The Mask of Fu-Manchu (23 page)

“Then, Shan—oh, heavens… Shan!”

“Don’t let the memory upset you, Rima,” said Petrie. “It’s all passed and done with. You know, my dear, he’s the third victim, as I have told you. All three of us, Greville, at various times, have had similar experiences at the hands of our Chinese friend.”

“I understand,” I replied, watching Rima; “I begin to understand. Go on, darling.”

“It came to me, my dear, that you were
mad!
I saw, in a flash, what had happened—because something like it had once happened to
me.
I fought with you—oh, my God, how I fought; it was terrible! Then, when I realised it was useless, I tried to
will
you to know what you were doing.

“We passed through Gizeh Village and were out on the causeway to here when the driver pulled up suddenly. A tall man dressed in black was standing in the roadway. He came forward to the right of the car—and I recognized him—

“It was Dr. Fu-Manchu!”

“Rima!”

“I began to collapse. I couldn’t stand much more. He spoke to you. I didn’t hear the words; but—Shan... you fell back on the seat as though you were—
dead
...

“It was the last straw. I believe I made a fool of myself—or they may have drugged me; but I passed away.

“When I opened my eyes again, after a thousand years of nightmare, I found myself in a strange but delightful room. I was lying on a couch wrapped in a silk dressing gown; and an old negress sat sewing near me…

“It turned out to be part of a suite in a house which must have been right outside Cairo; because all I could see from the little windows in the
mushrabiyeh
screens was miles and miles of desert. I suppose the negress was a servant of Dr. Fu-Manchu, but she was certainly a sweet old thing.

“My first waking thought, Shan, was about you! But the old woman could tell me nothing. She merely said over and over again, ‘Don’t fret, honey child; it will sure be all right.’

“I spent a whole day in those three small rooms. It was quite impossible to get out, and the old negress never left me. No one else came near us. She did all she could to make me comfortable, but I refused to touch food. I have never passed through such a day in my life. I felt myself to be slowly going mad with suspense. Once, a long way over the desert, I saw some camels; that was towards evening. Otherwise, I saw nothing…

“At sunset the negress lighted the lamps; and she had only just done so when I heard the sound of a gong somewhere in the house below.

“By this time I was in a state of suppressed frenzy, and when I heard that sound I wanted to shriek. The old woman gave me a warning glance, whispered, ‘Don’t fret, honey child; it will sure be all right,’ and went and stood by the door.

“I heard footsteps outside; the door was unlocked—and Dr. Fu-Manchu came in!

“He was dressed as I remembered him in London—but the horrible thing was that he seemed to be much
younger
! I must have been nearer to crashing than I knew at the time; for I can’t recall one word that he said to me, except that he made me understand, Shan, that your life depended upon
me
.

“Evidently he saw that I was likely to collapse at any moment. He spoke to the old negress in some language I had never heard—and then forced me to drink a glass of some rather sweet white wine.

“After that I remember him watching me very intently and speaking again. His voice seemed to fade away, and his awful eyes to grow larger and larger—”

“Like a green lake!” I burst in, “which swallowed you up! I know. I know!”

“How
do you know?” Petrie asked sharply. “When did you derive that curious impression?”

He was studying me keenly: and at once I grasped the significance of my words. They echoed some submerged memory of the hiatus! But, in the moment of uttering them, that memory slipped back again into the limbo of the subconscious.

“No good, Doctor,” I said, shaking my head. “You were right— but it’s gone! Go on, Rima.”

Rima, who seemed intuitively to have seized upon the purpose underlying Petrie’s question, looked at me pathetically, and then:

“I
know
you know, Shan dear,” she went on. “But you can’t remember—nor can I. Because I woke in a gloomy stone chamber, lighted by a round green lamp—”

“The King’s Chamber, Greville,” Petrie interpolated. “Rima had never seen it before, it seems.”

“Dr. Fu-Manchu was sitting by a small table, and there was a big stone sarcophagus just behind him. I was standing in front of him. There was no one else there; and the silence was dreadful.

“‘Behind this coffer,’ he said, and pointed with an incredibly long finger, ‘you will find a mattress and cushions. Lie there, whatever happens, and make no sign—until I clap my hands. Then stand up. Shan Greville’s life depends upon you. This is
your
part of the bargain.’

“I heard a gong—somewhere a long way off.

“‘To your place,’ said Dr. Fu-Manchu in that voice which seems to make every word sound like a command, ‘and remember, when I clap my hands… ’

“What happened after that, Shan, you know.”

O
n the following night Rima returned to Cairo. I remember, as Sir Lionel and I sat in the lounge waiting for her to join us for dinner, that my mind was more nearly at ease than it had been for many days. When presently Rima appeared, although she looked perhaps rather more than normally pale, she had nevertheless contrived to efface any signs of her recent ordeal.

“In the absence of Dr. Petrie,” I said, “I prescribe a champagne cocktail.”

The patient approved of the prescription.

“What about you, Chief?”

“Whisky and soda,” Sir Lionel growled, staring towards the entrance door. “Where the devil’s Petrie?”

“A busy medical man,” I replied, summoning a waiter, “is always excused social appointments. Isn’t he, Chief?”

“Has to be, I suppose.”

As I gave the order I found myself thinking about the doctor’s earlier days, when, a struggling suburban practitioner in London, he had first found himself involved in the web of Dr. Fu-Manchu. His published journals of those singular experiences which he had shared with Sir Denis, had created such world-wide interest that today, as I knew, he was independent of the proceeds of his profession. But he was, as someone had said of him, a born healer; and he had the most extensive practice of any English physician in Cairo. Evidently my thoughts were reflected upon my face; for:

“What are you grinning about?” the chief demanded.

“I was wondering,” I replied, “if Sir Denis will allow me to publish an account of the story of the Masked Prophet.”

“You published an account, as you term it,” Rima interrupted, “of what happened in the Tomb of the Black Ape and afterwards. I didn’t think it was too flattering to me, but I know you made a lot of money out of it. I don’t really think, Uncle—” turning and snuggling up against Sir Lionel—“that it’s quite fair, do you? Shouldn’t
we
have a share?”

“Yes.” The chief stared at me with smothered ferocity. “You’ve written me up in a painfully frank way, Greville, now I come to think about it… Ah! Here’s Petrie!”

As he spoke, I saw the doctor come in from the terrace at a brisk pace. There was urgency in his manner, and when, sighting us, he hurried forward I realised that he was ill at ease.

His first thought, however, was for his patient; and dropping into a chair beside Rima, he looked at her in that encompassing manner which comes to a man who for many years has practised as a physician.

“Quite restored, I see,” he said, and glanced critically at the cocktail. “Only one, Rima. Excitants are not desirable… yet.”

Seeing me about to call a waiter:

“As I’m rather late, Greville,” he went on, “let’s go in to dinner; if possible, find a quiet table, as there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Knew it!” said the chief loudly, watching the speaker. “Got something on your mind, Petrie. What is it?”

“You’re right,” Petrie admitted, smiling slightly. “I don’t quite know what to make of it.”

“Nor do I,” Sir Lionel replied, “unless you tell me what it is.”

“A long message from Smith in Damascus. It was relayed over the telephone. That’s what detained me. But don’t let us talk about it now.”

We stood up and walked along the corridor, which is a miniature jewel bazaar, to the dining room. I had arranged for a quiet table at the farther end, and presently, when we were all seated and the chief, who was host, had given his orders:

“This message is disturbing, in a way,” said Petrie. “There’s a Dutch steamer of the Rotterdam Lloyd Line, the
Indramatra
, leaving Port Said tomorrow night for Southampton; and Smith insists that, baggage or no baggage, you must all leave in her!”

“What!” Sir Lionel cried so loudly that many heads were turned in our direction. “He must be mad. I won’t budge an inch—not one inch—until Ali Mahmoud arrives with the gear.”

Dr. Petrie looked grave.

“I have the message here,” he continued; “and when I have read it to you, possibly you may change your mind… Dr. Fu-Manchu has been in Damascus. He has disappeared. Smith has every reason to believe that he is on his way here—to Cairo. His mission, Barton is to see
you
!”

T
he
Indramatra
lay off the pontoon, opposite the Custom House at Port Said; and it was a night sailing. Ali Mahmoud had arrived in the nick of time; I could see him now from where I stood, supervising the shipment of the heavy baggage.

That curious sustained murmur, a minor chord made up of human voices, audible whenever cargo is being worked in this odd portal of the East, came to my ears, as I craned out watching the pontoon. I had left Rima, a stewardess, and two coolies busily unpacking trunks; for Rima had something of her uncle’s gift for making people work enthusiastically in her interests. Part other personal baggage had been deposited in her cabin, and, having explored the first of her trunks:

There isn’t a thing that’s fit to wear!” she had declared…

I had considered it prudent to join the chief.

That experienced old traveller had secured a suite with bath, at the Cairo office. Admittedly, the ship was not full, but, nevertheless, someone else had been pencilled in for this accommodation ahead of him. The someone else (a Member of Parliament, he turned out to be) was reduced to an ordinary double cabin, and the purser was having a bad quarter of an hour.

Sir Lionel, armed with a whisky and soda, was sprawling on the little sofa in his sitting room, his feet resting upon a stout wooden chest. He reminded me of an old buccaneer, gloating over ill-gotten treasure; and:

“Has Smith arrived?” he demanded.

“No. I’m just going up to make inquiries, chief…”

And so, now, I found myself craning out and watching the pontoon. It would be nearly an hour before the
Indramatra
sailed, but I could not imagine, since Sir Denis had missed us in Cairo, how he hoped to reach Port Said before we left. Nevertheless, he had advised us to expect him.

I glanced down at Ali Mahmoud, patiently checking the items of our baggage destined for the hold, and experienced a pang of regret in parting from him. Then again I stared towards the shore. I saw the headlights of a car which was being driven rapidly along the waterfront. I saw it pull up just short of the Custom House.

No other steamer was leaving that night, and although, admittedly, this might have been a belated passenger, something told me that it was Nayland Smith.

I was right.

Above the clatter of machinery and minor drone of human voices, with the complementary note of water lapping at the ship’s side, a clamour reached me from the shore. There was urgency in the sound. And as I watched, I saw a police launch which had been lying just off the pontoon, run in, in response to a signal. A few moments later, and the little red craft was describing a flattened arc as she headed out rapidly for the
Indramatra.

One glimpse I had in a momentary glare of the searchlight, of a man seated in the stern, and then I was hurrying down to the lower deck. I had no more than reached the head of the ladder when Nayland Smith came bounding up. As I greeted him: