The Bride of Fu-Manchu
“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
“Insidious fun from out of the past. Evil as always, Fu-Manchu reviles as well as thrills us.”
Joe R. Lansdale, recipient of the Horror Writers Association Lifetime Achievement Award
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
THE MASK OF FU-MANCHU
Coming soon from Titan Books:
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 BRIDE OF
DR. FU-MANCHU
SAX ROHMER
TITAN BOOKS
THE BRIDE OF FU-MANCHU
Print edition ISBN: 9780857686084
E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686749
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, 1931
First published as a novel in the US by Doubleday, Doran, 1932
First Titan Books edition: June 2013
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 © 2013 The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors
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Frontispiece illustration by John Richard Flanagan, detail from an illustration for “The Unsullied Mirror,” first appearing in Collier’s Weekly, June 24 1933. Special thanks to Dr. Lawrence Knapp for the illustrations as they appeared on “The Page of Fu-Manchu” - 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: Fleurette
Chapter Two: A Purple Cloud
Chapter Three: The Bloodstained Leaves
Chapter Four: Squinting Eyes
Chapter Five: The Black Stigmata
Chapter Six: “654”
Chapter Seven: Ivory Fingers
Chapter Eight: “Beware”
Chapter Nine: Fah Lo Suee
Chapter Ten: Green Eyes
Chapter Eleven: At the Villa Jasmin
Chapter Twelve: Mimosa
Chapter Thirteen: The Formula
Chapter Fourteen: In Monte Carlo
Chapter Fifteen: Fairy Trumpet
Chapter Sixteen: The Dacoit
Chapter Seventeen: The Room of Glass
Chapter Eighteen: Dr. Fu-Manchu
Chapter Nineteen: The Secret Jungle
Chapter Twenty: Dream Creatures
Chapter Twenty-One: The Hairless Man
Chapter Twenty-Two: Half-World
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Jade Pipe
Chapter Twenty-Four: Companion Yamamata
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Life Principle
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Orchid
Chapter Twenty-Seven: In the Galleries
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Evil Incarnate
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Pursuit
Chapter Thirty: Nayland Smith
Chapter Thirty-One: Fu-Manchu’s Army
Chapter Thirty-Two: Recall
Chapter Thirty-Three: I Obey
Chapter Thirty-Four: Derceto
Chapter Thirty-Five: The Section Doors
Chapter Thirty-Six: The Unsullied Mirror
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Glass Mask
Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Glass Mask (Concluded)
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Search in Ste Claire
Chapter Forty: The Secret Dock
Chapter Forty-One: “I Saw the Sun”
Chapter Forty-Two: The Raid
Chapter Forty-Three: KarâManèH’s Daughter
Chapter Forty-Four: Officer of the Prefét
Chapter Forty-Five: On The Destroyer
Chapter Forty-Six: We Board The Lola
Chapter Forty-Seven: Dr. Petrie
Chapter Forty-Eight: “It Means Extradition”
Chapter Forty-Nine: Maître Foli
Chapter Fifty: “The Work Goes On”
About the Author
Appreciating Doctor Fu-Manchu
“Fah Lo Suee’s slender body seemed to diminish. She sank down until her head touched the carpet.”
CHAPTER ONE
FLEURETTE
All the way around the rugged headland, and beyond, as I sat at the wheel of the easy-running craft, I found myself worrying about Petrie. He was supposed to be looking after me. I thought that somebody should be looking after him. He took his responsibilities with a deadly seriousness; and this strange epidemic which had led the French authorities to call upon his expert knowledge was taxing him to the limit. At luncheon I thought he had looked positively ill; but he had insisted upon returning to his laboratory.
He seemed to imagine that the reputation of the Royal Society was in his keeping...
I had hoped that the rockbound cove which I had noted would afford harbourage for the motorboat. Nevertheless, I was pleasantly surprised when I found that it did.
The little craft made safe, I waded in and began to swim through nearly still water around that smaller promontory beyond which lay the bay and beach of Ste Claire de la Roche. Probably a desire to test my fitness underlay the job; if I could not explore Ste Claire from the land side, I was determined to invade it, nevertheless.
The water was quite warm, and it had that queer odour of stagnation peculiar to this all but tideless sea. I swam around the point, and twenty yards out from the beach my feet touched bottom.
At the same moment I saw her...
She was seated on the smooth sand, her back towards me, and she was combing her hair. As I stumbled, groped, and began to make my way inland, I told myself that this sole inhabitant of Ste Claire was probably one of those fabulous creatures, a mermaid—or, should I say, a siren.
I halted, wading ashore, and watched her.
Her arms, her shoulders, and her back were beautiful. Riviera salt and sun had tanned her to a most delectable shade of brown. Her wavy hair was of a rich red mahogany colour. This was all I could see of the mermaid from my position in the sea.
I made the shore without disturbing her.
It became apparent, then, that she was not a mermaid; a pair of straight, strong, and very shapely brown legs discredited the mermaid theory. She was a human girl with a perfect figure and glorious hair, wearing one of those bathing suits fashionable in Cannes...
What it was, at this moment, which swamped admiration and brought fear—which urged me to go back—to go back—I could not imagine. I fought against this singular revulsion, reminding myself that I was newly convalescent from a dangerous illness. This alone, I argued, accounted for the sudden weird chill which had touched me.
Why, otherwise, should I be afraid of a pretty girl?
I moved forward.
And as I began to walk up the gently sloping beach she heard me and turned.
I found myself staring, almost in a frightened way, at the most perfect face I thought I had ever seen. Those arms and shoulders were so daintily modelled that I had been prepared for disillusionment: instead, I found glamour.
She was bronzed by the sun, and, at the moment, innocent of make-up. She had most exquisitely chiselled features. Her lips were slightly parted showing the whitest little teeth. Big, darkly fringed eyes—and they were blue as the Mediterranean—were opened widely, as if my sudden appearance had alarmed her.
I may have dreamed, as some men do, of flawless beauty, but I had never expected to meet it; when:
“How did you get here?” the vision asked and rolled over onto one elbow, looking up at me.
Her voice had a melodious resonance which suggested training, and her cool acceptance of my appearance helped to put me more at ease.
“I just swam ashore,” I replied. “I hope I didn’t frighten you?”
“Nothing frightens me,” she answered in that cool, low tone, her unflinching eyes—the eyes of a child, but of a very clever and very inquisitive child—fixed upon me. “I was certainly surprised.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose I should have warned you.”
Her steady regard never wavered; it was becoming disconcerting. She was quite young, as the undisguised contours of her body revealed, but about her very beauty there hovered some aura of mysteriousness which her typically nonchalant manner could not dispel. Then, suddenly, I saw, and it greatly relieved me to see, a tiny dimple appear in her firm round chin. She smiled—and her smile made me her slave.
“Please explain,” she said; “this isn’t an accident, is it?”
“No,” I confessed; “it’s a plot.”
She shifted to a more easy position, resting both elbows on the sand and cupping her chin in two hands.
“What do you mean ‘a plot’?” she asked, suddenly serious again.
I sat down, peculiarly conscious of my angular ugliness.
“I wanted to have a look at Ste Claire,” I replied. “It used to be open to inspection and it’s a spot of some historical interest. I found the road barred. And I was told that a certain Mahdi Bey had bought the place and had seen fit to close it to the public. I heard that the enclosed property ran down to the sea, so I explored and saw this little bay.”
“And what were you going to do?” she asked, looking me over in a manner which struck me as almost supercilious.
“Well...” I hesitated, hoping for another smile. “I had planned to climb up to Ste Claire, and if I should be discovered, explain that I had been carried away by the current which works around the headland and been compelled to swim ashore.”
I watched eagerly for the dimple. But no dimple came. Instead, I saw a strange, faraway expression creep over the girl’s face. In some odd manner it transformed her; spiritually, she seemed to have withdrawn—to a great distance, to another land; almost, I thought, to another world. Her youth, her remarkable beauty, were transfigured as though by the occult brush of a dead master. Momentarily, I experienced again that insane desire to run away.
Then she spoke. Her phrases were commonplace enough, but her voice too was far away; her eyes seemed to be looking right through me, to be fixed upon some very distant object.
“You sound enterprising,” she said. “What is your name?”
“Alan Sterling,” I answered, with a start.
I had an uncanny feeling that the question had not come from the girl herself, although her lips framed the words.
“I suppose you live somewhere near here?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Alan Sterling,” she repeated; “isn’t that Scotch?”
“Yes, my father was a Scotsman—Dr. Andrew Sterling—but he settled in the Middle West of America, where I was born.”
The mahogany curls were shaken violently. It was, I thought, an act of rebellion against that fey mood which had claimed her. She rose to her knees, confronting me; her fingers played with the sand. The rebellion had succeeded. She seemed to have drawn near again, to have become human and adorable. Her next words confirmed my uncanny impression that in mind and spirit she had really been far away.
“Did you say you were American?” she asked.
Rather uncomfortably I answered:
“I was born in America. But I took my degree in Edinburgh, so that really I don’t quite know what I am.”
“Don’t you?”
She sank down upon the sand, looking like a lovely idol.
�
�And now please tell me your name,” I said; “I have told you mine.”
“Fleurette.”
“But Fleurette what?”
“Fleurette nothing. Just Fleurette.”
“But, Mahdi Bey—”
I suppose my thoughts were conveyed without further words, for:
“Mahdi Bey,” Fleurette replied, “is—”
And then she ceased abruptly. Her glance strayed away somewhere over my shoulder. I had a distinct impression that she was listening—listening intently for some distant sound.
“Mahdi Bey,” I prompted.
Fleurette glanced at me swiftly.
“Really, Mr. Sterling,” she said, “I must run. I mustn’t be caught talking to you.”
“Why?” I exclaimed. “I was hoping you would show me over Ste Claire.”
She shook her head almost angrily.
“As you came out of the sea, please go back again. You can’t come with me.”
“I don’t understand why—”
“Because it would be dangerous.”
Composedly she tucked a comb back into a bag which lay upon the sand beside her, picked up a bathing cap, and stood up.
“You don’t seem to bother about the possibility of my being drowned!”
“You have a motorboat just around the headland,” she replied, glancing at me over one golden shoulder. “I heard your engine.” This was a revelation.
“No wonder you weren’t frightened when I came ashore.”
“I am never frightened. In fact, I am rather inhuman, in all sorts of ways. Did you ever hear of Derceto?”
Her abrupt changes of topics, as of moods, were bewildering, but:
“Vaguely,” I answered. “Wasn’t she a sort of fish goddess?”
“Yes. Think of me, not as Fleurette, but as Derceto. Then you may understand.”
The words conveyed nothing at the time, although I was destined often to think about them, later. And what I should have said next I don’t know. But the whole of my thoughts, which were chaotic, became suddenly focused... upon a sound.
To this day I find myself unable to describe it, although, as will presently appear, before a very long time had elapsed I was called upon to do so. It more closely resembled the note of a bell than anything else—yet it was not the note of a bell. It was incredibly high. It seemed at once to come from everywhere and from nowhere. A tiny sound it was, but of almost unendurable sweetness: it might be likened to a fairy trumpet blown close beside one’s ear.