The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories

by Sax Rohmer

  He looked back at the door by which he had entered, for he had heard it closing.

  It was a metal door, set in a steel frame.

  Clearly, Kwang T’see did not rely on burglary insurance. But, setting aside certain qualms aroused by this unbreakable door, Nayland Smith concentrated upon the next move.

  It was highly probable that the real delegates were familiar with the routine, and his only chance of safety lay in divining what this routine was. He hesitated for no more than twenty seconds.

  Picking a route along a sort of alleyway amid priceless pieces, some of them fragile, he paused under the green lamp. It was suspended before a drapery of magnificent Chinese tapestry which only partly concealed another metal door. The ingenuity of the scheme, carried out without care for cost, earned his admiration.

  These steel doors could be explained readily by the proprietor of such a collection as this. But other than a bank strongroom, no safer place could well be imagined for a meeting of conspirators.

  A ticking sound, ominously like that of a time-bomb, drew his glance swiftly upward.

  From somewhere in the shadowy roof an object that looked like a lacquered tray, suspended on thin metal chains, was descending slowly! Lower it came, and lower, until it swung within reach of his hand.

  Feverishly, Nayland Smith reviewed the pencilled notes.

  Give up card…

  He might be right, he might be wrong. But to hesitate would certainly be fatal.

  Taking from his pocket the card found in Orson’s flask, Smith dropped it in the tray and gently twitched the chain.

  The tray was wound up again.

  A moment after it had been swallowed in the shadows of the roof beams, that now familiar rumbling was repeated. He saw that the half-draped door had begun to open. When the opening became wide enough, he stepped through.

  The rumbling ceased for three seconds, was renewed—and the metal door closed upon his entrance.

  He was in a small, square room, unfurnished except for a long couch and a row of pegs on the wall, and lighted by one ceiling lamp. A number of cases and handbags lay on the settee. Two robes, or gowns, rather like those of university bachelors but of a dull green colour, hung on the pegs.

  His next step was crystal clear… Mask. Gown.

  Taking out the hideous green mask, he removed his glasses and fitted it onto his head. It was contrived so as to cover the hair, and made of some flexible, lightweight material. The mouth aperture was hidden by a sort of grating, but the eyeholes were not obstructed in any way.

  Orson’s case he laid on the settee, where five others lay already. None of the cases was initialled, he noted. Then he draped one of the two voluminous gowns over his shoulders.

  And now came the crucial test:

  Seven rings. Sixth bell.

  What in the name of reason, did that mean?

  He inspected the room closely. Apart from the heavy, mechanical door now shutting him off from the world of normal men, he could see no other way in or out. But he saw something else: a narrow board, with seven green buttons. Reaching out, Nayland Smith pressed the button numbered six. He pressed it seven times.

  Throughout, no human sound had reached him; but he could not dismiss an impression of being covertly watched. So far, he believed, he had done nothing to betray himself. So that, unless the unseen watcher had recognised him, his course still remained clear.

  As for anything which might happen now, he was totally without guidance and must rely on his wits.

  His pressure on the bell-push had produced no audible result. Complete silence claimed the small room. He was just beginning to wonder, uneasily, if he had misread Orson’s last note, when a second door, camouflaged so cleverly in a wall that he had overlooked it, slid almost noiselessly open.

  Nayland Smith stood at the head of a flight of concrete stairs.

  He was about to enter the secret cellars!

  Smiling grimly (from now onward he stood alone against the Si-Fan) he began to go down.

  The stairs led to a long, paved passage. It seemed to end before semi-transparent green draperies. Evidently green was the Si-Fan colour. Light showed through the drapes.

  And then, at last, a silence which had been disturbed only by the sound of his footsteps on the stair, was broken.

  It was broken so sharply that he started, clenched his fists.

  Six strokes on a deep-toned gong echoed, eerily, from wall to wall of the passage…

  * * *

  Raymond Harkness had just received the report, “The woman has gone in,” when he noted a disturbance outside the yard in which the black sedan was parked. He stubbed out a cigarette he had been inhaling and sat quite still to listen.

  A bulky figure appeared-—and came right up to the open window.

  “Who is it?” Harkness asked, sharply.

  The glowing end of a big cigar was poked right in.

  “Who does it look like?” Burke’s growling bass inquired. “Your Aunt Fanny? Suppose I could wear out the seat of my pants with a show like this on? I have all the dope up to Smith going in. What’s new since then?”

  “The woman has gone in.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “She went in alone. But a girl came out with her.”

  “Where’s this girl?”

  “She walked around to Kwang T’see’s store.”

  “Fine! We know where to find her. Did they come in a car?”

  “Yes. But they left it too far away for anybody to pick it up. The car was driven off.”

  “Lousy!” Burke growled. “Oh, lousy! Nobody tailing it?”

  “Rafferty reports there wasn’t time. It was off the moment the owner got out.”

  “I’ll talk to Rafferty, later. Is it certain, stone-sure certain, that every possible bolt-hole is plugged up?”

  “There’s a cordon right around the two blocks. You see, this car stopped outside the netted area—’

  “Forget it! How long are we to give Smith to try to find out what we want to know before we go look for him?”

  Harkness fitted a cigarette into his holder. “As I’m not in charge tonight, sir, that must rest with you.”

  * * *

  Nayland Smith pulled the green draperies aside and stepped into a room which challenged his sanity.

  It was a square room having no visible opening except the one through which he had come in. The green draperies were carried around all four walls and up to the centre of the ceiling, so that the interior resembled a tent. Its sole furniture consisted of a shaded lamp suspended on a chain over a circular ebony table around which were placed seven ebony chairs. Before each of the chairs a disk with a number stood on the gleaming surface.

  Five green-masked, green-robed figures arose as he entered. Nayland Smith clenched his teeth, trying to assure himself that he had not been drugged in some subtle way, that this was not delirium.

  Five pairs of eyes stared from five masks as the deputies saluted him by swinging their right hand across so that it rested, palm outward, over the heart. No word was spoken. Reverberations of six gong strokes still haunted the air.

  He returned the salute, and sat down in an ebony chair placed before a disk numbered six.

  The five masked men resumed their seats in silence.

  Was he accepted—or did this ominous and unnatural silence mean that they were waiting for him to carry out some part of the ritual not mentioned in poor Orson’s hastily scribbled notes?

  Furtively, he glanced from mask to mask, trying to detect any signal one to another. No such communion was visible. These men were waiting—but for what?

  It was a nightmare. Temptation to exchange some word with his neighbours became nearly irresistible. His heart was beating overfast. Perhaps he wasn’t the man he had been. His mental reserves might be failing him. He fixed his gaze on the only vacant place at the circular table. It faced him almost directly.

  And it was numbered One.

  Nayland Smith r
eviewed the mumbo-jumbo practised by other secret societies of which he had knowledge, the Fascist and the Nazi ceremonies, hunting for some parallel. In fact, this silence was getting his nerves on edge.

  Almost with relief, although it startled him, he heard a deep gong note.

  One!

  The five masked men stood up, and Nayland Smith did the same. Light footsteps became audible beyond the green draperies. The curtain was swept aside and a masked woman entered the room.

  Her entrance was a signal for the first human sound to disturb that ghostly company. A wordless murmur swept around the ebony table.

  Ignoring it, the woman gave the Si-Fan salute, walking slowly to the vacant chair. The salute was returned. But a new silence had fallen. It was an uneasy silence.

  She carried the green cloak on her arm, and now draped it over the back of her chair. Light from the hanging lamp gleamed on white shoulders as she took her seat. The men, imitated by Nayland Smith, slowly sat down. But many glances were exchanged across the table. Her face concealed by the grotesque mask, Fu-Manchu’s daughter looked like an incarnation of the goddess Ishtar.

  Coolly, without hesitation, she began to speak in that bell-like voice which Nayland Smith remembered—had good reason never to forget.

  She greeted the deputies briefly, in French, English, German and Arabic. Unmistakably the French greeting was addressed to him. His deduction, from certain evidence, that Selwyn Orson had posed as a Frenchman had apparently been correct. Greetings over, she continued in English.

  “You were expecting the President, my father. This I know, for he has appointed me to act for him in his unavoidable absence. As I am a stranger to all present tonight, he gave me his sealed authority to represent him.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “It was stolen from my cabin on the ship by a dangerously clever agent who evidently knows far too much about the Si-Fan for our safety.”

  Number Five, who sat next to Nayland Smith, speaking English with a German accent, said that it was well known they had a clever agent somewhere amongst them; for top secrets had already leaked out.

  There was a loud murmur of agreement. Unfriendly eyes became focussed on the woman; but:

  “A great decision has to be made tonight,” she went on coolly. “You are aware that we have brought pressure to bear upon Washington in an effort to induce the United States Government to give support to our president’s plan to drive Communism out of the East.”

  No one spoke. Six pairs of eyes watched her.

  “It was decided to implement words by action. Washington was notified that unless our friendly intentions were recognised and our proposals considered, a small demonstration of the powers at our disposal would be made: the gold in one of the vaults at Fort Knox would be destroyed.”

  “This,” (it was the guttural voice again) “is knowledge common to ourselves and also to the United States authorities. I have a question to put…”

  There were assenting murmurs.

  “Later, if you please.” Through the openings in her mask Smith could see those blazing jade-green eyes. “I have more to say.”

  The musical, imperious voice reduced the meeting to silence.

  “What is not common knowledge—a fact known only to a few of us and to a few United States officials—is that the threat was carried out. No one knows, but I am authorised to tell you, how it was done.”

  Nayland Smith almost literally held his breath. A mystery which had defied scientists and expert investigators, himself among them, was about to be unveiled. Furthermore, he was fascinated, wholly enthralled, by the magnetic personality of this woman, her power to dominate desperate men who doubted her identity, who knew that life or liberty might be the forfeit of accepting an imposter.

  “My father,” she continued quietly, “has always known that the old alchemists were wrong only in one vital particular. Whilst it is impracticable to transmute base metal to gold, it is practicable to transmute gold to base metal. For many years he carried out experiments with a Rünsen beam. The Rünsen beam, as you may be aware, is a kind of super X-ray.”

  And now—it seemed, against their better judgement—the five men were listening intently as Nayland Smith listened.

  “It has the property of penetrating nearly everything even steel or concrete. It is invisible. But gold resists the beam, which cannot penetrate it. Dr Fu-Manchu succeeded in amplifying the Rünsen process, producing a Rünsen Beam II. Gold still resisted it, but, to speak unscientifically, died in the attempt.”

  “Explain further, if you please.”

  The request came from Number Two. Nayland Smith had already noted his slim, Arab hands.

  “But certainly. The effect is to disturb what my father described as the ‘atomic poise’ of gold, and to break it down (I quote him again) ‘to its primeval elements’.”

  “But how,” (the guttural once more) “was this beam operated Upon Fort Knox?”

  White shoulders dimpled in a shrug.

  “It was not operated upon Fort Knox. A consignment of gold, worth twenty-four million dollars and meant to be stored there, was dealt with on the high seas. A plane circled low over the ship and a Rünsen Beam II was directed upon the bullion-room in which the gold was packed. The sealed cases were never opened until Washington was advised by the president of our council to examine their contents.”

  Excitement became vibrant, but no word was uttered until a third voice, speaking cultured English (Nayland Smith identified Number Three), asked:

  “Assuming, Madame, without prejudice, that what you tell us is true, how are we to proceed if Washington remains obstinate, to any further demonstration of what you termed ‘the powers at our disposal’?”

  Without hesitation, the bell voice replied:

  “Quite simply.”

  * * *

  Nayland Smith clenched his teeth, glancing swiftly right and left. A pad and pencil were placed before each delegate, and one of them (number Seven) had already made several notes. Smith’s Germanic neighbour seemed to have brought notes with him. A large wallet lay at his elbow and he was fingering a card on which appeared a mass of neat writing.

  But, as the silvery voice paused, and jade-green eyes searched each mask in turn, no one spoke.

  “Quite simply. We have a plane with a maximum ceiling of 45,000 feet.”

  A sound of sharply drawn breaths alone interrupted.

  “At a height of 40,000 feet it is already beyond interception by any type of fighter possessed by the United States Air Force, and ground defences are useless. Dr Fu-Manchu has completed a radio-controlled torpedo equipped with a proximity fuse. Its explosion releases energy almost identical with that of Rünsen Beam II.”

  Nayland Smith scribbled rapidly, in shorthand, which he hoped neither of his immediate neighbours understood: “Bomber attack planned on Fort Knox from 40,000 feet. Fighter patrol at highest ceiling might intercept or at least give warning…”

  “Some of the energy would be dispersed, but a considerable quantity of gold could be transmuted to that metal new to metallurgists which my father has named voluminum.”

  “Madame.” The light voice was that of Number Seven. “Is there any substance which is non-conductive of this energy?”

  “Only one,” came a prompt reply. “Voluminum. A thin coat of voluminum would suffice.”

  Nayland Smith wrote rapidly: “All gold at Fort Knox must, immediately, be protected by a thin coating of the unknown metal found in those cases which were recently opened. Urgent. Nayland Smith.”

  There came slight, nervous movement around the table; glances were exchanged. But that compelling voice continued:

  “From such a height, accurate observation is impossible. As it is vital that the first attack shall succeed (for when it takes place, the remaining gold will certainly be removed elsewhere), the purpose of this meeting is to select from among ourselves reliable ground observers. They must be near enough to Fort Knox to be able to report correctly, by radio, to the attacking
plane which will carry four torpedoes. You have all been chosen for your special knowledge and experience. Several amongst you are intimately acquainted with the district. Great ingenuity will be called for. Great danger must be incurred. But ground observers are indispensable. A second pilot must also be appointed. I await your suggestions.”

  Number Four, who had not spoken yet, anticipated everybody. He had fat, white hands and curiously oily tones. “My first suggestion is this: that before we commit ourselves any further, we take steps to make sure that the extraordinary absence of our honoured president and the appearance here of a charming lady none of us knows does not mean that we have all walked into a trap!”

  The German beside Nayland Smith banged the table and sprang to his feet.

  “This is just what I have been wanting to say! All she has told us may be fabrication! Where, I demand, is Dr Fu-Manchu? Who, I demand, is this lady?”

  Nayland Smith quietly tore off his shorthand note, folded it neatly on his knees—and by an apparent accident knocked the speaker’s wallet off the table.

  “Pardon, M’sieu.”

  He’ stooped, slipped his note in amongst a number of papers, and restored the wallet to its place. He was adopting the tactics of the late Selwyn Orson. His own life hung in the balance here, but when the men left Kwang T’see’s premises it was near-certain they would be picked up by the cordon of FBI agents and police surrounding the block.

  “I agree,” came the English voice, “that we are entitled to ask for a few more particulars.”

  Mrs van Roorden stood up, slowly, languidly, and faced the German.

  “So! You have the audacity to challenge your president’s daughter! You are so great a fool that you think I am the spy in our ranks!” Her glance moved from mask to mask. “Is there no sane man amongst you? Are you so ready to invite the anger of Dr Fu-Manchu?”

  Nayland Smith’s brain was working at top speed. This situation did not suit him. The meeting must adjourn amicably. Any change of plan might ruin everything.