The Island of Fu-Manchu (21 page)

Many times I had opened the glass front of the box containing the shrivelled head, and had pressed the red control. It had remained silent. But these notes, actually written some time later, bring me to the occurrence which jolted me sharply back from a sort of fatalistic passivity to active interest in affairs of the moment.

We were quartered in a hotel in Port au Prince; not that in which The Snapping Fingers had appeared. Nayland Smith habitually eschewed official residences, preferring complete freedom of movement. The beauty of Haiti, its flowers and trees and trailing vines; the gay-plumaged birds and painted butterflies; those sunsets passing from shell pink through every colour appreciated by the human eye into deep purple night: all formed but a gaudy background to my sorrow. For those purple nights, throughout which distant drums beat ceaselessly—remorselessly to me seemed to be throbbing her name:
Ardatha—Ardatha!
Can I ever forget the dark hours in Haiti?

Following such a spell of restless drum-haunted insomnia, I came downstairs one morning, a morning destined to be memorable.

One side of the dining-room opened upon a pleasant tropical garden in which palms mingled with star apple trees and flowering creepers which formed festoons from branch to branch and trellised the pillars against one of which our table was set. At this season, we had learned from the proprietor, business normally was slack; but as in Cristobal, the hotel was full. In fact, failing instructions sent to the American consul, I doubt if we should have secured accommodation. Even so, our party had been split up; and looking around, whilst making my way across to my friends, I recognized the fact that of the twelve or fifteen people present in the dining-room, there were at least four whom I had seen in Colon!

Taking my place at the table: “Are these spies following Mr. Smith?” I asked, wearily shaking out my napkin, “or are
we
following them?”

“The very thing, Kerrigan,” said Barton in a whisper audible a hundred yards away, “which I have been asking Smith.”

“Neither,” Smith replied shortly. “But the position of the Allied forces in Europe is so critical that if action is to come from this side of the Atlantic, it must come soon. I don’t suggest that the British Empire is in danger; I mean that any other Power wishing to take a hand in the game must act now or never. The United States is not impregnable on the Caribbean front. At least one belligerent is watching, and possibly a ‘neutral’. Dr. Fu-Manchu is watching all of them.” He pushed his plate aside and lighted a cigarette. “Had a good night, Kerrigan?”

“Not too good. Did you?”

“No. Those infernal drums.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought I was back in Africa,” growled Barton. “Felt that way the first time I landed here.”

“It
is
Africa,” said Smith shortly. “An African island in the Caribbean. Those drums which beat all through the night, near, and far, on hills and in the valleys—since we arrived, do you know what they have been saying?”

I stared at him perhaps a little vacantly.

“No,” I replied; “the language of African drums is a closed book to me.”

“It used to be to me.” He ceased speaking as a Haitian waiter placed grape fruit before me and withdrew. “But they use drums in Burma, you know—in fact, all over India. In my then capacity—Gad! It seems many years ago—I went out of my way to learn how messages were flashed quicker than the telegraph could work, quick as radio, from one end of the country to another. I picked up the elements, but I can’t claim to be an expert. When you and I were together”—he turned to Barton—“in Egypt, and afterwards on the business of the Mask of the Veiled Prophet, I tried to bring my information up to date, but the language of these negro drums is a different language. Nevertheless, I know what the drums are saying,”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“They are notifying someone, somewhere, that we are here. Every move we make, Kerrigan, is being signalled.”

“To Fu-Manchu?” asked Barton.

Smith hesitated for a moment, puffing at his cigarette as though it had been a pipe; then:

“I am not sure,” he returned slowly. “I have been here before, remember; my only other visit was a short one. But during the night I used to note the drum beats. And working upon what I knew of drum language I ultimately identified, or think I did, the note which meant myself.”

“Amazing!” exclaimed Barton. “I have a bundle of notes some three hundred pages long on drum language, but I don’t believe I could identify my own name in any of them.”

“I say,” said Smith, still speaking very slowly, “that I am not sure. But I formed the impression at that time, and later events have strengthened it, that the drummers were not speaking to Dr. Fu-Manchu. We can roughly identify the Doctor by his deeds. We know, for example, that The Snapping Fingers is operated by Dr. Fu-Manchu. We know that the padding footsteps, the Shadow which comes and goes, is controlled by him. It was this Shadow which penetrated to our quarters in Colon and put opium in your whisky. The same Shadow which, unseen by the police officer, substituted a packet of drugged cigarettes for those which temporarily lay upon a ledge beside him. To these phenomena we must add now the Green Hand. But more and more, I find myself thinking about the woman called Queen Mamaloi—”

He paused, laid his cigarette down, and:

“Good God!” he exclaimed.

An envelope had appeared upon the table beside his plate. No waiter was near. The next occupied table—for Smith had recognized the presence of a number of agents in the hotel—was well removed from ours.

“It came from the garden path there,” spluttered Barton. “I positively saw it blow up.”

I had merely seen it drop beside the plate. I remained silent, dumbfounded. Smith’s jaw muscles became very prominent, but he hesitated only a moment, and then with a table knife he split the envelope. He read aloud in a perfectly toneless voice:

SECOND NOTICE.

The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan point out that no reply has been received to its First Notice. Two Powers have opened negotiations with the Council relative to a readjustment of naval forces in the Caribbean and Panama waters. A copy of this Second Notice has been sent to Washington. You have three days.

President of the Council.

F
ather Ambrose, S.J., arrived immediately after breakfast. Father Ambrose had been recommended to Smith by Colonel Kennard Wood as one who knew more about Haiti than any other white resident. He was a stout, amiable-looking cleric, wearing glasses and carrying a heavy blackthorne. He had a notably musical voice; and his rather sleepy eyes held a profound knowledge of men and their affairs.

The meeting took place in Smith’s room—as this was the largest; and he, having cordially welcomed the priest, broached the real business of the interview with a strange question:

“Are you acquainted. Father Ambrose, with the superstition of the
Zombie
? Dead men who are dug up and restored to a sort of life?”

“Certainly,” the priest replied, in that rich, easy voice. “It is no superstition—it is a fact”

“You mean that?” Barton challenged.

“I mean it. You see, these dead are not really dead; they are buried alive. These people, I mean the exponents of Voodoo, are acquainted with some kind of poison, or so I read it, which produces catalepsy. In this condition the victims are buried and their identities lost. They are then secretly dug up again and restored in the form of that dreadful creature—a
Zombie.
Personality has gone; in fact one would say that the soul had gone. They are entirely under the control of the Voodoo doctor.”

“You see, Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “Dr. Fu-Manchu is not the only man who knows this strange secret.”

“I have heard of Dr. Fu-Manchu,” said the priest, “but to my knowledge he has never been in Haiti.”

“That,” said Barton, “we shall make it our business to find out.”

“The
Zombie
, then, in your view,” Smith went on rapidly, “is not just a Negro variety of the vampire tradition, but a scientific fact?”

“Undoubtedly. The thing has been practised here in quite recent times—may be practised now.” A shadow crossed the speaker’s face. “Many of my flock, a large and scattered one, are, I regret to say, both professed Roman Catholics and also secret devotees of Voodoo.” He shook his head. “I can do nothing to stop it.”

“It is the cult of the serpent,” growled Barton. “This knowledge of unfamiliar drugs and of hypnotic suggestion has come down from West Africa, but it reached West Africa from Ancient Egypt. The recurrence of the Ra symbol and the importance of the snake prove my point, I think.”

“I quite agree with you,” Father Ambrose replied. “That point has not actually been established, but I hope to establish it before I die.” He fumbled for a moment in his pocket, and: “I recovered this from a penitent recently,” he added, and handed something to Smith.

Smith held it in the palm of his hand, staring down at it curiously. Gaily-plumaged birds flew from branch to branch outside the open window; there were strange movements in the crests of the coconut palms; the drums of the night were silent. I stood up to obtain a closer view of the object which the priest had produced. It was the figure of a snake, crudely carved in some soft wood and coloured green.

“Does any special significance attach to this?” Smith asked.

“Yes.” The priest nodded gloomily. “You see, this abominable cult, which in my opinion today has its head centre in Haiti, is divided up into sects; actually it is a kind of heathen religion. Each of these sects has a distinguishing mark or badge; the green serpent is that of a group or lodge to which my penitent belongs, or did belong. I made him swear that he would never attend again.”

“But how are the things used?” asked Smith.

“As passports!” said Barton. “They are used as a means of recognition. The analogy may be blasphemous, Father, but the Sign of the Cross was employed in a similar way amongst the early Christians. Other lodges have other symbols, of course, several of which I possess. In fact, I have a selection with me; thought they might be useful.”

“I see,” muttered Smith. He laid the little amulet thoughtfully on the table before him. “In your experience, are all these people pure Africans?”

“Not at all.” The priest shook his head. “Many people who have very little Negro blood are followers of Voodoo; some—who have none at all.”

“You amaze me!” I exclaimed.

He gave me a glance of his mild eyes.

“There is undoubtedly power in Voodoo,” he said sadly. “And to grasp power, unscrupulous men will follow strange paths. One who could control this movement would have much power.”

“I quite agree,” said Smith. “I think I know one who has already done so. Another question, Father. Do you recall recent deaths due to The Snapping Fingers?”

“I recall them very well.”

“Would you ascribe them to Voodoo?”

The priest hesitated. He had produced a huge, curved calabash pipe, and as Smith passed his pouch:

“I have warned you,” he said, indicating the enormous bowl, “and I hope you have plenty of tobacco in reserve. Now you have posed me a difficult question, Sir Denis. By the coloured population those deaths were universally accepted as the works of Voodoo. In the matter of their direction they may have been. Myself, I always thought they were due to some natural cause.”

“You mean some creature,” Smith suggested,

“Yes.” The last few strands of nearly half an ounce of tobacco had disappeared into the mighty bowl. “Some odd things live here, you know. And owing to the fact that Haiti is not yet fully developed, I imagine that there are others which have not yet been classified.”

Smith began to pace up and down; then:

“Just glance at this map,” he jerked suddenly.

He opened on the cane table a large-scale map of Haiti. Barton’s blue eyes danced with curiosity; he, too, stood up as the priest bent over the map.

“Yes,” said Father Ambrose, “it is a good map. I know most of the routes.”

“You observe a red ring drawn around an area in the north.”

“I had noted it. Unfortunately, it is a part of Haiti with which I am imperfectly acquainted. My confrère, Father Lucien, looks after that area.”

“Nevertheless,” said Smith, “You certainly know it better than I do. I am going to ask you, Father, if you have ever heard of a legend, or tradition, of a large cave along that coast?”

“There are many,” the priest returned, puffing out great curls of tobacco smoke. “That rugged coast is honeycombed with caves. Perhaps you are referring to Christophe’s Cave, which so many people have tried to find, but which I am disposed to think is certainly a legend.”

“Ah!” growled Barton.

“It has been suggested to me,” Father Ambrose smiled, “that the object of your present visit. Sir Lionel, is to look for Christophe’s treasure. I remember you were here a year or two ago, although I did not meet you then. But I may give you a warning. What information you have it is not my business to inquire, but much gold and some human lives have been wasted during the past century in that quest. Christophe’s Cavern has a history nearly as bad as that of Cocos Island.”

“You surprise me,” murmured Smith, laying the tip of his forefinger upon a point within the red circle upon the map. “But here, I am informed, there is a ruined chapel dating back to French days. Am I right?”

“You would have been a week ago.”

“What!”

Barton and Smith were staring eagerly at the speaker.

“The chapel was either struck by a thunderbolt or blown up by human hands at some time during last Thursday night. Scarcely one stone was left standing upon another. I had a full report in a letter of this mysterious occurrence from Father Lucien.”

Smith and Barton exchanged glances.

“Perhaps you realize now, Barton,” said Smith, “that Dr. Fu-Manchu—one morning in New York, if I am not mistaken—took steps to check the chart in his possession from the original which you held…”

The ruined chapel, now demolished, had marked the entrance to Christophe’s Cavern!