The Drums of Fu Manchu f-9 Read online

  “What happened then?”

  “Then the incredible happened.”

  “You are sure that you feel perfectly restored?”

  “Certain.”

  Smith pushed me down into an armchair and crossed to the buffet.

  “Go on,” he said quietly.

  “The television screen lighted up. Doctor Fu Manchu appeared.”

  “What!”

  He turned, his hand on a syphon and his expression very grim.

  “Yes! You wondered for what purpose he had caused the thing to be installed here, Smith. I can give you an example of one use he made of it! Perhaps I am particularly susceptible to the influence of this man. I think you believe I am, for you observed on a former occasion that I was behaving strangely as I watched those awful eyes. Well this time I succumbed altogether. I had a series of extraordinary visions, almost certainly emanations from the brain of Doctor Fu Manchu. And then I became fully conscious but quite incapable of movement!”

  “That was your condition when I returned,” Smith snapped. He crossed to me with a tumbler in his hand.

  “I had been in that condition for some time before your return. A man admitted himself to the lobby with a key.”

  “Describe him.”

  “A small man with straight black hair, who wore what seemed to be powerful spectacles. He carried a bag which he handled with great care. He proceeded to make some adjustment to the mouthpiece of the telephone, and then with a glance in my direction—I was lying on the floor as you found me—he went out again as quietly as he had come.”

  “Clearly,” said Smith, staring into the lobby, “your unexpected appearance presented a problem. They did not know you were coming. It had been arranged for Fey to be lured away by this unknown mimic who can evidently imitate Gallaho’s voice; but you, the unexpected intruder, had to be dealt with in a different manner. I am wondering about two things now, Kerrigan. Do you feel fit to investigate?”

  “Perfectly”

  “First: how long you would have remained in that state in which I found you, failing the unforeseen explosion which shocked you into consciousness; and second: what the small man with the black hair did to the telephone.”

  “For heaven’s sake be careful!”

  He crossed to the lobby and very gently raised the instrument. I stood beside him. Apart from a splitting headache I felt perfectly normal. He tipped up the mouthpiece and stared curiously into it.

  “You are sure it was the mouthpiece that he adjusted?”

  “Quite sure.”

  And now he turned it round to the light which was streaming through the doorway of the sitting room.

  We both saw something.

  A bead, quite colorless and no larger than a small pea, adhered to the instrument just below the point where a speaker’s lips would come . . .

  “Good God!” Nayland Smith whispered. “Kerrigan! You understand!”

  I nodded. I could not find my voice—for the appalling truth had come to me.

  “Anyone speaking loudly would burst this bubble and inhale its contents! God knows what it contains—but we know at last how General Quinto and Osaki died!”

  “The Green Death!”

  “Undoubtedly. It was a subtle brain, Kerrigan, which foresaw that finding you unconscious, I should immediately call a doctor, that my voice would be agitated. The usual routine, as you must see now, was for someone to call the victim and complain that his voice was not audible, thus causing him to speak close to the receiver and to speak loudly.”

  Very gently he replaced the instrument.

  At this moment the door was partly opened and Fey came in. He glanced from face to face.

  “Glad, sir! Frightened! Something funny going on!”

  “Very funny. Fey. I suppose when you got to the Yard you found that the summons did not come from there?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The phone bell rang. Fey stepped forward.

  “Stop! On no account are you to touch the telephone. Fey, until further orders.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Tremors Under Europe

  “Doctor Fu Manchu evidently is losing his sense of humor,” said Nayland Smith with a smile.

  It was noon of the following day, and he stood in my room. He was seated at the desk and was reading my notes. Now he laid them down and began to fill his pipe.

  “What do you mean. Smith?”

  “I mean that two things—your unexpected appearance, and that explosion on the powder barge—together saved my life. By the way, here is an addition to your notes.”

  “What is it?”

  “The home office analyst’s report. You know the difficulty we had to remove the mouthpiece of the telephone without breaking the bubble. However, it was done, and you will see what Doctor O’Donnell says.”

  I took up the report from the home office consultant. It was not his official report but one he had sent privately to Nayland Smith.

  “The construction of the small globe or bubble,” I read, “is peculiarly delicate. Examination of the fragments suggests that it is composed of some kind of glass and is probably blown by an instrument which at the same time fills the interior with gas. The effect of breaking the bubble, however, is to leave no trace whatever, apart from a fragment of powder which normally would be indiscernible. It was attached to the mouthpiece by a minute speck of gum, and I should imagine the operation required great dexterity. As to its contents:

  “My full report may be consulted, but briefly I may say that the composition of the gas which this bubble contained is unknown to me. It belongs to none of the groups with which I am familiar. It is the most concentrated poison in gaseous form which I have ever encountered. In addition to the other experiments (see report) I smelled this gas—but for a moment. The result was extraordinary. It induced a violent increase of blood pressure, followed by a drumming in my ears which created such an illusion of being external that for a time I was persuaded someone was beating a drum in the neighborhood . . .”

  As I laid the letter on the table:

  “Have you considered,” Nayland Smith asked, “what revolutionary contributions Doctor Fu Manchu could make to science, particularly to medicine, if he worked for heaven and not for hell?”

  “Yes, it’s a damnable thought.”

  “The greatest genius living—perhaps as great as has ever been born—toiling for the destruction of humanity!”

  “Yet, at the moment, he seems to be working for its preservation.”

  “But only seems, Kerrigan. Its preservation for his own purposes—yes! I strongly suspect, however, that his recent attempt upon me was dictated by an uncanny knowledge of my movements.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am being shadowed day and night. There have been other episodes which I have not even bothered to mention.”

  “You alarm me!”

  “Fortunately for myself, the doctor has his hands full in other directions. If he once concentrated upon me I believe I should give up hope. You see, he knows that I am watching his next move, and with devilish cunning, so far, he has headed me off.”

  “His next move . . .” I stared questioningly.

  “Yes. In his war against dictators. At the moment it is concentrated upon one of them—and the greatest.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “I mean Rudolf Adion! In view of the way in which he is guarded and of the many attempts by enemies to reach him which have failed, it seems perhaps absurd that I should be anxious because one more man has entered the lists.”

  “But that man is Doctor Fu Manchu!”

  “Not a doubt about it, Kerrigan. Yet, officially, my hands are tied.”

  “Why?”

  “Adion has refused to see me, and I cannot very well force myself upon him.”

  “Have you definite evidence that Adion has been threatened?”

  Nayland Smith lighted his pipe and nodded shortly.

  “I am in th
e difficult position of having to keep an eye on a number of notable people—many of them, quite frankly, not friends of Great Britain. With a view to doing my best to protect them, the legitimate functions of the secret service up to a certain extent have been switched into this channel, and I had information three days ago that Adion had received the first notice from the Si-Fan!”

  “Good heavens! What did you do?”

  “I immediately advised him that whatever he might think to the contrary, he was in imminent peril of his life. I suggested a conference.”

  “And he refused to see you?”

  “Exactly. Whatever is pending—and rest assured it will affect the fate of the world—it is clearly a matter of some urgency for I am informed that a second notice has reached Adion.”

  “What do you make of it? What is he planning?”

  Nayland Smith stood up, irritably snapping his fingers.

  “I don’t know, nor can I find out. Furthermore, for any evidence to the contrary, there might be no such person as Doctor Fu Manchu in the world. Do you think it conceivable that such a personality is moving about among us—as undoubtedly he is—and yet not one clue fall into the hands of a veritable army of searchers?”

  I watched him for some time as he paced nervously up and down the carpet, then:

  “Having met Doctor Fu Manchu,” I replied slowly, “I am prepared to believe anything about him. What is bothering me at the moment. Smith, is this: On your own admission he knows that you are trying to protect Adion.”

  Nayland Smith sighed wearily.

  “He knows every move I make, Kerrigan. Almost, I believe, those which I am likely to make but upon which I have not yet decided.”

  “In other words your own danger is as great, if not greater, than that of the chancellor.”

  He smiled wryly.

  “Since one evening in Burma, many years ago—an evening of which I bear cherished memories, for it was then that I first set eyes on Doctor Fu Manchu—I have gone in hourly peril of assassination. Yet, here I am—thanks to the doctor’s sense of humor! You see”—he began to walk up and down again—”I doubt if ever before have I had the entire power of the Si-Fan directed against me. And so this time, I am wondering . . .”

  A Car in Hyde Park

  An unavoidable business appointment called me away that afternoon. My personal inclination was never to let Nayland Smith out of my sight although heaven knows what I thought I could do to protect him. But as he never went about alone and rarely failed to notify me of any move in the game in order that I might be present, we parted with an understanding to meet at dinner.

  My business took me to Westminster. Fully an hour had passed, I suppose, when I began to drive back, and I found myself in the thick of the afternoon traffic. As I made to cross towards Hyde Park I was held up. Streams of vehicles coming from four different directions were heading for the gate. I resigned myself and lighted a cigarette.

  Idly I inspected a quantity of luggage strapped on the rack of a big saloon car. It was proceeding very slowly out of the Park in that pent-up crawling line of traffic and had just passed my off-side window. There were new labels over many old ones, but from my position at the wheel I could read none of them, except that clearly enough this was the baggage of a world traveller, for I recognized the characteristic hotel designs of Mount Lavinia in Colombo, Shepheard’s in Cairo and others East and West which I knew.

  The constable on the gate had apparently become rooted just in front of me with outstretched arms. Curious for a glimpse of these travellers who were presumably bound for Victoria Station, I leaned back and stared out at the occupants of the car. A moment I glanced—and then turned swiftly away.

  A chauffeur whose face I could not see was driving. There were two passengers. One was a darkly beautiful woman. She was smoking a cigarette, and I could not fail to note her long ivory hand, her slender, highly burnished fingernails. In fact, except for their smooth beauty, those hands reminded me of the hands of Dr Fu Manchu. But it was that one glimpse of her compardon which had urged me to turn aside, praying that I had not been recognized . . .

  It was Ardatha!

  Useless to deny that nay heart had leapt at sight of her. She wore a smart little hat crushed down on her coppery curls, and some kind of fur-collared coat. I had seen no more, had noticed no more. I had eyes for nothing but that bewitching face. And now, as I stared at the broad, immovable back of the constable, I was thinking rapidly and hoping that he would remain stationary long enough for me to rearrange my plans.

  Somehow, I must follow that car!

  Once at Victoria it should not be difficult for a man with newspaper training to learn the destination of the travelers. If I failed to do so I could never face Nay land Smith again with a clear conscience. But here was a problem. I must enter the Park now for I was jammed in the traffic stream, and the car which contained Ardatha was leaving or waiting to leave! It meant a detour and I had to plan quickly. I must bear left, leave by the next gate (I prayed I might not be held up there) and make my way to Victoria across Knightsbridge.

  This plan was no sooner formed than the constable moved and waved me on.

  I proceeded as fast as I dared in the direction of the next gate—and I was lucky. Oncoming traffic was being let out, that from the opposite direction being held.

  Last but one, I got through.

  I was lucky on the rest of the way, too, and having hastily disposed of my car I went racing into the station. I knew that (a) I must take care not to be seen; that (b) I must find out what trains were about to depart and swiftly make up my mind for which I wanted a platform ticket.

  A Continental boat train was due to leave in five minutes.

  This struck me as being quite the likeliest bet. The next departure, seven minutes later, was for Brighton, and somehow I felt disposed to wash this out as a possibility. Turning up the collar of my topcoat and pulling my hat well forward, I took a platform ticket and strolled among departing passengers and friends, porters, refreshment wagons and news vendors.

  I glanced at the luggage van, but doubted if I should recognize the particular baggage I had seen upon the tail of the car. Then, time being short, I walked along the platform. I could see no sign of two women, and I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. I started back again, scrutinising all the compartments and staring into the Pullman cars.

  But never a glimpse did I obtain of Ardatha or her companion. I was almost in despair and was standing looking right and left when a conversation taking place near by arrested my attention.

  “I’ve got an old lady going through to Venice. I noticed you had a party of two for Venice, so I wondered if you could arrange to give them adjoining places in the car. They might strike up an acquaintance—see what I mean?”

  “You mean the two good-lookers—the red head and the dark one—in D? Yes, they’re booked for Venice but I don’t know if they’re going direct. Where’s your passenger?”

  “D. Number eleven. Do what you can, Jack.”

  “Right-o!”

  I glanced quickly at the speakers. One was a Cook’s man and the other the chief Pullman attendant. It was perhaps a forlorn hope, but I had known equally unlikely things to come off. I turned back and went to look at coach D.

  One glance was enough!

  Ardatha was seated in a corner reading. Her companion was standing up and placing something upon the rack, for I had a momentary impression of a tall, slender, almost serpentine figure. I turned away quickly and hurried back to the barrier.

  The beautiful dark mystery was undoubtedly the woman associated with the death of General Quinto—with the death of Osaki! The woman who had drugged Constable Isles and who had escaped with the model and plans of the vacuum charger! Although perhaps not blood guilty, Ardatha was her accomplice. It was an unhappy, a wildly disturbing thought. Yet, I must confess, so profound was my dread of the Chinese doctor, that I rejoiced to know she lived! His words about retribution had haunted m
e . . . But one thing I must do and do quickly:

  I must advise Nayland Smith.

  Here were two known accomplices of Dr Fu Manchu. My duty to my friend—to the world—demanded that steps should be taken to apprehend them at Folkestone. There was no room for sentiment; my conscience pointed the straight road to duty.

  The Brain Is Dr Fu Manchu”

  “Dinner’s off, Kerrigan! We shall have to get what we can on the way.”

  “What!”

  “Accident has thrown the first clue of many weary days and nights in your way Kerrigan, and you handled it very cleverly.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My latest information, just to hand, explains why Doctor Fu Manchu’s attention has become directed upon Rudolf Adion. Adion is on his way to Venice for a secret meeting with his brother dictator, Monaghani!”

  “But that’s impossible. Smith!” I exclaimed. I was still figuratively breathless from my dash to Victoria. “It’s in the evening papers than Adion is reviewing troops tomorrow morning.”

  Smith was pacing up and down in an old silk dressing gown and smoking his pipe. He paused, turned, and stared at me with raised eyebrows. His glance was challenging.

  “I thought it was common knowledge, Kerrigan,” he said quietly “that Adion has a double.”

  “A double!”

  “Certainly. I assumed you knew; almost everybody else knows. Stalin of Russia has three.”

  “Three doubles?”

  “Three. He knows that he is likely to be assassinated at almost any moment and in this way the odds are three to one in his favour. On such occasions as that which you have mentioned, when the director of his country stands rigidly at the salute for forty minutes or so while troops march by with mechanical accuracy, it is not Rudolf Adion the First who stands in that painful position. Oh no, Kerrigan: It is Rudolf Adion the Second! The Second will be there tomorrow, but the First, the original, the real Rudolf Adion, is already on his way to Venice.”

  “Then you think that the fact of these two women proceeding to Venice means—, ,

  “It means that Doctor Fu Manchu is in Venice, or shortly will be! Throughout his career he has used the weapon of feminine beauty, and many times that weapon has proved to be double-edged. However, we know what to look for.”