The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER X

  SINCE Nayland Smith's return from Burma I had rarely taken up a paperwithout coming upon evidences of that seething which had cast up Dr.Fu-Manchu. Whether, hitherto, such items had escaped my attention orhad seemed to demand no particular notice, or whether they now becameincreasingly numerous, I was unable to determine.

  One evening, some little time after our sojourn in Norfolk, in glancingthrough a number of papers which I had brought in with me, I chancedupon no fewer than four items of news bearing more or less directlyupon the grim business which engaged my friend and I.

  No white man, I honestly believe, appreciates the unemotional crueltyof the Chinese. Throughout the time that Dr. Fu-Manchu remained inEngland, the press preserved a uniform silence upon the subject of hisexistence. This was due to Nayland Smith. But, as a result, I feelassured that my account of the Chinaman's deeds will, in many quarters,meet with an incredulous reception.

  I had been at work, earlier in the evening, upon the opening chaptersof this chronicle, and I had realized how difficult it would be for myreader, amid secure and cozy surroundings, to credit any human beingwith a callous villainy great enough to conceive and to put intoexecution such a death pest as that directed against Sir Crichton Davey.

  One would expect God's worst man to shrink from employing--againsthowever vile an enemy--such an instrument as the Zayat Kiss. Sothinking, my eye was caught by the following:--

  EXPRESS CORRESPONDENT

  NEW YORK.

  "Secret service men of the United States Government are searching theSouth Sea Islands for a certain Hawaiian from the island of Maui, who,it is believed, has been selling poisonous scorpions to Chinese inHonolulu anxious to get rid of their children.

  "Infanticide, by scorpion and otherwise, among the Chinese, hasincreased so terribly that the authorities have started a searchinginquiry, which has led to the hunt for the scorpion dealer of Maui.

  "Practically all the babies that die mysteriously are unwanted girls,and in nearly every case the parents promptly ascribe the death to thebite of a scorpion, and are ready to produce some more or lesspoisonous insect in support of the statement.

  "The authorities have no doubt that infanticide by scorpion bite is agrowing practice, and orders have been given to hunt down the scorpiondealer at any cost."

  Is it any matter for wonder that such a people had produced aFu-Manchu? I pasted the cutting into a scrap-book, determined that, ifI lived to publish my account of those days, I would quote it thereinas casting a sidelight upon Chinese character.

  A Reuter message to The Globe and a paragraph in The Star alsofurnished work for my scissors. Here were evidences of the deep-seatedunrest, the secret turmoil, which manifested itself so far from itscenter as peaceful England in the person of the sinister Doctor.

  "HONG KONG, Friday.

  "Li Hon Hung, the Chinaman who fired at the Governor yesterday, wascharged before the magistrate with shooting at him with intent to kill,which is equivalent to attempted murder. The prisoner, who was notdefended, pleaded guilty. The Assistant Crown Solicitor, whoprosecuted, asked for a remand until Monday, which was granted.

  "Snapshots taken by the spectators of the outrage yesterday disclosedthe presence of an accomplice, also armed with a revolver. It isreported that this man, who was arrested last night, was in possessionof incriminating documentary evidence."

  Later.

  "Examination of the documents found on Li Hon Hung's accomplice hasdisclosed the fact that both men were well financed by the Canton TriadSociety, the directors of which had enjoined the assassination of SirF. M. or Mr. C. S., the Colonial Secretary. In a report prepared bythe accomplice for dispatch to Canton, also found on his person, heexpressed regret that the attempt had failed."--Reuter.

  "It is officially reported in St. Petersburg that a force of Chinesesoldiers and villagers surrounded the house of a Russian subject namedSaid Effendi, near Khotan, in Chinese Turkestan.

  "They fired at the house and set it in flames. There were in the houseabout 100 Russians, many of whom were killed.

  "The Russian Government has instructed its Minister at Peking to makethe most vigorous representations on the subject."--Reuter.

  Finally, in a Personal Column, I found the following:--

  "HO-NAN. Have abandoned visit.--ELTHAM."

  I had just pasted it into my book when Nayland Smith came in and threwhimself into an arm-chair, facing me across the table. I showed himthe cutting.

  "I am glad, for Eltham's sake--and for the girl's," was his comment."But it marks another victory for Fu-Manchu! Just Heaven! Why isretribution delayed!"

  Smith's darkly tanned face had grown leaner than ever since he hadbegun his fight with the most uncanny opponent, I suppose, against whoma man ever had pitted himself. He stood up and began restlessly to pacethe room, furiously stuffing tobacco into his briar.

  "I have seen Sir Lionel Barton," he said abruptly; "and, to put thewhole thing in a nutshell, he has laughed at me! During the monthsthat I have been wondering where he had gone to he has been somewherein Egypt. He certainly bears a charmed life, for on the evidence ofhis letter to The Times he has seen things in Tibet which Fu-Manchuwould have the West blind to; in fact, I think he has found a newkeyhole to the gate of the Indian Empire!"

  Long ago we had placed the name of Sir Lionel Barton upon the list ofthose whose lives stood between Fu-Manchu and the attainment of hisend. Orientalist and explorer, the fearless traveler who first hadpenetrated to Lhassa, who thrice, as a pilgrim, had entered forbiddenMecca, he now had turned his attention again to Tibet--thereby signinghis own death-warrant.

  "That he has reached England alive is a hopeful sign?" I suggested.

  Smith shook his head, and lighted the blackened briar.

  "England at present is the web," he replied. "The spider will bewaiting. Petrie, I sometimes despair. Sir Lionel is an impossible manto shepherd. You ought to see his house at Finchley. A low, squatplace completely hemmed in by trees. Damp as a swamp; smells like ajungle. Everything topsy-turvy. He only arrived to-day, and he isworking and eating (and sleeping I expect), in a study that looks likean earthquake at Sotheby's auction-rooms. The rest of the house is halfa menagerie and half a circus. He has a Bedouin groom, a Chinesebody-servant, and Heaven only knows what other strange people!"

  "Chinese!"

  "Yes, I saw him; a squinting Cantonese he calls Kwee. I don't likehim. Also, there is a secretary known as Strozza, who has anunpleasant face. He is a fine linguist, I understand, and is engagedupon the Spanish notes for Barton's forthcoming book on the Mayapantemples. By the way, all Sir Lionel's baggage disappeared from thelanding-stage--including his Tibetan notes."

  "Significant!"

  "Of course. But he argues that he has crossed Tibet from the Kuen-Lunto the Himalayas without being assassinated, and therefore that it isunlikely he will meet with that fate in London. I left him dictatingthe book from memory, at the rate of about two hundred words a minute."

  "He is wasting no time."

  "Wasting time! In addition to the Yucatan book and the work on Tibet,he has to read a paper at the Institute next week about some tomb hehas unearthed in Egypt. As I came away, a van drove up from the docksand a couple of fellows delivered a sarcophagus as big as a boat. Itis unique, according to Sir Lionel, and will go to the British Museumafter he has examined it. The man crams six months' work into sixweeks; then he is off again."

  "What do you propose to do?"

  "What CAN I do? I know that Fu-Manchu will make an attempt upon him.I cannot doubt it. Ugh! that house gave me the shudders. Nosunlight, I'll swear, Petrie, can ever penetrate to the rooms, and whenI arrived this afternoon clouds of gnats floated like motes wherever astray beam filtered through the trees of the avenue. There's a steamysmell about the place that is almost malarious, and the whole of thewest front is covered with a sort of monkey-creeper, which he hasimported at some time or other. It has a close,
exotic perfume that isquite in the picture. I tell you, the place was made for murder."

  "Have you taken any precautions?"

  "I called at Scotland Yard and sent a man down to watch the house,but--"

  He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  "What is Sir Lionel like?"

  "A madman, Petrie. A tall, massive man, wearing a dirty dressing-gownof neutral color; a man with untidy gray hair and a bristling mustache,keen blue eyes, and a brown skin; who wears a short beard or rarelyshaves--I don't know which. I left him striding about among thethousand and one curiosities of that incredible room, picking his waythrough his antique furniture, works of reference, manuscripts,mummies, spears, pottery and what not--sometimes kicking a book fromhis course, or stumbling over a stuffed crocodile or a Mexicanmask--alternately dictating and conversing. Phew!"

  For some time we were silent.

  "Smith" I said, "we are making no headway in this business. With allthe forces arrayed against him, Fu-Manchu still eludes us, stillpursues his devilish, inscrutable way."

  Nayland Smith nodded.

  "And we don't know all," he said. "We mark such and such a man as onealive to the Yellow Peril, and we warn him--if we have time. Perhapshe escapes; perhaps he does not. But what do we know, Petrie, of thoseothers who may die every week by his murderous agency? We cannot knowEVERYONE who has read the riddle of China. I never see a report ofsomeone found drowned, of an apparent suicide, of a sudden, thoughseemingly natural death, without wondering. I tell you, Fu-Manchu isomnipresent; his tentacles embrace everything. I said that Sir Lionelmust bear a charmed life. The fact that WE are alive is a miracle."

  He glanced at his watch.

  "Nearly eleven," he said. "But sleep seems a waste of time--apart fromits dangers."

  We heard a bell ring. A few moments later followed a knock at the roomdoor.

  "Come in!" I cried.

  A girl entered with a telegram addressed to Smith. His jaw looked verysquare in the lamplight, and his eyes shone like steel as he took itfrom her and opened the envelope. He glanced at the form, stood up andpassed it to me, reaching for his hat, which lay upon my writing-table.

  "God help us, Petrie!" he said.

  This was the message:

  "Sir Lionel Barton murdered. Meet me at his house at once.--WEYMOUTH,INSPECTOR."