The Shadow of Fu-Manchu Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for The Shadows of Fu-Manchu

  Also by Sax Rohmer

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  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

  THE ISLAND OF FU-MANCHU

  Coming soon from Titan Books:

  RE-ENTER: FU-MANCHU

  EMPEROR FU-MANCHU

  THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU

  THE SHADOW OF FU-MANCHU

  Print edition ISBN: 9780857686138

  E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686794

  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 Barrie & Jenkins, 1949

  First published as a novel in the US by Doubleday, Doran, 1948

  First Titan Books edition: March 2015

  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, business 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 © 2015 The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors

  Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

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  Frontispiece illustration by C. C. Beall, from Colliers magazine, May 8, 1948. Special Thanks to Dr. Lawrence Knapp for the illustration as it appeared on “The Page of Fu Manchu,” http://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.

  The outline of a face materialized in the crystal. They became the features of an old Chinese. “You called me, Doctor?” The voice though distant was clear.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Wh
o’s the redhead,” snapped Nayland Smith, “lunching with that embassy attaché?”

  “Which table?”

  “Half-right. Where I’m looking.”

  Harkness, who had been briefed by Washington to meet the dynamic visitor, was already experiencing nerve strain. Sir Denis Nayland Smith, ex-chief of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, spoke in a Bren-gun manner, thought and moved so swiftly that his society, if stimulating, was exhausting.

  Turning, when about to light a cigar, Harkness presently discovered the diplomat’s table. The grill was fashionable for lunch, and full. But he knew the attaché by sight. He turned back again, dropping a match in a tray.

  “Don’t know. Never seen her before.”

  “Haven’t you? I have!”

  “Sorry, Sir Denis. Is she important?”

  “A woman who looks like that is always important. Yes, I know her. But I haven’t quite placed her.”

  Nayland Smith refilled his coffee cup, glanced reluctantly at a briar pipe which appeared to have been rescued from a blast furnace, and then put it back in his pocket. He selected a cigarette.

  “You don’t think she’s a Russian?” Harkness suggested.

  “I know she isn’t.”

  Smith surveyed the crowded, panelled room. It buzzed like an aviary. Businessmen predominated. Deals of one sort or another hung in the smoke-laden air. Nearly all these men were talking about how to make money. And nearly all the women were talking about how to spend it.

  But not the graceful girl with that glowing hair. He wondered what she was talking about. Her companion appeared to be absorbed, either in what she was saying or in the way she said it.

  And while Nayland Smith studied many faces, Harkness studied Nayland Smith.

  He had met him only once before, and the years had silvered his hair more than ever, but done nothing to disturb its crisp virility. The lean brown face might be a trifle more lined. It was a grim face, a face which hid a secret, until Nayland Smith smiled. His smile told the secret.

  He spoke suddenly.

  “Strange to reflect,” he said, “that these people, wrapped up, air tight, in their own trifling affairs, like cigarettes in cellophane, are sitting on top of a smouldering volcano.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I know it. Why has a certain power sent all its star agents to the United States? What are they trying to find out?”

  “Secret of the atom bomb?”

  “Rot! There’s no secret about it. You know that as well as I do. Once a weapon of war is given publicity, it loses its usefulness. I gain nothing by having a rock in my boxing glove if the other fellow has one too. No. It’s something else.”

  “England seems to be pretty busy?”

  “England has lost two cabinet ministers, mysteriously, in the past few months.” All the time Smith’s glance had been straying in the direction of a certain party, and suddenly: “Right!” he rapped. “Thought I was. Now I’m sure! This is my lucky day.”

  “Sure of what?” Harkness was startled.

  “Man at the next table. Our diplomatic acquaintance and his charming friend are being covered.”

  Harkness craned around again…

  “You mean the sallow man?”

  “Sallow? He’s Burmese! They’re not all Communists, you know.”

  Harkness stared at his cigar, as if seeking to concentrate. “You’re more than several steps beyond me. No doubt your information is a way ahead of mine. But, quite honestly, I don’t understand.”

  Nayland Smith met the glance of Harkness’s frank hazel eyes, and nodded sympathetically.

  “My fault I think aloud. Bad habit. There’s hardly time to explain, now. Look! They’re going! Have the redhead covered. Detail another man to keep the Burmese scout in sight. Report to me, here. Suite 1236.”

  The auburn-haired girl was walking towards the exit. She wore a plain suit and a simple hat. Her companion followed. As Harkness retired speedily, Nayland Smith dropped something which made it necessary for him to stoop when the attaché passed near his table.

  Coming out onto Forty-sixth Street, Harkness exchanged a word with a man who was talking to a hotel porter. The man nodded and moved away.

  Manhattan danced on. Well-fed males returned to their offices to consider further projects for making more dollars. Females headed for the glamorous shops on New York’s Street-Called-Straight: Fifth Avenue, the great bazaar of the New World. Beauty specialists awaited them. Designers of Paris hats. Suave young ladies to display wondrous robes. Suave young gentlemen to seduce with glittering trinkets.

  In certain capitals of the Old World, men and women looked, haggard-eyed, into empty shops and returned to empty larders.

  Manhattan danced on.

  Nayland Smith, watching a car move from the front of the hotel, closely followed by another, prayed that Manhattan’s dance might not be a danse macabre.

  When presently he stepped into a black sedan parked further along the street, in charge of a chauffeur who looked like a policeman (possibly because he was one), and had been driven a few blocks:

  “Have we got a tail?” Smith snapped.

  “Yes, sir,” the driver reported. “Three cars behind us right now. Small delivery truck.”

  “Stop at the next drugstore. I’ll check it.”

  When he got out and walked into the drugstore the following truck passed, and then pulled in higher up.

  Nayland Smith came out again and resumed the journey. Two more blocks passed:

  “Right behind us,” the driver reported laconically.

  Smith took up a phone installed in the sedan and gave brief directions. So that long before he had reached his destination the truck was still following the sedan, but two traffic police were following the truck. He had been no more than a few minutes in the deputy commissioner’s office on Centre Street before a police sergeant came in with the wanted details.

  The man had been pulled up on a technical offense and invited, firmly, to produce evidence of his identity. Smith glanced over the report.

  “H’m. American citizen. Born in Athens.” He looked up. “You’re checking this story that he was taking the truck to be repaired?”

  “Sure. Can’t find anything wrong with it. Very powerful engine for such a light outfit.”

  “Would be,” said Smith drily. “File all his contacts. He mustn’t know. You have to find out who really employs him.”

  He spent a long time with the deputy commissioner, and gathered much useful data. He was in New York at the request of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and had been given almost autocratic powers by Washington. When, finally, he left, he had two names pencilled in his notebook.

  They were: Michael Frobisher, and Dr. Morris Craig, of the Huston Research Laboratory.

  * * *

  Michael Frobisher, seated in an alcove in the library of his club, was clearly ill at ease. A big-boned, fleshy man, Frobisher had a powerful physique, with a fighting jaw, heavy brows—coal-black in contrast to nearly white hair—and deep-set eyes which seemed to act independently of what Michael Frobisher happened to be doing. There were only two other members in the library, but Frobisher’s eyes, although he was apparently reading a newspaper, moved rapidly, as his glance switched from face to face in that oddly furtive manner.

  Overhanging part of the room, one of the finest of its kind in the city, was a gallery giving access to more books ranged on shelves above. A club servant appeared in the gallery, moving very quietly—and Frobisher’s glance shot upward like an anxious searchlight.

  It was recalled to sea level by a voice.

  “Hello, Frobisher! How’s your wife getting along?”

  Frobisher’s florid face momentarily lost color. Then, looking up from where he sat in a deep, leather armchair, he saw that a third member had come in—Dr. Pardoe.

  “Hello, Pardoe!” He had himself in hand again: the deep tone was normal. “Quite startled me.”

 
; “So I saw.” Pardoe gave him a professional glance, and sat on the arm of a chair near Frobisher’s. “Been overdoing it a bit, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, I don’t say that, Doctor. Certainly been kept pretty busy. Thanks for the inquiry about Stella. She’s greatly improved since she began the treatments you recommended.”

  “Good.” Dr. Pardoe smiled—a dry smile: he was a sandy, dry man. “I’m not sure the professor isn’t a quack, but he seems to be successful with certain types of neuroses.”

  “I assure you Stella is a hundred per cent improved.”

  “H’m. You might try him yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?” Frobisher growled. “There’s nothing the matter with me.”

  “Isn’t there?” The medical man looked him over coolly. “There will be if you don’t watch your diet.” Pardoe was a vegetarian. “Why, your heart missed a beat when I spoke to you.”

  Frobisher held himself tightly in hand. His wife’s physician always got on his nerves. But, all the same, he wasn’t standing for any nonsense.

  “Let me tell you something.” His deep voice, although subdued, rumbled around the now empty library. “This isn’t nerves. It’s cold feet. An organization like the Huston Electric has got rivals. And rivals can get dangerous if they’re worsted. Someone’s tracking me around. Someone broke into Falling Waters one night last week. Went through my papers. I’ve seen the man. I’d know him again. I was followed right here to the club today. That isn’t nerves, Doctor. And it isn’t eating too much red meat!”

  “Hm.” Irritating habit of Pardoe’s, that introductory cough. “I don’t dispute the fact of the burglary—”

  “Thanks a lot. And let me remind you: Stella doesn’t know, and doesn’t have to know.”

  “Oh, I see. Then the attempt is known only—”

  “Is known to my butler, Stein, and to me. It’s not an illusion. I’m still sane, if I did have beefsteak at lunch!”

  The physician raised his sandy brows.

  “I don’t doubt it, Frobisher. But had it occurred to you that your later impression of being followed—not an uncommon symptom—may derive from this single, concrete fact?”