by Sax Rohmer
Slowly, Dr. Fu Manchu stood up. His hands were clenched. Yet, when he spoke again, his tones remained unemotional.
“The register is in the Si-Fan cipher, which has never been broken.”
“No cipher is unbreakable, Master.”
“Spare me your platitudes. But whether the register has been stolen by British or Soviet agents, it cannot be deciphered except by an expert, either in London or in Moscow. Was your safe forced?”
“The register was not in my safe. I kept it in what I believed to be a secret hiding-place. Not even my steward, who sends me this bad news, knew of it.”
“You mean,” Fu Manchu suggested softly, “that some supernatural agency has been at work?”
Huan Tsung-Chao maintained his phenomenal calm. “I mean that some spy armed with powerful binoculars has watched me through my study window, from a tree in my garden possibly, and has seen me open the receptacle. Entrance was made through this window by someone who silently climbed the vine outside.”
Dr. Fu Manchu slipped his hands into the loose sleeves of his robe and stared into space, standing perfectly still. There was a long, silent interval; then he spoke again.
“Why is Skobolov coming here?”
“Officially, as an attaché of the Soviet Embassy, to promote relations between Communist China and Soviet Russia. He wishes to meet prominent figures in the Chinese movement.”
“But why here at your summer villa rather than at the official residence in Chengtu?”
“I frequently entertain here. It is more pleasant, except in winter.”
“He is aware that I am here?”
Tsung-Chao smiled his wrinkled smile. “It is improbable—since even I did not know of your arrival in China until you stood at my door.”
Fu Manchu remained motionless as a statue. “He has courage. It was he, or a professional thief in his employ, who stole the register. Whilst he is your guest he knows he is safe. We dare not make the attempt. But he will obey his orders and be here tomorrow. We cannot be sure that he has the register in his possession; but whether he has the register or is to meet the man who stole it, he is far too dangerous an enemy to be permitted to return to Moscow. For it is to the Kremlin he would report such a triumph, not to Peiping. Andre Skobolov must never reach Russia . . .”“She has got clear away,” said Nayland Smith, “thanks to her bodyguard.”
We stood in the library, Smith, myself, Mr Bascombe and Inspector Leighton. Sir James Clare was seated in an armchair watching us. Now he spoke:
“I understand, Smith, why General Quinto came from Africa to the house of his old friend, secretly, and asked me to recall you for a conference. This is a very deep-laid scheme. You are the only man who might have saved him—”
“But I failed.”
Nayland Smith spoke bitterly. He turned and stared at me.
“It appears, Kerrigan, that your charming acquaintance who so unfortunately has escaped—I am not blaming you—differs in certain details from Mr Bascombe’s recollections of the general’s visitor. However, it remains to be seen if they are one and the same.”
“You see,” the judicial voice of the home secretary broke in, “it is obviously impossible to hush this thing up. A postmortem examination is unavoidable. We don’t know what it will reveal. The fact that a very distinguished man, of totally different political ideas from our own, dies here in London under such circumstances is calculated to produce international results. It’s deplorable—it’s horrible. I cannot see my course clearly.”
“Your course, Sir James,” snapped Nayland Smith, “is to go home. I will call you early in the morning.” He turned. “Mr Bascombe, decline all information to the press.”
“What about the dead man, sir?” Inspector Leighton interpolated.
“Remove the body when the loiterers have dispersed. Report to me in the morning, Inspector.”
It was long past midnight when I found myself in Sir Denis’ rooms in Whitehall. I had not been there for some time, and from my chair I stared across at an unusually elaborate radio set with a television equipment.
“Haven’t much leisure for amusement, myself,” said Smith, noting the direction of my glance. “Television I had installed purely to amuse Fey! He is a pearl above price, and owing to my mode of life is often alone here for days and nights.”
Standing up, I began to examine the instrument. At which moment Fey came in.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “electrician from firm requests no one touch until calls again, sir.”
Fey’s telegraphic speech had always amused me. I nodded and sat down, watching him prepare drinks. When he went out:
“Our return journey was quite uneventful,” I remarked. “Why?”
“Perfectly simple,” Smith replied, sipping his whiskey and soda and beginning to load his pipe. “My presence tonight threatened to interfere with the plot, Kerrigan. The plot succeeded. I am no longer of immediate interest.”
“I don’t understand in the least, Smith. Have you any theory as to what caused General Quinto’s death?”
“At the moment, quite frankly, not the slightest. That indefinable perfume is of course a clue, but at present a useless clue. The autopsy may reveal something more. I await the result with interest.”
“Assuming it to be murder, what baffles me is the purpose of the thing. The general’s idea that he could hear drums rather suggests a guilty conscience in connection with some action of his in Africa—a private feud of some kind.”
“Reasonable,” snapped Smith, lighting his pipe and smiling grimly. “Nevertheless, wrong.”
“You mean”—I stared at him—”that although you don’t know how—you do know why General Quinto was murdered?”
He nodded, dropping the match in an ash tray.
“You know of course, Kerrigan, that Quinto was the right-hand man of Pietro Monaghani. His counsels might have meant an international war.”
“It hangs on a hair I agree, and I suppose that Quinto, as
Monaghani’s chief adviser, might have precipitated a war—”
“Yes—undoubtedly. But what you don’t know (nor did I until tonight) is this: General Quinto had left Africa on a mission to Spain. If he had gone I doubt if any power on earth could have preserved international peace! One man intervened.”
“What man?”
“If you can imagine Satan incarnate—a deathless spirit of evil dwelling in an ageless body—a cold intelligence armed with knowledge so far undreamed of by science—you have a slight picture of Doctor Fu Manchu.”
In my ignorance I think I laughed.
“A name to me—a bogey to scare children. I had never supposed such a person to exist.”
“Scotland Yard held the same opinion at one time, Kerrigan. But you will remember the recent suicide of a distinguished Japanese diplomat. The sudden death of Germany’s foremost chemist, Erich Schaffer, was front-page news a week ago. Now—General Quinto.”
“Surely you don’t mean—”
“Yes, Kerrigan, the work of one man! Others thought him dead, but I have evidence to show that he is still alive. If I had lacked such evidence—I should have it now. I forced the general’s dispatch box, we failed to find the key. It contained three sheets of note paper—nothing else. Here they are.” He handed them to me. “Read them in the order in which I have given them to you.”
I looked at the top sheet. It was embossed with a hieroglyphic which I took to be Chinese. The letter, which was undated, was not typed, but written in a squat, square hand. This was the letter:
First notice
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan has decided that at all costs another international war must be averted. There are only fifteen men in the world who could bring it about. You are one of them. Therefore, these are the Council’s instructions: You will not enter Spain but will resign your commission immediately, and retire to your villa in Capri.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
I looked up.
“What
ever does this mean?”
“I take it to mean,” Smith replied, “that the first notice which you have read was received by General Quinto in Africa. I knew him, and he knew—as every man called upon to administer African or Asiatic people knows—that the Si-Fan cannot be ignored. The Chinese Tongs are powerful, and there is a widespread belief in the influence of the Jesuits; but the Si-Fan is the most formidable secret society in the world: fully twenty-five per cent of the colored races belong to it. However, he did not resign his commission. He secured leave of absence and proceeded to London to consult me. Somewhere on the way he received the second notice. Read it, Kerrigan.”
I turned to the second page which bore the same hieroglyphic and a message in that heavy, definite handwriting. This was the message:
Second notice
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan would draw your attention to the fact that you have not resigned your commission. Failing your doing so, a third and final notice will be sent to you.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
I turned to the last page; it was headed Third Notice and read as follows:
You have twenty-four hours.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
“You see, Kerrigan,” said Nayland Smith, “it was this third notice”—which must have reached him by district messenger at Sir Malcolm’s house—”which produced that state of panic to which Bascombe referred. The Council of Seven have determined to avert war. Their aim must enlist the sympathy of any sane man. But there are fourteen other men now living, perhaps misguided, whose lives are in danger. I have made a list of some of those whose removal in my opinion would bring at least temporary peace to the world. But it’s my job at the moment to protect them!”
“Have you any idea of the identity of this Council of Seven?”
“The members are changed from time to time,7
“But the president?”
“The president is Doctor Fu Manchu! I would give much to know where Doctor Fu Manchu is tonight—”
And almost before the last syllable was spoken a voice replied:
“No doubt you would like a word with me. Sir Denis . . .”
For once in all the years that I knew him. Smith’s iron self-possession broke down. It was then he came to his feet as though a pistol shot and not a human voice had sounded. A touch of pallor showed under the prominent cheekbones. Fists clenched, a man amazed beyond reason, he stared around.
I, too, was staring—at the television screen.
It had become illuminated. It was occupied by an immobile face—a wonderful face—a face that might have served as model for that of the fallen angel. Long, narrow eyes seemed to be watching me. They held my gaze hypnotically.
A murmur, wholly unlike Smith’s normal tones, reached my ears . . . it seemed to come from a great distance.
“Good God! Fu Manchu!”
Chapter V
Yueh Hua broke a long silence.
“Were you educated in Hong Kong, Chi Foh?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I knew you had more education than most fishermen. You are so kind to me.”
“Aren’t most fishermen kind?”
“Not just like you are.”
Yes, he was hamming the part. He had shown her his small stock of un-Chinese provisions and told her that his father, the storekeeper, who knew he had acquired a taste for foreign delicacies, had packed a case for him when he left Hong Kong. She had laughed happily; clapped her hands. But he wondered if she had believed him. Except for the lime juice and the fresh fruit she seemed to prefer the national monotonous rice. But she went for the cigarettes. All the same, Yueh Hua’s keen feminine instincts might have detected some chink in the facade. He decided to shift the focus of interest.
“Yueh Hua, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.” She lay very still. “Why are you so afraid of the tall man who wears a long cloak, the man they call ‘Most High’? Has he ever done you any harm?”
Yueh Hua was so long replying that he turned and looked at her.
“Shall I tell you, Chi Foh?” she asked softly
“Of course. I want to know.”
And as she stared up again at the broken roof of the mat shed, he knew in his bones that she had been trying to make up her mind how far she could trust him and that she had failed to reach a decision. He was sure that whatever she told him now wouldn’t be the truth.
“Very well,” She seemed to be thinking hard. “When I came away from the house where I thought I should find my sister, it was dark. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I had no money. I was afraid to speak to anyone. And there were soldiers in the streets. I was hiding from two of them in the shadow of a big gateway, when the gate was opened.”
She stared fixedly up at the tattered palm roof.
“A tall man came out. He wore a uniform—an officer. Four men came out behind him. One was a black man, very big. He carried a lantern. The light shone on the officer’s face, and on his eyes, which were like pieces of green jade. You saw him in the boat. His eyes are like that.”
“Yes, I suppose they are.”
“I knew he could see me where I was trying to hide. I turned to run. But I was too late. He called me back. You have heard his voice. No one would ever think of disobeying him. He was very gentle when he asked me some questions; but I was shaking so much I could hardly stand. He told me to wait inside the courtyard until he returned.”
“And did you wait, Yueh Hua?”
“No. When the porter had locked the gate and gone inside the house, I sat down on a bench and tried to think what to do. There was an old plum tree growing on one of the walls. It had very strong branches. I climbed up. Then I let myself drop on the other side. I tried twice to steal out of the town. But there were soldiers at both gates. Then I thought I would go down to the river and take a boat or try to swim across. Right at the end of the canal I found your sampan.”
Tony considered this story with some care. It had at least one merit. It could be true. Yet he felt almost certain it wasn’t.
“So you see,” Yueh Hua said, “why I am afraid of him.”
“Yes, of course.” He tried to speak casually. “I suppose he is the Communist governor of the province?”
Yueh Hua shook her head. “No. I think he is something more than that. They treat him like the emperors used to be treated.”
“Do you think he wanted you for himself?”
Yueh Hua shuddered visibly.
“I don’t know, Chi Foh. But I should die if he even touched me.”
Tony then began to realize, as they waited for sundown, that Yueh Hua knew the country well. This was another mark in her favor, for he knew less than nothing at all. His route back was not of his own choosing. On his earlier trip, before he had been captured, he had lost his way a score of times, following promising creeks and canals the loneliness of which had attracted him, only to find himself nearer to the place from which he was coming away. Maps were unobtainable. Inquiries he had found to be both dangerous and useless.
But his big mistake had been in trying to slip past Chia-Ting on a moonlight night. How Nayland Smith had found out that he was in jail there, he had no idea.
“What sort of place is Lung Chang, Yueh Hua?” he asked.
“A small town, Chi Foh.”
“Your aunt lives there, you told me?”
“Yes.”
“She is married, I suppose?”
“She is a widow. I shall be safe with her.”
“Have you other friends there?”
“I expect they have all gone, those I knew. Everything is changed.”
After careful consideration, he said, “Lung Chang has gone over to the Communists, I suppose, Yueh Hua?”
“Yes.” She passed him a tin cup. “They all had to.”
“You mean, they didn’t want to?”
“No. Lung Chang for ever so long has been the property of the great Lao clan. The people all belonged to the estate. They w
ere content. Now, they are unhappy.”
Yueh Hua was watching him and smiling. It would be unwise to probe deeper, he decided.
“I have to see a man in Niu-fo-Tu. Is it a small place, Yueh Hua?”
“Yes. But there is a market there. I think Niu-fo-Tu is dangerous for us, Chi Foh.”
And instinctively he knew she was thinking of the officer with eyes “like pieces of green jade”.
They set out towards sundown. By morning, Yueh Hua said, they could reach a canal which connected with a creek. It was rarely used and they could tie up there until it seemed safe to go on.
They sculled and rested in turn through the hours of the night. Sometimes Tony would lean on the long oar and bend forward, looking in to see if Yueh Hua was asleep. At a place where the bank he followed became low, he swung in to a point formed by several small creeks joining the river, forming a little delta carpeted with wild hyacinths.
Yueh Hua woke up as the regular sweep of the oar stopped.
“Is anything the matter, Chi Foh?”
“Yes. I’m thirsty!” he said quickly.
“Shall I make tea?”
“Not unless you want tea. Whiskey will do for me. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you. But I should like some lime juice.”
They sat and sipped their drinks, diluted with boiled water cooled in an old clay jar. This was a custom Tony followed throughout his journey. He used to do it in Burma and never had a trace of dysentery.
If Yueh Hua wondered about it, she never said so, and he knew that his use of chopsticks was faultless. Yet he often caught her watching him in a queer way.
He was sure of himself where passing acquaintances were concerned. But he hadn’t counted on a close intimacy with any bred-in-the-bone Chinese. Almost hourly he found himself wondering if Yueh Hua suspected that he wasn’t what he pretended to be . . .
* * *
It was a dim hour of the night, but old General Huan Tsung-Chao and Dr. Fu Manchu still remained in conference in the room with the lacquered desk. Apparently, they had conferred there since dusk. Piles of documents littered the desk. General Huan, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, was reading one of them. He glanced up; began to speak. Dr. Fu Manchu, fingertips pressed together, sat with closed eyes and compressed lips.
