The Drums of Fu-Manchu Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  Also by Sax Rohmer

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One: Mystery Comes to Bayswater

  Chapter Two: Sir Malcolm’s Guest

  Chapter Three: The Green Death

  Chapter Four: The Girl Outside

  Chapter Five: Three Notices

  Chapter Six: Satan Incarnate

  Chapter Seven: “Inspector Gallaho Reports”

  Chapter Eight: In the Essex Marshes

  Chapter Nine: The Hut by the Creek

  Chapter Ten: The Mandarin’s Cap

  Chapter Eleven: At the Monks’ Arms

  Chapter Twelve: Dr. Fu-Manchu’s Bodyguard

  Chapter Thirteen: In the Wine Cellars

  Chapter Fourteen: The Monks’ Arms (Concluded)

  Chapter Fifteen: The Si-Fan

  Chapter Sixteen: Great Oaks

  Chapter Seventeen: In the Laboratory

  Chapter Eighteen: Dr. Martin Jasper

  Chapter Nineteen: Constable Isles’s Statement

  Chapter Twenty: A Modern Vampire

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Red Button

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Living Death

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Tremors Under Europe

  Chapter Twenty-Four: A Car in Hyde Park

  Chapter Twenty-Five: “The Brain is Dr. Fu-Manchu”

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Venice

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ardatha

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Nayland Smith’s Room

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Venice Claims a Victim

  Chapter Thirty: A Woman Drops a Rose

  Chapter Thirty-One: Palazzo Mori

  Chapter Thirty-Two: The Zombie

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Ancient Tortures

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Tongs

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Korêani

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Behind the Arras

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Lotus Floor

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: In the Palazzo Brioni

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Silver Heels

  Chapter Forty: Silver Heels (Continued)

  Chapter Forty-One: Silver Heels (Concluded)

  Chapter Forty-Two: The Man in the Park

  Chapter Forty-Three: My Doorbell Rings

  Chapter Forty-Four: “Always I am Just”

  Chapter Forty-Five: The Mushrabîyeh Screen

  Chapter Forty-Six: Pursuing a Shadow

  Chapter Forty-Seven: What Happened in Downing Street

  Chapter Forty-Eight: “First Notice”

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Blue Carnations

  Chapter Fifty: Ardatha’s Message

  Chapter Fifty-One: The Thing with Red Eyes

  Chapter Fifty-Two: The Thing with Red Eyes (Concluded)

  Introduction to “The Mark of the Monkey”

  The Mark of the Monkey

  About the Author

  Appreciating Dr. Fu-Manchu

  Also Available from Titan Books

  “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 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

  Coming soon from Titan Books:

  THE ISLAND OF FU-MANCHU

  THE SHADOW OF FU-MANCHU

  RE-ENTER: FU-MANCHU

  EMPEROR FU-MANCHU

  THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU

  THE DRUMS OF FU-MANCHU

  Print edition ISBN: 9780857686114

  E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686770

  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 Cassell and Co. Ltd, 1939

  First published in the US by Doubleday, Doran, 1939

  First Titan Books edition: June 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, 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 © 2014 The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors

  Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

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e to us at Reader Feedback at the above address.

  To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive offers online, please sign up for the Titan newsletter on our website: www.titanbooks.com

  Frontispiece photograph by William Ritter, from Collier’s Weekly, April 1, 1939. 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.

  “Long, narrow eyes seemed to be watching me. They held my gaze hypnotically.”.

  CHAPTER ONE

  MYSTERY COMES TO BAYSWATER

  “Damn it! There is someone there!”

  I sprang up irritably, jerked the curtains aside and stared down into Bayswater Road. My bell, “Bart Kerrigan” inscribed above it on a plate outside in the street, was sometimes rung wantonly, by late revellers. The bell was out of order and I had tried to ignore its faint tinkling. But now, staring down, I saw someone looking up at me as I stood in the lighted room: a man wearing a Burberry and a soft hat, a man who signalled urgently with his arms, indicating: “Come down!”

  Shooting the bolt open so that I should not be locked out, I ran downstairs. A light in the glazed arcade which led to the front door refused to function. Groping my way I threw the door open.

  The man in the Burberry almost upset me as he leapt in.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  The door was closed quietly and the intruder spoke, his back to it as he faced me.

  “It’s not a holdup,” came in coldly incisive tones. “I just had to get in. Thanks, Kerrigan, but you were a long time coming down.”

  “Good heavens!” I stepped forward in the darkness and extended my hand. “Nayland Smith! Can I believe it?”

  “Absolutely! I was desperate. Is your bell out of order?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. Don’t turn the light up.”

  “I can’t; the fuse is blown.”

  “Good. I gather that I interrupted you, but I had an excellent reason. Come on.”

  As we hurried up the semi-dark staircase, I found my brain in some confusion. And when we entered my flat:

  “Leave your dining room in darkness,” snapped Nayland Smith. “I want to look out of the window.”

  Breathless, between astonishment and the race up the stairs, I stood behind him as he stared out of the dining-room window. Two men were loitering near the front door—and glancing up toward my lighted study.

  “Only just in time!” said Nayland Smith. “I tricked them—but you see how wonderfully they are informed. Evidently they know every possible spot in which I might take cover. Unpleasantly near thing, Kerrigan.”

  In the lighted study I gazed at my visitor. Hat removed, Nayland Smith revealed a head of virile curling hair, more grey than black. Stripping off his Burberry, he faced me. His clean-cut features, burned by a recent visit to the tropics, looked almost haggardly thin, but the fire in his eyes, the tense nervous vitality of the man must have struck a spark of animosity or of friendship in any but a soul dead.

  He stared at me analytically.

  “You look well, Kerrigan. You have passed twenty-seven, but you are lean as a hare, clean-cut and obviously fit as a flea. The last time I saw you was in Addis-Ababa. You were sending articles to the Orbit and I was sending reports to the Foreign Office. Well, what is it now?”

  He stared down at the littered writing desk. I moved towards the dining room.

  “Drinks? Good!” he snapped. “But you must find them in the dark.”

  “I understand.”

  When presently I returned with a decanter and syphon:

  “Look here,” I said, “I was never happier to see a man in my life. But bring me up to date: what’s the meaning of all this?”

  Nayland Smith dropped a page which he had been reading and began reflectively to stuff coarse-cut mixture into his briar.

  “You are writing a book about Abyssinia, I see.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are not on the staff of the Orbit, are you?”

  “No. I am in the fortunate position of picking and choosing my jobs. I did the series on Abyssinia for them because I know that part of Africa pretty well. Now, I am doing a book on present conditions.”

  As I poured out drinks:

  “Excuse me,” said Nayland Smith, “I just want to make sure.”

  He walked into the darkened dining room, carefully closing the door behind him. When he returned:

  “May I use your phone?”

  “Certainly.”

  I handed him a drink of which he took a sip, then, raising the telephone receiver, he dialled a number rapidly, and:

  “Yes!” His speech was curiously staccato. “Put me through to Chief Inspector Wessex’ office. Sir Denis Nayland Smith speaking. Hurry!”

  There was an interval. I watched my visitor fascinatedly. In my considerable experience of men, I had never known one who lived at such high pressure.

  “Is that Inspector Wessex?… Good. I have a job for you, Inspector. Instruct Paddington Police Station to send a party in a fast car. They will find two men—dark-skinned foreigners—hanging about near the corner of Porchester Terrace. They are to arrest them—never mind the charge—and lock them up. I will deal with them later. Can I leave this to you?”

  Presumably the invisible chief inspector agreed to take charge of the matter, for Nayland Smith hung up the receiver.

  “I have brought you your biggest story, Kerrigan. I know you can afford to await my word before publishing. I may add”—tapping the loose manuscript on the desk—“that you have missed the real truth about Abyssinia, but I can rectify that.” He began in his restless way to pace up and down the carpet. “Without mentioning any names, a prominent cabinet minister resigned quite recently. Do you recall it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “He was a wise man. Do you know why he retired?”

  “There are several versions of the story.”

  “He has a fine brain—and he retired because he recognised that there was in the world one first-class brain. He retired to review his ideas on the immediate destiny of civilisation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The thing most desired, Kerrigan, by all women, by all sensible men, in this life, is peace. Wars are made by few but fought by many. The greatest intellect in the world today has decided that there must be peace! It has become my business to try to save the lives of certain prominent persons who are blind enough to believe that they can make war. I was en route for Sir Malcolm Locke’s house, which is not five minutes’ drive away, when I realised that a small Daimler was following me. I remembered, fortunately, that your flat was here, and trusted to luck that you would be at home. I worked an old trick. Fey, my man, slowed up around a corner just before the following car had turned it. I stepped out and cut through a mews. Fey drove on. But my two followers evidently detected the trick. I saw them coming back just before you opened the door! They know I am in one of two buildings. What I don’t want them to know is where I am going. Hello—!”

  The sound of a speeding automobile suddenly braked came up from Bayswater Road.

  “Into the dining room!”

  I dashed in behind Nayland Smith. We stared down. A police car stood outside. There were few pedestrians and there was comparatively little traffic. It was the lull before eleven o’clock, the lull which precedes the storm of returning theatre and picture goers. A queer scene was being enacted on the pavement almost directly below my windows.

  Two men (except that they were dark fellows
I could discern no more from my viewpoint) were struggling and protesting volubly amid a group of uniformed constables. Beyond, on the park side, I saw now a small car standing—it looked like a Daimler. A constable on patrol joined the party, and the police driver pointed in the direction of the Daimler. The expostulating prisoners were hustled in, the police car was driven off and the constable in the determined but leisurely way of his kind paced stolidly across the road.

  “All clear!” said Nayland Smith. “Come along! I want you with me!”

  “But, Sir Malcolm Locke? In what way can he be?”

  “He’s the cousin of the home secretary. As a matter of fact, he’s abroad. It isn’t Locke I want to see, but a guest who is staying at his house. I must get to him, Kerrigan, without a moment’s delay!”

  “A guest?”

  “Say, rather, someone who is hiding there.”

  “Hiding?”

  “I can’t mention his name—yet. But he returned secretly from Africa. He is the driving power behind one of Europe’s dictators. By consent of the British Foreign Office, he came, also secretly, to London. Can you imagine why?”

  “No.”

  “To see me!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SIR MALCOLM’S GUEST

  Fey, that expressionless, leather-faced valet-chauffeur of Nayland Smith’s, was standing at the door beside the Rolls, rug over arm, as though nothing unusual had occurred; and as we proceeded towards Sir Malcolm’s house, Smith, smoking furiously, fell into a silence which I did not care to interrupt.

  I count myself psychic, for this is a Celtic heritage, yet on this short journey nothing told me that, although as correspondent for the Orbit I had had a not uneventful life, I was about to become mixed up in a drama the outcome of which meant nothing less than the destruction of what we are pleased to call Civilisation. And in averting Armageddon, by the oddest paradox I was to find myself opposed to the one man who, alone, could save Europe from destruction.

  Sir Malcolm Locke’s house presented an unexpectedly festive appearance as we approached. Nearly every window in the large building was illuminated; a number of cars were drawn up and a considerable group of people had congregated outside the front door.