The Bride of Fu Manchu f-6 Read online

  A nursing sister admitted me, conducting me in silence along a narrow passage to Petrie’s room.

  As I entered, and the sister withdrew, I saw at a glance the cause of a suppressed feverish excitement which I had detect-^deven in the bearing of the lodge porter.

  Dr. Cartier was in tears. He was taking the pulse of the unconscious man. Nayland Smith, standing beside him, nodded to me reassuringly as I came in.

  The purple shadow on Petrie’s brow had encroached no further—indeed, as I thought, was already dispersing!

  Dr. Cartier replaced his watch and raised clasped hands.

  “He is doing well,” said Sir Denis. “‘654’ is the remedy...but what, exactly is ‘654’?”

  “We must know!” cried Dr. Cartier emotionally. “Thanks to the good God, he will revive from the coma and tell us. We must know! There is no more that I or any man can do now. But Sister Therese is a treasure among nurses, and if there should be a development, she will call me immediately. I shall be here in three minutes. But tomorrow? What can we do? We must know!”

  “I agree,” said Sir Denis quietly. “Don’t worry any more about it. I think you are about to win a great victory. I hope, as I have told you, to recover a copy of the formula for ‘654’— and as Dr. Petrie’s safety is of such vital importance, you have no objections to offer to my plan?”

  “But none!” Cartier replied. “Except that this seems unnecessary.”

  “I never take needless risks,” said Sir Denis drily.

  But when Cartier was gone:

  “I am going into Nice,” Sir Denis said, “now, to put a phone call through to London.”

  “What!”

  “There’s a definite connection. Sterling, between the appearance in Petrie’s laboratory of a new species of tropical fly at the same time as an unfamiliar tropical plant—the latter bloodstained!”

  “So much is obvious.”

  “The connecting link is the Burmese dacoit whom I heard and you and Mme Dubonnet saw. He was the servant of a dreadful master.”

  A question burned on my tongue, but:

  “Sister Therese is all that Carter claims for her—I have interviewed the sister. She will attend to the patient from time to time. But I’m going to ask you to do something, Sterling, for me and for Petrie.”

  “Anything you like. Just say the word.”

  “You see. Sterling, since Petrie left London and came here, he had kept in close touch with Sir Manston Rorke, of the School of Tropical Medicine—one of the three big names, although I doubt if he knows more than Petrie. Some days ago. Sir Manston called me up. He had formed a remarkable opinion.”

  “What about?”

  “About the French epidemic. Two cases, showing identical symptoms, occurred in the London dock area, and he had had news of several in New York and of one in Sydney, Australia. Having personally examined the London cases (both of which terminated fatally) he had come to the conclusion that this disease was not an ordinary plague. Briefly, he believed that it was being induced artificially!”

  “Good heavens, Sir Denis! I begin to believe he was right.”

  Nayland Smith nodded.

  “I invited him to suggest a motive, and he wavered between a mad scientist and a Red plot to decimate unfriendly nations! In my opinion, he wasn’t far short of the truth; but here’s the big point: I have reason to believe that Petrie submitted to Sir Manston the formula for ‘654’—and I’m going to Nice to call him up.”

  “God grant he has it,” I said, glancing at the bed where the sick man lay.

  “Amen to that. But in the meantime. Sterling—I may be away two hours or more—it’s vitally important that Petrie should not be alone for one moment.”

  “I quite follow.”

  “So I want you to stand by here until I get back. What I mean is this—I want you to sit tight beside his bed.”

  “I understand. You may count on me.”

  He stared at me fixedly. There was something almost hypnotic in that penetrating look.

  “Sterling,” he said, “you are dealing with an enemy more cunning and more brilliant than any man you have ever met East or West. Until I return you are not to allow a soul to touch Petrie—except Sister Therese or Cartier.”

  I was startled by his vehemence.

  “It may be difficult,” I suggested.

  “I agree that it may be difficult; but it has to be done. Can I rely upon you?”

  “Absolutely”

  “I’m going to dash away now, to put a call through to Manston Rorke. I only pray that he is in London and that I can locate him.”

  He raised his hand in a sort of salute to the insensible man, turned, and went out.

  chapter seventh

  IVORY FINGERS

  I thought of many things during the long vigil that followed. The isolation ward harboured six patients, but Petrie had been given accommodation in a tiny private room at one end. The corresponding room at the other end was the sanctum of Sister Therese.

  It was a lonely spot, and very silent. I heard the sister moving about in the adjoining ward, and presently she entered quietly, a fragile little woman, her pale face looking childishly small framed in the stiff white headdress of her order. Deftly and all but noiselessly she went about her duties; and, watching her, I wondered, as I had often wondered before, from whence came the unquestioning faith which upheld such as Sister Therese and in which they found adequate reward for a life of service.

  “You are not afraid of infection, M. Sterling?” she asked, her voice very low and gentle.

  “Not at all, Sister. In my job I have to risk it.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Hunt for new species of plants for the Botanical Society— and orchids for the market.”

  “But how fascinating! As a matter of fact, there is no danger of infection at this stage.”

  “So I am told by Dr. Cartier.”

  “It is new to us, this disease. But it is tragic that Dr. Petrie should fall a victim. However, as you see——”

  She pointed.

  “The stigmata?”

  Sister Therese shuddered.

  “It is so irreligious! But Dr. Cartier, I know, calls this mark the black stigmata. Yes—it does not increase. Dr. Petrie may conquer. He is a wonderful man. You will moisten his poor lips from time to time? I am praying that he may be spared to us. Good-night, M. Sterling. Ring for me if he moves.”

  She withdrew in her gentle, silent way, leaving me to my thoughts. And by some queer mental alchemy these became transmuted into thoughts of Fleurette. I found myself contemplating in a sort of cold horror the idea of Fleurette infected with this foul plague—her delicate beauty marred, her strong young body contorted by the work of some loathsome, unclassified bacillus.

  And then I fell to thinking about those who had contracted this thing, and to considering what Nayland Smith had told me. What association was there to explain a common enmity between London dock labourers and Dr. Petrie?

  I stared at him as the thought crossed my mind. One of the strangest symptoms of this horror which threatened France was the period of complete coma preceding the end. Petrie looked like a dead man.

  A searching wind, coming down from the Alps, had begun to blow at sunset. The pines, some of which almost overhung the lonely building, hushed and whispered insidiously. I construed their whispering into a repetition of the words “Fleurette—Derceto....”

  If dear old Petrie survived the crisis, I told myself, tomorrow should find me once more on the beach ofSte Claire de la Roche. I might have misjudged Fleurette. But even if she were the mistress of Mahdi Bey, she was very young and so not past praying for.

  I had just formed this resolution when a new sound intruded upon the silence of the sickroom.

  There was only one window—high in the wall which marked the end of the place. As I sat near the foot of Petrie’s bed, this window was above on my left.

  And the sound, a faint scraping, seemed to c
ome from there.

  I listened to the hushing of the pines, thinking that the wind had grown higher and that some outstretched branch must be touching the wall. But the wind seemed to have decreased, and the whisper, “Fleurette—Derceto,” had become a scarcely audible sigh.

  Raising my head, I looked up....

  A yellow hand, the fingers crooked in a clutching movement—a threat it seemed—showed for a moment, then disappeared, outside the window!

  Springing to my feet, I stared wildly. How long had I been sitting there, dreaming, since Sister Therese had gone? I had no idea. My imagination pictured such an evil, mask-like face as I had seen at the Villa Jasmin—peering in at that high window.

  One of the dacoits (the name was vaguely familiar, although I had never been in Burma) referred to by Nayland Smith must be watching the place!

  Was this what he had feared? Was this why I had been left on guard?

  What did it mean?

  I could not believe that Dr. Petrie had ever wronged any man. Who, then, was hounding him to death, and what was his motive?

  Literally holding my breath, I listened. But there was no repetition of the scraping sound. The climber—the window was twelve feet above ground level—had dropped silently at the moment that I sprang from my chair.

  To rush out and search was obviously not in orders. My job was to sit tight. I was pledged to it.

  But the incident had painted a new complexion on my duties.

  I watched that high window keenly and for a long time. Then, as I was on the point of sitting down, a slight sound brought me upright at a bound. I realised that my nerves were badly overtimed.

  The door opened, and Sister Therese came in, in her unobtrusive, almost apologetic way.

  “A lady has called to see Dr. Petrie,” she said. “To see Dr. Petrie!”

  “How could I refuse her, M. Sterling?” Sister Therese asked gently. “She is his wife!” The little sister glanced wistfully at the unconscious man. “And she is such a beautiful woman.”

  “Great heavens!” I groaned—”this is going to be almost unendurable. Is she very—disturbed, Sister?”

  Sister Therese shook her head, smiling sadly.

  “Not at all. She has great courage.”

  Just as poor Petrie had feared—his wife had come from Cairo—to find him...a doomed man.

  “I suppose she must come in. But his appearance will be a frightful shock to her....”

  Anticipating a tragic interview, I presently turned to meet Mrs. Petrie, as Sister Therese showed her into the room. She was, I saw, tall and slender, having an indolent grace of bearing totally different from affectation. She was draped in a long wrap of some dark fur beneath which showed the edge of a green dress. Bare, ivory ankles peeped below its fringe and she wore high-heeled green sandals with gold straps.

  She had features of almost classic chiselling and perfectly moulded lips. But her eyes were truly remarkable. They were incredibly long, of the true almond shape, and brilliant as jewels. By reason of the fact that Mrs. Petrie wore a little green beret-like hat set on one side of her glossy head, from which depended a figured gold veil, I could not determine the exact colour of those strange eyes: the veil just covered them.

  Her complete self-possession reassured me. She glanced at Petrie, and then, as Sister Therese silently retired:

  “It is very good of you, Mr. Sterling,” she said—and her voice had an indolent, soothing quality in keeping with her personality—”to allow me to make this visit.”

  She seated herself in a chair which I placed for her beside Petrie’s bed.

  So this was “Karamaneh”? I had not forgotten that strange name murmured by Nayland Smith as he had bent over Petrie. The most beautiful woman I have ever known....”

  And that Mrs. Petrie was beautiful none could deny; yet for some reason her appearance surprised me. I had not been prepared for a woman of this type. Truth to tell, although I didn’t recognize the fact then, I had subconsciously given Mrs. Petrie the attributes ofFleurette—a flower-like tender loveliness wholly removed from the patrician yet exotic elegance of this woman who sat looking at the unconscious man.

  Having heard of her passionate love for the doctor, I was surprised, too, by her studied self-possession. It was admirable, but, in a devoted wife, almost uncanny...

  “I could do no less, Mrs. Petrie,” I replied. “It is very brave of you to come.”

  She was bending forward, watching the sick man.

  “Is there—any hope?” she asked.

  “There is every hope, Mrs Petrie. In other cases which the doctors have met with, the appearance of the purple shadow has meant the end.”

  “But in this case?”

  She looked at me, her wonderful eyes so bright that I thought she was suppressing tears.

  “In Petrie’s case, the progress of the disease has been checked—temporarily, at any rate.”

  “How wonderful,” she whispered—”and how strange.”

  She bent over him again. Her movements were feline in their indolent grace. One slender ivory hand held the cloak in place; the long nails were varnished to a jewel-like brightness. I wondered how these two had met, and how such markedly different types had ever become lovers.

  Mrs. Petrie raised her eyes to me again.

  “Is Dr. Cartier following some different treatment in—my husband’s case?”

  The nearly imperceptible pause had not escaped me. I supposed that a wave of emotion had threatened to overcome her when she found that name upon her lips and realised that the man himself tottered on the brink of the Valley.

  “Yes, Mrs Petrie; a treatment of your husband’s known as ‘654.’“

  “Prepared, I suppose, by Dr. Cartier?”

  “No—prepared by Petrie himself just before he was seized with illness.”

  “But Dr. Cartier, of course, knows the formula?”

  That caressing voice possessed some odd quality of finality;

  it was like listening to Fate speaking. Not to reply to any question so put to one would have been a task akin to closing one’s ears to the song of the Sirens. And the darkly fringed eyes, which, now, owing to some accident of reflected light, I thought were golden, emphasized the soft command.

  Indeed, I was on the point of answering truthfully that no one but Petrie knew the formula when an instinct of compassion gave me strength to defy that powerful urge. Why should I admit so cruel a truth?

  “I cannot say,” I replied, and knew that I spoke the words unnaturally.

  “But of course it will be somewhere in my husband’s possession? No doubt in his laboratory?”

  Her^mxiety—although there was no trace of tremor in her velvety tones—was nevertheless unmistakable.

  “No doubt, Mrs Petrie,” I said reassuringly—and spoke now with greater conviction, since I really believed that the formula must be somewhere among Petrie’s papers.

  She murmured something in a low voice—and, standing up, moved to the head of the bed.

  Whereupon, my difficulties began. For, as Mrs. Petrie bent over the pillow, I remembered the charge which had been put upon me, remembered Nayland Smith’s words: “You are not to allow a soul to touch him——”

  I got up swiftly, stepped around the foot of the bed, and joined Mrs. Petrie where she stood.

  “Whatever you do,” I said, “don’t touch him!”

  Slowly she stood upright; infinitely slowly and gracefully. She turned and looked into my eyes.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because—” I hesitated: what could I say?—”because of the possibility of infection.”

  “Please don’t worry about that, Mr. Sterling. There is no possibility of infection at this stage. Sister Therese told me so.”

  “But she may be wrong,” I urged. “Really, I can’t allow you to take the risk.”

  Perhaps my principles ride me to death; I have been told that they do. But I had pledged my word that no one should touch Petrie, and
I meant to stick to it. Logically, I could think of no reason why this woman who loved him should not stroke his hair, as I thought she had been about to do. It was almost inhuman to forbid it. Yet, by virtue of Sir Denis’s trust in me, forbid it I must.

  “It may be difficult,” I remembered saying to him. How difficult it was to be, I had not foreseen!

  “Surely,” she said, and her soft voice held no note of anger, “the risk is mine?”

  Mrs. Petrie bent again over the pillow. She was on the point of resting those slender, indolent hands on Petrie’s shoulders.

  She intended, I surmised, to kiss his parched lips....

  chapter eighth

  “BEWARE...”

  As those languorous ivory hands almost rested on Petrie’s shoulders, and the full red lips were but inches removed from the parched blue lips of the unconscious man, I threw my arms around Mrs. Petrie and dragged her away!

  She was light and resilient as a professional dancer. I had been forced to exert considerable strength because of her nearness to the doctor. She was swept back, lying against my left arm and looking up at me in a startled yet imperious way, which prepared me to expect an uncomfortable sequel.

  During one long moment she remained motionless, our glances meeting. Her cloak had slipped, exposing a bare arm and shoulder. I was partly supporting her and trying fren-ziedly to find words to excuse my apparent violence, when, still looking up at me, she turned slightly.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked. “Was it...to save me from contagion?”

  The cue was a welcome one; I seized it gladly.

  “Of course!” I replied, but knew that my assurance rang false. “I warned you that I should not allow you to touch him.”

  She continued to watch me, resting in the crook of my arm;

  and I had never experienced such vile impulses as those which goaded me during those few seconds. The most singular promptings were dancing in my brain. I thought she was offering me her lips, or, rather, challenging me to reject the offer. With a movement so slight that it might have been accidental, she seemed to invite me to caress her.