The Mask of Fu-Manchu (24 page)

“Quick!” he snapped and grasped my arm. “The purser’s office— where is it? I don’t know this ship.”

“This way, Sir Denis.”

Pushing past groups of passengers, mostly planters and officials from the Dutch East Indies, we went racing across to the purser’s office. As I had expected, a number of people were waiting to interview that harassed official, but the curtain was drawn over his door, and I could hear an excited voice within. Sir Denis never hesitated for a moment. He rapped loudly, jerked the curtain aside, and:

“Mr. Purser!” he said, “I regret that I don’t know your name—my apologies. But it is vitally urgent that I should see you for a few moments.”

The purser, a Sumatra-born Dutchman, stout and normally good-humoured, I judged, at the moment was not in an amiable mood. Mr. John Kennington, M.P., a fussy little man resembling Tweedledee in spectacles, was literally dancing about in his room.

“I say it’s an outrage, sir,” he was exclaiming, “an outrage. This fellow, Sir Lionel Barton, this travelling mountebank, has almost literally thrown me out of a cabin which I reserved in Cairo. As a British Member of Parliament, I wish to state—”

“I don’t know your name, sir,” said the purser, looking up wearily at Sir Denis—he spoke excellent English, for the Dutch are first-class linguists; “mine is Voorden: but you can see that I am very much engaged.”

“Such a state of affairs,” Mr. Kennington continued, extending his rotund person in the manner of a frog about to burst, “such a state of affairs would not be tolerated for a moment in the P. & O.”

That, of course, was a slip, and put the purser on our side at once. His growing distaste for the angry passenger was reflected upon normally placid features.

“The P. & O., sir,” said Nayland Smith, “is an admirable line, to which I can give you a personal introduction ensuring excellent accommodation.”

Mr. Kennington paused, turned, and looked up at the grim face of the speaker; then:

“Possibly, sir, you may know that Members of Parliament, travelling officially, are afforded certain facilities—”

“I do know it, and I feel sure that your complaint is a just one. But since you are a Member of Parliament, you will naturally do everything in your power to assist me. A matter of national urgency demands that I should have two minutes’ private conversation with Mr. Voorden.”

Mr. Kennington blew himself up again.

“My dear sir,” he replied, “I must take this opportunity of pointing out to you that I have certain rights here.”

Sir Denis’s temper, never of the best, was growing dangerously frayed.

“Mr. Voorden,” he said quietly, “I don’t know this gentleman’s name, but have I your permission to place him in the alleyway until our very urgent business is concluded?”

The purser’s broad face broke into a smile. It was a suggestion after his own heart; and:

“May I ask you, Mr Kennington,” he said, addressing the outraged M.P., whose features were now assuming a hectic florid hue, “to allow me two minutes with this gentleman? His business, I think, is important.”

“Important!” the other exploded. “Important! By heavens, sir, Rotterdam shall hear of you—Rotterdam shall hear of you!”

He expelled himself from the cabin.

“Here is my card, Mr. Voorden,” said Sir Denis, laying a card upon the purser’s table: “but in order to save your time and my own, I called upon the Dutch consul on my way to the docks. He was unable to accompany me, but he sends this note.”

He laid upon the table a sheet of paper bearing the letterhead of the Dutch consulate in Port Said. The purser put on a pair of hornrimmed glasses and read the note. Mr Kennington, not far away, might be heard demanding an interview with the captain.

“Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” said the purser, standing up, “I am at your service. What can I do for you?”

“Thank you,” said Sir Denis, and shook his hand. “Your passenger list, if you please. I want the name of everyone joining the ship at this port.”

“Certainly! that is very simple. You will also wish to know, of course, what accommodation they have reserved?”

“Exactly”

A moment later Nayland Smith was bending over a plan of the ship, in close consultation with the purser. I moved to the curtain, drew it aside, and stepped into the alleyway. Mr. Kennington had discovered the second steward and was insisting that that official should conduct him to the captain. I had it in mind to endeavour to pacify the infuriated little man, when the matter was taken out of my hands.

“Sir Lionel Barton is the person’s name,” shouted Mr. Kennnigton—“who the devil may I ask is Sir Lionel Barton?”

Unfortunately for Mr. Kennington, at that moment Sir Lionel appeared on the scene.

“Does anybody want me?” he inquired in his deep gruff voice.

Mr. Kennington turned and looked up into that sun-baked, truculent mask. He tried bravely to sustain the glare of deep-set eyes beneath tufted brows. But when he spoke, it was with a notable lack of confidence.

“Are you Sir Lionel Barton?”

“I am. Did you want me?”

The second steward escaped, leaving Mr. Kennington to fight his battle alone.

“There seems to be some misunderstanding about our cabins,” he said in a tone of gentle melancholy…

T
here was some pretty straight talking in the chief’s room five minutes later. Rima was not present.

“I have the outline of the thing complete, Barton,” said Nayland Smith, puffing furiously at his pipe. “For God’s sake, don’t interrupt. Just listen. My time is brief. The man Amir Khan blundered onto the location of Mokanna’s tomb in some way and up to the time of his disappearance, was undoubtedly acting on his own. I take it you paid him well for his information.”

“I did.”

Sir Denis nodded.

“He did not belong to that obscure sect, an offshoot of true Mohammedanism, which still holds the tradition of the New Koran. But he knew more than they do, because he knew where the prophet was buried. He was a
thug;
you always knew this. And he deserted because he was recalled by his immediate chief. The laws of
thuggee
(which I don’t profess to understand) are very binding upon devotees. His chief learned what had happened; and his chief—”

“Was one of the Fu-Manchu group!” Sir Lionel interrupted. “And so…”

“And so the news reached the doctor. Where he was at the time, we shall probably never know—but he acted swiftly. The possibilities were tremendous. Islam is at least as divided as Christianity. A religious revival is long overdue. The man and the occasion, only, were wanted. Here was the occasion. Dr. Fu-Manchu found the man.”

“Whom did he find?”

“I don’t know. Listen, and I will tell you all I know. In every religion there are secret sects. I have maintained for many years, in the face of much opposition from learned sources—and from you— that the organisation known as the Si-Fan embodies the greater part of these dissentients—”

“Rot!”

“Such a movement, reinforced by the backing of the Si-Fan, would almost certainly have tipped the scale. This was what Dr. Fu-Manchu saw. The arising of the prophet was staged for him when you blew up that lonely tomb in Khorassan. This he acted upon with the results which we know. Interested parties in the Moslem world were only too ready to receive the new prophet. His material qualities they were prepared to overlook. But it happens—and a memory of Greville’s gave me the clue to the truth—that a certain fanatical sect, having representatives at Damascus and also at Mecca, possess or claim to possess copies of the New Koran.”

“That’s true,” said the chief, shifting his feet uneasily, for he was sprawling upon the settee. “I’ve seen ’em. I knew what I was up against, Smith.”

Nayland Smith looked at Sir Lionel with a sort of reluctant admiration.

“You’re a remarkable man, Barton,” he admitted. “If a modicum of discretion had been added to your outfit, much of this trouble might have been avoided.”

“What trouble?” the chief shouted. He kicked at the wooden chest. “Where’s the trouble? I’ve tricked every damned fool among them. And, by heaven! I’ve tricked Dr. Fu-Manchu himself. You all wondered why I hung on so long in Ispahan—”

He began to laugh loudly; but:

“I know
now,”
said Nayland Smith.

And he spoke the words so coldly that the chief’s laughter was checked.

“I thought,” he went on, “that you were bluffing in Cairo. I know your schoolboy sense of humour. It was a dramatic surprise to me, although I may not have shown it, when your old suitcase was opened before Mr. Aden and I saw the sword, the mask, and the gold plates.”

He jumped out of his chair and began to move from foot to foot, since there was no room for him to promenade.

“I carried out my contract with Dr. Fu-Manchu—Rima’s life being the price at stake—in what I believed to be all honesty. Don’t speak. Barton—let me finish. Dr. Fu-Manchu is the most ghastly menace to our present civilisation which has appeared since Attila the Hun. He is an old man, but, by some miracle which I can only ascribe to his gigantic power, he is as forceful today as he was in the first hour that I ever set eyes on him in a forest of Burma. That’s agreed. He has one virtue. According to his admittedly peculiar code—he is a man of honour.”

“Stop!”

Sir Lionel was up, now, his strong hands clenched, his eyes glaring upon the speaker.

“Stop, Smith! I won’t take it from you or from any man. I may have broken every other commandment, but I have never lied.”

“Have I accused you of lying?” Sir Denis’s voice was very cool.

“Practically, yes.”

“You remained in Ispahan until Solomon Ishak, perhaps the finest craftsman in the East, had duplicated the relics of the prophet. Oh, it was clever work, Barton. But…”

“Well,” growled the chief, still glaring at him. “But, what... Didn’t the man Aden or Samarkan or whatever his name is—pass the stuff that we showed him in Shepheard’s? Did I or did you undertake to deliver up anything else? We had Rima back, and we handed over the duplicates.” Furiously he kicked the box. “Ali Mahmoud had the relics. He brought them from old Soloman Ishak back to Cairo, and from Cairo on board here. And there they are!”

He dropped back onto the settee, his mouth working evilly, for he was in murderous humour. But Nayland Smith continued to watch him calmly.

“It would be reviving an ancient libel to say that you argue like a Jesuit, Barton,” he remarked coldly.

“Thanks!” snapped the chief. “You have probably said enough.”

I think I have never felt more unhappy in my life. The facts now revealed to me were astounding; the ethics of the thing beyond me. But it was ghastly that these two old friends—men of first-rate genius in their separate spheres—should thus be almost at one another’s throats.

Loyalty to the chief forbade my siding with Sir Denis, yet in my heart I knew that the latter was right. The price had been Rima’s life; and Sir Lionel had played a faked card.

It didn’t surprise me; and since he had succeeded, I had it in my heart to forgive him, but:

“You know chief,” I said, “I can see what Sir Denis means; so don’t boil over.
We
were in the wrong.”

I hadn’t meant it; I am not clever enough to have thought of it; but that use of “we” rather did the trick. Sir Lionel relaxed and looked at me in an almost kindly way.

“You think so, Greville?” he growled.

“Well, it was the devil of a risk, and Dr. Fu-Manchu,” Nayland Smith snapped, “discovered the substitution in Damascus, on the very day, I believe, that I arrived there. By means of what secret knowledge held by certain imams of the Great Mosque he anticipated that the forgery would be detected, I don’t know.”

He paused—his pipe had gone out, and he struck a match; then:

“Someone
spoke from the pulpit that evening. The huge mosque was packed to the doors. I have never seen such mass fanaticism in my life.”

“Were you there?” asked the chief with sudden boyish enthusiasm.

“I was.”

“Good old Smith!”

And in those words I recognized the fact that the storm had blown over.

“The speaker wore a green turban, a green robe, and a thick gold mask.”

“It was Fu-Manchu!”

“I am still inclined to doubt it. I don’t think I could mistake him. If it were he, then he has thrown off the burden of thirty years. He held his audience in the palm of his hand, as I know Fu-Manchu can do. But the virility of his voice…”

And as he spoke, a sort of half-memory stirred in my brain. It passed—leaving a blank.

“There were doubters there. And that very night, as I believe, the substitution was discovered. The new Mahdi opened brilliantly, Barton, but he met with a definite check in Damascus. What actually happened I naturally don’t profess to know. But—” he pointed to the wooden chest on the floor of the cabin—”are they in there?”

“They are!” said the chief triumphantly.

“The rumour is already spreading—you know how news travels in these parts—that Mokanna is an impostor. I need not add that our Intelligence Department is zealously fostering this. Only one thing could save the situation.” He pointed again to the chest. “I don’t know where Dr. Fu-Manchu is, but from my knowledge of his methods I should predict that he is not far from Port Said at the present moment.”