The Bride of Fu-Manchu (15 page)

“But my dear Fleurette, how did you come to be adopted by an Arab doctor?”

She laughed: she had exquisite little teeth.

“Because,” she said, and at last that for which I had been waiting, the adorable dimple, appeared in her chin, “because I am half an Arab myself.”

“What!”

“Don’t I look like one? I am sunburned now, I know; but my skin is naturally not so many shades lighter.”

“But an Arab, with violet eyes and hair like... like an Egyptian sunset.”

“Egyptian, yes!” She laughed again. “Evidently you detect the East even in my hair!”

“But,” I said in amazement, “you have no trace of accent.”

“Why should I have?” She looked at me mockingly. “I am a most perfect little prig. I speak French also without any foreign accent; Italian, Spanish, German, Arabic, and Chinese.”

“You are pulling my leg.”

That maddening dimple reappeared, and she shook her head so that glittering curls danced and seemed to throw out sparks of light.

“I know such accomplishments are simply horrible for a girl—but I can’t help it. This learning has been thrust upon me. You see, I have been trained for a purpose.”

And as she spoke the words, dancing, vital youth dropped from her like a cloak. Those long-lashed eyes, which I had an insane desire to kiss, ceased to laugh. Again that rapt, mystical expression claimed her face. She was looking through me at some very distant object. I had ceased to exist.

“But, Fleurette,” I said desperately, “what purpose? There can be only one end to it. Sooner or later you will fall in love with— somebody or another. You will forget your accomplishments and everything. I mean—it’s a sort of law. What other purpose is there in life for a woman?”

In a faraway voice:

“There is no such thing as love,” Fleurette murmured. “A woman can only serve.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You are new to it all. You will know tomorrow or perhaps even tonight.”

I had taken a step in her direction when something arrested me— drew me up sharply.

Like a fairy trumpet it sounded, again, that unaccountable call which I had heard twice before—coming from nowhere; from everywhere; from inside my brain!

Fleurette stood up, giving me never another glance, and moved to that end of the room opposite to the door by which I had entered. She touched some control hidden in the wall. A section slid open. As she crossed the threshold, she turned: I could see a lighted corridor beyond.

“The danger is over now,” she said. “Goodbye.”

I stood staring stupidly at the blank expanse of wall where only a moment before Fleurette had been, when I heard a sound behind me. I turned sharply.

The white door was open! The woman whom Nayland Smith had called Fah Lo Suee stood there, looking at me.

With the opening of the door a faint vibration reached my ears. The “section doors” (so Fleurette had described them) were being raised.

Fah Lo Suee wore what I took to be a Chinese dress, by virtue of its style, only; for it was of a patternless, shimmering gold material. Her unveiled eyes were green as emeralds; their resemblance to those of the terrible doctor was unmistakable.

“Please come,” she said; “my father is waiting for you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A
s I followed that slim, languorous figure, mentally I put myself in the witness box. And this was the question to which I demanded an answer:

Am I alive or dead?

On the whole, I was disposed now to believe that I was alive. Therefore, I put this second question:

Am I sane?

To which query I could find no answer.

If the occurrences of the last few hours were real, then I had stepped into a world presumably under the aegis of Dr. Fu-Manchu, and presumably in China, where natural laws were flouted; their place taken by laws created by the Chinese physician.

At the foot of the stairs, Fah Lo Suee turned sharply left and opened one of the sliding doors which seemed to be common in the establishment. She beckoned me to follow, and I found myself in a carpeted, warmly lighted corridor. She bent across me to reclose the door.

“You must forget all that is past and all that is puzzling you,” she whispered urgently, speaking close to my ear. “My father knows that you and the little Rose-petal are acquainted. Don’t speak—listen. He will question you, and you will have to answer. When you go to Yamamata’s room, do not fear the injection. But all that you are told will happen when you have received the Blessing of the Celestial Vision,
see that you carry out...
Pretend—it is your only chance. Pretend! I will see you again as soon as possible. Now follow me.”

These strange words she had spoken with extraordinary rapidity, as she had bent over me, apparently fumbling with the button which controlled the door.

And now, with that slow, lithe, cat-like walk in which again I recognized her father, she moved ahead, leading me. My brain was working with feverish rapidity.

The little Rose-petal!

This must be the Chinese name of Fleurette. Our association, I gathered, did not meet with the approval of Dr. Fu-Manchu. And what was the Blessing of the Celestial Vision? This I had yet to learn.

At the end of the corridor I saw a small green lamp burning before an arched opening. Here, Fah Lo Suee paused, signalling me to be silent.

“Remember,” she whispered.

The green light in the little lamp flickered, and a heavy door of panelled mahogany slid aside noiselessly.

“Go in,” said Fah Lo Suee.

I obeyed. The door closed behind me, and a whiff of air laden with fumes of opium told me that I was in that queer study which, presumably, was the sanctum of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

One glance was enough. He was seated at the big table, his awful but majestic face resting upon one upraised palm. The long nails of his fingers touched his lips. His brilliant eyes fixed me so that I experienced almost a physical shock as I met their gaze.

“Sit down,” he directed.

I discovered that a Chinese stool was set close beside me. I sat down.

Dr. Fu-Manchu continued to watch me. I tried to turn my eyes aside, but failed. The steel-grey eyes of Sir Denis Nayland Smith were hard to evade, but I had never experienced such a thralldom as that cast upon me by the long, narrow, green eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

All my life I had doubted the reality of hypnotism. Sir Denis’s assurance that Fah Lo Suee had nearly succeeded in hypnotizing me at the hospital had not fully registered; I had questioned it. But now, in that small, opiated room, the reality of the art was thrust upon me.

This man’s eyes held a power potent as any drug. When he spoke, his voice reached me through a sort of mist, against which something deep within—my spirit, I suppose—was fighting madly.

“I have learned that you are acquainted with the little flower whose destiny is set upon the peak of a high mountain. Of this, I shall ask you more later. She is nature’s rarest jewel: a perfect woman... You have, unwittingly as I believe, thrust yourself into the cogs of the most delicate machine ever set in motion.”

I closed my eyes. It was a definite physical effort, but I achieved it.

“Now, when you are about to devote your services to the triumph of the Si-Fan, consider the state of the world. The imprint of my hand is upon the nations. Mussolini so far has eluded me; but President Hoover, who stood in my path, makes way for Franklin Roosevelt. Mustapha Pasha is a regrettable nuisance, but my organization in Anatolia neutralizes his influence. Von Hindenburg! The old marshal is a granite monument buried in weeds...!”

Persistently I kept my eyes closed. This dangerous madman was thinking aloud, communicating his insane ideas to a member of the outer world, and at the same time pronouncing my doom—as I realized: for the silence of the father confessor is taken for granted.

“Rumania, the oboe of the Balkan orchestra... I have tried to forget King Carol—but negligible quantities can upset the nicest equation by refusing to disappear. A man ruled by women is always dangerous—unless his women are under my orders... Women are the lever for which Archimedes was searching, but they are a lever which a word can bend. You may have heard, Alan Sterling, that I have failed in my projects. But consider my partial successes. I have disturbed the currencies of the world...”

That strange, guttural voice died away, and I ventured to open my eyes and to look at Dr. Fu-Manchu.

He had lighted a little spirit lamp which formed one of the items upon the littered table, and above the flame, on the end of a needle, he was twirling a bead of opium. He glanced up at me through half-closed eyes.

“Something upon which science has not improved,” he said softly. “Yes, I could hasten the crisis which I have brought about, if I wished to do so.”

He dropped the bead into the jade bowl of a pipe which lay in a tray beside him.

“Here is a small brochure,” he went on, and took a book from a table rack, thrusting it in my direction. “
Apologia Alchymiae
—a restatement of alchemy. It is the work of a London physician—Mr. Watson Councell, whose recent death I regret, since otherwise I should have solicited his services. There are five hundred copies of this small handbook in circulation. Singular to reflect, Alan Sterling, that no one has attempted the primitive method of manufacturing synthetic gold, as practised by the alchemists and clearly indicated in these few pages. For fable is at least as true as fact. Gold...” He placed the stem of the pipe between his yellow teeth... “I could drown the human race in gold!”

“But Russia is starving, and the United States undernourished. The world is a cheese, consuming itself. Even China—my China...” He fell silent—and I watched him until he replaced the little pipe in its tray and struck a gong which stood near to his left hand.

A pair of Chinamen, identical in appearance, and wearing identical white robes, entered behind me—I suddenly found one at either elbow. Their faces resembled masks carved in old ivory and mellowed by the smoke of incense.

Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke a few rapid words in Chinese—then:

“Companion Yamamata will see you,” he said, his voice now very drowsy, and that queer film creeping over his brilliant eyes; “he will admit you to the Blessing of the Celestial Vision, by which time I shall be ready to discuss with you certain points in regard to the future and to instruct you in your immediate duties.”

One of the Chinese servants touched me upon the shoulder and pointed to the open doorway. I turned and walked out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I
presently found myself in a typical reception room of a consulting surgeon. I was placed in a chair around which were grouped powerful lights for examination purposes. Companion Yamamata, who was scrutinizing some notes, immediately stood up and introduced himself, peremptorily dismissing the Chinamen.

He was young and good-looking in the intellectual Japanese manner; wore a long white coat having the sleeves rolled up; and as he rose from the table where he had been reading the notes, he laid down a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and looked at me with humorous, penetrating eyes. He spoke perfect English.

“I am glad that you are becoming a Companion, Mr. Sterling,” he said. “Your province of science is not mine, but I am given to understand by Trenck that you are a botanist of distinction. Your medical history”—he tapped the pages before him—“is good, except for malarial trouble.”

I stared at him perhaps somewhat stupidly. His manner was utterly disarming.

“How do you know that I have had malaria?” I asked. “I don’t think I display any symptoms at the moment.”

“No, no, not at all,” he assured me. “But, you see, I have your history before me. And this malaria has to be taken into account, especially since it culminated in blackwater fever so recently as three months ago. Blackwater, you know, is the devil!”

“I do know,” said I, grimly.

“However”—he displayed gleaming teeth in a really charming smile—“I am accustomed to these small complications, and I have prepared the dose accordingly. Will you please strip down to the waist. I always prefer to make the injection in the shoulder.”