The Island of Fu-Manchu (32 page)

He went to the head of the ladder, waited until the cutter rose within two feet of the jetty and jumped. In more respects than one Sir Lionel Barton was a remarkable man. I strained forward and saw him scrambling forward to the bows. As the cutter pulled out:

“Barton has earned his reputation,” said Nayland Smith. “He fears neither men nor gods. If I know anything about him, he will stop at least one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s rat holes tonight.”

An old freighter of three thousand tons sunk well below her load-line with a cargo of concrete blocks, was lying off there in the storm, escorted by a United States destroyer. In the interval which had elapsed since I had been swallowed up by the organization of the Si-Fan, Smith and Barton had worked like beavers. The freighter was destined to be scuttled at the spot indicated in the ancient chart as the submarine entrance to Christophe’s Cavern. Inquiries from local fishermen had revealed that a shelf of rock, or submerged ridge, jutted out there. This ledge must be the lintel of Fu-Manchu’s underwater-gate.

An American skipper who knew the Haitian coast was in command, and the destroyer was standing by to take off the officers and crew. It would be necessary practically to pile up the ship on the gaunt rocks below which the opening lay—on such a night as this, with a heavy sea running, a feat of seamanship merely to think about which turned me cold.

I stood there beside Smith, watching. The thunder was so shattering when it came that it seemed to rock the quay, the lightning so vivid in its tropical brilliance as to be blinding. In those awesome flashes I could see both ships lying close off shore; I could see the cutter breasting a white-capped swell as she made for the freighter, riding lumpishly, overladen as she was. How clearly I remember that night, that occasion: for it was the prelude to what I believed and prayed would be the end of Dr. Fu-Manchu and all his works.

We waited there through blaze after blaze of lightning, until we saw the cutter brought alongside the freighter. By this time a tremendous sea was running, and I trembled for Barton, a heavy man and by no means a young one. I had visions of a jumping ladder, of the smaller craft shattered like an eggshell.

Then, during a moment of utter blackness, thunder booming hellishly among the mountains, a second rocket split the night.

“Thank God!” whispered Smith. He stood close beside me. “He’s mad, but he bears a charmed life. He’s on board.”

It was the agreed signal.

“Now—to our job.”

Through that satanic night we set out for the San Damien works. It was a wild drive, a ride of the Valkyries. Sometimes, as we climbed, white-hot flashes revealed forest valleys below the mountain road which we traversed; sometimes, in complete darkness which followed, the maintain seemed to shiver; our headlights resembled flickering candles. Our lives and more than our lives were in the hands of the driver, but as he had been allotted to us by the American authorities as the one man for the job, I resigned myself.

“I have it in my bones,” said Nayland Smith during a momentary lull, “that tonight we shall finally defeat Dr. Fu-Manchu. The very elements seem to be enraged.”

But I was silent. I had, in a sense, come closer to Dr. Fu-Manchu than Nayland Smith had ever had an opportunity to do. Something of the almost supernatural dread with which the Chinese scientist had inspired me was gone. He was not an evil spirit; he was a physical phenomenon, and his strength resided in the fact that he had perfected a method for enslaving the genius of the world and bending it to his will. At last I understood that Dr. Fu-Manchu was something which human ingenuity might hope to outwit. But his armament was formidable.

Of that drive up to the lip of the valley which once had been the crater of a great volcano, I retain strange memories. But memorable above all was that moment when, coming round a hairpin bend on the edge of a sheer precipice, the black curtain of the storm was rent by dazzling light, and there, away beyond a forest-choked valley, an eerie but a wonderful spectacle, I saw for the second time the mighty bulk of The Citadel, upstanding stark, an ogre’s castle, against the blaze.

Indeed, a jagged dagger of lightning seemed to strike directly down upon its towering battlements. Almost I expected to see them crumble. Darkness fell and there came a crash of thunder so deafening that it might well have echoed the collapse of Christophe’s vast fortress into the depths.

At long last we turned inland from the road skirting the precipice and plunged into a sort of cutting. I heaved a sigh of relief.

“There are
two
sides to
this
road,” said Smith. “I confess I prefer it.”

We were now, in fact, very near to our destination; but since I had never seen the outside of the place but only the extensive buildings which surrounded the quadrangle, I was surprised by its modest character. A wide sanded drive opened to the right of the road, and across it was a board on which might be read: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” The drive was bordered by tropical shrubbery and palm trees. Some fifty yards along I saw a bungalow which presumably served the purpose of a gate lodge. Smith checked the driver, and we pulled up just beyond.

“There are three possibilities,” he said. “One, that we shall find the place deserted except for legitimate employees of the Corporation, against whom it would be difficulty to bring a case. In this event, the presence of the zoological exhibits and of the experimental laboratory might plausibly be accounted for: hemp cultivation after all is conducted today on scientific lines. The glass coffins you describe might be less easy to explain.

“And the second possibility is—some trap may have been laid for us. I doubt, assuming that the Doctor and his associates have gone below-ground, if it would be possible under any circumstances to obtain access from this point. However, you see, my instructions have been well carried out.”

In a dazzling blaze of lightning he looked round.

“I warrant you can find no evidence of the fact, Kerrigan, that a considerable party of Federal agents, supported by two companies of Haitian infantry with machine guns, is covering the area.”

“There is certainly no sign of their presence. But why did they not challenge the car?”

“They have orders to challenge nothing going in, but anything or anybody coming out. Now, let us have a report.”

He flashed a pocket torch, in-out, in-out.

From a darker gulley in the bank of the road, just above the sanded drive, two men appeared; one was in the uniform of the Haitian army, his companion wore mufti. As they came up. Smith acknowledged the officer’s salute and turning to the other.

“Anything to report, Finlay?” he asked.

“Not a thing, chief—except that Major Lemage, here, has got his men under cover, and my boys all know their jobs. What’s the programme?”

“Are there any lights showing?”

“Sure. There’s one right in the gate-office. Night porter, I guess.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Haven’t seen any.”

“Then we will stick to our original plan. Come on, Kerrigan.” As we walked past the car and up the sanded drive Finlay dropped back, following at some ten paces.

“What was the
third
possibility you had in mind. Smith?” I asked.

“That Fu-Manchu evidently regards himself as a potential world power. He may still be here. He may attempt to brazen the thing out. Your absence will have puzzled him, but there are numbers of burrows in all volcanic rocks such as those which compose the Cavern, so it seems highly unlikely that he will be able to find out what occurred. But the absence of Ardatha and Hassan is susceptible of only one construction; a major mistake—and Fu-Manchu rarely makes major mistakes. However, we must move with care. You say that the lift is at the end of a sort of tunnel in which are the glass coffins?”

“Yes, a cellar built, I believe, in the foundations of the laboratory.”

“Which you can identify?”

“I think so.”

The bungalow, when we reached it, was so like a thousand and one inquiry offices at entrances to works, that again, as had occurred many times before, the idea seemed fabulous that anything sinister lurked behind a façade so commonplace. Lightning blazed, and cast ebony shadows of palm trunks bordering the drive, shadows like solid bars, across to the spot where we stood. There was a brass plate on the door, inscribed: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” A light shone from a window.

Smith pressed the bell, and a sort of tingling excitement possessed me as I stood there waiting to see who would open the door. We had not long to wait.

A Haitian, his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a lanky fellow smoking a corncob pipe, looked at us with sleepy eyes.

In the office I saw a cane armchair from which he had evidently just risen, a newspaper on the floor beside it. There was a large keyboard resembling that of a hotel hall porter. At the moment that I observed this the man’s expression changed.

“What do you want?” he asked sharply. “You do not belong here.”

“I want to see the manager,” snapped Smith. “It is urgent.”

“The manager is in bed.”

“Someone must be on duty.”

“That is so—I am on duty.”

“Then go and wake the manager, and be sharp about it. I represent the Haitian Government, and I must see Mr. Horton at once. Go and rouse him.”

Smith’s authoritative manner was effective.

“I have to stay here,” the man replied, “but I can call him.”

He went inside and took up a telephone which I could not see; but then I heard him speaking rapidly in Haitian. Then came a tinkle as he replaced the receiver. He returned.

“Someone is coming to take you to the manager,” he reported.

Apparently regarding the incident as closed, he went in and shut the door.

I stared at Smith.

“One of the Corporation staff,” he said in a low voice. “I doubt if he knows anything. However—wait and see.”

We had not waited long before a coloured boy appeared from somewhere.

“You two gentlemen want to see Mr. Horton?”

“We do,” said Smith.

“Come this way.”

As we moved off behind the boy I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Finlay raise his hand and turn, then flash a light in the darkness behind him. We were being closely covered.

The boy led along the back of those quarters in which for a time I had occupied an apartment. I saw no lights anywhere. Just beyond, and fronting on the big quadrangle, was a detached bungalow. Some of the windows were lighted and a door was open. The coloured boy rapped upon the door, and James Ridgwell Horton came out, holding reading glasses in his hand and having a book under his arm. The storm seemed to be moving into the east, but dense cloudbanks obscured the moon and the night was vibrant with electric energy. He peered at us in a bewildered way.

“You want to see me?”

At which moment the reflection of distant lightning showed us up clearly.

“We do,” said Smith.

“Why, Mr. Kerrigan! Sir Denis Nayland Smith!” Horton exclaimed, and fell back a step. “Mr. Kerrigan!”

“May we come in?” asked Smith quietly.

“Certainly. This is… most unexpected.”

We went into a room furnished with tropical simplicity; the night was appallingly hot, and Horton had evidently been lying in a rest chair, reading. In the rack was an iced drink from which two straws protruded. I noticed with curiosity that illumination was by an ordinary standard lamp. Horton stared rather breathlessly from face to face.

“Does this mean—?” he began.

“It means,” said Smith rapidly, “as the presence of Kerrigan must indicate, that the game’s up. Do exactly as I tell you, and you will come to no great harm. Try to trick me, and lie worst will happen.”

Horton made an effort to recover himself.

“In the first place, sir, I cannot imagine—”

“Imagination is unnecessary. Facts speak for themselves. I am here on the behalf of the Government of the United States.”

“Oh!” murmured Horton.

“I am accompanied by a number of Federal officers. The entire premises are surrounded by armed troops. This, for your information.”

“Yes, I see,” murmured Horton; and I saw him clench his hands. “In spite of this—and I speak purely in your own interest—I fear that steps will be taken against you of a character which you may not anticipate. I strongly urge you—”

“It is my business to take risks,” snapped Smith. “You may regard yourself as under arrest, Mr. Horton. And now, be good enough to lead the way to Dr. Fu-Manchu.”

A moment Horton hesitated, then stretched his hand out to a telephone.

“No, no!” said Smith, and grasped his arm. “I wish to
see
him—not to find him gone.”

“I cannot answer for the consequences. I fear they will be grave—for you.”

“Be good enough to lead the way.”

I was now riding a high tide of excitement; and when, walking dejectedly between us, Horton crossed the quadrangle in the direction of that large building without windows which I remembered so well, which I should never forget, I confess that I tingled with apprehension. There was no one in sight anywhere, but glancing back again I saw that a number of armed men had entered from the drive and were spreading out right and left so as to command every building in the quadrangle. Two who carried sub-machine guns were covering our movements. Before the door of that lobby in which I had changed into rubber shoes, Horton paused.

“If you will wait for a moment,” he said, “I will inquire if the Doctor is here.”

“No, no!” rapped Smith. “We are coming with you.”

Horton selected a key from a number on a chain and opened the door. We went into the lobby—and there were the rows of rubber shoes.

“You must change into these,” he said mechanically.

I nodded to Smith and we all went through that strange ritual.

“Open this other door,” said Smith.

The men armed with sub-machine guns were already inside.

“I have no key of this door; I can only ring for admittance.”

“Ring,” said Smith. “I have warned you.”

Horton pressed a button beside the massive metal door, and my excitement grew so tense that my teeth were clenched. For perhaps five seconds we waited. Smith turned to the G-men.