The Bride of Fu Manchu f-6 Read online

  Indeed I saw, and all too plainly.

  “Have the police been informed of the outrages here last night?” I asked.

  The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and his bearded face registered despair.

  “In this matter I am distracted,” he declared, “and I have ceased even to think about it. Sir Denis Nayland Smith, it seems, has powers from Paris which override the authorities of Nice. The Department is in his hands.”

  “You mean that no inquiry will be made?”

  “Nothing—as I understand. But as I confessed to you, I do not understand—at all.”

  I sprang up in bed—my brain was superactive.

  “This is awful!” I exclaimed—”I must do something—I must do something!”

  Dr. Brisson rested his hands upon my shoulders.

  “Mr Sterling,” he said, and his eyes, magnified by the powerful lenses of his spectacles, were kindly yet compelling, “what you should do—if you care to take my advice, is this:

  you should rest.”

  “How can I rest?”

  I sank back on the pillows, while he continued to watch me.

  “It is difficult, I know,” he went on. “But what I tell you. Dr. Cartier would tell you, and your friend Dr. Petrie, also. You are a very strong man, full of vigour, but you have recently recovered from some severe illness. This I can see. The Germans are very clever—but we in France are not without knowledge. For at least four hours, you should sleep.”

  “How can I sleep?”

  “There is nothing you can do to help your friend. All that experience has taught us, we are doing. I offer you my advice. An orderly from the hospital is in the lobby and will remain there until he is relieved. Your housekeeper, Mme Dubonnet, will be here at eight o’clock. Please take a small cachet which I have in my bag, and resign yourself to sleep.”

  I don’t know to what extent the doctor’s kindly and deliberate purpose influenced me, but as he spoke I recognized how weary I was.

  The hiatus induced by that damnable mimosa drug had rested me not at all: my brain was active as from the moment that I had succumbed to it. My body was equally weary.

  “I agree with you, doctor,” I said, and grasped his hand. “I don’t think I need your cachet. I am dead tired. I can sleep without any assistance.”

  He nodded, and smiled.

  “Better still,” he declared. “Nature is always right. I shall close the shutters and leave you. Ring for your coffee when you awake. By then, if Sir Denis’s instructions have been carried out, the telephone will have been repaired, and you can leam the latest news about Dr. Petrie.”

  I remember seeing him close the shutters and walk quietly out of the room. I must have been very tired...for I remember no more.

  chapter fourteenth

  IN MONTE CARLO

  I woke late in the afternoon.

  Body, brain, and nerves had been thoroughly exhausted;

  but now I realized that my long sleep had restored me.

  Mme Dubonnet was in the kitchen, looking very unhappy. The telephone had been repaired that morning, she told me, but it was all so mysterious. The house had been disturbed, and there were many things missing. And the poor dear doctor! They had told her, only two hours before, that there was no change in his condition.

  I turned on the bath taps and then went to the telephone. Dr. Brisson was at the hospital. In answer to my anxious inquiry, he said in a strained, tired voice that there was nothing to report. He could not conceal his anxiety, however.

  Something told me that dear old Petrie’s hours were numbered. Sir Denis Nayland Smith had not been in touch.

  “I trust that he arrived safely,” he concluded, “and succeeded in finding Dr. Emil Krus.”

  “I shall be along in about an hour.”

  “Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Sterling, I beg of you. It would only add to our embarrassment. You can do nothing. If you would consent to take my advice again, it would be this:

  drive out somewhere to dinner. Try to forget this shadow, which unfortunately you can do nothing to dispel. Tell the housekeeper where you intend to go, so that we can trace you. should there be news—good or bad.”

  “It’s impossible,” I replied; “I feel I must stand by.” But the tired, soothing voice at the other end of the line persisted. A man would relieve Mme Dubonnet at the villa just before dusk; “And,” Brisson concluded, “it is far better that you should seek a change of scene, if only for a few hours. Dr. Petrie would wish it. In a sense, you know, you are his patient.”

  In my bath, I considered his words. Yes, I suppose he was right. Petrie had been insistent that I should not overdo things—mentally or physically. I would dine in Monte Carlo, amid the stimulating gaiety of the strangest capital in the world.

  I wanted to be at my best in this battle with an invisible army. I owed it to Petrie—and I owed it to Nayland Smith.

  In spite of my determination, it was late before I started out. The orderly from the hospital had arrived. He had nothing to report. Sir Denis was of opinion, I learned, that there was just a possibility of a further raid upon the Villa Jasmin being attempted, and the man showed me that he was armed.

  He seemed to welcome this strange break in his normal duties. I told him that I proposed to dine at Quinto’s Restaurant. I was known there, and he could get in touch, or leave a message, at any time.

  Then, heavy-hearted, but glad in a way to escape, if only for a few hours, from the spot where Petrie had been stricken down by his remorseless, hidden enemy, I set out for Monaco.

  Some new and strange elements had crashed into my life. It was good to get away to a place dissociated from these things and endeavour to see them in their true perspective.

  The route was pathetically familiar.

  It had been Petrie’s custom on two or three evenings in the week to drive into Monte Carlo, dine and spend an hour or so in the Casino. He was no gambler—nor am I—but he was a very keen mathematician, and he got quite a kick out of pitting his wits against the invulnerable bank.

  I could never follow the principle of his system. But while, admittedly, we had never lost anything, on the other hand, we had not gained.

  My somewhat morbid reflections seemed to curtail the journey. I observed little of the route, until I found myself on the long curve above Monte Carlo. Dusk had fallen, and that theatrical illumination which is a feature of the place had sprung into life.

  I pulled up for a moment, looking down at the unique spectacle—wonderful, for all its theatricality. The blazing colour of the flower beds, floodlighted from palm tops; the emerald green of terraced lawns, falling away to that ornate frontage of the great Casino.

  It is Monte Carlo’s one and only “view”, but in its garish way it is unforgettable.

  I pushed on down the sharp descent to the town, presently halting before the little terrace of an unpretentious restaurant. Tables were laid under the awning, and already there were many diners.

  This was Quinto’s, where, without running up a ruinous bill, one may enjoy a perfect dinner and the really choice wines of France.

  The genial maitre d’h6tel met me at the top of the steps, extending that cosmopolitan welcome which lends a good meal an additional savour. Your true restaurateur is not only an epicure; he is also a polished man of the world.

  Yes, there was a small table in the corner. But I was alone to-night! Was Dr. Petrie busy?

  I shook my head.

  “I am afraid he is very ill,” I replied cautiously.

  Hitherto the authorities had succeeded in suppressing the truth of this ghastly outbreak so near to two great pleasure resorts. I had to guard my tongue, for an indiscreet word might undo all their plans of secrecy.

  “Something serious?” he asked, with what I thought was real concern: everybody loved Petrie.

  “A serious chill. The doctors are afraid of pneumonia.”

  Quinto raised his hands in an eloquent Southern gesture.

 
“Oh, these chilly nights!” he exclaimed. “They will ruin us! So many people forget to wrap themselves up warmly in the Riviera evenings. And then—” he shrugged—”they say it is a treacherous climate!”

  He conducted me to a table in an angle of the wall, and pointed out, as was his custom, notabilities present that evening.

  These included an ex-Crown Prince, Fritz Kreisler, and an internationally popular English novelist residing on the Cote d’Azur.

  The question of what I should eat and what I should drink was discussed as between artists; for the hallmark of a great maitre d’h6tel is the insidious compliment which he conveys to his patron in conceding the latter’s opinions to be worthy of the master’s consideration.

  When the matter was arranged and the wine-waiter had brought me a cocktail, I settled down to survey my fellow

  guests.

  My survey stopped short at a table in the opposite comer. A man who evidently distrusted the chill of the Southern evenings sat there, his back towards me. He wore a heavy coat, having an astrakhan collar; and, what was more peculiar at dinner, he wore an astrakhan cap. From my present point of view he resembled pictures I had seen of Russian nobleman of the old regime.

  Facing him across the small square table was Fleurette! Over one astrakhan-covered shoulder other companion our glances met. Dim light may have created the illusion, but I thought that that flower-like face turned pale, that the blue eyes opened very wide for a moment.

  I was about to stand up, when a slight, almost imperceptible movement of Fleurette’s head warned me unmistakably not to claim the acquaintance.

  chapter fifteenth

  FAIRY TRUMPET

  I asked myself the question: had the gesture been real, or had I merely imagined it?

  Fleurette wore a light wrap over a vary plain black evening frock. Her hair smouldered under the shaded lights so that it seemed to contain sparks of fire. She had instantly glanced aside. I could not be wrong.

  At first I had experienced intense humiliation, but now my courage returned. True, she had not conveyed the message:

  “Don’t speak to me.” But it had been in the nature of a warning, an admission of a mutual secret understanding, and in no sense a snub.

  She was not, than, inaccessible. She was hedged around, guarded, by the jealous suspicions of her Oriental master.

  I could doubt no longer.

  The man seated with his back to me was the same I had seen in the car driven by the Negro chauffeur. Despite his nonconformity to type, this was Mahdi Bey. And Fleurette, for all her glorious, virgin-like beauty, must be his mistress.

  She deliberately avoided looking in my direction again.

  Her companion never moved: his immobility was extraordinary. And presently, through the leaves of the shrubs growing in wooden boxes, I saw the black-and-silver Rolls, almost directly opposite the restaurant.

  My glance moved upward to the parapet guarding a higher road which here dips down and forms a hairpin bend.

  A man stood there watching.

  Difficult though it was from where I sat to form a clear impression of his appearance, I became convinced, nevertheless, that he was one of the tribe of the dacoits...either the same, or an opposite number, of the yellow-faced horror I had seen in the garden of the Villa Jasmin!

  And at that moment, as my waiter approached, changing the plates in readiness for the first course, I found myself swept back mentally into the ghastly business I had come there to forget. I experienced a sudden chill of foreboding.

  If, as I strongly suspected, one of the murderous Burmans were watching the restaurant—did this mean that I had been followed there? If so, with what purpose? I no longer stood between Petrie’s enemies and their objective...but:

  I had wounded, probably killed, one of their number. I had heard much of the implacable blood feuds of the Indian thugs;

  it was no more than reasonable to suppose that something of the same might prevail among the dacoits of Burma.

  I glanced furtively upward again. And there was the motionless figure leaning against the parapet.

  In dress there was nothing to distinguish the man from an ordinary Monaco workman, but my present survey confirmed my first impression.

  This was one of the yellow men attached to the service of Dr. Fu Manchu.

  I cast my memory back over the route I had so recently traversed. Had any car followed me? I could not recollect that it was so. But, on the other hand, I had been much abstracted, driving mechanically....Dusk had fallen before I had reached Monaco. If an attempt were contemplated, why had it not taken place upon the road?

  The problem was beyond me....But there stood the watcher, motionless, by the parapet.

  And at this very moment, and just as the wine-waiter placed a decanter of my favourite Pommard before me, I had a remarkable experience—an experience so disturbing that I sat quite still for several seconds, my outstretched hand poised in the act of taking up the decanter.

  Close beside my ear—as it seemed, out of space, out of nowhere—that same high, indescribable note became audible; that sound which I believe I have already attempted to describe as the call of a fairy trumpet....

  Once before, and once only, I had heard it—on the beach of Ste Claire de la Roche.

  Some eerie quality in the sound affected me now, as it had affected me then. It was profoundly mysterious; but one thing was certain. Unless the sound were purely a product of my own imagination, or the result of some trouble of the inner ear— possibly an aftermath of illness—it could not be coincidence that on the two occasions that I had heard it Fleurette had been present.

  My hand dropped down to the convert—and I looked across at her.

  Her eyes were fixed on the face other companion, who sat with his back to me, in that dreamy, far-away regard which I remembered.

  Then her delicate lips moved, and I thought, although I could not hear her words, that she was replying to some question which he had addressed to her.

  And, as I looked and realised that she was speaking, that strange sound ceased as abruptly as it had commenced.

  I saw Fleurette glance aside; her expression changed swiftly. But her eyes never once turned in my direction. I stared beyond her, up through the leaves of the shrubs and towards the parapet on the other side of the street.

  The Burman had disappeared....

  chapter sixteenth

  THE DACOIT

  “You are wanted on the telephone, Mr. Sterling.”

  I started as wildly as a man suddenly aroused from sleep. A dreadful premonition gripped me icily. I stood up.

  “Do you know who it is?”

  “I believe the name was Dr. Cartier, sir.”

  In that moment Fleurette and her mysterious companion were forgotten; the lurking yellow man faded from my mind as completely as he had faded from my view. This was news of Petrie; and something told me it could only be bad news.

  I hurried through the restaurant to the telephone booth, and snatched up the receiver.

  “Hullo, hullo!” I called. “Alan Sterling here. Is that Dr. Cartier?”

  Brisson’s voice answered me: his tone prepared me for what was to come.

  “I mentioned Dr. Cartier’s name in case you should not be familiar with my own, Mr. Sterling. I would not have disturbed you—for you can scarcely have begun your dinner yet—had I not promised to report any news at once.”

  “What is it?” I asked eagerly

  “Prepare yourself to know that it is bad.”

  “Not...?”

  “Alas—yes!”

  “My God!”

  “There was no final convulsion—no change. ‘654’ might have saved him—if we had known what treatment to pursue after the first injection. But the coma passed slowly into...death.”

  As I listened to those words, a change came over my entire outlook on the future. A cold rage, and what I knew to be an abiding rage, took possession of me. The merciless fiends, for no reason that I
could possibly hope to imagine, had ended an honourable and supremely useful life; that kindly personality which had lived only to serve had been snatched away, remorselessly.

  Very well....It was murder, calculated, callous murder. This was a game that two could play. What I had done once, I could do again, and again—and every time that I got within reach of any of the foul gang!

  Dr. Fu Manchu!

  If such a person existed, I asked only to be set face to face with him. That moment, I vowed, should be his last—little knowing the stupendous task to which I vowed myself.

  Fah Lo Suee—a woman; but one of them. The French had not hesitated to shoot female spies during the World War. Nor should I, now.

  I had reached the head of the steps when Victor Quinton touched my shoulder. Details were indefinite, but my immediate objective was plain. One of the Burmans was covering my movements. I planned to find that Burman; and—taking every possible precaution to insure my own getaway—I planned to kill him....

  “You have had bad news, M. Sterling?”

  “Dr. Petrie is dead,” I said, and ran down the steps.

  I suppose many curious glances followed; perhaps Fleurette had seen me. I didn’t care. I crossed the street and walked up the opposite slope. A man was lounging there, smoking a cigarette—a typical working-class Frenchman; and I remembered that he had stood there for part of the time during which the dacoit had watched the restaurant.

  “Excuse me.” I said.

  The man started and turned.

  “Did you chance to see an Oriental who stood near you here a few minutes ago?”

  “But yes, m’sieur. Someone I suppose off one of those foreign yachts in the harbour? He had gone only this last two minutes.”

  “Which way?”

  He pointed downward.

  “Toward the Jardin des Suicides,” he replied smiling.

  “Suitable spot, if I catch him there,” I muttered; then, aloud: “Drink my health,” I said, thrusting a note into his hand. “I shall need your kind wishes.”

  “Thank you, m’sieur—and good night....”

  I remember starting the car and driving slowly down the slope to the comer by the Caf6 de Paris. I had no glimpse of the Burman. Here, viewing the activity which surges around the Casino, seeing familiar figures at the more sheltered caf6 tables, noticing a gendarme in an Offenbach uniform, a hotel bus—I pulled up.