The Mask of Fu-Manchu Read online

  “Did you examine the ledge and the shutters?”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone examined them?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  Sir Denis stood with his back to me for several moments; then, turning:

  “Go on!” he cried. “You must have derived some other impressions. Had the bed definitely been slept in, for instance?”

  “Yes, undoubtedly.”

  “Was Van Berg armed?”

  “No. His revolver—a heavy service type—was on a table beside his bed. His flash lamp was still under his pillow.”

  “Was he a heavy drinker?”

  I stared uncomprehendingly.

  “On the contrary.”

  Nayland Smith gave me a steely glance.

  “H’m!” he snapped—“amazing! A man, already apprehensive of attack, a man of some experience, wakes to the certain knowledge that there’s an intruder in his room—and what does he do? He springs out of bed, unarmed, in semi-darkness—although a flash lamp and a revolver lie under his hand—and throws himself across the iron box. Really, Greville! Reconstruct the scene for yourself. Was Van Berg’s behaviour, as you indicate it, normal?”

  “No, sir Denis,” I admitted. “Now that you draw my attention to the curious points, it wasn’t. But—good heavens!” I raised my hand to my forehead.

  “Ah!” said he—“forgotten something else?”

  “Yes—I had. The perfume.”

  “Perfume?”

  “There was a strange perfume in the room. It resembled mimosa…”

  “Mimosa?”

  “Extraordinarily like it.”

  “Where was this smell most noticeable?”

  “About the bed.”

  He snapped his fingers and began to walk up and down again.

  “Naturally,” he murmured. “One small point cleared up… but— mimosa…”

  I watched him in silence, overcome by unhappy recollections.

  “Where is the iron box now?” he suddenly demanded.

  “It’s in my room!” roared a great voice—“and I’m waiting for the swine who murdered Van Berg to come and fetch it!”

  Sir Denis, in his restless promenade, had reached the window— had been staring out of it, as if considering my statement that it was thirty feet above street level. He turned in a flash—so did I...

  Sir Lionel Barton stood in the doorway, and Rima was beside him, a neat, delightful figure in her drill riding kit and tan boots.

  If Rima was surprised to learn the identity of the tall man in shabby gray flannels who now turned and confronted her, I can only describe the chief’s reaction as that of one half stunned. He fell back a pace—his deep-set eyes positively glaring; then:

  “Smith!” he said huskily—“Nayland Smith! Am I dreaming?”

  The grim face of Sir Denis relaxed in that ingenuous smile which stripped him of twenty years.

  “By God!” roared the chief, and literally pounced upon him. “If I were anything like a decent Christian I should say that my prayers had been answered!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RIMA AND I

  Down in the little garden of the house I had a few moments alone with Rima. At some time this garden had been a charming, secluded spot. Indeed, except for a latticed window above, it was overlooked from only one point: the gallery of the minaret. But neglect had played havoc with the place.

  The orange trees flourished—indeed, were in full blossom—and a perfect cloak of bougainvillea overhung the balcony below the latticed window. But the flower borders were thickets of weeds and a stone cistern in which a little fountain had long ceased to play was coated with slime and no more than a breeding place for mosquitoes.

  “I don’t know what it is about Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” said Rima. “But I have never experienced such a sense of relief in my life as when I came into that room today and found him there.”

  “I know,” I replied, squeezing her reassuringly: “it’s the sterling quality of the man. All the same, darling, I shan’t feel happy until we’re clear of Ispahan.”

  “Nor shall I, Shan. If only uncle weren’t so infernally mysterious. What on earth are we staying on here for?”

  “I know no more than you do, Rima. What was the object of this afternoon’s expedition? I’m quite in the dark about it!”

  “I’m nearly as bad,” she confessed. “But at least I can tell you where we went. We went to Solomon Ishak. You know—the funny old jeweller?”

  “Solomon Ishak is one of the greatest mysteries of Ispahan. But I understand he gets hold of some very rare antique pieces. Probably the chief is negotiating a deal.”

  “I don’t think so. I had to take along the negatives of about forty photographs, and uncle left me wandering about that indescribable, stuffy shop for more than an hour while he remained locked in an inner room with old Solomon.”

  “And what became of the photographs?”

  “He had them with him but brought them out at the end of the interview. They are back here now.”

  “That may explain the mystery,” I said reflectively. “The photographs were of the relics of the Prophet, I take it?”

  Rima nodded.

  “The workmanship on the hilt of the sword has defied even the chief’s knowledge,” I added. “He probably wanted Solomon Ishak’s opinion but didn’t care to risk taking the sword itself.”

  Rima slipped a slender bare arm about my neck and snuggled her head down against my shoulder.

  “Oh, Shan!” she whispered. “I have never felt so homesick in my life.”

  I stooped and kissed her curly hair, squeezing her very tightly; then:

  “Rima, darling,” I whispered, my lips very close to one halfhidden ear, “when we get to some place a little nearer civilisation, will you come and see the consul with me?”

  She made no reply but hid her face more closely against me.

  “If the chief still insists on a spectacular wedding, that can come later. But…”

  Rima suddenly raised her face, looking up at me.

  “Next time you ask me, I’m going to say, Yes, Shan. But please don’t ask me again until we’re out of Ispahan.”

  “Why?” I asked blankly. “Is there any special reason for this?”

  “No,” she replied, kissed me on the chin, and nestled down against me again. “But I’ve promised. And if you are good you’ll be satisfied.”

  I stooped and nearly smothered her with kisses. I suppose my early training was to blame, and I didn’t know, or even seek to find out, Rima’s views upon the subject. As for the chief, I had known for a long time past that he was thoroughly enjoying the situation.

  Had Rima and I openly become lovers, I am convinced he wouldn’t have turned a hair. He was a wonderful old pagan, and his profound disrespect for ritual in any form had led to some awkward moments—awkward, that is, for me, but apparently enjoyed by Sir Lionel.

  And at the moment that these thoughts were crossing my mind his great voice came from the window above:

  “Break away. there!” he roared. “There’s more serious work afoot than making love to my staff photographer!”

  I jumped up—my blood was tingling—and turned angrily. But in the very act I met Rima’s upcast glance. My mood changed. She was convulsed with laughter; and:

  “The old ruffian!” she whispered.

  “Come hither, my puritan friend,” Sir Lionel continued. “Two cavaliers would have speech with thee!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “EL MOKANNA!”

  A conference took place in the chief’s room at the end of the long corridor on the first floor of that queer old house.

  The place was untidy as only Sir Lionel could make it. There were riding boots on the bed, and strewn about on the floor were such diverse objects as a battered sun helmet, a camera case, odd items of underwear, a pair of very ancient red leather slippers, a number of books—many of them valuable; the whole rising in a sort of mound towards an
old cabin trunk, from which one would assume as by an eruption they had been cast forth.

  There was a long, high window on the right through which I could see sunshine on the yellow wall of the Ghost Mosque. A low, shallow cupboard occupied the space below this window. Set left of this cupboard was a big table on which lay piled an indescribable litter. There were manuscripts, firearms, pipes, a hat box, a pair of shoes, a large case containing flasks of wine of Shiraz, a big scale map, a beautifully embroidered silk robe, and a fossilised skull.

  On a low stool at the foot of the bed stood the grim green iron box.

  Sir Denis Nayland Smith was standing staring at the box. The chief had thrown himself into an armchair.

  “Greville,” said Nayland Smith, “have you ever explored the mosque over the way?”

  “Yes,” I replied, to his evident surprise. “But I didn’t find that it possessed any features of interest. Does it, Sir Lionel?”

  “According to Smith,” was the reply, “it does!”

  “Had you any special reason for exploring the place?” Sir Denis asked.

  “I had,” I admitted. “I made my way in this morning through a window on the north side. You see, I imagined—it was probably no more than imagination—that I saw someone watching us from there on one occasion—”

  “What occasion?”

  “The inquiry into Van Berg’s death—when Mr. Jean and Captain Woodville were here—”

  “Never mentioned this to me!” the chief began, when:

  “All I wanted to know,” said Nayland Smith rapidly. “Be quiet, Barton.” And now he turned. His face had grown very stern. “I want to make it perfectly clear to you both, that we three, and Rima, and Ali Mahmoud, stand in greater peril of our lives, at this present moment, than any of us has ever been before.”

  “That’s putting it pretty strongly, Sir Denis,” I said, for I recalled other experiences which I had shared with him.

  “Not too strongly,” he replied. “I rarely say what I don’t mean, Greville. But apart from Rima—I sincerely wish she were a thousand miles from Ispahan—there’s a further and a graver consideration. Sir Lionel here—inadvertently, I admit—has stirred up a thing which at this particular stage of world politics is calculated to sway the balance in the wrong direction.

  “I know all the facts, Greville”—he threw a quick glance in my direction—“and I assure you that what I say is true. The blowing up of the tomb of El Mokanna revived the tradition of that minor prophet and brought into unexpected prominence certain living believers of his doctrine, of which accident they were not slow to take advantage. I have the names of several men in Afghanistan, Khorassan, and Persia whom I know to be associated with this movement, whether as legitimate fanatics or seekers after power remains to be seen. But the spread of the thing is phenomenal.”

  The chief had begun to walk up and down the room in that caged-bear fashion of his; and since Nayland Smith was also addicted to promenading in moments of intense thought, the latter checked his own restless movements at the first stride and dropped into an armchair which Sir Lionel had vacated, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.

  His words had chilled me. All my fears, which throughout had centred around Rima, came to a head now. I had known for more than a week past that our little party was the focus of malignant forces. Now, chance, or divine Providence, had sent us the man best equipped to deal with such a situation. But his words held no comfort.

  “The way in which this cry of ‘El Mokanna’ has swept through the East,” he continued, speaking in his rapid staccato fashion, “points to organisation. Someone has seized this mighty opportunity. Don’t glare at me, Barton. You, and you alone, are responsible for the position in which we find ourselves. Captain Woodville has already told you so, I believe.”

  I don’t think the chief would have remained silent under such treatment from any but Sir Denis. He was certainly glaring, and he continued to glare. But the steely gray eyes met his unfalteringly; and Sir Lionel merely grunted and continued his promenade.

  “Our chief enemy,” Nayland Smith went on, “recognises the importance of possessing the New Creed, the Sword of God, and the gold mask. This was why poor Van Berg died.”

  I heard Sir Lionel groan. He halted, and stood with his back to us for some moments.

  “The first attempt failed,” that cool, even voice went on. “It was attended by very peculiar features; they were not insignificant. But—” he paused for a moment, impressively—“the attempt will be repeated. Our enemy knows that the method by which be obtained access to Van Berg’s room has so far defied all investigation. He knows that the green box is no longer in that room—but is here.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Because Barton has advertised the fact,” Nayland Smith returned savagely. “Two Persian officials were present at the inquiry, here, in this house. And they know that the box now rests in Sir Lionel’s room. Don’t answer, Barton—just listen. And you, too, Greville.”

  It was hard going for Sir Lionel to swallow his words, but he succeeded in doing so. And with the brief clarity which was one of his peculiar gifts Nayland Smith outlined his plan of defence.

  That he seemed to take it for granted that there would be an attack positively terrified me, since Rima was in the house. But what I did not understand at the time was an underlying anger which appeared to be directed against the chief...

  “I hope that my presence may be unknown to the enemy,” he concluded. “But, frankly, in spite of all the precautions I have taken, I doubt this. I am almost certain that I was covered. The man Amir Khan, originally your guide, has deserted to the other side. This, to me, is particularly, in fact dreadfully, significant. My object, Greville—” evidently he detected bewilderment in my expression— “is this: I mean to bring things to a head.”

  “What d’you mean?” Sir Lionel demanded, with a sudden angry outburst—“Bring things to a head! Haven’t they come to a head already?”

  “Listen, Barton,” Nayland Smith spoke unusually slowly. “You have taken some risks in your time. But this time you have stirred up something too big for you. Forget that I’m here, but go to work without delay and instruct Ali Mahmoud accordingly, to prepare for departure in the morning. Do everything that occurs to you to make it known that tonight is the last night you will spend under this roof. Upon your success. Barton—I include you, Greville—my plan for discovering the murderer of poor Van Berg will depend…”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE FLYING DEATH

  The extraordinary events of that night brought me nearer to a belief in supernatural agencies than I could have believed myself capable of approaching.

  Nayland Smith’s programme was perfectly definite. Clearly enough he had formed a theory covering the singular facts of the death of Dr. Van Berg. This theory he bluntly declined to reveal to the chief.

  “I’m going to handle this thing, Barton, in my own way,” he said firmly. “For once in your life you’ll take orders, or stand aside, whichever you please.”

  In consequence we were disposed in what seemed to me a very strange manner. My own post was in the chief’s room, in which our long conference had taken place. I was seated upon a pile of pillows and other odds and ends, screened from the observation of anyone in the room by a large upstanding trunk, the property of Rima.

  Through an opening between the wall and the side of this trunk I could see practically the whole of the room, which, as I have already said, was a large one. The shutters of the window above and to my right were closed; only a glimmer of moonlight showed through the slats. In consequence, the place was in semi-darkness, to which, however, after a time, my eyes grew accustomed.

  I could see all the objects there very clearly. The window at the further end, that overlooking the street and the side of the mosque, had the shutters closed but not latched. Through the slit between them I could see reflected light on the ancient wall beyond.

 
The bed, which jutted out along to my left, showed the outline of a heavy body under its sheet. A gray army blanket was rolled across the foot in accordance with Sir Lionel’s custom—a provision against the chill of early morning; and the sheet was pulled up right over the pillow so as entirely to conceal the head of the sleeper—another characteristic trick of the chief’s in insect-infested countries.

  That mound of odds and ends still remained upon the big table, and garments were littered about the floor. On a low stool at the foot of the bed, an object now associated in my mind with murder, stood the long green box. A pistol lay beside me, and I had an electric torch in my pocket.

  I anticipated a dreary vigil, nor was I by any means satisfied that the enemy would fall into the trap laid for him by Nayland Smith. Our preparations for departure in the early morning had been almost too ostentatious, in my opinion.

  The room was silent as a tomb.

  Ali Mahmoud, in the lobby below, would be watching the street intently through the iron-barred grill of the house door. Rima was in one of the rooms above, from which she also commanded a view of the street. Of Sir Denis’s position I remained in ignorance, except that definitely he was not in the house…

  Time wore on. I grew very restless and cramped. Smoking was prohibited, as well as the making of the slightest sound.

  I watched the shutters of the window above the cupboard so long and so intently that my sight became blurred. This, I felt assured, would be the point of attack. I formed dreadful mental pictures of the creature heard many nights ago by poor Van Berg—the thing which had alighted with a sound resembling that caused by the alighting of a heavy bird—in his own words.

  What could it be—this flying thing? I conceived horrors transcending the imagination of the most morbid story-tellers.