The Mask of Fu-Manchu (29 page)

M
y next impression was of acute pain in both ankles. My head was swimming as after a wild night, and my eyelids seemed to be weighted with lead. I raised them, however, by what I felt to be a definite muscular effort. And, curious circumstances—very curious indeed, as I came to realise later—my brain immediately began to function from the last waking moment I have recorded; namely, from the moment when, seated in the Museum Room, I began to feel very drowsy.

My first thought now was that I had fallen asleep on the settee in some unnatural position, which might account for the pain in my ankles. I looked about me…

I was certainly lying on a divan, as I had supposed; but my ankles were fastened together by a single strand of that dull, yellowish-gray material resembling catgut, and no thicker than a violin string, which had played a part in the death of poor Dr. Van Berg in Ispahan!

My fragile bonds were fastened so tightly as to be painful, and I struggled to my feet. Wedging one foot firmly against the floor, I kicked forward with the other, supposing that the slender link would snap.

The result was that I kicked myself backwards!

I fell among the cushions of the divan, aware that I had badly strained a tendon. Helpless, bewildered, struggling with some memory ever growing, I lay where I had fallen, looking about me. And this was what I saw:

A long, low salon—that, I thought, of an old Egyptian house; parts of the walls were tiled, and a large
mushrabiyeh
window formed a recess at one end. there were some rugs upon the floor, and the room was lighted by a number of lamps having shades of a Chinese pattern which swung from the wooden ceiling. The furniture, scanty, was of mixed Arab and Chinese character. There were deep bookcases laden with volumes in most unfamiliar bindings as well as a number of glass cabinets containing most singular objects.

In one was something which at first I took to be a human head, that of a woman. But, focusing my gaze upon it, I realised that it was an unusually perfect mummy head. In another were some small green snakes, alive. I saw a human skeleton; and in a kind of miniature conservatory which occupied the recess formed by the
mushrabiyeh
window, queer-looking orchids, livid and ugly, were growing.

A definite conviction claimed my mind that I had been in this room before. But—perhaps the most remarkable feature of the experience—it reached my brain in just the same way that such impressions reach us in everyday life. I thought, “This has all happened before.” The only difference was that my prophetic anticipations lasted much longer than is normally the case.

Upon a long, wooden table, resembling a monkish refectory table, lay a number of open volumes among test tubes and other scientific paraphernalia. Standing up, I saw that the table was covered with glass.

Then, turning around, I realised that in many other cabinets hitherto invisible were rows of chemical bottles and apparatus. I was, then, in a room which was at least partly a laboratory; for in one corner I saw a working bench with electrical fittings. There were three doors to the room, of old, bleached teak. They possessed some peculiarity which puzzled me, until I recognized wherein it lay:

These doors had neither latches, handles, nor keyholes. And as I grasped this curious fact, one of them slipped noiselessly open.

And Dr. Fu-Manchu came in…

All who have followed my attempts to record the strange and tragic events which followed upon Sir Lionel Barton’s discovery of the tomb of El Mokanna, will recognise at this point something which I was totally unable to recognise at the time:

I was living again through that hiatus in Cairo; bridging the gap which led to the loss of Rima! That everything in the room, every word spoken by the Chinese doctor, seemed familiar, was natural enough; since I had seen those things and heard those words before.

Again that compelling glance absorbed me. The green, globular lamp upon a silver pedestal was lighted on the long table. And I watched the Chinaman, with long, flexible, bony fingers, examining the progress of some chemical experiment in which he had evidently been engaged at the time of quitting the room.

He spoke to me of this experiment and of others; of the new anaesthetic prepared from mimosa; of the fabrication of spider web—a substance stronger than any known to commerce. He discussed his daughter, Nayland Smith, and Dr. Petrie; and he spoke of the essential oil of a rare orchid found in Burma, which for twenty-five years he had studied in quest of what the old philosophers called the elixir of life.

And I knew, watching him, that he had thrown off the burden of many years, had cheated man’s chiefest enemy—Time.

He went on to criticise the chief, stripping him bare of all his glamour, placing his good qualities in the scale against the colossal egoism of the man. “You love a shell,” he said, “an accomplishment, a genius, if you like, but a phantom, a hollow thing, having no real existence.”

So it went on to the point where I was forced to submit to an injection of that strange new drug in which the Chinese doctor evidently took such pride.

I experienced a sudden and unfamiliar glow throughout my entire body. I became exhilarated; some added clarity of vision came to me. And presently I took my orders from Dr. Fu-Manchu as a keen subaltern takes orders from his colonel.

Exulting in the knowledge that by reason of my association with the great Chinese physician, I was above the trivialities of common humanity, god-like, superior, all-embracing, I set out for Shepheard’s—intent only upon bringing Rima within the fold of this all-powerful genius.

When we pulled up opposite the hotel, and the driver had run across with my note, I knew a fever of impatience—I could scarcely contain myself. But at last I saw her come out, my letter in her hand, saw her run down the steps.

Then, we were together, and my heart was singing with gladness… I was taking her to Dr. Fu-Manchu!

She could not understand; I knew that she could never understand until she had stood face to face with that great and wonderful man, as I had done.

And at first I tried to pacify her, holding her very close. She fought with me, and even endeavoured to attract the attention of a British policeman. But at last she lay passive in my arms, watching me. And I grew very uneasy.

I was assailed by odd doubts. We were far out on the road to Gizeh when suddenly the car pulled up. I saw Dr. Fu-Manchu standing beside me.

“You have done well,” he said; “you may rest now…”

“S
han, dear, I know you are very sleepy, but it’s getting cold and late, too.”

I stirred lazily, opening my eyes. I was pillowed on a warm shoulder, a bare arm encircling my neck. That silvery voice had awakened me. Along jade earring touched my cheek coldly, and caressing fingers stroked my hair.

Yes! I was with Fah Lo Suee, somewhere on the banks of the Nile. And I was content—utterly, rapturously content.

“Love dreams are bitter-sweet, Shan, because we know we are dreaming…”

I could see a long reach of the river, silver under the moon,
dahabeahs
moored against the left bank, where groups of palms formed a background for their slender, graceful masts.

“I think someone has been watching, Shan; I am going to drive you back to Shepheard’s now.”

And as she drove, I watched the delicate profile of the driver. She was very beautiful, I thought. How wonderful to have won the love of such a woman. She linked her arms about me and crushed her lips against mine, her long, narrow eyes closed.

In the complete surrender of that embrace I experienced a mad triumph, in which Rima, Nayland Smith, the chief, all, were forgotten.

I
closed my eyes again, pressing my face against that satin pillow. I felt I could have stayed there forever.

“You know, Shan,” Fah Lo Suee’s voice went on—that silvery voice in which I seemed to hear the note of a bell—“you have often hated me and you will hate me again.”

“I could never hate you,” I said drowsily.

“I have tricked you many times; for, although I love you, Shan, you are really not very clever.”

“Cleverer men than I would give all for your kisses,” I whispered.

“That is true,” she replied, without vanity; for with much of his powerful brain she had also inherited from the Chinese doctor a philosophy by virtue of which she judged herself equally with others. “But I find hatred hard to accept.”

I kept my eyes obstinately closed. Some vague idea was stirring in my brain that when I opened them that act would herald the end of this delicious interlude.

She was so slender—so exquisite—her personality enveloped me like a perfume.

“I have given you back the memory of forgotten hours, Shan. There is no disloyalty in what I have done. Your memories can only tell you again what you know already: that my father is the greatest genius the world has ever known. The old house at Gizeh is deserted again, even if you could find it. Your other memories are of me.”

I clutched her tightly.

“Why should you leave me?”

She clung to me for a moment, and I could hear her heart beating; then:

“Because the false is valueless to me, and the true I can never have.”

The words were so strangely spoken, in so strange a voice, that at last I opened my eyes again... and, astounded, broke free from Fah Lo Suee’s clinging arms and stared about me. I was in the Museum Room in Bruton Street!

A silk dressing gown I had over my pyjamas; a pair of Arab slippers were on my feet. Fah Lo Suee, in a pale green frock which did full justice to her perfect back and shoulders, was lying among the cushions beside me, her fur coat on the floor near by.

She was watching me under half-lowered lashes—doubting me, it would seem. There was more of appeal than command in those emerald green, long, wonderful eyes. Staring about the room, I saw everything was as I had left it; and:

“Well?” Fah Lo Suee murmured, continuing to watch me.

I turned and looked down at her where she lay.

And, as her glance met mine, I was claimed, submerged, swept away by such a wave of desire for this woman as I had never known for anyone in the whole of my life. I dropped to the floor, clasping her knees.

“You cannot—you must not—you dare not go!”

Her lips rippled in a smile—those perfect lips which I realised I adored; and then very wistfully:

“If only that were true!” she murmured.

“But it is!” I knelt upon the settee, grasping her fiercely, and looking into those eyes which beckoned to me—beckoned to me… “Why do you say that? How can you doubt it?”

But she continued to smile.

And then, as I stooped to kiss her, she thrust her hands, slender, exquisite ivory hands against me, and pushed me back. I would have resisted—

“Shan!”
she said.

And although the word was spoken as an appeal, yet it was a command; and a command which I obeyed. Yes, she was right. There was some reason—some reason, which escaped me—why we must part. I clutched my head feverishly, thinking—thinking. What could that reason be?

“I am going, dear. You mustn’t come down to the door—I know my way.”

But I sprang up. She had stooped and was taking up her cloak. Mechanically, I slipped it about her shoulders. She leaned back as I did so and submitted to my frenzied kisses. At last, releasing herself, and pulling the cloak about her slim body:

“Goodbye, Shan dear,” she said, brokenly, but with a determination which I knew I had no power to weaken. “Please go back to bed— and go to sleep.”

Hot tears burned behind my eyes. I felt that life had nothing left for me. But—I obeyed.

Passing out onto the landing where suits of Saracen armour stood on guard, I watched Fah Lo Suee descend the broad staircase. A light burned in the lobby, as was customary, and, reaching the foot of the stairs, she turned.

With one slender, unforgettable, indolent hand, she beckoned to me imperiously.