The Mask of Fu-Manchu (32 page)

I knew many of them by name, but few of them personally; and in cold print it appeared that the bridegroom would be the least distinguished person present at the church.

In many respects those days were the worst I have ever lived through…

But I moved under a cloud. Since the loss of the relics I had felt in some indefinable way that of actual danger from Dr. Fu-Manchu there was none. His last project had failed; but I was convinced that failure and success alike left him unmoved. Over and over again I discussed the matter with Nayland Smith and Petrie, and with Superintendent Weymouth, who had been staying somewhere in the Midlands but who was now back in London prior to returning to Cairo.

“In the old days,” he said on one occasion, “Fu-Manchu was operating under cover, and he stuck at nothing to get rid of those who picked up any clue to his plans. From what you tell me now it appears that in this last job he had nothing to hide.”

This, then, was not the shadow which haunted me: it was the memory of Fah Lo Suee…

To what extent aided by those strange drugs of which her father alone possessed the secret I was unable to decide, but definitely she had power to throw some sort of spell upon me, under which I became her helpless slave. Rima knew something, but not all, of the truth.

She knew that I had followed Fah Lo Suee from Shepheard’s that night in Cairo, but of what had happened later she knew nothing; nor of what had happened in Bruton Street.

But something there was which she knew and had known from the first: that Fah Lo Suee possessed a snake-like fascination to which I, perhaps any man, was liable to succumb. And she knew that this incalculable woman experienced a kind of feline passion for me.

Often, when we had been separated, I surprised a question in her eyes. Perhaps she knew that I dreaded meeting Fu-Manchu’s daughter as greatly as she dreaded it herself.

And all the time, while I looked on, feeling like a complete stranger, arrangements for the wedding proceeded. Sir Lionel dictated chapter after chapter of his book, and at the same time several papers to scientific publications which he occasionally favoured with contributions; interviewed representatives of the Press, quarrelled with the caterers responsible for the reception; wrote insulting letters to
The Times;
in short, thoroughly enjoyed himself.

I pointed out to him, one day, that since Rima and I would have to live upon my comparatively slender income, our married life would be something of an anti-climax to our wedding.

“You’ve got a good job!” he shouted. “Damn it! I pay you a thousand a year!—and you must make something out of your ridiculous books!”

The discussion was not carried any further. I realised that it was one I should never have begun.

I had his sister Lady Ettrington to cope with, also. She issued an ultimatum to the effect that she would not be present in the church unless it was arranged that I took up my residence elsewhere than under the same roof as her niece Rima.

This led to a tremendous row between brother and sister. It took place in the room where the presents were assembled: a draw, in which both parties exhibited the celebrated Barton temperament in its most lurid form.

“You can go to the devil!” was Sir Lionel’s final politeness. “As to being in the church, personally I don’t remember having invited you…”

It had all blown over, however, which was the way with storms in this peculiar family; and being awakened by Betts one morning, that privileged old idiot opened the curtains and announced:

“The happy day has arrived, sir…”

N
ot being a society reporter, the wedding at St. Margaret’s must be taken for granted in this account. Suffice to say that it duly took place.

My best man was first rate, and Rima looked so lovely that I was almost reconciled to this dreadful occasion. The crowd inside the church was small in comparison with the crowd outside. Sir Lionel’s gift of showmanship would have put C.B. Cochran out of business, had the chief decided to plunge into the theatrical sphere.

He sailed into the church through a solid avenue of humanity with that dainty bride on his arm, smiling cheerfully, right and left, as who should say, “What did I tell you? Isn’t she a beauty?”

My own entrance took place in a sort of merciful haze, out of which, dimly, I heard reassuring words from my best man. The ceremony itself stunned me.

I am no believer in the marriage service, and neither is Sir Lionel. He would not for the price of a kingdom have taken those awful vows demanded by the priest, but he thoroughly enjoyed hearing me commit myself to that which he would never have undertaken.

When we came out again into the sunshine (as the sentimental Betts had prayed this was a glorious day) a battery of cameras awaited us.

We escaped finally in a Rolls two-seater—one of Sir Lionel’s presents to the bride—in which he had insisted we must drive away, although frankly I was in no fit condition for the job.

However, I managed it without mishap—to find a second camera battery awaiting us in Bruton Street...

Inside the house I found myself lost in a maze of unfamiliar faces. It was like a first night at a London theatre. Even the servants were strangers, many of them, although Sir Lionel had reinforcements there from other of his establishments.

One fleeting glimpse I had of Petrie’s beautiful wife. She waved to me from a distant corner and then disappeared before I could reach her. A queer situation:
I
was the cause, the centre, of this gathering— and I didn’t seem to know a soul!

The room containing the wedding presents looked promising. I saw Betts there presiding over a sort of extemporised snack-bar. I also saw a detective whom I had chanced to meet in London two years before. He winked at me solemnly—the first man I had recognized at my own wedding reception.

It was one of the queerest experiences of my life. And, owing to my association with Sir Lionel, my days had been far from humdrum.

Exactly what occurred in the interval preceding that strange intrusion which must form the end of this chronicle I cannot definitely state. At one moment I was with Rima; in the next I had lost her… I exchanged greetings with Nayland Smith—and then found myself talking to a perfect stranger… Petrie expressed a wish to drink my health... and we were separated on our way to the buffet...

Over the heads of a group of perfect strangers I presently caught the eye of Betts. He signaled to me.

I extricated myself from the crowd and joined him.

“A somewhat belated visitor, sir, wishes to add his congratulations on this happy day.”

“Who is he, Betts?”

Betts extended a salver, with a perfect gesture. Jostled on all sides, I took up a card, and read:

Dr. Fu-Manchu

There was no address; just those three words.

I became suddenly unaware of everything, and of everybody about me, except Betts and the card of Dr. Fu-Manchu. I spoke—and my voice seemed to come from far away.

“Did you
—see
the visitor?”

“I showed him up to the Museum Room, sir, which, having been locked, is the only suitable room in the house today. He expressed a wish to see you
alone,
sir.”

“Is
he
alone?”

“Yes, sir…”

A band had started playing somewhere.

People spoke to me on my way: I don’t know who they were. One idea, one idea only was burning in my brain: this was a trap, a trap into which the doctor expected that all his enemies assembled in that house would fall!

A final question I threw at Betts:

“He’s a tall man?”

“Very tall, sir, and distinguished; Chinese, I believe…”

I battled my way to the staircase. Couples were seated upon it fully halfway up. I heard the chief’s loud laugh and had a hazy impression that Nayland Smith formed one of the group in the lobby.

They were the two for whom this trap had been laid!

While disavowing any claims to heroism, I must state here that I mounted those stairs to the Museum Room fully expecting to meet destruction. I was determined to meet it alone. The plan should fail. With moderate luck, I might escape; but, even if I crashed, the Chinese doctor would have been foiled.

Sounds of voices, laughter, music, followed me as I threw open the door guarded left and right by phantoms clothed in Saracen armour.

The Museum Room was empty!

For a moment I doubted the evidence of my senses. After all, was it credible that Fu-Manchu should have presented himself at Sir Lionel’s house? Was it possible that he could have crossed the lobby without being recognized by one of the many present who knew him?

I was aware, of course, that the room had three doors; but, even so, escape to the street without detection was next to impossible.

But definitely there was no one there!

Then, on the table, that memorable table which I had prepared for the private view of the relics, I saw that a small parcel lay.

A dimmed clamour of voices and music reached me, with which mingled the traffic hum of Bruton Street.

Neatly wrapped and sealed it lay before me; that package which I believed to contain—death.

The motives which actuated me I realise now, looking back, were obscure; but I opened the parcel and found it to consist of a small casket apparently of crystal, carved (as I supposed at the time) in a pattern of regular prisms which glittered brightly in the sunlight.

An ebony box was inside the casket. A sheet of thick, yellow notepaper, folded, lay on the lid of the box. I opened the box.

It was lined with velvet; and, resting upon the velvet, I saw a string of pink pearls coiled around a scarab ring.

My brain performed a somersault. Someone was calling my name, but I didn’t heed the interruption. I was unfolding the sheet of thick, yellow notepaper. It was neither headed nor dated. In jet-black, cramped writing it contained these words:

To Mr. Shan Greville.

Greeting.

You have suffered at my hands, because unwittingly you have sometimes obstructed me. I bear you no ill will. Indeed, I respect you—for you are an honourable man; and I wish you every happiness.

The pearls are for your bride. They are the only perfectly matched set of a hundred pink pearls in the world. The casket is also for her. She is beautiful, brave, and virtuous, a combination of qualities so rare that the woman possessing them is a jewel above price. It is set with eighty flawless diamonds and was made to the order of Catherine of Russia—who was brave, but neither beautiful nor virtuous.

The ebony box is for you. It will interest Sir Lionel Barton. It bears engraved upon it the seal of King Solomon and came from his temple. The ring, also, I request you to accept. It is the signet ring of Khufu—supposed builder of the Great Pyramid.

Commend me to Sir Denis Nayland Smith, to Dr. Petrie, and to Karamenfeh, his wife, and convey my good wishes to Superintendent Weymouth.

I desire you every good fortune.

Greeting and Farewell.

Fu-Manchu.

S
ax Rohmer was born Arthur Henry Ward in 1883, in Birmingham, England, adding “Sarsfield” to his name in 1901. He was four years old when Sherlock Holmes appeared in print, five when the Jack the Ripper murders began, and sixteen when H.G. Wells’ Martians invaded.

Initially pursuing a career as a civil servant, he turned to writing as a journalist, poet, comedy sketch writer, and songwriter in British music halls. At age twenty he submitted the short story “The Mysterious Mummy” to
Pearson’s
magazine and “The Leopard-Couch” to
Chamber’s Journal.
Both were published under the byline “A. Sarsfield Ward.”

Ward’s Bohemian associates Cumper, Bailey, and Dodgson gave him the nickname “Digger,” which he used as his byline on several serialized stories. Then, in 1908, the song “Bang Went the Chance of a Lifetime” appeared under the byline “Sax Rohmer.” Becoming immersed in theosophy, alchemy, and mysticism, Ward decided the name was appropriate to his writing, so when “The Zayat Kiss” first appeared in
The Story-Teller
magazine in October, 1912, it was credited to Sax Rohmer.