The Hand of Dr. Fu Manchu Page 9

  It was Zarmi!

  As the cab moved off I ran out into the middle of the road, where there was a rank, and sprang into the first taxi waiting there.

  “Follow the cab ahead!” I cried to the man, my voice quivering with excitement. “Look! you can see the number! There can be no mistake. But don’t lose it for your life! It’s worth a sovereign to you!”

  The man, warming to my mood, cranked his engine rapidly and sprang to the wheel. I was wild with excitement now, and fearful lest the cab ahead should have disappeared; but fortune seemingly was with me for once, and I was not twenty yards behind when Zarmi’s cab turned the first corner ahead. Through the gloomy street, which appeared to be populated solely by streaming umbrellas, we went. I could scarcely keep my seat; every nerve in my body seemed to be dancing—twitching. Eternally I was peering ahead; and when, leaving the well-lighted West End thoroughfares, we came to the comparatively gloomy streets of the suburbs, a hundred times I thought we had lost the track. But always in the pool of light cast by some friendly lamp, I would see the quarry again speeding on before us.

  At a lonely spot bordering the common the vehicle which contained Zarmi stopped. I snatched up the speaking-tube.

  “Drive on,” I cried, “and pull up somewhere beyond! Not too far!”

  The man obeyed, and presently I found myself standing in what was now become a steady downpour, looking back at the headlights of the other cab. I gave the driver his promised reward.

  “Wait for ten minutes,” I directed; “then if I have not returned, you need wait no longer.”

  I strode along the muddy, unpaved path, to the spot where the cab, now discharged, was being slowly backed away into the road. The figure of Zarmi, unmistakable by reason of the lithe carriage, was crossing in the direction of a path which seemingly led across the common. I followed at a discreet distance. Realizing the tremendous potentialities of this rencontre I seemed to rise to the occasion; my brain became alert and clear; every faculty was at its brightest. And I felt serenely confident of my ability to make the most of the situation.

  Zarmi went on and on along the lonely path. Not another pedestrian was in sight, and the rain walled in the pair of us. Where comfort-loving humanity sought shelter from the inclement weather, we two moved out there in the storm, linked by a common enmity.

  I have said that my every faculty was keen, and have spoken of my confidence in my own alertness. My condition, as a matter of fact, must have been otherwise, and this belief in my powers merely symptomatic of the fever which consumed me; for, as I was to learn, I had failed to take the first elementary precaution necessary in such case. I, who tracked another, had not counted upon being tracked myself! ...

  A bag or sack, reeking of some sickly perfume, was dropped silently, accurately, over my head from behind; it was drawn closely about my throat. One muffled shriek, strangely compound of fear and execration, I uttered. I was stifling, choking ... I staggered—and fell....

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I MEET DR. FU-MANCHU

  My next impression was of a splitting headache, which, as memory remounted its throne, brought up a train of recollections. I found myself to be seated upon a heavy wooden bench set flat against a wall, which was covered with a kind of straw matting. My hands were firmly tied behind me. In the first agony of that reawakening I became aware of two things.

  I was in an operating-room, for the most conspicuous item of its furniture was an operating-table! Shaded lamps were suspended above it; and instruments, antiseptics, dressings, etc., were arranged upon a glass-topped table beside it. Secondly, I had a companion.

  Seated upon a similar bench on the other side of the room, was a heavily built man, his dark hair splashed with gray, as were his short, neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He, too, was pinioned; and he stared across the table with a glare in which a sort of stupefied wonderment predominated, but which was not free from terror.

  It was Sir Baldwin Frazer!

  “Sir Baldwin!” I muttered, moistening my parched lips with my tongue—“Sir Baldwin!—how—”

  “It is Dr. Petrie, is it not?” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “Dr. Petrie!—my dear sir, in mercy tell me—what does this mean? I have been kidnapped—drugged; made the victim of an inconceivable outrage at the very door of my own house....”

  I stood up unsteadily.

  “Sir Baldwin,” I interrupted, “you ask me what it means. It means that we are in the hands of Dr. Fu-Manchu!”

  Sir Baldwin stared at me wildly; his face was white and drawn with anxiety.

  “Dr. Fu-Manchu!” he said; “but my dear sir, this name conveys nothing to me—nothing!” His manner momentarily was growing more distrait. “Since my captivity began I have been given the use of a singular suite of rooms in this place, and received, I must confess, every possible attention. I have been waited upon by the she-devil who lured me here, but not one word other than a species of coarse badinage has she spoken to me. At times I have been tempted to believe that the fate which frequently befalls the specialist had befallen me? You understand?”

  “I quite understand,” I replied dully. “There have been times in the past when I, too, have doubted my sanity in my dealings with the group who now hold us in their power.”

  “But,” reiterated the other, his voice rising higher and higher, “what does it mean, my dear sir? It is incredible—fantastic! Even now I find it difficult to disabuse my mind of that old, haunting idea.”

  “Disabuse it at once, Sir Baldwin,” I said bitterly. “The facts are as you see them; the explanation, at any rate in your own case, is quite beyond me. I was tracked ...”

  “Hush! someone is coming!”

  We both turned and stared at an opening before which hung a sort of gaudily embroidered mat, as the sound of dragging footsteps, accompanied by a heavy tapping, announced the approach of someone.

  The mat was pulled aside by Zarmi. She turned her head, flashing around the apartment a glance of her black eyes, then held the drapery aside to admit the entrance of another....

  Supporting himself by the aid of two heavy walking sticks and painfully dragging his gaunt frame along, Dr. Fu-Manchu entered!

  I think I have never experienced in my life a sensation identical to that which now possessed me. Although Nayland Smith had declared that Fu-Manchu was alive, yet I would have sworn upon oath before any jury summonable that he was dead; for with my own eyes I had seen the bullet enter his skull. Now, whilst I crouched against the matting-covered wall, teeth tightly clenched and my very hair quivering upon my scalp, he dragged himself laboriously across the room, the sticks going tap—tap—tap upon the floor, and the tall body, enveloped in a yellow robe, bent grotesquely, gruesomely, with every effort which he made. He wore a surgical bandage about his skull and its presence seemed to accentuate the height of the great domelike brow, to throw into more evil prominence the wonderful, Satanic countenance of the man. His filmed eyes turning to right and left, he dragged himself to a wooden chair that stood beside the operating-table and sank down upon it, breathing sibilantly, exhaustedly.

  Zarmi dropped the curtain and stood before it. She had discarded the dripping overall which she had been wearing when I had followed her across the common, and now stood before me with her black, frizzy hair unconfined and her beautiful, wicked face uplifted in a sort of cynical triumph. The big gold rings in her ears glittered strangely in the light of the electric lamps. She wore a garment which looked like a silken shawl wrapped about her in a wildly picturesque fashion, and, her hands upon her hips, leant back against the curtain glancing defiantly from Sir Baldwin to myself.

  Those moments of silence which followed the entrance of the Chinese doctor live in my memory and must live there for ever. Only the labored breathing of Fu-Manchu disturbed the stillness of the place. Not a sound penetrated to the room, no one uttered a word; then—

  “Sir Baldwin Frazer,” began Fu-Manchu in that indescribable voice, alternating betwe
en the sibilant and the guttural, “you were promised a certain fee for your services by my servant who summoned you. It shall be paid and the gift of my personal gratitude be added to it.”

  He turned himself with difficulty to address Sir Baldwin; and it became apparent to me that he was almost completely paralyzed down one side of his body. Some little use he could make of his hand and arm, for he still clutched the heavy carven stick, but the right side of his face was completely immobile; and rarely had I seen anything more ghastly than the effect produced upon that wonderful, Satanic countenance. The mouth, from the center of the thin lips, opened only to the left, as he spoke; in a word, seen in profile from where I sat, or rather crouched, it was the face of a dead man.

  Sir Baldwin Frazer uttered no word, but, crouching upon the bench even as I crouched, stared—horror written upon every lineament—at Dr. Fu-Manchu. The latter continued:—

  “Your experience, Sir Baldwin, will enable you readily to diagnose my symptoms. Owing to the passage of a bullet along a portion of the third left frontal into the postero-parietal convolution—upon which, from its lodgment in the skull, it continues to press—hemiplegia of the right side has supervened. Aphasia is present also....”

  The effort of speech was ghastly. Beads of perspiration dewed Fu-Manchu’s brow, and I marveled at the iron will of the man, whereby alone he forced his half-numbed brain to perform its function. He seemed to select his words elaborately and by this monstrous effort of will to compel his partially paralyzed tongue to utter them. Some of the syllables were slurred; but nevertheless distinguishable. It was a demonstration of sheer force unlike any I had witnessed, and it impressed me unforgettably.

  “The removal of this injurious particle,” he continued, “would be an operation which I myself could undertake to perform successfully upon another. It is a matter of some delicacy as you, Sir Baldwin, and”—slowly, horribly, turning the half-dead and half-living head towards me—“you, Dr. Petrie, will appreciate. In the event of clumsy surgery, death may supervene; failing this, permanent hemiplegia—or”—the film lifted from the green eyes, and for a moment they flickered with transient horror—“idiocy! Any one of three of my pupils whom I might name could perform this operation with ease, but their services are not available. Only one English surgeon occurred to me in this connection, and you, Sir Baldwin”—again he slowly turned his head—“were he. Dr. Petrie will act as anaesthetist, and, your duties completed, you shall return to your home richer by the amount stipulated. I have suitably prepared myself for the operation, and I can assure you of the soundness of my heart. I may advise you, Dr. Petrie”—again turning to me—“that my constitution is inured to the use of opium. You will make due allowance for this. Mr. Li-King-Su, a graduate of Canton, will act as dresser.”

  He turned laboriously to Zarmi. She clapped her hands and held the curtain aside. A perfectly immobile Chinaman, whose age I was unable to guess, and who wore a white overall, entered, bowed composedly to Frazer and myself and began in a matter-of-fact way to prepare the dressings.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  QUEEN OF HEARTS

  “Sir Baldwin Frazer,” said Fu-Manchu, interrupting a wild outburst from the former, “your refusal is dictated by insufficient knowledge of your surroundings. You find yourself in a place strange to you, a place to which no clue can lead your friends; in the absolute power of a man—myself—who knows no law other than his own and that of those associated with him. Virtually, Sir Baldwin, you stand in China; and in China we know how to exact obedience. You will not refuse, for Dr. Petrie will tell you something of my wire jackets and my files....”

  I saw Sir Baldwin Frazer blanch. He could not know what I knew of the significance of those words—“my wire jackets, my files”—but perhaps something of my own horror communicated itself to him.

  “You will not refuse,” continued Fu-Manchu softly; “my only fear for you is that the operation my prove unsuccessful! In that event not even my own great clemency could save you, for by virtue of your failure I should be powerless to intervene.” He paused for some moments, staring directly at the surgeon. “There are those within sound of my voice,” he added sibilantly, “who would flay you alive in the lamentable event of your failure, who would cast your flayed body”—he paused, waving one quivering fist above his head, and his voice rose in a sudden frenzied shriek—“to the rats—to the rats!”

  Sir Baldwin’s forehead was bathed in perspiration now. It was an incredible and a gruesome situation, a nightmare become reality. But, whatever my own case, I could see that Sir Baldwin Frazer was convinced, I could see that his consent would no longer be withheld.

  “You, my dear friend,” said Fu-Manchu, turning to me and resuming his studied and painful composure of manner, “will also consent....”

  Within my heart of hearts I could not doubt him; I knew that my courage was not of a quality high enough to sustain the frightful ordeals summoned up before my imagination by those words—“my files, my wire jackets!”

  “In the event, however, of any little obstinancy,” he added, “another will plead with you.”

  A chill like that of death descended upon me—as, for the second time, Zarmi clapped her hands, pulled the curtain aside and Kâramaneh was thrust into the room!

  There comes a blank in my recollections. Long after Kâramaneh had been plucked out again by the two muscular brown hands which clutched her shoulders from the darkness beyond the doorway, I seemed to see her standing there, in her close-fitting traveling dress. Her hair was unbound, disheveled, her lovely face pale to the lips—and her eyes, her glorious, terror-bright eyes, looked fully into mine.

  Not a word did she utter, and I was stricken dumb as one who has plucked the Flower of Silence. Only those wondrous eyes seemed to look into my soul, searing, consuming me.

  Fu-Manchu had been speaking for some time ere my brain began again to record his words.

  “—and this magnanimity,” came dully to my ears, “extends to you, Dr. Petrie, because of my esteem. I have little cause to love Kâramaneh”—his voice quivered furiously—“but she can yet be of use to me, and I would not harm a hair of her beautiful head—except in the event of your obstinacy. Shall we then determine your immediate future upon the turn of a card, as the gamester within me, within every one of my race, suggests?”

  “Yes, yes!” came hoarsely.

  I fought mentally to restore myself to a full knowledge of what was happening, and I realized that the last words had come from the lips of Sir Baldwin Frazer.

  “Dr. Petrie,” Frazer said, still in the same hoarse and unnatural voice, “what else can we do? At least take the chance of recovering your freedom, for how otherwise can you hope to serve—your friend....”

  “God knows!” I said dully; “do as you wish”—and cared not to what I had agreed.

  Plunging his hand beneath his white overall, the Chinaman who had been referred to as Li-King-Su calmly produced a pack of cards, unemotionally shuffled them and extended the pack to me.

  I shook my head grimly, for my hands were tied. Picking up a lancet from the table, the Chinaman cut the cords which bound me, and again extended the pack. I took a card and laid it on my knee without even glancing at it. Fu-Manchu, with his left hand, in turn selected a card, looked at it and then turned its face towards me.

  “It would seem, Dr. Petrie,” he said calmly, “that you are fated to remain here as my guest. You will have the felicity of residing beneath the same roof with Kâramaneh.”

  The card was the Knave of Diamonds.

  Conscious of a sudden excitement, I snatched up the card from my knee. It was the Queen of Hearts! For a moment I tasted exultation, then I tossed it upon the floor. I was not fool enough to suppose that the Chinese doctor would pay his debt of honor and release me.

  “Your star above mine,” said Fu-Manchu, his calm unruffled. “I place myself in your hands, Sir Baldwin.”

  Assisted by his unemotional compatriot, Fu-Manchu di
scarded the yellow robe, revealing himself in a white singlet in all his gaunt ugliness, and extended his frame upon the operating-table.

  Li-King-Su ignited the large lamp over the head of the table, and from his case took out a trephine.

  “Other points for your guidance from my own considerable store of experience”—Fu-Manchu was speaking—“are written out clearly in the notebook which lies upon the table....”

  His voice, now, was toneless, emotionless, as though his part in the critical operation about to be performed were that of a spectator. No trace of nervousness, of fear, could I discern; his pulse was practically normal.

  How I shuddered as I touched his yellow skin! How my very soul rose up in revolt! ...

  “There is the bullet!—quick! ... Steady, Petrie!”

  Sir Baldwin Frazer, keen, cool, deft, was metamorphosed, was the enthusiastic, brilliant surgeon whom I knew and revered, and another than the nerveless captive who, but a few minutes ago, had stared, panic-stricken, at Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  Although I had met him once or twice professionally, I had never hitherto seen him operate; and his method was little short of miraculous. It was stimulating, inspiring. With unerring touch he whittled madness, death, from the very throne of reason, of life.

  Now was the crucial moment of his task ... and, with its coming, every light in the room suddenly failed—went out!

  “My God!” whispered Frazer, in the darkness, “quick! quick! lights! a match!—a candle!—something, anything!”

  There came a faint click, and a beam of white light was directed, steadily, upon the patient’s skull. Li-King-Su—unmoved—held an electric torch in his hand!

  Frazer and I set to work, in a fierce battle to fend off Death, who already outstretched his pinions over the insensible man—to fend off Death from the arch-murderer, the enemy of the white races, who lay there at our mercy! ...

  “It seems you want a pick-me-up!” said Zarmi. Sir Baldwin Frazer collapsed into the cane armchair. Only a matting curtain separated us from the room wherein he had successfully performed perhaps the most wonderful operation of his career.