The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories (11 page)

He lay on a divan in an Oriental room. The walls were decorated with a number of beautiful lacquer panels. The ceiling consisted of silk tapestry, and in and out of its intricate pattern gold dragons crept. The appointments were mainly Chinese. Rugs covered the floor. There was a faint smell resembling that of stale incense. At a long, narrow desk facing the divan a man sat writing. He wore a yellow robe and a black cap topped with a coral bead.

This man’s face possessed a sort of satanic beauty. The features were those of an aristocrat, an intellectual aristocrat. And an aura of assured power seemed to radiate from the whole figure.

It was Dr Fu-Manchu.

“Good evening, Dr Allen,” he said, without looking up. “I am happy to have you as my guest. I anticipate a long and mutually satisfactory association.” Gregory swung his legs off the divan. Fu-Manchu didn’t stir. “I beg you to attempt no vulgar violence. Even if it succeeded, you would be strangled thirty seconds later.”

Gregory sat upright, his fists clenched, watching, fascinated.

“To all intents and purposes, Dr Allen, you find yourself in China—although this room, which has several remarkable qualities, was designed by a clever Japanese artist; for you must not fall into the error of supposing that my organisation is purely Chinese in character. I assure you that I have enthusiastic workers of all races in the Order of the Si-Fan, of which I am president.”

This statement Dr Fu-Manchu made without once glancing up from the folio volume in which he was writing marginal notes. Gregory sat still, watching and waiting.

“For instance,” the strange voice continued, “this room is soundproof. It was formerly a studio. The Chinese silk conceals top lights. The seven lacquer panels are in fact seven doors. I use the place as a
pied-à-terre
when my affairs detain me in London. I am much sought after, Dr Allen—particularly by officials of Scotland Yard. And, this apartment has useful features. Will you take tea with me?”

“No, thank you.”

“As you please. Your unusual researches into the means of increasing vigorous life prove of great value to my own. I am no longer young, my dear doctor, but your unexpected visit here inspired me to hope that in addition to securing your services, I may induce a mutual friend to call upon us.”

Dr Fu-Manchu laid his pen down, and for the first time looked up. Gregory found himself subjected to the fixed regard of the strangest human eyes he had ever seen. They were long, narrow, only slightly oblique, and were brilliantly green. Their gaze threatened to take command of his will and he averted his glance.

“When you followed a member of my staff, Dr Allen, whom you know as Mignon, I was informed of this—at the time that you left the Tate Gallery—and took suitable steps. A judo expert awaited your arrival and dealt with you by a simple nerve pressure with which, as a physician, you may be familiar. I am aware that Mignon made a secret appointment to meet you. She awaits her punishment. What it shall be rests with you.”

Gregory experienced an unpleasant fluttering in the stomach. He sensed what was coming, and wondered how he should face up to the ordeal. He said nothing.

“There is a telephone on the small table beside you,” Fu-Manchu told him, softly. “Be good enough to call Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Tell him that you have met with an accident on Chelsea Embankment and are lying in the house of a neighbouring doctor who was passing at the time. This apartment is rented by a certain Dr Steiner. His plate is outside. His surgery adjoins this room. One of the seven doors leads to it. The address is Ruskin Mews. Request Sir Denis to bring his car here for you at once.”

Gregory stood up. “I refuse.”

Lacquer doors to the left and right of him opened silently, as if motivated by his sudden movement. Two short, thickset Asiatics came in. They carried knives. Holding them poised in their hands for a throw, they watched him—waited.

“I deplore this barbarous behaviour, Dr Allen. At my headquarters I have more subtle measures available.”

“To hell with your measures! You can kill me, but you can’t make me obey your orders.”

Fu-Manchu sighed. One long yellow finger moved onto his desk; and a third door, almost facing Gregory, opened. Mignon came in. Another member of the gang, who presumably acted as a bodyguard, grasped her by the wrist. In his other hand the man carried a whip.

Beret and scarlet cape were gone. Mignon wore a black skirt and a white blouse. Her auburn hair framed her pale face. One glance of entreaty she flashed at him, then lowered her head.

“You daren’t do it!” Gregory blazed in a white fury. “You may consider yourself to be in China, but if you attempt this outrage, you’ll find you’re still in England. We’ll rouse the neighbourhood.”

The point of a knife touched his throat. One of the pair guarding him had moved closer. Fu-Manchu shook his head.

“You forget, Dr Allen, that this room is soundproof. Be so wise as to call Sir Denis. I am advised that he is at home at present and Whitehall Court, where he resides, is no great distance away. But he may be going out to dine. We are wasting time. I think you’ll find the number is written by the ‘phone.”

Gregory cast a last glance round the room, then took up the ‘phone and dialled the number. Nayland Smith’s man answered, and immediately brought Nayland Smith.

“Smith here. What’s up, Allen?” came the crisp voice.

The words nearly choked him, but Gregory gave the message which Dr Fu-Manchu had directed. His eyes remained fixed upon Mignon as he spoke, and he knew that he dared not risk any hint of warning.

“Good enough. Bad luck. Be with you in ten minutes.” Nayland Smith hung up.

Fu-Manchu uttered a guttural order; the knife was removed; Gregory’s guards retired; Mignon without a glance in his direction was led away. The doors closed. He found himself alone again with Dr Fu-Manchu. He dropped back on the divan.

He had done a thing with which he would reproach himself to his last day. To save a woman who had never truly meant anything in his life from suffering, he had betrayed an old, tried friend, into the power of a cruel and relentless enemy.

Fu-Manchu had resumed his annotations. He spoke without looking up.

“To do that which is unavoidable merits neither praise nor blame, Dr Allen. That curious superstition, the sanctity of woman which is, no doubt, a part of your American heritage, left you no alternative. I am transferring Mignon to another post, where I trust you will no longer be able to interfere with her normal efficiency.”

Gregory was reaching boiling point, but knew that he was helpless to avert the evil he had brought about. If he could have killed Fu-Manchu with his bare hands he would gladly have done it. But he knew, now, that he couldn’t hope to get within reach of him.

Nayland Smith was racing into a trap. In a matter of minutes he would be here.

A curious, high bell note broke the complete silence of the room.

Dr Fu-Manchu stood up, put the folio volume under his arm and, opening one of the doors, went out.

* * *

As the door closed behind the Chinese doctor, Gregory, risking everything, grabbed the phone and dialled Nayland Smith’s number.

There was no reply.

But no one had disturbed him; none of the doors had opened. He went to one at random, could find no means of opening it. He tried another, worked on it frantically. It was immovable. He stepped back and put his shoulder to the lacquer. Nothing happened.

Then, with a tearing crash, the silence was broken. The door by which Dr Fu-Manchu had gone out burst open, and the dark man in the white raincoat stared into the room.

Gregory counted himself lost, when the man turned and shouted back over his shoulder: “This way, sir! Here he is!” He stepped into the room. “Glad to see you still alive, Doctor.”

And Nayland Smith ran in behind him.

“You caught me only just in time, Allen,” Nayland Smith assured him. “Sergeant Ridley here—” he nodded to the man in the white coat—”has been shadowing you for nearly a week. You see, I knew you were trying to get in touch with the little redhead, and his orders were, if you succeeded, to transfer all his attention to the girl when she left you. He did so tonight and had no idea you were somewhere behind. He reported to me that Mignon had just gone into Ruskin Street.”

Gregory forced a smile. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said.

“Scotland Yard’s crime map has a red ring drawn around this area,” Nayland Smith explained. “We have suspected that Fu-Manchu had a hideaway here. The Japanese artist who reconstructed this place disappeared six months ago, and a certain Dr Gottfeld took it over, though the name of Dr Steiner appears on the plate.”

“Of course,” Gregory broke in. “Gottfeld was the name the hotel manager called Fu-Manchu when they came to my suite. Have you got him?”

Nayland Smith shook his head. “I’m afraid he has done another of his vanishing tricks. The raid squad I brought along is searching. But my guess is that Fu-Manchu has slipped away to one of his old haunts near Limehouse.”

He motioned to the Sergeant, who brought in a man of perhaps fifty whose eyes had the peculiar glaze which showed he had been under Fu-Manchu’s hypnotic spell. “But at least we’ve rescued a man who may be able to give us a great deal of information about Fu-Manchu’s operations. Dr Allen, this is Dr Gaston Breon. Besides being a famous French entomologist, he is Mignon’s father.”

“Thank God you’ve saved him!” Gregory said, as he gripped the scientist’s limp hand. “But Smith, have you rescued Mignon?”

Nayland Smith slapped him on the shoulder. “We got her with two of Fu-Manchu’s henchmen who were trying to force her into a motor launch. I had her taken to my place.” As Gregory looked at him gratefully, he smiled that boyish grin. “She’s your responsibility now.”

Ten minutes later Gregory walked past a guard and into Nayland Smith’s large booklined study. Mignon sprang up from a chair near the window and ran to him, her eyes wild with terror.

“Gregory! You must compel them to let me go!” she cried “Fu-Manchu will kill my father if I do not return to him.”

She stared at Gregory in bewilderment. “Why do you smile?”

But Gregory was looking beyond her to the door, and Mignon turned. A sigh of joy escaped her as she ran to her father. “My child, my child,” Dr Breon muttered, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “The nightmare is finished, Mignon.”

“Oh, what they’ve done to you these past two years, my father,” she whispered.

Gregory crossed the room and stood at her side, his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll have him right in no time,” he promised. “All he needs is rest and the care we’ll give him.”

Mignon’s head came back, and the tears were gone. What was more, the look of infinite sadness he remembered from their first meeting was gone, too. In its place there was a sparkle that danced in the light of the lamps with swift invitation.

“I think it is quite safe for you now to love me, Gregory,” she said.

He took her into his arms.

Malcolm glanced aside at his companion, who drove the Jaguar both deftly and quickly. He studied the tall, lean man at the wheel, a clean shaven man, whose tanned skin and crisp, dark hair gave startling emphasis to the silver at his temples: he was sucking a briar pipe.

“I know what you’re thinking, Forbes.” The words were rapped out. “When I was a Commissioner at Scotland Yard, speed limits never troubled me. I formed bad habits.”

“Is there so much hurry, Sir Denis?”

Sir Denis Nayland Smith grunted and swung out to pass a taxi, then:

“There is!” he snapped. “I asked you to join me tonight because I want someone with me where we’re going. Also, as a young freelance journalist, you may be on the big story Fleet Street is waiting for.”

“What’s the story?”

“Dr Fu-Manchu. We’re going to see Sergeant Jack Kenealy, of the CID. He’s been on the case best part of the year. We have kept in touch. He called me an hour ago; said he had things to tell me which he couldn’t put on paper. Rather alarming. Hence the speed.”

“You think—”

“Nothing to think about until we get there.”

And Malcolm knew that Sir Denis didn’t want any further conversation to interfere with his urgent journey.

Ten minutes later they were skirting the north side of Clapham Common, a place of mysterious shadows this moonless night. He became aware of bottled-up excitement as Nayland Smith parked the car at a garage and took Malcolm’s arm.

“This is where we walk,” he announced.

They set out on the side opposite the Common. Sir Denis was silent, but Malcolm noted that he often glanced across at the shadowy expanse, as if, during his long battle against the Chinese genius who dreamed of becoming master of the world, he had learned that Fu-Manchu was a superman who might materialise from space anywhere, at any time. Malcolm’s excitement increased. They came to the next corner.

At which moment Nayland Smith, in the act of turning in, grabbed his arm again in a grip that hurt.

“Forbes, we’re too late. Look!”

They had not passed a single pedestrian so far. But now—this side street was crowded.