The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories (3 page)

“Thought I might catch you,” he said, smiling. “The fact is, I owe you a drink, and I don’t know a better time to balance the account than when the bars are sealed on a foggy morning!”

From his pockets he produced a large flask and a bottle of soda water.

“That’s a pleasant sight,” Thurston confessed. “I admit my own reserve is exhausted. Thought we’d be ashore by now.”

Fordwich mixed two tepid drinks and glanced around. His eyes rested on a well-filled golf bag.

“I see you’re a golfer? Expect to get much play?”

“Well, I’m spending a week with a friend in Connecticut who lives near a good course. I’m no plus man. Never got below eighteen!”

They talked about golf, and other things. Thurston gave Fordwich the name of his New York hotel and Fordwich promised to call him later. He wondered if Fordwich knew what had happened to Mrs van Roorden and her Burmese servant, but, although burning with curiosity, he was bound to silence.

Another rap on the door interrupted them. A page came in.

“Mr Thurston?”

“I am Mr Thurston.”

“Note for you, sir.”

Thurston glanced at the scribbled chit. It said, “Please call at Purser’s office immediately.”

“Excuse me.” He turned to Fordwich. “Make yourself comfortable. Shan’t be a minute.”

He went out and along the alleyway to the office. Pandemonium reigned in that area, but Thurston managed to catch the eye of an assistant whom he knew.

“Want to see me?” he asked.

He handed in the note.

The assistant purser stared at it, with a puzzled frown, then went away. He wasn’t gone long.

“There must be some mistake, Mr Thurston, I can find no one who sent you this thing.”

Deeply mystified, Thurston returned to his room, when he had a second surprise.

The silver flask and the soda water remained on the table, but Mr Fordwich had disappeared. Thurston concluded that he had been called away and would return, but as the steward came at that moment to collect his things, he put the flask in his pocket and left the room.

Up to the time that the
Lauretania
docked, he never had a glimpse of Mr Fordwich, nor, which disappointed him more, of Mrs van Roorden. As he waited under the letter T for his steward with the baggage, he watched all the passengers in sight, but failed to find either of those he was looking for.

He was quietly clear of the Customs, for he carried only a suitcase, a valise and his golf bag. These he gave to a porter and headed for the exit. This route took him past the letter F, and here he pulled up.

Fordwich, leaning on his heavy stick, was explaining something to two Customs officers bending over an open handbag.

Thurston’s insatiable curiosity prompted him to draw nearer. Across the shoulder of an interested bystander he saw what lay in the bag.

It was a grotesque green mask of Eastern workmanship. He had a hazy idea that it should be described as a devil mask. He could hear Fordwich’s voice:

“I picked it up in Java. It’s of small intrinsic value. Merely a curiosity…”

Thurston moved on. He didn’t want to appear to be eavesdropping. But his glimpse of the green mask had given him an uncomfortable, and indescribable sensation. Who was this man, Fordwich? He had felt all along there was something mysterious about him. And what lay behind the raid on Mrs van Roorden’s cabin and the assault on her servant?

Above all, why had she declined an official inquiry?

* * *

If, at about the time the
Lauretania
had reached mid-ocean, Thurston could have been transported to that old Arab mansion near the Mosque of El Ashraf, he might now have held a clue to some of these riddles.

It was midnight, and the lofty saloon was dimly lighted by a number of hanging lamps of perforated brass. The screen had been moved from the
mushrabiyeh
window. Dr Fu-Manchu, seated in a chair of native inlay workmanship, bent over the padded basket in which the tiny monkey lay.

He had been seated there for four hours.

It was literally true that vast issues hung upon the life or death of a marmoset.

Native Cairo slumbered. No sound came from the narrow street upon which the gate of a tree-shaded courtyard opened. Inside the house there was unbroken silence. And Dr Fu-Manchu never stirred.

His elbows resting on the chair arms, his long fingers pressed together, he watched, tirelessly. An emerald signet ring which he wore glittered in the light of a shaded lamp. He was so still that a marked resemblance which his gaunt features bore to those of the mummy of Seti I in the Cairo Museum became uncannily increased. It was as if the dead Pharaoh had awakened from his age-long sleep.

Sometimes the strange green eyes filmed over queerly, as if from great weariness. Then at the appearance of some symptom so slight as to be visible only to the inspired physician, they glowed again like living gems.

But when the great change came, it was unmistakable.

Peko moved his tiny arms, almost exactly like a human baby waking up, yawned, stretched and opened beady eyes.

Fu-Manchu’s lips moved, but no sound issued from them. A spot of perspiration trickled from under the black cap and crept down his high forehead. Peko looked up at him, chattered furiously, and then sprung in one bound onto the bowed shoulders.

There the little creature perched, slapping the yellow face of his master in an ecstasy either of rage or of happiness. Only Dr Fu-Manchu could know.

Rising and stepping down into the saloon, Fu-Manchu struck a silver gong. Peko responded with a sound like a shrill whistle and leapt onto a brass lamp hanging directly overhead. Here he swung, looking down and chattering volubly.

Matsukata came in from the laboratory.

“Triumph!”

Dr Fu-Manchu pointed to the swinging marmoset.

Matsukata bowed deeply.

“I salute the genius of the master scientist.”

“Advise General Huan Tsung that we leave in an hour. It is still possible to be there in time. Proceed.”

Matsukata bowed again, and went out. Dr Fu-Manchu dried his high forehead with a silk handkerchief which he drew from the sleeve of his robe, and crossing the saloon, his gait slow and catlike, he mounted a
leewan
at the further end and opened a cupboard.

From the cupboard he took a flat cedarwood box and raised the lid.

Inside lay a green mask—identical with that which, later, George Thurston was to see in a Manhattan Customs shed…

* * *

The phone buzzed in Thurston’s hotel apartment.

He was unpacking his suitcase. He crossed and called:

“Hullo!”

“That you, Thurston?” came a vaguely familiar voice. “Fordwich here. Got my flask, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I lost sight of you. What happened?”

“Called away. Hang on to the flask. Be seeing you around cocktail time. That all right?”

“Quite.”

“Did you get your golf clubs through safely?”

“Golf clubs? Of course. Why not?”

A chuckle of laughter.

“Just asking! See you about six.”

Fordwich hung up.

Thurston scratched his head reflectively, then returned to his unpacking. He took out a lounge suit, a Tuxedo and black trousers. He put them on hangers in the wardrobe, turned, and stared at his golf-bag.

Slowly, he went over and inspected it.

Amongst the club-heads he saw a rubber ferule sticking out!

He grabbed it, trying to pull the thing free. But he had to remove a niblick, a mid-iron and a mashie before he succeeded.

Then—he held Fordwich’s walking stick in his hand!

“Phew!”

Thurston sat down on the side of the bed. The stick was unmistakable. It was of some dark, heavy wood, smooth, nearly black. The handle curved above a plain gold band. There was no inscription.

He couldn’t doubt that the stick he held in his hands was the one upon which Fordwich had been leaning in the Customs shed!

“It isn’t possible!”

Thurston spoke the words aloud. He was startled out of his normal self. This inexplicable incident crowned all the others. What on earth did it mean? Why should the mysterious Mr Fordwich assume that he was a suitable subject for conjuring tricks? And when had the trick been performed?

He thought of the green devil mask. He recalled a conversation with an Anglo-Indian at his club. This man had assured him that, for all science might say to the contrary, the powers of magic were very real in the East.

Hurriedly completing his unpacking, he went down to the bar.

The delay in getting ashore had upset his plans. He didn’t know what to do with himself, or how to spend the evening.

Six o’clock came; half past.

Still there was no word from Fordwich. Thurston sat down and stared at the black walking stick. He didn’t touch it. He was aroused from amorous musings, in which the ivory arms of Mrs van Roorden figured prominently, by a disturbance in the corridor outside.

Someone seemed to be persistently banging on a door, and he could hear the dim ringing of a bell.

As the row continued, Thurston stood up, crossed the apartment and looked out.

The disturbance came from a door almost immediately opposite his own… and the main who rang and banged was
Nayland Smith!

“Smith!”

Nayland Smith had turned, was staring at Thurston across the width of the corridor. His skin had been permanently darkened by years of tropical suns, so that it was impossible to detect pallor. But Thurston thought that some of the old, eager vitality was lacking tonight. The silver at his temples had become more marked.

“Hullo, Thurston!” he rapped (the quick-fire speech remained unimpaired). “Didn’t expect to see
you
here. Come into your apartment and phone if I may.”

“You’re very welcome.”

But, when the door was closed, Nayland Smith dropped wearily into an armchair, and Thurston saw that he looked almost haggard. Something had taxed this man of iron to the limit of his endurance.

“I’m up against one of my toughest problems, Thurston,” he began in his abrupt, staccato way. “Can talk to
you
. Glad to. There’s a gigantic plot about to mature—a plot to destroy Fort Knox, and the gold reserve upon which the financial power of the United States largely depends!”

“Destroy Fort Knox! It’s just impossible! Communists?”

Nayland Smith shook his head, smiled grimly, and taking out a charred briar pipe, began to charge it from a dilapidated pouch.

“No. What d’you think
I’m
doing here? If it had been the Communists I might have agreed with you. But it’s something far more serious. Did you ever hear of the Si-Fan?”

Thurston stared blankly.

“Never.”

“It’s the most powerful secret society in the world today. It is directed by a man who is probably the supreme genius of all time. He has more scientific knowledge in that one phenomenal brain than any ten men alive. He is called Dr Fu-Manchu. You have heard the name?”

“As a name, yes.” Thurston was awed. “No more!”

Nayland Smith replaced his pouch and lighted his pipe.

“I sincerely hope you may never have occasion to learn more! We are uncertain of the details of the scheme. But we think some kind of guided missile is involved—probably with an atomic warhead, or something even more destructive!”

“But where could such a thing be assembled?”

“Several thousand men are engaged, at this very moment, trying to find out! One man, a brilliant FBI operative, has actually succeeded in becoming a
member
of the Si-Fan!”

“Is he an Oriental?” Thurston gasped.

Nayland Smith smoked feverishly.

“Not a bit of it. Don’t run away with the idea that the Si-Fan is a Far Eastern group. It’s international. That’s the danger. It’s true that Selwyn Orson—the FBI man—joined it somewhere in the East. He’s a wonderful linguist. He’s just back, with vital information.”

“Where is he?”

“That’s his room over there. And, although he called me only half an hour ago, I can get no reply. Hasn’t gone out. Checked that.”

He grabbed up the ‘phone. Thurston stared.

“Put me through to Mr Wylie. This is Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

He glanced aside at Thurston.

“When do you think this horror is timed to happen?” Thurston asked in a hushed voice.

Nayland Smith shook his head, and then:

“Hullo—Mr Wylie?” he asked. “Nayland Smith here. I’m in Number 114, Mr Thurston’s apartment. Be good enough to send a boy up with a key to Number 113. Yes, at once, please.”

He hung up.

“I don’t know the exact time, Thurston. But all my information suggests that it may happen at almost any hour now!”

The speed with which the key was delivered by the management indicated the authority vested in Nayland Smith, and when the boy had gone away, they crossed the corridor, and Nayland Smith unlocked the door of Number 113.

On the threshold he stood still, barring Thurston’s entrance.

“What is it, Smith?”

“You don’t have to come in, Thurston.” He spoke without turning. “If you do, prepare for a dreadful sight!”

Nayland Smith went in, and Thurston followed him. The warning had been timely; for even now Thurston pulled up, uttered a smothered cry.

Face downward in the lobby, and so near the door that it was only just possible to open it, lay a blue-clad stocky figure. The man’s outstretched hands were still plunged into an open suitcase, from which a variety of articles had been thrown out on to the floor.

“Good God!” Thurston muttered. He felt deathly sick. “What does this mean?”

“Murder!” snapped Nayland Smith. “He’s been shot through the head—from behind.”

“There’s blood—a trail of it—leading into the room.”

Nayland Smith nodded and went in. Thurston, trying to avoid wet patches on the carpet, followed. Inside, he clutched Smith’s arm.

“Smith! This is horrible! The place is a
morgue
!”

Another dead man was seated beside the table on which the ‘phone stood!

His arms were stretched out on either side of a Manhattan Directory, and he had slumped forward so that his head rested slantwise on the book. The effect was grotesque. He seemed to be leering up at the intruders.