The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories (8 page)

“What’s moving?”

“The first man to go in has just come out. But he came out of Kwang’s store!”

“Who is he?”

“You’ll be surprised; Sir Mostyn Bierce, English baronet, ex-Member of Parliament.”

“Jumping Jupiter!”

“He was suspected of Fascist sympathies at one time. He’s a celebrated racing motorist. And he’s married to an American wife with a home not fifty miles from Fort Knox. Anyway, he’s in the bag.”

“You’re dead sure he was picked up far enough off to escape observation by the gang?”

“He was covered until he had reached his Cadillac, which he had parked half a mile away. When he stepped in, two of the boys stepped in behind him.”

The next catch was Colonel Otto von Seidler, German gunnery expert, and a former military attaché in Washington.

Then came Dr Griswal, atomic scientist; quickly followed by Captain Cooper, ex-pilot United States Air Force. Cooper for a time had been in charge of the air defences of Fort Knox. Lastly, they picked up the Emir Abdulla al-Abbas, prominent left-wing politician from Trans-Jordania; well-known in diplomatic society and an international polo player.

“There’s nothing against any of them,” Harkness remarked, “except that they all carry green masks.”

“There’ll be plenty against ’em by the time I’m through!” Burke predicted darkly. “Where’s Smith? Where’s this woman? If they aren’t out in five minutes, we’re going in.”

Another buzz sounded.

“This may be news of them!” Harkness took up the phone, listened, and then: “Hold the line for the Deputy Commissioner,” he said, and turned to Burke.

“They’ve just finished working over Colonel Seidler. Among a lot of papers in his wallet they found a shorthand message which he swears he didn’t know was there. It says a bomber attack is planned on Fort Knox, and that all the gold has to be protected in some way I’m not clear about… the message is signed
Nayland Smith.”

“By God! They’ve got him!” Burke snatched the phone. “Commissioner Burke here. I’m coming right over.” He hung up. “This is where we divide forces. Break Kwang’s place wide open. Explore every rathole. Use dynamite if necessary.”

* * *

When Deputy Number Two—last to leave—had performed the Si-Fan salute with that delicate but muscular brown hand, had bowed and retired, there followed a few moments of almost unendurable silence. Nayland Smith, staring fixedly at a draped wall half-right of where he sat, tried to avoid those jade-green eyes. But always, he knew that they were watching him.

What was this incalculable woman going to do? What was a “high-initiate”? How could he hope, alone with her, to keep up such a part?

The effort was not called for.

As the footsteps of the outgoing man died into silence she raised her arms and removed the mask.

“Surely,” she said, her voice very soft, “it is time we tried to understand one another, Sir Denis.”

Nayland Smith clenched his hands, stood up, took off his mask and threw it on the ebony table. Perhaps he should have foreseen that this woman he had known by her childish name of Fah Lo Suee, later as Madame Ingomar, now as Mrs van Roorden, could not be deceived.

He met the gaze of green eyes with the challenge of grey. A panorama of past encounters swept before him. He saw her as she had looked under the skies of Egypt; in an ancient palace on the Grand Canal of Venice; in the more prosaic setting of a London house; he saw her triumphant, he saw her humiliated. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh in his own ears.

“What do you propose to do?”

She walked, in her indolent fashion, around the table until she was beside him. Then, resting against it, her fingers on its edge, she faced him again, and smiled.

“I suppose,” she said, “as
you
are here, that all the members whom I dismissed will now be in the hands of the police? I am not infallible, you know. Your French, which is not good, and which you speak slowly, disguised your voice. I grasped the opportunity you offered. Shall I tell you how you betrayed yourself?”

“If it would amuse you.”

“By your hands—when you found yourself alone with me. I could never forget that nervous movement of your hands.”

She bent towards him, her lips taunting.

Nayland Smith, conscious of a heightened pulse, for Fah Lo Suee was beautifully dangerous, continued to watch her grimly. The perfume of her near presence must have conquered a lesser man.

“As you forget so little, no doubt you remember that you are the daughter of Dr Fu-Manchu, his second self, and that, between you and me, Fah Lo Suee, there can never be compromise.”

She bent closer. Raising one hand, she rested it on his shoulder. Her wonderful eyes were claiming, absorbing him.

“I have suggested no compromise. You say I am my father’s second self.” She laughed softly; the laughter of bells. “I am his second self only in this: I know what I want… And I want to be free, forever, of the Si-Fan!”

Her hand glided across his shoulder, her arm brushing his cheek. Her lips were very near.

“You are a fascinating woman, Fah Lo Suee, but I locked the door on women and the ways of women one day before you were born—at least, as I have no idea when or where you were born, probably before your birth.”

But the white arm coiled around his neck, half parted lips drew even closer.

“You think so, Denis, you think so. To yourself, you are an old man, because there is silver in your hair. To me you are the dream-man of my life—because I could never make you love me. You are strong, inflexible. So am I. In the service of the Si-Fan, failure is not permitted. Excuses are not listened to. I have failed—and I dare not go back.”

Her lips now were trembling on his own. He seemed to be losing his soul in the deep green pools of her eyes…

“There is a third exit from this place, of which I have of course been told. None of your police will be watching it. Had I recognized you in time, I could have saved all those men.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, her lithe body was pressed to him. “For
you
there is no exit—unless I choose to guide you to it.”

Calling upon the last atom of a weakening resolution, Nayland Smith unloosed those seductive arms, and, his hands grasping her shoulders, held Fah Lo Suee away from him, looking into her face.

His glance was met by a mocking smile. She knew, had sensed, her power, knew that this iron-willed man was not entirely immune—that she might conquer yet.

“I don’t know your object—but you are planning some trap.”

“No.” She shook her head; she triumphed in the nervous tension of his hands on her bare shoulders. “I am planning to save you from one. It would take a rescue party hours, perhaps days to reach this room. And it can be flooded to the roof in four minutes.”

“But suppose I held you here, my prisoner?”

“You must know there is assistance within reach, if I care to call upon it.”

“Then—quickly,” he rasped: “Say what you mean, and I will give you my answer.”

“I mean that I want to come with you! Oh, God! Take me away with you, away from all this—anywhere, anywhere! All I know of the Si-Fan I will tell you. I will bring a flame of passion into your cold, lonely life that will alter the face of the world. Take me with you!”

“The offer,” came a quivering sibilant voice, “is an attractive one. I should advise you to accept it, Sir Denis.”

Nayland Smith turned in a flash. Fah Lo Suee’s face blanched to the whiteness of her shoulders.

The tent-like room appeared to be empty behind him, undisturbed—until one of the green draperies was swept aside, revealing a doorway.

Dr Fu-Manchu stood in it watching them.

He wore a long black, fur-lined coat, as if newly arrived from a cold journey. His massive head was uncovered, save for its scanty, neutral-coloured hair. And his features were contorted with a fury almost maniacal.

Hampered by the gown, Nayland Smith’s attempt to draw his automatic was fumbled.

“Glance beyond me!”

It was a sibilant command. Smith obeyed it. From shadows of a stairway at the foot of which Fu-Manchu was standing, two blue-grey barrels glittered.

Dr Fu-Manchu came in, and began, step by feline step, slowly, to approach the cringing woman. His taloned fingers opened and closed as though itching to clutch her throat. A pair of those stocky Burmese whom he used as bodyguards stepped in behind him. They carried heavy automatics.

“Little serpent!” he hissed in Chinese. “Bred of an evil mother. Why have I cherished you so long? Again and again you have struck at me, treacherously. Again and again I have relented in my purpose to destroy you.”

Fah Lo Suee shrank back and back. Relentlessly, he continued to draw nearer. Without removing that deathly glance from her face, he spoke aside:

“One movement, Nayland Smith, and it will be your last.” He advanced another step towards his daughter. “I know, now, but too late, why you begged to be transferred from Java and sent here upon this mission. To betray me! To ruin my labours! To seek out this man—my deadliest enemy—for whom your sensual infatuation has already cost me so dearly!”

“It isn’t true!”

The words came as a whisper, from blanched lips.

“Be silent. Prepare to die with dignity.”

As if this sentence of death, for it was no less, had struck some new chord in that complex soul, Fah Lo Suee raised her dark head, and pale, motionless, faced the terrible Doctor.

“You have seen death by the Wire Jacket, in the Six Gates of Wisdom. Such a death as this you merit.” Fah Lo Suee did not flinch—but Nayland Smith did. “Since you must die tonight, this cannot be. When your body is found, it will be known that in death as in life you belonged to the Si-Fan.”

From an inner pocket, Dr Fu-Manchu took out a small metal box, opened it and snapped up a blue flame. It emitted a slight hissing sound. Nayland Smith clenched his fists, but the bodyguard had drawn nearer. Two barrels were jammed into his ribs.

Fu-Manchu delicately extracted a metal seal from the box; grasped Fah Lo Suee with his left arm and pressed the seal to her shoulder. She uttered never a sound. But Smith had a glimpse of clenched white teeth between parted lips.

A muffled explosion shook the cellar. The lamp went out. Harkness’ raiding party had blasted one of the steel doors.

Out of utter darkness, Fu-Manchu spoke:

“Your last triumph, Sir Denis! My careful plans to force the United States government to act with me, and not against me, are shattered. And so, we must part.”

The presence of the pistol barrels prohibited any action. Nayland Smith stood still. A theory which he had always held that Dr Fu-Manchu could see in the dark, was now strengthened. Horror, a frenzied imagination, might have been responsible. But he thought those emerald green eyes were
visibly
watching him!

Then, they were gone.

A sharp order in what he recognised as a Shan dialect was spoken. There were faint movements.

The beam of a lamp was directed fully upon him from the hidden opening. The two men retired, covering him all the time. The light was switched off.

“Good-by, Sir Denis,” he heard, in that unforgettable voice.

Silence.

Drenched in perspiration, he threw off the green gown, dragged out his pocket torch, snapped it on and ran to the draped wall.

He wrenched the hangings bodily from their moorings; and began feverishly, to examine the surface behind.

He could find no trace of the concealed door.

But he was still searching for it, when clinging arms crept around him. He turned. And, before he could resist her, Fah Lo Suee’s lips were locked to his own.

“Our long battles are over, Denis!” It was a breathless whisper. “We shall die together.”

A second explosion rocked the cellar.

Nayland Smith freed himself—but gently. There was madness in that possessive kiss, and he had seen, indelibly seared on one white shoulder, the sign of the Si-Fan:

“What of the stairs?”

He spoke hoarsely.

“The door at the top is locked. Those in charge will have escaped. Forgive me for all that has been in the past—for this, too. Promise, when the end comes, that you will hold me in your arms. My courage—might fail.”

“I am far from beaten, yet!”

“But listen!”

Nayland Smith listened… to a sound which chilled his heart.

“The cellars are being flooded!”

“Yes. We have four minutes.”

A beam of light suddenly split the gloom, glittered evilly on rivulets of water pouring across the floor.

“Oh, God!
He
has returned!”

This time, Nayland Smith’s automatic was ready as the hidden door slid noiselessly open. A cloaked figure stood there, stooping, peering in. Behind him, someone held a bright lamp.

“Who…?”

He was checked by a wild cry from Fah Lo Suee.

“Huan! Oh, my dearest old friend! God bless you! Dear Father Huan!”

She ran across and threw herself into the extended arms of Huan Tsung—for indeed it was that ancient mandarin who stood there. He clasped her, tenderly, stooping a wrinkled face to kiss her hair.

“Little white lily blossom! How your heart beats.” He spoke Chinese, in which Fah Lo Suee had spoken. “Almost you adventured too greatly. But time heals all things—even the wrath of Dr Fu-Manchu. And a day must come when Excellency will rejoice to learn that his beloved daughter did not die the death of a drowned rat.”