The Island of Fu-Manchu (4 page)

At that moment, in my new clarity of mind, I grasped a fact hitherto unsuspected:

The turning into which BXH 77 had been driven communicated with the back premises of this house, probably with a garage. I had blundered into the enemy’s headquarters!

A figure walked slowly along the veranda—that of a very tall, gaunt man wrapped in a heavy overcoat and wearing some kind of cap. He leaned upon a stick as one uncertain of his steps. The French window was thrown open. I saw Ardatha outlined against the light beyond. The gaunt figure went in, passed Ardatha, and then half turned.

“Lock the window,” I heard spoken sibilantly.

It was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

As the window was fastened, the curtain draped and I rose to my knees;

“Ss!” came a hiss from close behind me. “Don’t move, Kerrigan!”

My heart seemed to miss a throb. Nayland Smith was lying less than two yards away!

“You saw her?” he whispered.

“Of course!”

“I quite understand, old man. No wonder we failed to find her. But, even now, don’t despair—”

“Why?” I groaned. “What hope is left?”

Smith’s reply was curious:

“Dr. Fu-Manchu once had a daughter.”

He had drawn nearer, and now he touched my shoulder. At that moment I had no idea what his words meant; but I was to learn, later.

“Come on—this way.”

In darkness I stumbled along behind him until I found myself under a clump of trees in what I divined to be a neglected garden. Beyond, loomed the bulk of the mystery house—the house which harboured the most dangerous man in the world… and Ardatha.

“The lane into which the Packard turned,” he said rapidly, “simply leads to the garage of this house and the one beyond. The latter also is apparently vacant. I grasped the position in time, backed out and came to look for you. Sims, the Yard driver, has gone for a raiding party. He will take the injured man with him.”

“But—Barton?”

“We can only do our best until reinforcements arrive. But one duty we owe to the world—that we do not allow Dr. Fu-Manchu to slip through our fingers!”

“Why didn’t you shoot him where he stood, Smith?”

“For two reasons. The first concerns yourself; the second is, that I know this place to be occupied by agents of the Doctor—and Barton is in their hands… Good God! What’s that?”

I think I began to reply, but the words perished on my tongue.

It was one of those sounds which it is good to forget; a sound which otherwise might haunt one’s dreams. It was a strangled cry, the cry of a strong man in the grip of mortal terror. It died away. From leafless limbs of trees stretching over us came the drip-drip-drip of falling water.

Smith grasped my arm so hard that I winced.

“That was Barton!” he said, hoarsely. “God forgive me if they—”

His voice broke. Shining the torchlight on the path, he set out headlong for the house.

I have often wondered since what he had planned to do—what would have happened if that Fate which bound two destinies together had not intervened. I can only record what occurred.

We were scrambling across a thorny patch which I judged to be a rose-bed when Smith pulled up, turned, and threw me flat on the ground! His nervous strength in moments of excitement was astounding: I was down before I realized it was he who had thrown me!

“Quiet!” he hissed in my ear; he lay prone beside me. “Look!”

A door had been opened, I saw a silhouette—I should have known it a mile away—that of a girl who seemed to be in wild distress. She raised her arms as if in a gesture of supplication, then pressed her hands over her ears and ran out, turning swiftly right, then vanished.

Smith was breathing as rapidly as I, but:

“Ardatha has opened the door for us,” he said quietly. “Come on, Kerrigan.”

As we ran across and stepped into a lighted lobby Smith was as self-possessed as though we were paying a formal call; I, knowing that we challenged the greatest genius who ever worked for Satan, admired him.

“Gun ready,” he whispered. “Don’t hesitate to shoot.”

Something vaguely familiar about the place in which we stood was explained when I saw an open door beyond which was an empty room, its French windows draped with sombre velvet. This was the lobby I had seen from the other side of the house. It was well furnished, the floor strewn with rugs, and oppressively hot. The air was heavy with the perfume of hyacinths, several bowls of which decorated the place. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly before the newel post of a carpeted staircase. I found myself watching the swing of the pendulum as we stood there, listening. The illumination was scanty, and from beside a partly-opened door in a recess left of the stairs light shone out.

In the room beyond a voice was speaking. Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and advanced, tip-toe. The speaker was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

“I warned you as long as six months ago,” came that singular voice—who, hearing, could ever forget it! “But my warning was not heeded. I have several times attempted, and as often failed, to recover Christophe’s chart from your house in Norfolk. Tonight, my agents did not fail—”

A bearskin rug had deadened the sound of our approach: now Smith was opening the door by decimals of an inch per move.

“You fought for its possession. I do not blame you. I must respect a man of spirit. You might even have succeeded if Dr. Oster had not managed to introduce an intra muscular injection of
crataegusin
which produced immediate crataegus katatonia—or shall I say, stupor—”

Smith had opened the door nearly six inches. I obtained a glimpse of the room beyond. It looked like a study, and on a long, narrow writing-table a struggling man lay bound: I could not see his face.

“Since this occurred in the street, it necessitated your removal. And now. Sir Lionel, I have decided that your undoubted talents, plus the dangers attendant upon a premature discovery of your body, entitle you to live—and to serve the Si-Fan. My plans for departure are complete. Dr. Oster will operate again, and your perspective be adjusted. Proceed.”

Smith now had the door half open. I saw that the bound man was Barton. They had gagged him. His eyes, wild with horror, were turned to the door. He had seen it opening!

A man who wore black-rimmed spectacles was bending over him, a man whose outstanding peculiarity was a bright yellow complexion. From the constable’s description I recognized Dr. Oster. Barton’s coat had been removed, his shirt sleeves rolled up. The yellow Dr. Oster grasped a muscular arm near the biceps and pinched up a pucker of flesh. The agony in those staring eyes turned me cold—murderously cold. The fang of a hypodermic syringe touched Barton’s skin—Smith threw the door open: Dr. Oster looked up.

To this hour I cannot recall actually pressing the trigger; but I heard the report.

I saw a tiny bluish mark appear in the middle of that yellow forehead. Dr. Oster glared straight at me through his spectacles, dropping the syringe, and, still glaring, voiceless, fell forward across Barton’s writhing body.

“
D
on’t move, Fu-Manchu! the game’s up this time!”

Smith leaped into the room, and I was close beside him. The dead man slipped slowly to his knees, still staring glassily straight ahead as if into some black hell suddenly revealed, and soundlessly crumpled up on the floor. One swift glance I gave to Barton, strapped on the long table, then spun about to face Dr. Fu-Manchu.

But Dr. Fu-Manchu was not there!

“Good God!”

Smith, for once, was wholly taken aback; he glared around him, one amazed beyond belief. The room, as I supposed, was a study. The wall right of the door through which we had burst in was covered by bookcases flanking an old oak cabinet having glazed windows behind which I saw specimens of porcelain on shelves. No other door was visible. But, although we had heard Fu-Manchu speaking, Fu-Manchu was not in the room…

At the moment that Barton began to utter inarticulate sounds. Smith raised his automatic and fired a shot into the china cabinet.

A crash of glass followed; then, as he ran forward:

“Release Barton!” he cried. “Quick!”

I slipped my Colt into my pocket and bent over the table. Smith had wrenched open the glazed door. I heard a further crashing of glass. I tore the bandage from Barton’s mouth. He stared up at me, his florid face purple.

“Behind the cabinet!” he gasped. “Get him, Smith—the yellow rat is behind the cabinet!”

As I pulled out a pocket-knife to cut the lashings came a second shot—more crashing.

“He’s gone this way!” Smith shouted. “Cut Barton loose and follow!”

As Sir Lionel rose unsteadily and swung his feet clear of the table, something fell to the carpet. It was the hypodermic syringe, the point of which had just touched his skin at the moment that I had fired. Barton rested against the table for a moment, breathing heavily and looking down at the dead man.

“Good shot, Kerrigan. Thank you,” he said.

The sound of a third report, more distant, echoed through the house and, turning, I saw that the china cabinet was a camouflaged door. A gap now yawned beyond.

“I’ll follow, Kerrigan. Find Smith.”

Good old Barton! I had no choice.

Stumbling over shattered china, I entered the hidden doorway. A flash of my torch showed me that I stood in a large, unfurnished room. A second door was open, although no glimmer shone beyond. I ran across and out. I found myself back in the lobby, but the lights were all off!

“Smith!” I cried. “Smith! Where are you?”

From far behind a sound of crunching footsteps reached me. Barton was coming through. Near by, in the shadows, the grandfather clock ticked solemnly. I stepped to the newel post and moved all the switches which I found there.

Nothing happened. The current had been cut off from some main control.

Knowing that the house, only a matter of minutes before, had been occupied by members of the most dangerous criminal group in the world, I stood quite still for a moment, glancing up carpeted stairs. The scent of hyacinths grew overpowering; a foreboding—almost, it seemed, a pre-knowledge of disaster—bore down upon me.

“Kerrigan!” came Barton’s voice, “the damned lights have gone out!”

“This way!” I cried, and was about to step back to guide him, when I saw something.

One of the flower-bowls lay smashed on the floor. A draught of cold, damp air bore the exotic scent of the blooms to my nostrils. The door by which we had entered, the door to the garden, was wide open; and now from out of the blackness beyond came the wail of a police whistle.

“Make your way through to the garden!” I shouted. “Smith is out there—and he needs help!”

Something in the scent of the hyacinths, in the atmosphere of the house, spoke to me of that Eastern mist out of which Dr. Fu-Manchu had materialized. It was a commonplace London house, but it had sheltered the Chinese master of evil, and his aura lay heavy upon it. I ran out into the garden as one escaping. Dimly the words reached my ears:

“Go ahead! I can take care of myself…”

The skirl of the whistle had died away, but it had seemed to come from a point far to the right of the route which Smith and I had followed when we had approached the house. Now, using my torch freely, I saw that a gravelled path led from the door in that direction: a short distance ahead there were glasshouses.

I grasped a probable explanation; the garage. Fu-Manchu was making for the car. Smith had followed!

As I ran down the path—it sloped sharply—I was mentally calculating the time that had elapsed since Sims, the Yard driver, had gone for a raid squad, and asking myself, over and over again, if Smith had been ambushed. I was by no means blind to my own danger; the friendly Colt was ready in my hand as I passed the glass-houses. Beyond them I pulled up.

Except for a dismal dripping of moisture from the trees the night was uneasily still. I could hear no sound from Barton; but I had heard another sound, and this it was which had pulled me up sharply… a low whistle on three minor notes.

Switching off my light, I stood there waiting. The whistle was repeated, from somewhere nearer; I heard footsteps. And now came a soft call: I could not catch the words.

Then, a faint glimmer of light showed in the darkness.

A high, red-bricked wall surrounded the garden; the forcing-houses were built against it. There was an arched opening, in which perhaps at some time there had been a gate.

There, where reflected rays from the lamp she held struck witch from her disordered hair, stood Ardatha!

Certainly, I had never known, nor have known since, any wild conflict of emotions such as that which shook me. The expression in those wonderful eyes, their deep blue seeming lustrous black in the darkness, was so compounded of terror and of appeal that I knew I must act quickly. I had given my heart to a soulless wanton—and she held it still.

She had seen me, and at the moment that she extinguished the lamp I saw that she carried what looked like a shawl. She turned to run, but I was too swift for her. A vigour not wholly of heaven drove me tonight; things witnessed in that hyacinth-scented house, the ghastly face of Dr. Oster (for whose end I experienced not one jot of remorse)—these had taught me the meaning of “seeing red”.

I leapt through the archway, seized the hooded cape streaming out behind as she ran. She slipped free of it. I stumbled—sprang again—and had her!

As I locked my arms around her she quivered and panted like a wild creature trapped; her head was drumming against mine.

“Let me go!” she cried; “let me go!” and beat at me with clenched fists, nor were the blows light ones.

But I held her remorselessly, perhaps harshly; for her struggles ceased and her words ended on a sound like a sob. She lay, lithe, slender and helpless in my grip. My heart-throbs matched her own as I crushed her to me so that my face touched her hair—and its fragrance intoxicated me.

“Ardatha—Ardatha!” I groaned. “My God, how I love you! How could you do it!”

That beating heart drummed hard as ever, but I detected a relaxation of tensed muscles. No effort of acting could have simulated the agony in my voice: Ardatha knew, but she did not speak.