The Island of Fu-Manchu Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for The Island of Fu-Manchu

  Also by Sax Rohmer

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One: Something in a Bag

  Chapter Two: A Second Visitor

  Chapter Three: BXH 77

  Chapter Four: The House in Regent’s Park

  Chapter Five: Ardatha

  Chapter Six: Dr. Fu-Manchu Experiments

  Chapter Seven: The River Gate

  Chapter Eight: Limehouse Police Station

  Chapter Nine: 39B Pelling Street

  Chapter Ten: Barton’s Secret

  Chapter Eleven: The Hostage

  Chapter Twelve: The Snapping Fingers

  Chapter Thirteen: What Happened in Sutton Place

  Chapter Fourteen: We Hear the Snapping Fingers

  Chapter Fifteen: Nayland Smith Fires Twice

  Chapter Sixteen: Padded Footsteps

  Chapter Seventeen: Christophe’s Chart

  Chapter Eighteen: Zazima

  Chapter Nineteen: Flammario the Dancer

  Chapter Twenty: The Shrivelled Head

  Chapter Twenty-One: Concerning Lou Cabot

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Passion Fruit Tree

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Clue of the Ring

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Flammario’s Cloak Slips

  Chapter Twenty-Five: A Green Hand

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Second Notice

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Father Ambrose

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Drums in the Night

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Song of Damballa

  Chapter Thirty: The Seven-Pointed Star

  Chapter Thirty-One: Queen Mamaloi

  Chapter Thirty-Two: The Smelling-Out

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Dr. Marriot Doughty

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Zombies

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Ardatha Remembers

  Chapter Thirty-Six: The Vortland Lamp

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Subterranean Harbour

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: “I Give You One Hour”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Christophe’s Path

  Chapter Forty: The San Damien Sisal Corporation

  Chapter Forty-One: An Electrical Disturbance

  Free Sample of The Turkish Yataghan by William Patrick Maynard

  Appreciating Dr. Fu-Manchu

  Also Available From Titan Books

  “Insidious fun from out of the past. Evil as always, Fu-Manchu reviles as well as thrills us.”—Joe Lansdale, recipient of the Horror Writers Association Lifetime Achievement Award

  “Without Fu-Manchu we wouldn’t have Dr. No, Doctor Doom or Dr. Evil. Sax Rohmer created the first truly great evil mastermind.

  Devious, inventive, complex, and fascinating. These novels inspired a century of great thrillers!”—Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Assassin’s Code and Patient Zero

  “The true king of the pulp mystery is Sax Rohmer—and the shining ruby in his crown is without a doubt his Fu-Manchu stories.”—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Colony

  “Fu-Manchu remains the definitive diabolical mastermind of the 20th century. Though the arch-villain is ‘the Yellow Peril incarnate,’ Rohmer shows an interest in other cultures and allows his protagonist a complex set of motivations and a code of honor which often make him seem a better man than his Western antagonists. At their best, these books are very superior pulp fiction… at their worst, they’re still gruesomely readable.”

  —Kim Newman, award-winning author of Anno Dracula

  “Sax Rohmer is one of the great thriller writers of all time! Rohmer created in Fu-Manchu the model for the super-villains of James Bond, and his hero Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie are worthy stand-ins for Holmes and Watson… though Fu-Manchu makes Professor Moriarty seem an under-achiever.”—Max Allan Collins, New York Times bestselling author of The Road to Perdition

  “I grew up reading Sax Rohmer’s Fu-Manchu novels, in cheap paperback editions with appropriately lurid covers. They completely entranced me with their vision of a world constantly simmering with intrigue and wildly overheated ambitions. Even without all the exotic detail supplied by Rohmer’s imagination, I knew full well that world wasn’t the same as the one I lived in… For that alone, I’m grateful for all the hours I spent chasing around with Nayland Smith and his stalwart associates, though really my heart was always on their intimidating opponent’s side.”

  —K. W. Jeter, acclaimed author of Infernal Devices

  “A sterling example of the classic adventure story, full of excitement and intrigue. Fu-Manchu is up there with Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan, and Zorro—or more precisely with Professor Moriarty, Captain Nemo, Darth Vader, and Lex Luthor—in the imaginations of generations of readers and moviegoers.”—Charles Ardai, award-winning novelist and founder of Hard Case Crime

  “I love Fu-Manchu, the way you can only love the really GREAT villains. Though I read these books years ago he is still with me, living somewhere deep down in my guts, between Professor Moriarty and Dracula, plotting some wonderfully hideous revenge against an unsuspecting mankind.”

  —Mike Mignola, creator of Hellboy

  “Fu-Manchu is one of the great villains in pop culture history, insidious and brilliant. Discover him if you dare!”—Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling co-author of Baltimore: The Plague Ships

  “Exquisitely detailed… At times, it’s like reading a stage play… [Sax Rohmer] is a colorful storyteller. It was quite easy to be reading away and suddenly realize that I’d been reading for an hour or more without even noticing. It’s like being taken back to the cold and fog of London streets.”—Entertainment Affairs

  “Acknowledged classics of pulp fiction… the bottom line is Fu-Manchu, despite all the huffing and puffing about sinister Oriental wiles and so on, always comes off as the coolest, baddest dude on the block. Today’s supergenius villains owe a huge debt to Sax Rohmer and his fiendish creation.”—Comic Book Resources

  “Undeniably entertaining and fun to read… It’s pure pulp entertainment—awesome, and hilarious and wrong. Read it.”

  —Shadowlocked

  “The perfect read to get your adrenalin going and root for the good guys to conquer a menace that is almost supremely evil. This is a wild ride read and I recommend it highly.”—Vic’s Media Room

  THE COMPLETE FU-MANCHU SERIES BY SAX ROHMER

  Available now from Titan Books:

  THE MYSTERY OF DR. FU-MANCHU

  THE RETURN OF DR. FU-MANCHU

  THE HAND OF FU-MANCHU

  THE DAUGHTER OF FU-MANCHU

  THE MASK OF FU-MANCHU

  THE BRIDE OF FU-MANCHU

  THE TRAIL OF FU-MANCHU

  PRESIDENT FU-MANCHU

  THE DRUMS OF FU-MANCHU

  Coming soon from Titan Books:

  THE SHADOW OF FU-MANCHU

  RE-ENTER: FU-MANCHU

  EMPEROR FU-MANCHU

  THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU

  THE ISLAND OF FU-MANCHU

  Print edition ISBN: 9780857686121

  E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686787

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First published as a novel in the UK by William Collins & Co. Ltd, 1941

  First published as a novel in the US by Doubleday, Doran, 1936

  First Titan Books edition: September 2014

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, busines
s establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Copyright © 2014 The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors

  Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

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  Frontispiece illustration by Benton Clark, from Liberty, November 16, 1940. Special thanks to Dr. Lawrence Knapp for the illustrations as they appeared on “The Page of Fu-Manchu,” http://www.njedge.net/~knapp/FuFrames.htm.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Smith threw open the door. Dr. Oster looked up. I cannot recall pressing the trigger.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SOMETHING IN A BAG

  “T hen you have no idea where Nayland Smith is?” said my guest.

  I carried his empty glass to the buffet and refilled it.

  “Two cables from him found me at Salonika,” I replied: “the first from Kingston, Jamaica, the second from New York.”

  “Ah! Jamaica and New York. Off his usual stamping ground. Nothing since?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sure he isn’t back home?”

  “Quite. His flat in Whitehall is closed.”

  I set the whisky-and-soda before Sir Lionel Barton and passed my pouch, for he was scraping out his briar. My dining-room seemed altogether too small to hold this huge, overbearing man with a lion’s mane of tawny hair streaked with white; piercing blue eyes shadowed by craggy brows. He had the proper personality for one of his turbulent, brilliant reputation: the greatest Orientalist in Europe is expected to be unusual.

  “Do you know, Kerrigan”—he stuffed Rhodesian tobacco into his pipe as though he had been charging a howitzer—“I have known Smith longer than you, and although I missed the last brush with Fu-Manchu—”

  “Well?”

  “Old Smith and I have been out against him together in the past. To tell you the truth”—he stood up and began to walk about, lighting his pipe as he did so—“I have an idea that we have not seen the last of that Chinese devil.”

  “Why?” I asked, and tried to speak casually.

  “Suppose he’s here again—in England?”

  Sir Lionel’s voice was rising to those trumpet tones which betrayed his army training; I was conscious of growing excitement.

  “Suppose, just for argument’s sake, that I have certain reasons to believe that he is. Well—would you sleep soundly tonight? What would it mean? It would mean that, apart from Germany, we have another enemy to deal with—an enemy whose insects, bacteria, stranglers, strange poisons, could do more harm in a week than Hitler’s army could do in a year!”

  He took a long drink. I did not speak.

  “You”—he lowered his voice—“have a personal interest in the matter. You accepted the assignment to cover the Greek campaign because—”

  I nodded.

  “Check me when I go wrong and stop me if I’m treading on a corn; there was a girl—wasn’t Ardatha the name? She belonged to the nearly extinct white race (I was the first man to describe them, by the way) which still survives in Abyssinia.”

  “Yes, she vanished after Smith and I left Paris, at the end of Fu-Manchu’s battle to put an end to dictators. Nearly two years ago—”

  “You—searched?”

  “Smith was wonderful. I had all the resources of the Secret Service at my command. But from that hour, Barton, not one word of information reached us, either about Dr. Fu-Manchu, or about—Ardatha.”

  “I am told”—he pulled up, his back to me, and spoke over his shoulder—”that Ardatha was—”

  “She was lovely and lovable,” I said and stood up.

  The struggle in Greece, the wound I had received there, the verdict of Harley Street which debarred me from active service, all these experiences had failed to efface my private sorrow—the loss of Ardatha.

  Sir Lionel turned and gave me one penetrating glance which I construed as sympathy. I had known him for many years and had learned his true worth; but he was by no means every man’s man. Ardatha had brought romance into my life such as no one was entitled to expect: she was gone. Barton understood.

  He began to pace up and down, smoking furiously; and something in his bearing reminded me of Nayland Smith. Barton was altogether heavier than Smith, but he had the same sun-baked skin, the same nervous vitality: he, also, was a pipe addict. His words had set my brain on fire.

  I wondered if an image was before his mental vision, the same vision which was before mine: a tall, lean, cat-like figure; a close-shaven head, a mathematical brow; emerald-green eyes which sometimes became filmed strangely; a voice in its guttural intensity so masterful that Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon might have animated it; Dr. Fu-Manchu, embodiment of the finest intellect in the modern world.

  Now, I was wild for news; but deliberately I controlled myself. I refilled Barton’s glass. He belonged to a hard-drinking generation and I never attempted to keep pace with him. I sat down again, and:

  “You must realize,” I said, “that you have stirred up—”

  “I know, I know! I am the last man to raise hopes which may never materialize. But the fact that Nayland Smith has been in the West Indies practically clinches the matter. I threw myself on your hospitality, Kerrigan, because, to be quite frank, I was afraid to go to a hotel—”

  “What!”

  “Yes—and my town house as you know, went to the auctioneers on the day war started. Very well. In the small suitcase—all the baggage I carry—is something for which I know Dr. Fu-Manchu has been searching for many years! Since I got hold of it there have been some uncommonly queer happenings up at my place in Norfolk. In fact things got so hot that I bolted!”

  I stood up and walked across to the window; excitement grew in my brain by leaps and bounds. There was no man whom I feared as I feared the brilliant Chinese doctor; but if Ardatha lived Fu-Manchu was the one and only link by means of which I might find her.

  “Go on,” I said, “I am all attention.”

  Grey, wintry dusk was sending over Kensington Gardens. Few figures moved on the path which led from the gate nearly opposite to the Round Pond. At any moment now would come the mournful call of a park-keeper, “All out.” And with the locking of the gates began the long night of black-out.

  “I know why Smith has been to the Caribbean,” Barton went on. “There’s something in that bag which would have saved him the journey. The United States government—Hello! what’s wrong?”

  A figure was standing at the park gate, looking up at my window; a girl who wore a hooded cape. I suppose I uttered an exclamation as I clutched the ledge and stared across the road.

  “What is it, Kerrigan?” cried Barton. “What is it?”

  “It’s Ardatha!” I whispered.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A SECOND VISITOR

  I doubt if any man ever descended a long flight of dark stairs faster than I did. A pulse was throbbing in my head as I dashed along the glass-roofed portico that divided the house from the front door. Yet as I threw the door open and ran out, already the hooded figure had vanished.

  Then, as I raced across to the gate, I saw her. She had turned
back into the park, and was just passing out of the shadow of a big tree near the corner where a path at right angles crossed that leading to the Round Pond. Normally, Bayswater Road at this hour would have been a race track, but war had muted the song of London and few vehicles were on the road.

  In the Park, a grey mist swam in among the trees whose leafless branches reached out like lean and clutching arms menacing the traveller. But there, ahead, was the receding, elusive figure.

  I continued to run. My condition was by no means all that it might have been, but I found breath enough to call.

  “Ardatha!” I cried, “Ardatha!”

  Step by step I was overhauling her. Not another pedestrian was in sight.

  “Ardatha!”

  I was no more than twenty yards behind her as she paused and looked back. In spirit she was already in my arms, her kiss on my lips—when she turned swiftly and began to run!

  For one incalculable moment I stood stock still.

  Astonishment, mortification, anger, fought for precedence in my mind. What, in sanity’s name, could be the meaning of her behaviour? I was about to cry out again, but I decided to conserve my resources. Fists clenched and head up, I set out in pursuit.

  She had reached the path that surrounds the Pond before I really got into my stride. In Rugby days I had been counted one of the fastest men in the pack; but even allowing for loss of form due to my recent illness, an amazing fact demanded recognition. Ardatha was outrunning me easily: she ran with the speed of a young antelope!

  Then, from nearby, came the expected mournful cry—“All out!”

  I saw the park-keeper at about the same moment that I accepted defeat in the race. Ardatha had passed him like a flash. He had assumed that she was running to reach a Kensington gate before it closed, and had no more than glanced at her speeding figure. For my part I was determined to keep her in sight; but as I bore down on the man, some suspicion seemed to cross his mind—a suspicion which linked my appearance with that of the flying girl. He glanced back at her for a moment—and then stood squarely in my path, arms outstretched!

  “Not this way!” he cried. “Too late. Porchester Gate is the only way out!”