The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories Page 8

  Why had he been doped by Mignon? Was she in the power of Fu-Manchu? He thought about the drug. Its composition was unknown to him, but he thought there might be some hyoscine. Then he heard a hurried exodus.

  Fu-Manchu bent over him, again removing the tinted glasses, and Gregory knew that those hypnotic eyes were claiming him.

  “I have studied your career with interest.” The words now were spoken in perfect, curiously precise English. “I recently lost my chief assistant in your particular field of research, Dr Allen. You have become indispensable to me in my search for a way to continue my life—indefinitely. Your service will not be unpleasant. There are rich rewards.”

  He was charging a hypodermic syringe when there came a faint buzzing.

  A few words, harshly spoken, told him Dr Fu-Manchu carried some kind of two-way radio device which kept him in contact with his associates. When again the Chinese scientist bent over him, he knew that the message had been a warning. The green eyes blazed with frustration.

  “Your death could avail me nothing. Your life may yet be of use. I bid you good night, Dr Allen. Convey my deep respects to Sir Denis Nayland Smith.” Gregory was alone in the room.

  He fought to retain the state of unreal consciousness in which he was held, but found that his over-taxed brain was defeating the effort. Sleep overcame him.

  * * *

  As something out of a dream, he heard Nayland Smith’s voice: “What is it, Petrie? Are we too late?”

  “Very simple. A knockout drop. It was in this glass—this one.”

  “I assure you gentlemen,”—the manager’s frightened voice climbed to a falsetto—“it’s plague!”

  “Plague be damned!” Dr Petrie snapped. “He’s been drugged. I don’t know what’s in it. But I suspect a proportion of hyoscine.” Gregory silently applauded. “I’m going to take strong measures. Sheer luck, Smith, that I hurried straight from the hospital to meet you and had my bag with me.”

  Gregory caught a glimpse of Dr Petrie’s earnest face bending over him, and knew that the doctor had administered an injection.

  Recovery was slow, and nauseating, but at last he regained control of his muscles as well as of his brain, sat up and looked about him.

  Dr Petrie was watching him with a professional regard.

  “Thanks, Doctor!” Gregory grasped his hand. “I agree with you about hyoscine. But I wish I knew the other ingredients.”

  Nayland Smith was looking at the drawing of Mignon. He glanced up as Gregory spoke.

  “Hullo, Allen. This must be the young lady who informed the management that you were taken seriously ill and then disappeared. They gave me her description.”

  Gregory nodded.

  “I warned you Dr Fu-Manchu has eyes everywhere. You know now how fascinating those eyes can be. His scouts warned him in some way that I was close on his heels, and once again he has slipped away.”

  Nayland Smith put the drawing of Mignon where he found it and glanced at Gregory. There was sympathy in the grey eyes.

  “Don’t condemn her,” he said. “She’s in his power as, but for an act of Providence, you might have been.” His voice hardened. “You must never under any circumstances try to see that girl again.”

  For the next few days Gregory Allen prowled the streets of London, driven by the ridiculous hope that somewhere in the crowds which thronged the Strand and Piccadilly he would see the auburn hair and piquant face of Mignon. His scientist’s brain told him Nayland Smith had been right in warning him that he must never see her again. But against reason was set a desperate urge to find the girl, free her from the spell of Dr Fu-Manchu and take her back to New York with him.

  Sometimes in his restless walks, he had the feeling he was followed, but whether by one of Fu-Manchu’s assistants or a Scotland Yard man assigned to protect him, he did not know. Nor did he know where to look for Mignon. He didn’t even know her last name.

  With faint hope he had written off to Paris to the weekly magazine which regularly published her sketches. An answer came back promptly. The magazine could not give out contributors’ addresses. But they would see that his message reached Mignon.

  The letter filled him with hope. When he returned to his hotel two days later, there was a plain white envelope with his mail: “Exhibition of French art at the Tate Gallery,” it read. “Please come there at 5.30 this afternoon. Wait near the Gauguin paintings, but when I come in pretend not to recognise me. Destroy this note—Mignon.”

  Gregory approached the Tate Gallery at dusk. He told himself once again that he was playing with fire; but he could not blind himself to the fact that he had become hopelessly infatuated with the girl.

  The building was all but deserted. It was near to closing time. He found the appointed spot and then decided to wait on the other side of the room, pretending to examine the sketches and charcoal studies.

  Few visitors came. At every footstep Gregory turned. One man, dark, of a saturnine cast of features and wearing a white raincoat strolled through twice; but Gregory decided that he was probably a gallery detective. He glanced anxiously at his watch. And still Mignon didn’t come.

  He had begun to lose heart when he heard light footsteps, and a girl came into the gallery. She wore a scarlet cape, her auburn hair almost entirely hidden by a close-fitting beret.

  It was Mignon. But she gave no sign of recognising him.

  The dark man strolled in, glanced round, and went out by another door. Mignon, a moment later, went out, too. Gregory followed. She passed through several other rooms and stopped in an empty room devoted to French drawings.

  “Mignon!” He grasped her shoulders. “How wonderful!”

  She turned her head aside. “I am glad to see you, too, Gregory. But you must be mad. You should hate me—I have done you only harm.”

  “I am mad, Mignon—mad about you. Look at me. I understand it all. Nayland Smith has told me. Don’t reproach yourself.”

  She glanced up at him, furtively, timidly. “You should not have come. Nor should I. You had one narrow escape from Fu-Manchu. Why do you take another risk? You must forget me—forget we ever met.”

  “I can’t forget you,” he said, “and I won’t even try unless you tell me, here and now, that I have no right to think about you as I do.”

  “There is no one else, in the sense you mean,” she whispered. “Think of me, Gregory, as someone inaccessible, a slave.”

  He held her. “There are no slaves,” he said tensely. “Come with me—now. Back to America. Nayland Smith has the power of the government behind him. You will be safe from Dr Fu-Manchu.”

  Mignon rested her head against his shoulder.

  “How I wish it could be, Gregory. It is my father, hopelessly under the power of Fu-Manchu, whom I must protect.” She looked up swiftly. “Every moment you stay with me you are in danger. My father is in danger. So am I.”

  He bent to her lips. Mignon thrust her hand against his mouth. Her eyes were wild. “If you value my life, Gregory, dear, please let me go. I mean it. Don’t even look back. Don’t try to follow me.”

  She slipped from his arms. He dared not ignore the urgency of her appeal. But as he heard her light footsteps retreating through the next gallery towards the door he did look back.

  Mignon was out of sight.

  Three minutes later Gregory was on the Embankment in front of the gallery, staring right and left. Dusk had drawn in, and the opposite bank of the Thames was curtained in mist. And then in the direction of Millbank, under the light of a street lamp, he had a glimpse of the scarlet cape.

  As he set out to follow, another figure passed under the lamp, close behind Mignon—the white-coated figure of the dark man.

  Gregory hurried on. Mignon was being covered. But if he could find out where she was going, Nayland Smith could do the rest. For Gregory was determined now to get Mignon away from Fu-Manchu even if he had to kidnap her.

  The cape disappeared around a corner not far from the Gallery. The white
coat closed up and disappeared also.

  Gregory raced to the corner. He was just in time to see Mignon turn into one of the many narrow streets which abounded in this district The white-coated man followed no farther. He went straight ahead.

  * * *

  Gregory ran on to the head of the street where she had turned. He could see no sign of the scarlet cloak. It was dark in the opening, but there were some lighted windows beyond. He stood listening for the sound of an opening or closing door. He heard nothing—then moved in cautiously.

  No sound warned him of his danger. No blow was struck. He suffered a sudden sharp pain—and remembered no more…

  Except for a slight headache, he felt no discomfort when he woke up. He took one look around, then closed his eyes again. This must be a dream!

  He lay on a divan in an Oriental room. The walls were decorated with a number of beautiful lacquer panels. The ceiling consisted of silk tapestry, and in and out of its intricate pattern gold dragons crept. The appointments were mainly Chinese. Rugs covered the floor. There was a faint smell resembling that of stale incense. At a long, narrow desk facing the divan a man sat writing. He wore a yellow robe and a black cap topped with a coral bead.

  This man’s face possessed a sort of satanic beauty. The features were those of an aristocrat, an intellectual aristocrat. And an aura of assured power seemed to radiate from the whole figure.

  It was Dr Fu-Manchu.

  “Good evening, Dr Allen,” he said, without looking up. “I am happy to have you as my guest. I anticipate a long and mutually satisfactory association.” Gregory swung his legs off the divan. Fu-Manchu didn’t stir. “I beg you to attempt no vulgar violence. Even if it succeeded, you would be strangled thirty seconds later.”

  Gregory sat upright, his fists clenched, watching, fascinated.

  “To all intents and purposes, Dr Allen, you find yourself in China—although this room, which has several remarkable qualities, was designed by a clever Japanese artist; for you must not fall into the error of supposing that my organisation is purely Chinese in character. I assure you that I have enthusiastic workers of all races in the Order of the Si-Fan, of which I am president.”

  This statement Dr Fu-Manchu made without once glancing up from the folio volume in which he was writing marginal notes. Gregory sat still, watching and waiting.

  “For instance,” the strange voice continued, “this room is soundproof. It was formerly a studio. The Chinese silk conceals top lights. The seven lacquer panels are in fact seven doors. I use the place as a pied-à-terre when my affairs detain me in London. I am much sought after, Dr Allen—particularly by officials of Scotland Yard. And, this apartment has useful features. Will you take tea with me?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “As you please. Your unusual researches into the means of increasing vigorous life prove of great value to my own. I am no longer young, my dear doctor, but your unexpected visit here inspired me to hope that in addition to securing your services, I may induce a mutual friend to call upon us.”

  Dr Fu-Manchu laid his pen down, and for the first time looked up. Gregory found himself subjected to the fixed regard of the strangest human eyes he had ever seen. They were long, narrow, only slightly oblique, and were brilliantly green. Their gaze threatened to take command of his will and he averted his glance.

  “When you followed a member of my staff, Dr Allen, whom you know as Mignon, I was informed of this—at the time that you left the Tate Gallery—and took suitable steps. A judo expert awaited your arrival and dealt with you by a simple nerve pressure with which, as a physician, you may be familiar. I am aware that Mignon made a secret appointment to meet you. She awaits her punishment. What it shall be rests with you.”

  Gregory experienced an unpleasant fluttering in the stomach. He sensed what was coming, and wondered how he should face up to the ordeal. He said nothing.

  “There is a telephone on the small table beside you,” Fu-Manchu told him, softly. “Be good enough to call Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Tell him that you have met with an accident on Chelsea Embankment and are lying in the house of a neighbouring doctor who was passing at the time. This apartment is rented by a certain Dr Steiner. His plate is outside. His surgery adjoins this room. One of the seven doors leads to it. The address is Ruskin Mews. Request Sir Denis to bring his car here for you at once.”

  Gregory stood up. “I refuse.”

  Lacquer doors to the left and right of him opened silently, as if motivated by his sudden movement. Two short, thickset Asiatics came in. They carried knives. Holding them poised in their hands for a throw, they watched him—waited.

  “I deplore this barbarous behaviour, Dr Allen. At my headquarters I have more subtle measures available.”

  “To hell with your measures! You can kill me, but you can’t make me obey your orders.”

  Fu-Manchu sighed. One long yellow finger moved onto his desk; and a third door, almost facing Gregory, opened. Mignon came in. Another member of the gang, who presumably acted as a bodyguard, grasped her by the wrist. In his other hand the man carried a whip.

  Beret and scarlet cape were gone. Mignon wore a black skirt and a white blouse. Her auburn hair framed her pale face. One glance of entreaty she flashed at him, then lowered her head.

  “You daren’t do it!” Gregory blazed in a white fury. “You may consider yourself to be in China, but if you attempt this outrage, you’ll find you’re still in England. We’ll rouse the neighbourhood.”

  The point of a knife touched his throat. One of the pair guarding him had moved closer. Fu-Manchu shook his head.

  “You forget, Dr Allen, that this room is soundproof. Be so wise as to call Sir Denis. I am advised that he is at home at present and Whitehall Court, where he resides, is no great distance away. But he may be going out to dine. We are wasting time. I think you’ll find the number is written by the ‘phone.”

  Gregory cast a last glance round the room, then took up the ‘phone and dialled the number. Nayland Smith’s man answered, and immediately brought Nayland Smith.

  “Smith here. What’s up, Allen?” came the crisp voice.

  The words nearly choked him, but Gregory gave the message which Dr Fu-Manchu had directed. His eyes remained fixed upon Mignon as he spoke, and he knew that he dared not risk any hint of warning.

  “Good enough. Bad luck. Be with you in ten minutes.” Nayland Smith hung up.

  Fu-Manchu uttered a guttural order; the knife was removed; Gregory’s guards retired; Mignon without a glance in his direction was led away. The doors closed. He found himself alone again with Dr Fu-Manchu. He dropped back on the divan.

  He had done a thing with which he would reproach himself to his last day. To save a woman who had never truly meant anything in his life from suffering, he had betrayed an old, tried friend, into the power of a cruel and relentless enemy.

  Fu-Manchu had resumed his annotations. He spoke without looking up.

  “To do that which is unavoidable merits neither praise nor blame, Dr Allen. That curious superstition, the sanctity of woman which is, no doubt, a part of your American heritage, left you no alternative. I am transferring Mignon to another post, where I trust you will no longer be able to interfere with her normal efficiency.”

  Gregory was reaching boiling point, but knew that he was helpless to avert the evil he had brought about. If he could have killed Fu-Manchu with his bare hands he would gladly have done it. But he knew, now, that he couldn’t hope to get within reach of him.

  Nayland Smith was racing into a trap. In a matter of minutes he would be here.

  A curious, high bell note broke the complete silence of the room.

  Dr Fu-Manchu stood up, put the folio volume under his arm and, opening one of the doors, went out.

  * * *

  As the door closed behind the Chinese doctor, Gregory, risking everything, grabbed the phone and dialled Nayland Smith’s number.

  There was no reply.

  But no one had d
isturbed him; none of the doors had opened. He went to one at random, could find no means of opening it. He tried another, worked on it frantically. It was immovable. He stepped back and put his shoulder to the lacquer. Nothing happened.

  Then, with a tearing crash, the silence was broken. The door by which Dr Fu-Manchu had gone out burst open, and the dark man in the white raincoat stared into the room.

  Gregory counted himself lost, when the man turned and shouted back over his shoulder: “This way, sir! Here he is!” He stepped into the room. “Glad to see you still alive, Doctor.”

  And Nayland Smith ran in behind him.

  “You caught me only just in time, Allen,” Nayland Smith assured him. “Sergeant Ridley here—” he nodded to the man in the white coat—”has been shadowing you for nearly a week. You see, I knew you were trying to get in touch with the little redhead, and his orders were, if you succeeded, to transfer all his attention to the girl when she left you. He did so tonight and had no idea you were somewhere behind. He reported to me that Mignon had just gone into Ruskin Street.”

  Gregory forced a smile. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said.

  “Scotland Yard’s crime map has a red ring drawn around this area,” Nayland Smith explained. “We have suspected that Fu-Manchu had a hideaway here. The Japanese artist who reconstructed this place disappeared six months ago, and a certain Dr Gottfeld took it over, though the name of Dr Steiner appears on the plate.”

  “Of course,” Gregory broke in. “Gottfeld was the name the hotel manager called Fu-Manchu when they came to my suite. Have you got him?”

  Nayland Smith shook his head. “I’m afraid he has done another of his vanishing tricks. The raid squad I brought along is searching. But my guess is that Fu-Manchu has slipped away to one of his old haunts near Limehouse.”

  He motioned to the Sergeant, who brought in a man of perhaps fifty whose eyes had the peculiar glaze which showed he had been under Fu-Manchu’s hypnotic spell. “But at least we’ve rescued a man who may be able to give us a great deal of information about Fu-Manchu’s operations. Dr Allen, this is Dr Gaston Breon. Besides being a famous French entomologist, he is Mignon’s father.”