The Mask of Fu-Manchu Read online

  “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

  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 DR. FU-MANCHU

  DAUGHTER OF FU-MANCHU

  Coming soon from Titan Books:

  THE BRIDE OF FU-MANCHU

  THE TRAIL OF FU-MANCHU

  PRESIDENT FU-MANCHU

  THE DRUMS OF FU-MANCHU

  THE ISLAND OF FU-MANCHU

  THE SHADOW OF FU-MANCHU

  RE-ENTER FU-MANCHU

  EMPEROR FU-MANCHU

  THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU

  THE MASK OF

  FU-MANCHU

  SAX ROHMER

  TITAN BOOKS

  THE MASK OF FU-MANCHU

  Print edition ISBN: 9780857686077

  E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686732

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: March 2013

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First published as a novel in the UK by Cassell and Co. Ltd, 1933

  First published as a novel in the US by Doubleday, Doran, 1932

  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 © 2013 The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors

  Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

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  Frontispiece illustration: a movie theater premium based on a design by W. T. Benda, acclaimed mask maker from the early twentieth century, and illustrator of the cover for the May 7, 1932 issue of Collier’s magazine. Special thanks to Dr. Lawrence Knapp for the illustration from “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.

  Contents

  Chapter One: One Night in Ispahan

  Chapter Two: Wailing in the Air

  Chapter Three: The Green Box

  Chapter Four: The Veiled Prophet

  Chapter Five: Nayland Smith Takes Charge

  Chapter Six: Perfume Of Mimosa

  Chapter Seven: Rima And I

  Chapter Eight: “El Mokanna!”

  Chapter Nine: The Flying Death

  Chapter Ten: I See the Slayer

  Chapter Eleven: The Man on the Minaret

  Chapter Twelve: In the Ghost Mosque

  Chapter Thirteen: The Black Shadow

  Chapter Fourteen: Road to Cairo

  Chapter Fifteen: Road to Cairo (Continued)

  Chapter Sixteen: A Masked Woman

  Chapter Seventeen: The Mosque of Muayyad

  Chapter Eighteen: Dr. Fu-Manchu

  Chapter Nineteen: Formula Elixir Vitae

  Chapter Twenty: The Master Mind

  Chapter Twenty-One: “He Will be Crowned in Damascus”

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Hand of Fu-Manchu

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Amnesia

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Messenger

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Mr. Aden’s Proposal

  Chapter Twenty-Six: A Strange Rendezvous

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Great Pyramid

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Inside the Great Pyramid

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: We Enter the King’s Chamber

  Chapter Thirty: Dr. Fu-Manchu Keeps His Word

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Trap is Laid

  Chapter Thirty-Two: I See El Mokanna

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Facts and Rumours

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Rima’s Story

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Ordered Home

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Nayland Smith Comes Aboard

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Relics of the Prophet

  Chapter Thirty-Ei
ght: “The Sword of God”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Flight from Egypt

  Chapter Forty: The Seaplane

  Chapter Forty-One: A Rubber Ball

  Chapter Forty-Two: The Purser’s Safe

  Chapter Forty-Three: The Voice in Bruton Street

  Chapter Forty-Four: “This Was the Only Way…”

  Chapter Forty-Five: Memory Returns

  Chapter Forty-Six: Fah Lo Suee

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Ivory Hands

  Chapter Forty-Eight: I Really Awaken

  Chapter Forty-Nine: A Committee of Experts

  Chapter Fifty: Dr. Fu-Manchu Triumphs

  Chapter Fifty-One: Wedding Morning

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Dr. Fu-Manchu Bows

  About the Author

  Appreciating Doctor Fu-Manchu

  This cardboard mask, handed out by theaters to promote the 1932 movie The Mask of Fu Manchu (starring Boris Karloff), was based on a design by artist W. T. Benda for the Rohmer serialization in Collier’s magazine.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ONE NIGHT IN ISPAHAN

  “Shan! Shan!”

  Someone calling my name persistently. The voice was faint. I had been asleep, but dreaming hard, an evil from which ordinarily I don’t suffer. The voice fitted into my dream uncannily…

  I had dreamed I was asleep in my tent in that desolate spot on the Khorassan border, not a hundred yards from the valley called the Place of the Great Magician. No expedition of Sir Lionel’s in which I had been employed had so completely got on my nerves as this one.

  Persia was new territory for me. And the chief’s sense of the dramatic, his innate showmanship (a trait which had done him endless damage in the eyes of the learned societies) had resulted in my being more or less in the dark as to the real object of our journey.

  Perhaps, when names now famous are forgotten, that of Sir Lionel Barton will be remembered; he will be measured at his true stature—as the greatest Orientalist of his century. But, big, lovable, generous, I must nevertheless state quite definitely that he was next to impossible to work with.

  When he made that historic discovery, when I realised what we had come for and what we had found, I experienced an attack of cold feet from which up to the moment of this queer awakening I had never wholly recovered.

  It’s a poor joke to dig up a Moslem saint, even if he happens to have been really a heretic. I never remembered to have welcomed anything more than Sir Lionel’s decision to trek swiftly south-west to Ispahan…

  “Shan! Shan!”

  That voice again—and yet I could not escape from my dream. I thought that only two stretches of canvas separated me from the long green box, the iron casket containing those strange fruits of our discovery.

  Sir Lionel’s party was not a large one, but I felt that the Moslems were not to be relied upon. It is one thing to excavate the tombs of the Pharaohs; it is a totally different thing in the eyes of an Arab to desecrate the resting place of a true believer, or even of a near-true believer.

  To Ali Mahmoud, the headman, I would have trusted my life in Mecca; but the six Egyptians, who, together with Rima, Dr. Van Berg, Sir Lionel, and myself made up the party, although staunch enough ordinarily, had occasioned me grave doubts almost from the moment we had entered Persian territory.

  As for the Afghan, Amir Khan…

  “Shan!”

  I threw off the coil of dreams. I opened my eyes to utter darkness. My right hand automatically reached out for the torch—and in the physical movement came recognition of my true surroundings.

  Khorassan? I was not in Khorassan. Nor was I under canvas—had not been under canvas for more than a week. I was in a house in Ispahan, and someone was calling me!

  I grasped the torch, pressed the button, and looked about.

  A scantily furnished room, I saw, its door of unpainted teak, as were the beams supporting its ceiling. I saw a rug of very good quality upon an otherwise uncarpeted floor, a large table littered with papers, photographs, books, and other odds and ends, and, from where I lay in bed, very little else.

  My dream slipped into the background. The doubtful loyalty of our Moslem Egyptian workers counted for nothing, since by now they were probably back in Egypt, having been paid off a week before.

  But—the green box! The green box was in Van Berg’s room, on the floor above... and the door directly facing my bed was opening!

  I reached down with my left hand. A Colt repeater hung from a nail there. Sir Lionel had taught me this trick. To place a pistol openly beside one’s bed is to arm the enemy; to put it under the pillow is simply stupid. In doubtful environment, the chief invariably used a nail or hook, whichever was practicable, between his bed and the wall.

  Directing the ray of my torch upon the moving doors, I waited. As I did so, the door was flung open fully. Light shone upon tousled mahogany-coloured curls and wide-open, startled gray eyes; upon a slim, silk-clad figure!

  “Turn the light out, Shan—quick!”

  It was Rima who stood in the open doorway.

  I switched off the light; but in the instant of pressing the switch I glanced at my watch. The hour was 2 A.M.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WAILING IN THE AIR

  It was one of those situations to which at times I thought the dear old chief took a delight in exposing me. His humour inclined to the sardonic, and in electing, when we left Nineveh, to start off without a break or any leave east into Persia and right up to the Afghan border, he had seriously upset my plans.

  Rima, his niece, and I were to have been married on our return to England after the Syrian job. Sir Lionel’s change of plan had scotched that scheme. There was laughter in his twinkling eyes when he had notified me of the fact that information just received demanded our immediate presence in Khorassan.

  “But what about the wedding. Chief?” I remember saying.

  “Well, what about it, Greville?”

  “There are plenty of padres in these parts, and the engagement has been overlong. Besides, after all, Rima and I are wandering about in camp together, from spot to spot…”

  “Greville,” he interrupted me, “when you marry Rima, you’re going to be married from my town house. The ceremony will take place at St. Margaret’s, and I shall give the bride away. I don’t care a hoot about the proprieties, Greville. You ought to know that by now. We’re setting out for Khorassan tomorrow morning. Rima is a brilliant photographer, and I want her to come with us. But if she prefers to go back to England—she can go.”

  This was the situation in which my brilliant but erratic chief had involved me. And now, at 2 A.M., Rima, with whom I was hungrily in love, had burst into my room in that queer house in Ispahan, and already in the darkness was beside me.

  I wonder, indeed I have often wondered, if my make-up is different from that of other men: definitely I am no squire of dames. But, further, I have sometimes thought that although ardour has by no means been left out of me, I have inherited from somewhere an overweight of the practical; so that at any time, and however deeply my affections might be engaged, the job would come before the woman.

  So it was now; for, my arm about Rima’s slim, silky waist, her first whispered words in the darkness made me forget how desirable she was and how I longed for the end of this strange interlude, for the breaking down of that barrier unnaturally raised by my erratic chief.

  “Shan!” She bent close to my ear. “There was a most awful cry from Dr. Van Berg’s room a few minutes ago!”

  I jumped up, still holding her. She was trembling slightly.

  “I opened my window and listened. His room is almost right over mine, and I felt certain that was where the cry had come from. But I couldn’t hear anything.”

  “Was the voice Van Berg’s?”

  “I couldn’t tell, dear. It was a kind of—scream. Then, as I hurried along to wake you, I heard something else—”

  She clung to me tightly.

  “What, darling?”

  “I
don’t know!” She shuddered violently. “A sort of dreadful wailing... Shan! I believe it came from the mosque!”

  “Then you called out?”

  “I didn’t call out till I got right to your door and had it open.”

  I understood then that I had confused dreaming with reality. The distant voice, as it had seemed to me, had been that of Rima urgently calling at the opened door.

  “It’s the green box!” she whispered, in an even lower tone. “Shan, I’m terrified! You know what happened on Thursday night! It must have been the same sound…”

  That thought was on my own mind. Van Berg had been disturbed on Thursday night by an inexplicable happening, an outstanding feature of which had been a strange moaning sound. The chief had declined to take it seriously; but I knew our American colleague for a man of sound common sense not addicted to nervous imaginings.

  And the green box was in his room...

  Barefooted, I stepped towards the door, releasing Rima, whom I had been holding tightly.

  “Stay here, darling,” I said, “unless I call you.”

  I crept out into the corridor. It was dimly lighted a few paces along by a high, barred window. Almost opposite in the narrow street stood a deserted mosque, its minaret, from the balcony of which no mueddin had called for many years, overlooking the roof of our temporary residence. Moonlight, reflected from the dingy yellow wall of this mosque, vaguely illuminated the passage ahead of me.

  The once holy building had a horrible history, and I knew that Rima associated the sound she had heard with the legend of the mosque.

  Stock still I stood for a moment, listening.

  The house was silent as a vault. It possessed three floors. The rooms beneath on the ground floor contained the stored furniture—or part of it—of the owner from whom Sir Lionel had leased the place. The ground-floor windows were heavily barred, and Ali Mahmoud slept in the lobby; so that none could enter without arousing him.

  There were four rooms above, two of them unoccupied. Locked in one were a pair of Caspian kittens, beautiful little creatures with fur like finest silk, destined for the chief’s private menagerie, practical zoology being one of his hobbies. In the end, or southeast, room, Dr. Van Berg was quartered. Our records, the bulk of our photographs, and other valuables were in his charge as well as the green box.