The Island of Fu-Manchu (26 page)

But the voice of Damballa was the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu!

* * *

Three figures wearing hideous ritual masks and carrying torches came out from dense undergrowth on the left of the temple. Three others appeared on the right. Finally, stalking into torchlight from the direction of the barricade, there came a seventh, a herculean man, masked, robed, and carrying a glittering scimitar. The hush about us was electrical with suspense. Although I knew that he hurt me unconsciously. Smith’s grip on my arm was as that of steel pincers.

“Touch and go, Kerrigan!” he hissed in my ear. “We are spotted! Don’t fight. It’s hopeless. We can only trust—”

“The smelling-out begins!” cried that harsh voice. “Sons and daughters of Damballa, you are safe.”

This phrase was repeated in Haitian, then in that incomprehensible language, the Unknown Tongue. Urged to his task by the bodiless Voice, the giant Sword-Bearer began a sinister inspection. Frightened groups were huddled together within the stockade. I could hear chattering teeth. Other Masks had appeared at the entrance. Retreat was cut off.

Every face was scrutinized. The Voice seemed to speak from immediately beside the Sword Bearer. Koreâni stood motionless as that ivory statue which she resembled.

Alternately sibilant and guttural, that uncanny voice muttered, muttered—in what language I could not make out. Then came one short, sharp command. The scimitar shot out and touched a cowering Haitian. He shrieked so wildly that I thought the blow had been a mortal one. But his shriek was of fear. One of the masked torchmen sprang forward, grasped the selected man and hurled him into the open space before the temple. He fell, and lay there quivering. A woman who had stood beside him moaned and collapsed.

So the “smelling-out” began, and so it went on, until ten victims, women as well as men, stood, knelt or lay in the open space. All about me were whispered prayers, and they were not Voodoo prayers. The children of Damballa who had called upon their black god now prayed to the God of the Christians to exorcise him!

Many devotees had fainted after the seekers had passed. But Koreâni, proud, motionless, stood silent, her brilliant eyes widely opened.

The Sword Bearer drew near with his hideous company.

“Remember,” Smith whispered.

And now the muttering Voice began to speak in English!

“I smell other enemies. More light—more light!”

Torches were lifted before us.

“Ah—there!”

The scimitar flashed towards me. The voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu had spoken from the left side of the Sword Bearer. And I succumbed to a mad impulse.

I side-stepped, hauled away, and drove a straight right at the spot where the head of the speaker should have been!

Amazing to relate, it
was
there! I registered a glancing blow on an unmistakable human jaw, and I saw a
green hand
appear out of space!

A wild cry, and a crushing weight which seemed to descend upon my skull…

O
f my awakening, or rather, my first awakening, I retain one vivid memory—a memory etched upon my brain. My head ached with a violence greater than I had ever experienced; coherent thought was impossible. I lay in a bunk in a small white cabin; and because of a gentle swaying sensation and of the silence, I thought that I must be afloat in an anchored ship. Every detail of my immediate surroundings was clearly discernible in moonlight which poured in at a long, low porthole directly above the bunk. I struggled to sit up. The effect upon my head was disastrous; but just before I fell back again into unconsciousness I had a glimpse of what lay beyond the porthole.

I looked down upon forest-clad mountain slopes, ravines and scattered dwellings; upon something resembling a coloured relief map—and a map that swept up and then receded at an incredible speed. Just ahead and not far beneath, I saw a mighty building crowning a dizzy crest, a giant’s castle, a fabulous structure towering up to the moon.

Almost as I saw it, I found myself over it; and it was gone! But I knew that it was the Citadel, the impregnable fortress built by King Christophe, now deserted, shunned, save by the uneasy spirit of the Negro king.

My second awakening afforded the discovery that the pain in my skull was almost gone and that a cool, wet bandage surrounded my forehead. I was in bed, wearing silk pyjamas which did not belong to me, in a scrupulously neat room—a room, as I determined after that first glance, in a hospital. No doubt that vision of the Citadel, of flying silently through space, had been delirium. I tried to reason out what had happened after I had struck—madly—at a Voice and had contacted flesh and bone. The rearguard for which Smith had arranged must have arrived ahead of time; so I reasoned.

I had just come to the conclusion when the door (it had neither handle nor keyhole) slid noiselessly open and a man came in who wore a long white linen coat; undoubtedly, a doctor.

He paused for a moment, smiling with satisfaction to see me awake. He was an elderly man, wearing a pointed, greyish beard; he had a fine brow and those penetrating eyes which mark the diagnostician. He was a Vandyke type, and for some reason I found his features familiar.

“Good morning, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said in a pleasant, light voice. “It would be superfluous to inquire if you feel better.”

“Quite, doctor. Except for a certain drumming in my skull, I never felt better in my life.”

“Well, you know”—he seated himself on the side of the bed, taking out a clinical thermometer from its case—“even a thick skull like yours is calculated to buzz a bit when struck hard with the flat of a heavy sword.”

He took my temperature and nodded.

“Normal,” he announced, as he went into an adjoining room which was evidently a bathroom.

I heard him rinsing the thermometer and all the time I was thinking furiously: where had I seen the doctor before? In some way the elusive memory was bound up with another, something to do with undergraduate days and also with the Royal Navy. It was as he came out again that I tied up the links—Peter Marriot Doughty, who was reading medicine and who had the rooms above mine; he was now in the Navy; I had seen him off before I left for Greece. His father, a celebrated Harley Street consultant, had once had tea with Doughty and myself. Probably my change of expression was marked.

“Yes, Mr. Kerrigan—what is bothering you?”

“Am I addressing Dr. Marriot Doughty?”

“John Marriot Doughty, M.D., at your service.”

Momentarily I closed my eyes, doubted my sanity. Clearly now I recalled the long obituary notices; remembered almost the exact words of my telegram of condolence to my friend. Dr. Marriot Doughty, his father, had died in the Spring of 1937—but this was Dr. Marriot Doughty who stood before me!

When I opened my eyes John Marriot Doughty was smiling again.

“You remember me, Mr. Kerrigan? I once had the pleasure of taking tea in your rooms with my son.”

Words failed me; I merely stared.

“Have you recent news of Peter?”

I reconquered control of my tongue.

“He is with the destroyers operating off Libya, doctor. I had word from him last some four weeks ago.”

The dead man who lived, nodded.

“Good. Peter was always best in action. I broke a long family tradition, Mr. Kerrigan, when I abandoned the sea for the surgery. Peter has gone back. I think his mother would have wished it so. And now, I am going to get you on your feet. To lie there any longer, sir, would be pure malingering.”

But nevertheless I lay there, watching him. My complaisant analysis of the situation had been grossly at fault. My heart was behaving erratically. The rearguard had
not
arrived. Where was Nayland Smith? Since Dr. Marriot Doughty was indisputably dead, logically I also must be dead. Here was just such a passing-over as I had heard described at spiritualist meetings.

Undoubtedly I was dead: this was the Beyond.

Dr. Marriot Doughty’s gaze held a deep compassion; but it was the compassion that belongs to greater knowledge.

“Mr. Kerrigan,” he said, “my part is not to enlighten you regarding your new circumstances; my part is to set you on your feet again. There are toxic elements in your system based upon a faultily-treated wound in your left shoulder and affecting the lung structure, but not gravely. You are a healthy, powerful man. This trouble will disperse; in fact, it shall be my business to disperse it. The blow on the occipital area has resulted in no haemorrhage: forget it. In short—I know what you are thinking, but you are not dead. You are very cogently alive.”

I swung out of bed and stood up. A slight dizziness wore off almost immediately.

“Good,” said Dr. Marriot Doughty. “See that the bath is no more than tepid. Your own clothes are all here—at least, those you were wearing. I believe you will find the cartridge belt missing, and the pistol. When you are dressed I will come back and prescribe your breakfast.”

He turned to go.

“Doctor!”

He pulled up.

“Where is Nayland Smith?”

“Mr. Kerrigan, I would gladly answer your question—if I knew the answer. I shall return in about twenty minutes.”

“One moment! How long—”

“Have you been unconscious? Roughly, four days…”

* * *

As Marriot Doughty signalled to me to precede him, I found myself in a long corridor in which were many white doors, numbered like those in a hotel. An hour had elapsed.

“Some of the staff occupy this annexe,” he said. “It is new, and the apartments, as you have seen, are pleasant. My own quarters are in the main building near the research laboratories.”

He spoke in the manner of one conducting a visitor over a power station. Nothing in my memories of those grim days is more grotesque than the easy conversational style of this physician who had been dead for four years. I could think of no suitable remark.

“Our headquarters at one time were in the South of France,” he went on. “But there we were subject to too much interference. Here, in Haiti, we are ideally situated.”

We came out into a large quadrangle, its tiled paths bordered by palms. I saw that the place we had left resembled a row of bungalows joined together. Most of the windows were open, and there were vases of flowers to be seen on ledges, rows of books. A swim suit hung out of one. It might have been a holiday camp. On the other side of the quadrangle was an extensive range of buildings which I could only assume to be a modern factory, although I saw no smokestack. Several detached structures appeared further off; and in and out of the various buildings men, most of them Haitians and wearing blue overalls, moved in orderly industry. I heard the hum of machinery. Wherever I looked, beyond, forest-robed mountain slopes swept up to the bright morning sky. This was a valley entirely enclosed on all sides. I turned to my guide.

“Where am I? What place is this?”

He smiled.

“Officially, it is the works of the San Damien Sisal Coporation. Geologically, it is the crater of a huge volcano, fortunately extinct. The best sisal in the world is cultivated and treated here. Although the output is small, it is of the very highest quality. The enterprise had been in existence for a long time; but we acquired control less than six years ago.”

“It appears to be most inaccessible.”

“There is a small railway by which produce is sent out. The hemp is grown on the lower slopes behind you. Over a thousand workers are employed by the Corporation.”

So we chatted. There was nothing ominous, no trace of the sinister anywhere. The well-ordered path, flanked by palms, along which we were walking; the fresh mountain air; a cloudless sky; those waves of verdure embracing the valley; all these things spoke of a bountiful nature well and gratefully appreciated. But I looked askance at every figure moving about me, and I had conceived a horror of the proximity of Dr. Marriot Doughty which I found it hard to conceal. I was in the company of a living-dead man—a
zombie:
were all these workers
zombies
also?

Before the door of a house which looked older and which was of a character different from the others, my guide paused and pressed a bell.

“Here,” he said, “I hand you over to Companion Horton, with a clean bill of health.” The door was opened by a Haitian. “Tell the manager that Mr. Bart Kerrigan is here.”

As the man stood aside to allow me to enter. Dr. Marriot Doughty nodded cheerily and turned away. The profoundly commonplace character of everyone’s behaviour, that reference to “the manager,” and now, the businesslike office in which I found myself, began insidiously to frighten me. Companion Horton, a lean, slow-spoken American, rose from a workmanlike desk to greet me. Above his chair I noticed a large photograph of a hemp plantation.

“You are very welcome, Mr. Kerrigan. Please sit down and smoke.”

I sat down and accepted a cigarette which he proffered.

“Thanks—Mr. Horton, I presume?”

“James Ridgwell Horton. That’s my name, sir; and I was born in Boston, June first, 1853—”

“Eighteen-fifty-three!”

“Sure thing. I don’t look my age, but then none of us do here. I will admit that there was a time when the thought of going right on living did not appeal. But when I found out that all my faculties became, not dulled but keener; when I realized that I could assemble new ideas and examine them in the light of old experience, why, I changed my mind.”

No doubt my expression made the remark unnecessary, but;

“I don’t think,” I said, trying to speak very calmly, “that I follow.”

“No? Well that’s too bad. May I take it you know that this is the headquarters of the Order of the Si-Fan?”

I suppose I had known—for some time past; yet, bluntly stated, the fact made my heart wobble.

“Yes—I know.”

“Just so; and you feel about it the way I felt twenty years ago. To you the Si-Fan is plain and simple a Black Hand gang; an underworld ramp; a bunch of professional crooks. I thought just that way. But if you will consider the methods by which any Totalitarian State makes progress, you will find that the Ancient Order has merely perfected them. Because you have met some of the high officials—maybe one of The Council—in shady quarters, you have jumped to wrong conclusions.”