The Hand of Fu Manchu (20 page)

Choking down a cry of horror, I opened my eyes—heedless of the
promise given but a few moments earlier—and looked into the face of
my guide.

It was Dr. Fu-Manchu!...

Never, dreaming or waking, have I known a sensation identical with
that which now clutched my heart; I thought that it must be death.
For ages, untold ages—aeons longer than the world has known—I looked
into that still, awful face, into those unnatural green eyes. I jerked
my hand free from the Chinaman's clutch and sprang back.

As I did so, I became miraculously translated from the threshold of
the room with the golden door to our chambers in the court adjoining
Fleet Street; I came into full possession of my faculties (or believed
so at the time); I realized that I had nodded at my post, that I had
dreamed a strange dream ... but I realized something else. A ghoulish
presence was in the room.

Snatching up my pistol from the table I turned. Like some evil jinn of
Arabian lore, Dr. Fu-Manchu, surrounded by a slight mist, stood
looking at me!

Instantly I raised the pistol, leveled it steadily at the high,
dome-like brow—and fired! There could be no possibility of missing at
such short range, no possibility whatever ... and in the very instant
of pulling the trigger the mist cleared, the lineaments of Dr.
Fu-Manchu melted magically. This was not the Chinese doctor who stood
before me, at whose skull I still was pointing the deadly little
weapon, into whose brain I had fired the bullet;
it was Nayland
Smith!

Ki-Ming, by means of the unholy arts of the Lamas of Rache-Churân,
had caused my to murder my best friend!

"Smith!" I whispered huskily—"God forgive me, what have I done? What
have I done?"

I stepped forward to support him ere he fell; but utter oblivion
closed down upon me, and I knew no more.

"He will do quite well now." said a voice that seemed to come from a
vast distance. "The effects of the drug will have entirely worn off
when he wakes, except that there may be nausea, and possibly muscular
pain for a time."

I opened my eyes; they were throbbing agonizingly. I lay in bed, and
beside me stood Murdoch McCabe, the famous toxicological expert from
Charing Cross Hospital—and Nayland Smith!

"Ah, that's better!" cried McCabe cheerily. "Here—drink this."

I drank from the glass which he raised to my lips. I was too weak for
speech, too weak for wonder. Nayland Smith, his face gray and drawn in
the cold light of early morning, watched me anxiously. McCabe in a
matter of fact way that acted upon me like a welcome tonic, put several
purely medical questions, which at first by dint of a great effort,
but, with ever-increasing ease, I answered.

"Yes," he said musingly at last. "Of course it is all but impossible
to speak with certainty, but I am disposed to think that you have been
drugged with some preparation of hashish. The most likely is that
known in Eastern countries as
maagûn
or
barsh
, composed of equal
parts of
cannabis indica
and opium, with hellebore and two other
constituents, which vary according to the purpose which the
maagûn
is intended to serve. This renders the subject particularly open to
subjective hallucination, and a pliable instrument in the hands of a
hypnotic operator, for instance."

"You see, old man?" cried Smith eagerly. "You see?"

But I shook my head weakly.

"I shot you," I said. "It is impossible that I could have missed."

"Mr. Smith has placed me in possession of the facts," interrupted
McCabe, "and I can outline with reasonable certainty what took place.
Of course, it's all very amazing, utterly fantastic in fact, but I
have met with almost parallel cases in Egypt, in India, and elsewhere
in the East: never in London, I'll confess. You see, Dr. Petrie, you
were taken into the presence of a very accomplished hypnotist, having
been previously prepared by a stiff administration of
maagûn
.
You are doubtless familiar with the remarkable experiments in
psycho-therapeutics conducted at the Salpêtrier in Paris, and you
will readily understand me when I say that, prior to your recovering
consciousness in the presence of the mandarin Ki-Ming, you had
received your hypnotic instructions.

"These were to be put into execution either at a certain time (duly
impressed upon your drugged mind) or at a given signal...."

"It was a signal," snapped Smith. "Ki-Ming stood in the court below
and looked up at the window," I objected.

"In that event," snapped Smith, "he would have spoken softly, through
the letter-box of the door!"

"You immediately resumed your interrupted trance," continued McCabe,
"and by hypnotic suggestion impressed upon you earlier in the evening,
you were ingeniously led up to a point at which, under what delusion
I know not, you fired at Mr. Smith. I had the privilege of studying an
almost parallel case in Simla, where an officer was fatally stabbed by
his
khitmatgar
(a most faithful servant) acting under the hypnotic
prompting of a certain
fakîr
whom the officer had been unwise
enough to chastise. The
fakîr
paid for the crime with his life, I
may add. The
khitmatgar
shot him, ten minutes later."

"I had no chance at Ki-Ming," snapped Smith. "He vanished like a
shadow. But has has played his big card and lost! Henceforth he is a
hunted man; and he knows it! Oh!" he cried, seeing me watching him in
bewilderment, "I suspected some Lama trickery, old man, and I stuck
closely to the arrangements proposed by the mandarin, but kept you
under careful observation!"

"But, Smith—I shot you! It was impossible to miss!"

"I agree. But do you recall the
report?
"

"The report? I was too dazed, too horrified, by the discovery of what
I had done...."

"There was no report, Petrie. I am not entirely a stranger to
Indo-Chinese jugglery, and you had a very strange look in your eyes.
Therefore I took the precaution of unloading your Browning!"

Legal business, connected with the estate of a distant relative,
deceased, necessitated my sudden departure from London, within
twenty-four hours of the events just narrated; and at a time when
London was for me the center of the universe. The business being
terminated—and in a manner financially satisfactory to myself—I
discovered that with luck I could just catch the fast train back.
Amid a perfect whirl of hotel porters and taxi-drivers worthy of
Nayland Smith I departed for the station ... to arrive at the
entrance to the platform at the exact moment that the guard raised
his green flag!

"Too late, sir! Stand back, if you please!"

The ticket-collector at the barrier thrust out his arm to stay me. The
London express was moving from the platform. But my determination to
travel by that train and by no other over-rode all obstacles; If I
missed it, I should be forced to wait until the following morning.

I leapt past the barrier, completely taking the man by surprise, and
went racing up the platform. Many arms were outstretched to detain me,
and the gray-bearded guard stood fully in my path; but I dodged them
all, collided with and upset a gigantic negro who wore a chauffeur's
uniform—and found myself level with a first-class compartment; the
window was open.

Amid a chorus of excited voices, I tossed my bag in at the window,
leapt upon the footboard and turned the handle. Although the entrance
to the tunnel was perilously near now, I managed to wrench the door
open and to swing myself into the carriage. Then, by means of the
strap, I reclosed the door in the nick of time, and sank, panting,
upon the seat. I had a vague impression that the black chauffeur,
having recovered himself, had raced after me to the uttermost point
of the platform, but, my end achieved, I was callously indifferent to
the outrageous means thereto which I seen fit to employ. The express
dashed into the tunnel. I uttered a great sigh of relief.

With Kâramaneh in the hands of the Si-Fan, this journey to the north
had indeed been undertaken with the utmost reluctance. Nayland Smith
had written to me once during my brief absence, and his letter had
inspired a yet keener desire to be back and at grips with the Yellow
group; for he had hinted broadly that a tangible clue to the
whereabouts of the Si-Fan head-quarters had at last been secured.

Now I learnt that I had a traveling companion—a woman. She was seated
in the further, opposite corner, wore a long, loose motor-coat, which
could not altogether conceal the fine lines of her lithe figure, and a
thick veil hid her face. A motive for the excited behavior of the
negro chauffeur suggested itself to my mind; a label; "Engaged," was
pasted to the window!

I glanced across the compartment. Through the closely woven veil the
woman was watching me. An apology clearly was called for.

"Madame," I said, "I hope you will forgive this unfortunate intrusion;
but it was vitally important that I should not miss the London train."

She bowed, very slightly, very coldly—and turned her head aside.

The rebuff was as unmistakable as my offense was irremediable. Nor did
I feel justified in resenting it. Therefore, endeavoring to dismiss
the matter from my mind, I placed my bag upon the rack, and unfolding
the newspaper with which I was provided, tried to interest myself in
the doings of the world at large.

My attempt proved not altogether successful; strive how I would, my
thoughts persistently reverted to the Si-Fan, the evil, secret society
who held in their power one dearer to me than all the rest of the
world; to Dr. Fu-Manchu, the genius who darkly controlled my destiny;
and to Nayland Smith, the barrier between the White races and the
devouring tide of the Yellow.

Sighing again, involuntarily, I glanced up ... to meet the gaze of a
pair of wonderful eyes.

Never, in my experience, had I seen their like. The dark eyes of
Kâramaneh were wonderful and beautiful, the eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu
sinister and wholly unforgettable; but the eyes of this woman were
incredible. Their glance was all but insupportable; the were the eyes
of a Medusa!

Since I had met; in the not distant past, the soft gaze of Ki-Ming,
the mandarin whose phenomenal hypnotic powers rendered him capable of
transcending the achievements of the celebrated Cagliostro, I knew
much of the power of the human eye. But these were unlike any human
eyes I had ever known.

Long, almond-shaped, bordered by heavy jet-black lashes, arched over
by finely penciled brows, their strange brilliancy, as of a fire
within, was utterly uncanny. They were the eyes of some beautiful
wild creature rather than those of a woman.

Their possessor had now thrown back her motor-veil, revealing a face
Orientally dark and perfectly oval, with a clustering mass of dull
gold hair, small, aquiline nose and full, red lips. Her weird eyes met
mine for an instant, and then the long lashes drooped quickly, as she
leant back against the cushions, with a graceful languor suggestive of
the East rather than of the West.

Her long coat had fallen partly open, and I saw, with surprise, that
it was lined with leopard-skin. One hand was ungloved, and lay on the
arm-rest—a slim hand of the hue of old ivory, with a strange, ancient
ring upon the index finger.

This woman obviously was not a European, and I experienced great
difficulty in determining with what Asiatic nation she could claim
kinship. In point of fact I had never seen another who remotely
resembled her; she was a fit employer for the gigantic negro with whom
I had collided on the platform.

I tried to laugh at myself, staring from the window at the moon-bathed
landscape; but the strange personality of my solitary companion would
not be denied, and I looked quickly in her direction—in time to
detect her glancing away; in time to experience the uncanny
fascination of her gaze.

The long slim hand attracted my attention again, the green stone in the
ring affording a startling contrast against the dull cream of the skin.

Whether the woman's personality, or a vague perfume of which I became
aware, were responsible, I found myself thinking of a flower-bedecked
shrine, wherefrom arose the smoke of incense to some pagan god.

In vain I told myself that my frame of mind was contemptible, that I
should be ashamed of such weakness. Station after station was left
behind, as the express sped through moonlit England towards the smoky
metropolis. Assured that I was being furtively watched, I became more
and more uneasy.

It was with a distinct sense of effort that I withheld my gaze,
forcing myself to look out of the window. When, having reasoned
against the mad ideas that sought to obsess me, I glanced again across
the compartment, I perceived, with inexpressible relief, that my
companion had lowered her veil.

She kept it lowered throughout the remainder of the journey; yet
during the hour that ensued I continued to experience sensations of
which I have never since been able to think without a thrill of fear.
It seemed that I had thrust myself, not into a commonplace railway
compartment, but into a Cumaean cavern.

If only I could have addressed this utterly mysterious stranger, have
uttered some word of commonplace, I felt that the spell might have
been broken. But, for some occult reason, in no way associated with
my first rebuff, I found myself tongue-tied; I sustained, for an hour
(the longest I had ever known), a silent watch and ward over my reason;
I seemed to be repelling, fighting against, some subtle power that
sought to flood my brain, swamp my individuality, and enslave me to
another's will.

In what degree this was actual, and in what due to a mind overwrought
from endless conflict with the Yellow group, I know not to this day,
but you who read these records of our giant struggle with Fu-Manchu
and his satellites shall presently judge for yourselves.