp fiction… at their worst, they’re still gruesomely readable.”
—Kim Newman, award-winning author of Anno Dracula
“Sax Rohmer is one of the great thriller writers of all time! Rohmer created in Fu-Manchu the model for the super-villains of James Bond, and his hero Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie are worthy stand-ins for Holmes and Watson… though Fu-Manchu makes Professor Moriarty seem an under-achiever.”
—Max Allan Collins, New York Times bestselling author of The Road to Perdition
“I grew up reading Sax Rohmer’s Fu-Manchu novels, in cheap paperback editions with appropriately lurid covers. They completely entranced me with their vision of a world constantly simmering with intrigue and wildly overheated ambitions. Even without all the exotic detail supplied by Rohmer’s imagination, I knew full well that world wasn’t the same as the one I lived in… For that alone, I’m grateful for all the hours I spent chasing around with Nayland Smith and his stalwart associates, though really my heart was always on their intimidating opponent’s side.”
—K. W. Jeter, acclaimed author of Infernal Devices
“A sterling example of the classic adventure story, full of excitement and intrigue. Fu-Manchu is up there with Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan, and Zorro—or more precisely with Professor Moriarty, Captain Nemo, Darth Vader, and Lex Luthor—in the imaginations of generations of readers and moviegoers.”
—Charles Ardai, award-winning novelist and founder of Hard Case Crime
“I love Fu-Manchu, the way you can only love the really GREAT villains. Though I read these books years ago he is still with me, living somewhere deep down in my guts, between Professor Moriarty and Dracula, plotting some wonderfully hideous revenge against an unsuspecting mankind.”
—Mike Mignola, creator of Hellboy
“Fu-Manchu is one of the great villains in pop culture history, insidious and brilliant. Discover him if you dare!”
—Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling co-author of Baltimore: The Plague Ships
THE COMPLETE FU-MANCHU SERIES
BY SAX ROHMER
Available now from Titan Books:
THE MYSTERY OF DR. FU-MANCHU
THE RETURN OF DR. FU-MANCHU
THE HAND OF FU-MANCHU
THE DAUGHTER OF FU-MANCHU
THE MASK OF FU-MANCHU
THE BRIDE OF FU-MANCHU
THE TRAIL OF FU-MANCHU
PRESIDENT OF FU-MANCHU
THE DRUMS OF FU-MANCHU
THE ISLAND OF FU-MANCHU
THE SHADOW OF FU-MANCHU
RE-ENTER: FU-MANCHU
EMPEROR FU-MANCHU
THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU
Print edition ISBN: 9780857686169
E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686824
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First published as a novel in the UK by Tom Stacey, 1973
First published as a novel in the US by DAW, 1976
First Titan Books edition: March 2016
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The Authors League of America and the Society of Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Copyright © 2015 The Authors League of America and the Society of Authors
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Frontispiece illustration from Liberty magazine, Nov. 16, 1940, art by Arnold Freberg. Special Thanks to Dr. Lawrence Knapp for the illustration as it appeared on “The Page of Fu Manchu,” http://njedge.net/~knapp/FuFrames.htm.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
From the cover of Liberty magazine, November 16, 1940, art by Arnold Freberg.
THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU
“By your leave, sir!”
Thurston stepped quickly to the side of the carpeted alleyway, as a steward pushing a trolley stocked with baggage went past. His traveller’s eye noted Dutch Airlines labels on some of the pieces. But he was more interested in a man who followed the trolley.
He was of thickset, shortish figure and wore a chauffeur’s uniform. His yellow, pock-pitted face and sunken eyes were vaguely menacing and his walk more nearly resembled a lope, catlike and agile.
“What a dangerous looking brute,” was the thought which crossed Thurston’s mind. He asked himself by which of the passengers now joining the Lauretania at Cherbourg this forbidding servant could be employed.
He hadn’t long to wait for an answer.
A Chinese cook (or Thurston thought he was Chinese) hurried along just ahead of him in the direction of the square before the purser’s office. He carried something on a tray, wrapped in a white napkin. There was no one else in the alleyway until a woman turned into it and began to saunter in Thurston’s direction.
The cook, seeing her, behaved in so incredible a manner that Thurston felt tempted to close his eyes, count ten and then look again. He set the tray down, dropped to his knees and touched the carpet with
his forehead!
The woman showed no surprise, never even glanced at the crouching white figure, but continued calmly on her way. As she passed by, the man gathered up his tray, and without once looking back, hurried on. The mysterious passenger had now drawn near enough for Thurston to get a clear impression. She carried a small handbag to which was tied another of the KLM tags.
It was alligator leather, similar to several piled on the trolley.
Thurston tried not to stare, tried to pretend that he hadn’t noticed the singular behaviour of the Chinese cook. But this chivalrous effort was wasted.
Apparently, the woman remained unaware of his presence as she had been unaware of the prostrate Chinese. Her gait was leisurely, almost languid. She wore a cream shantung suit which displayed her graceful figure to perfection. A green scarf wound turban fashion (perhaps because of the high wind in the harbour) lent her features some of the quality of a delicate ivory mask. Except for superciliously curved lips, her face could not be said to bear any expression whatever.
She was beautiful, but unapproachable.
Like a vision she appeared, and was gone. He was left with a picture of half-closed, jade-green eyes, of slender white hands, hands nurtured in indolence.
Thurston was too experienced a voyager to bother his friend, Burns, the purser, until the Lauretania had cleared Cherbourg. But he meant to find out all that Burns knew about this imperious beauty attended by an Oriental manservant and whom a Chinese member of the crew treated as a goddess.
Having time on his hands, for he travelled light and had already unpacked, he roamed the ship, drawing room, smoking room, lounges, decks, but never had a glimpse of the jade-eyed woman of mystery.
When he took his seat at the purser’s table for dinner, Thurston read a signal from Burns and lingered until the others had gone;
“Come along to my room,” the purser invited. “Haven’t had a moment to spare until now.”
When they were in Burns’ room, the door closed and drinks set out, Burns unburdened himself.
“Glad to have someone like you to talk to. I mean someone not officially concerned. We often have difficult passengers, but this time we’ve got a woman who is a number one headache. Good looker, too. Jenkins, the chief steward, is raising hell. She won’t have a steward or stewardess in her room. She’s got a yellow faced manservant on board, and he’s to take care of everything. Bit irregular?”
Thurston put his glass down.
“Woman with green eyes? Ivory skin? Wonderful figure?”
Burns’ eyes, which were not green, but blue, twinkled.
“Powers of observation good! That’s the dame. Her papers show that she’s from the Dutch East Indies.”
“Ah! That may explain it. A yellow streak?”
“Could be. She’s Mrs van Roorden, widow of a Javanese planter. But her pock-marked attendant, who’s in the servant’s quarters, of course, is Burmese! Add that up.”
“I can’t,” Thurston confessed. “Is she travelling alone—I mean, except for the manservant?”
Burns nodded and began to light his pipe.
“More or less, yes. She came on board with a Mr Fordwich, whom I don’t know anything about, except that I’m told he’s a member of a big Chicago concern with overseas interests. He came from Java to England and then flew over to France. That is, according to his passport.”
Thurston, accepting a nod from Burns, passed his glass for a refill and smiled.
“I can add to your information about the mysterious Mrs van Roorden. Listen to this.”
He told the purser what he had seen in the alleyway. Burns’ eyes opened even more widely than usual.
“Damn funny! I’ll get Jenkins to check on the cook’s staff. We have some Chinese boys down there, I know. Sure he was Chinese?”
Thurston considered. He was not well up on Far Eastern types.
“Almost sure,” he said at last. “You see, I had only a glimpse of the man. But I’m certain he was an Asiatic.”
Burns nodded thoughtfully.
“Now, on our last run, we had a mutual friend on board who could have settled the point out of hand! Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”
“What! He may be in New York when I get there. I’ll look him up. Amazing man, isn’t he? I knew him very well when he was head of the CID at Scotland Yard. Member of my club. Smith’s a fellow who has crowded more adventure into his life than any ten ordinary men. He must be out on a job. Wonder what it is?”
“Communists, I expect,” Burns murmured.
But Burns happened to be wrong, as Thurston was to find out.
* * *
In fact, at about the time that he sat talking to the purser of the Lauretania, the centre of a stormcloud the existence of which had brought Nayland Smith to New York was actually located in Cairo.
In an old Arab house not far from the Mosque of El Ashraf, a house still undisturbed by Western “improvements,” a tall, gaunt man paced slowly up and down a room which once had been the Na’ah or saloon of the harêm.
Lofty, and lighted by a lantern in the painted roof, it was tastefully paved in the Arabian manner, had elaborate panelled walls and two mushrabiyeh windows. Before one of these recessed windows a screen had been placed.
The man pacing the tiled floor wore a loose yellow robe, a black cap on his massive skull. Although unmistakably Chinese, his finely lined features were those of a scholar who had never spared himself in his quest of knowledge. It was a wonderful face. It might have belonged to a saint—or to the Fallen Angel in person.
His walk was feline, silent. He seemed to be listening for some expected sound. Suddenly he paused, turned.
A door opened at the end of the saloon and a man entered quietly, an old white-bearded man who wore Arab dress. He was met and challenged by a glance from emerald green eyes. Momentarily, an expression of eagerness crept across the impassive Chinese face.
“You have it, hakîm?”
The words were spoken in Arabic, sibilantly. They were answered by a deep bow.
“I have it, Excellency.”
From under his black robe, the old physician took out a small phial, half filled with a nearly colourless liquid.
“You guarantee its absolute purity?”
“I swear to it. Am I a fool to dream of deceiving Dr Fu-Manchu?”
Dr Fu-Manchu’s nearly unendurable gaze remained focussed on the bearded face a while longer, and then:
“Follow,” he directed.
He walked under a decorated arch into a neighbouring room equipped as a laboratory. Much of the apparatus in this singular apartment would have puzzled any living man of science to define its purpose or application. On a long, glass-topped table a number of test tubes was ranged in a rack.
Dr Fu-Manchu seated himself at the table and held out his hand for the phial. Watched by the Arab physician, he removed the stopper and inserted a glass dipper. The unerring delicacy of touch displayed by those long-nailed fingers was miraculous. He replaced the stopper and smeared a spot from the dipper on to a slide, putting the slide into place in a large microscope. Stooping, he stared through the lens, which he slightly adjusted. Without looking up:
“You are sure of hormone B?” he challenged harshly.
“Positive, Excellency. I extracted it myself.”
Then Fu-Manchu raised his head and pressed one of several studs on a switchboard. A door opened and a young Japanese came in. He wore a chemist’s white tunic. Fu-Manchu indicated the phial.
“The missing elements, at last, Matsukata. Use sparingly.” He spoke in Japanese. “Above all, watch the temperature. Inoculate a rat, a guinea pig and two rabbits. Report to me at ten minute intervals. Proceed.”
Matsukata took the phial, three of the test tubes, bowed, and went out. Dr Fu-Manchu turned to the Arab physician.
“How long have you known me, hakîm?”
He spoke softly.
The old Arab stroked his beard as if in meditation.
“Si
nce I was twenty years of age, Excellency.”
“And what age was I then?”
“I could not say.”
“What age did I appear to be?”
“As you appear now, Excellency.”
Fu-Manchu stood up.
“Follow.”
They returned to the long saloon. Fu-Manchu crossed to the screen set before a mushrabiyeh window and moved it aside. In the recess, motionless in a silk-padded basket, lay a tiny grey marmoset!
“My little friend, Peko.” Dr Fu-Manchu spoke in a sibilant whisper. “The companion of my wanderings.”
The old physician conquered his astonishment. Unmistakably, Dr Fu-Manchu was deeply moved.
“He is asleep?”
“No. He is dying.”
“Of tuberculosis? These creatures are subject to it.”
“No. Of senility.”
“What, then, is his age, Excellency?”
“The same as my own.”
“What do you say?… Pardon me, Excellency. I was startled. Such a thing seems impossible.”
Dr Fu-Manchu replaced the screen. They stepped down again into the saloon; and the Arab physician found himself called upon to sustain the fixed regard of those hypnotic eyes.
“Peko had already reached his normal, allotted span of years at the time that I completed my long experiments so vainly attempted by the old alchemists. Yes—I had discovered what they termed the Elixir Vitae: The Elixir of Life! Upon Peko I made the first injection; upon myself, the second.”
“And now?” It was a hushed murmur.
“Failure threatens my science. Peko was not due for treatment until next spring. Yet—you see? I found myself unprovided with the materials. I searched Cairo. I laboured in the laboratory day and night. Can you understand?”
His voice rose harshly on a note of frenzy. His eyes blazed.
“Yes, Excellency… I do understand.”
“If death claims him, I am defeated. A plan upon which may rest the peace of the world, even the survival of man, demands my presence in America. But, if I fail to fan that tiny spark which still smoulders within Peko into a flame, of life, this means that I too—I, Fu-Manchu—may die at any hour!”
