The Island of Fu Manchu

“I should be glad, Mr. Hannessy,” he said, “if you would examine this and then pass it on.” He handed the fragment to John Hannessy. “A glance was enough. Christophe had had a chart—a minute chart—made of his treasure cave and had hidden it in his own skull at the instant of death!”

There was a momentary silence, an awed silence, as Mr. Hannessy passed the chart to Commander Ingles.

“It can be read only by aid of a powerful lens,” Barton went on; “but it shows an enormous cavern, in which the cache is marked by a red cross. Further inquiry—you know something about it. Smith—led to the discovery that this cavern, which has an underwater outlet to the sea, was big enough to hide a battle fleet”

“I am prepared to hear. Sir Lionel,” said Commander Ingles, studying the chart through a magnifying glass, “that you have identified the location of this cave. You know its exact bearings?”

“Commander Ingles—I know my way there as well as I know my way from my town house (now sold) to my club. And listen. Smith. The passage from da Cunha’s manuscript in the British Museum was copied byDr. Fu Manchu, in person, so long as a year ago. I have evidence to prove that. But I have beaten him to it this time. Wilton of Drury Lane, the best manuscript faker in Europe, made me a duplicate of Christophe’s chart. Wilton’s duplicate was exact in every particular—except that the treasure cache and the precise bearings of the entrances to the cave from land and sea were slightly altered. It was Wilton’s chart that was stolen by Dr. Fu Manchu. This is the original!”

Nayland Smith was tugging at one ear.

“There’s your secret submarine base, gentlemen.It will be my privilege to—”

“Who’s there?” cried Commander Ingles and glanced back over his shoulder.

He had been absorbed in study of the chart. Now, his lens clattered on to the table.

“I heard nothing,” snapped Nayland Smith.

“Nor did I. But, nevertheless, something touched me!”

“Touched you?” Barton began to chuckle. “Perhaps it was my story!”

“I insist that someone bent over my shoulder whilst I was examining the chart.”

We all sat perfectly still, listening. Commander Ingles was not a man whose self-possession is easily ruffled, but it was plain to see that he was disturbed.

The ceaseless voice of the city came up to us from the streets far below, dazzling sunshine shone in at the windows. Yet I, my brain working feverishly, became possessed of an uncanny sense that something, some supernormal thing, had joined our council. Then: “Who opened that door?” Nayland Smith demanded sharply.

Those with their backs to the door indicated turned in a flash. all looked in that direction.

The door leading to my room was half-open—and, now, the marmoset, in Barton’s quarters beyond began to whistle shrilly!

Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and then sprang up. He reached the open door first but I was not far behind him. Everybody was up. As we dashed through to Sir Lionel’s room I saw at a glance that the outer door, that which led into the hotel corridor, was wide open.

Smith muttered something under his breath and went running out.We came behind in a pack.

The corridor outside was bare from end to end. Neither elevator was moving. Several of the party began to talk at once.

“Silence!” rapped Smith angrily.“I want to listen.”

Silence fell, save for the whistling chatter of the monkey, and we all listened.

We all heard it: Pad, pad, pad . . . .

Soft footsteps were moving along the corridor, far away to the left. But no living thing was visible.

“Rush to that staircase, Kerrigan!” cried Smith. “Bar the way of anything—visible or invisible.”

And as I dashed off, a conviction seized my mind that he, too, had grasped the possibility, hitherto incredible, which indeed I had regarded as inadmissible, that something—something which we could not see, had been amongst us and not for the first time.

I raced headlong to the end of the corridor, trusting to my considerable poundage to sweep anything from my path. However, nothing obstructed me.

Coming to the head of the staircase which forty floors below gave access to the foyer, I stood still breathing heavily and listening.

Smith’s snappy orders had followed me in my rush:—

“You, Barton—that way. Watch all the doors. If one opens, rush for it. Commander, cover both elevators. Allow no one and nothing to enter, whoever comes out . . .”

Fists clenched, I stood listening.

That sound of padded footsteps was no longer audible. No elevator was moving, and apart from a buzz of excited voices from our party along the passage, I could hear nothing; so that as I stood there the seeming insanity of the thing burst upon me, irresistibly. We were all victims of some illusion, some trick. Its object must have been to get us out of the apartment. As this idea seized me I turned from the head of the staircase and began to run back.

“Smith!” I shouted, “it’s a ruse! Someone should have stayed in the room.”

“Don’t worry.” Smith was standing there on guard. “I have stuck here and Barton’s door is locked.”

But we found no one and heard no one. The shadow had come—and gone.

Completely baffled,we reassembled in the sitting-room and resumed our places about the table. Nayland Smith solemnly deposited before Barton the ancient pistol, the silver bullet and the chart.

“You left them behind. I picked them up for safety.”

We stared rather blankly at one another for a moment, and then: “It seems to me, gentlemen,” said John Hannessy, “that the experience which we have Just shared calls for a consultation.”

Everybody was in tacit agreement with the speaker. Commander Ingles replied in his crisp way: “I give my testimony here and now without hesitation, that something, something palpable, touched my shoulder at the moment that I called out. Something or someone we could not see was in the room at that time. We all know that a door was open which had not been open when this session began. We all know that the communicating doors were closed. And I think I am right”—he looked around—”in saying that we all heard the sound of soft footsteps in the corridor outside.”

He paused suddenly, staring down at some notes on the table before him. His silence was so unexpected, and his expression so strange, that: “What’s wrong?” growled Barton, leaning forward. “What have you found there?”

Commander Ingles looked round from face to face, and I saw that he held a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Just this . . . I will read out what is written here: “ ‘FIRST NOTICE’—”

“What!” snapped Smith, and was on his feet in a moment.

“I will repeat: TIRST NOTICE.

“ ‘The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan is aware of the aims of an expedition led by Sir Lionel Barton and Sir Denis Nayland Smith. In view of the fact that the Council is in a position to negotiate with the Government of the United States regarding a matter of first importance, this is a warning, both to the Government of the United States and to Sir Denis Nayland Smith and those associated with him. The mobility of the United States Navy is seriously threatened, but the Council is in a position to nullify the activities both of a certain eastern neighbour and also those of a western power. This is to notify all whom it may concern, that you have two weeks in which to decide. An advertisement in a daily newspaper consisting of the words “Negotiate. Washington” will receive prompt attention. “ ‘President of the Seven’.”

CHAPTER XVIII

ZAZIMA

“Better luck today, Kerrigan,” said Nayland Smith.

“Thanks,” I replied. “I can do with it.”

Cristobal!—I was at last in Cristobal (or more exactly in Colon) where I had confidently expected to meet Ardatha again. Yet for two days and the greater part of one night I had combed the towns and their environs without success. Recollections of how that last conversation with Ardatha had been abruptly terminated, haunted my mind. Had Fu Manchu detected her in the act of phoning to me—and changed his plans?

The essential clue had been partially lost as the line was disconnected, but at least I knew that news of her was to be had at the shop of someone whose name began with Z. Although Z is comparatively unusual as the index letter of a surname, my quest had led me nowhere.

I sat beside Smith in a cane rocking-chair on the terrace of the hotel. An avenue of mast-like coconut palms stretched away before us to the gate. The hotel was crowded; even at this early hour nearly all the chairs were occupied. There were elderly men studying guide books, younger men reading newspapers, but looking up whenever a new arrival passed along the terrace: one kindly, old lady there was who made a point of conversing with everybody; and there were several very pretty women who all seemed to be travelling alone. The major languages of Europe were represented.

“Never in a long government career,” said Smith, glancing at a dark-eyed Spanish girl who seemed willing to be talked to, “have I met with so many political agents in any one building.”

“How do you explain it?”

“I explained it a long time ago when I mentioned the fact that the Panama Canal has two ends. Kennard Wood, as you know, found indisputable evidence pointing to a plot by a certain power to close the Canal at an opportune moment. We sit on a potential front line, Kerrigan. All the advance units are here.”

“And I spend my time looking for Ardatha!”

“Why not? She is a most valuable ally. I am concerned about her almost as deeply as you are, A link with the enemy is not lightly to be broken.”

“Utterly fantastic. Smith, but true, that her safety, her very existence, may depend on the life of that wretched little animal—”

“The Doctor’s marmoset? Yes, Barton says the creature cannot last much longer unless he can discover something it will consent to eat. As it is reasonable to suppose that Fu Manchu knows now of our capture, what has puzzled me is the Doctor’s silence—”

“And our immunity!”

“That is less surprising. I know from experience that a cessation of hostilities usually follows the delivery of a Si-Fan ultimatum until the date has expired.We may hope for another week’s safety.”

Nevertheless, I had suffered wakeful hours, hours when I had lain listening for soft footsteps, for the coming of that Shadow which had been amongst us in New York. And I had known, on many a sleepless night, the dread of The Snapping Fingers.

“If I could only find that accursed shop!” I exclaimed. “I am beginning to despair.”

But Smith was plunged in sudden reflection; I doubted if he had heard me. And I was looking about aimlessly at the varied types of humanity represented on the terrace, when he jerked: “Did Ardatha state expressly that Z was to be found in Cristobal?”

“Why, yes—that is, let me think.”

To recall the exact words—to recall almost any words Ardatha had spoken to me since our strange reunion in London—was not difficult.

“Smith!” I spoke excitedly, “I believe I have been wasting precious time. She said that they were setting out for Cristobal, but then added, “When you reach Panama”

“That’s it!” snapped Smith, standing up. “Panama! Barton and I have our hands full, as you know, but in any case this is a Job you can do better alone. I will notify the Zone police. An officer will meet you. The sooner you start the better, Kerrigan. I suspect that Z is in Panama.”

Indeed, I required no urging; ten minutes later I was on my way.

Storage tanks and other anachronisms left behind, my Journey swept me straight into the Jungle. Through dense shadows of tropical foliage, I could see, with my mind’s eye, Morgan and his leather-skinned fighting men marching on Panama. Alligators basked in the pools, unfamiliar birds flitted from branch to branch; and I saw here at last a curtain against which the drama ofDr. Fu Manchu might fitly be played.On this, the Gold Road across the Isthmus, Spaniard and Buccaneer had clashed in many a bloody conflict.

Just beyond the mirror of the waters, beyond festoons of flowering vines, lay hundreds and hundreds of miles of primeval Jungle, forest, and mountain, much of it untrodden by a white man’s foot; places never yet explored, inhabited by humans, beasts, birds and insects so far unclassified.

When the train (surely one of the strangest under Uncle Sam’s control) pulled into Panama, I was thinking that somewhere in the secret swamps beyond. Dr. Fu Manchu had found the horror called the Snapping Fingers.

Sergeant Abdy of the Zone police met me, a man from the Middle West, but leather-skinned and truculent as any that followed Morgan in the days of the Gold Road.

“All the stores with phone numbers have been checked up, Air. Kerrigan. I guess there’s not much news for you.”

My heart fell.

“You mean there are no names beginning with ?”

“Just that, except for ‘Zone’. But listen—there’s the market stalls and the playa on the water front. We’ve done some. I broke away to meet you. I plan to explore that section. What I suggest is this: while I do the market—a bit late, now—you do the streets between water front and Central. They’re full of little stores. Meet me at the Marine Hotel.”

Further details were all agreed as we walked along together and Sergeant Abdy gave me my bearings. When we parted, I confess that the size of the Job rather staggered me. Only by sheer good luck could I hope to find Z.

But Fate (I often think of the Arabs) has us in leading-strings. Parting from Sergeant Abdy, I set out more or less at random down a crooked, cobbled, narrow street which transported me in spirit to Clovelly in Devonshire. I doubt if I had proceeded twenty paces on my downward path before, on the comer of a shadowy courtyard, I saw above a shop, which appeared to be even more ancient than its neighbours, the name

ZAZIMA

I pulled up sharply, my pulse beating faster. Through a dirty, narrow-paned window I stared at some of the queerest objects ever assembled. There were two Voodoo masks of repellent appearance, some fragments of antique pottery, and a piece of grotesque mural decoration which might have come from a Yucatan temple. I saw a leather bowl filled with tarnished coins, backed by a partly unrolled Chinese carpet, which even my unpractised eye told me to be almost priceless. There were two cracked and battered tea chests, a number of lopsided and primitive wine bottles. But set right in front of the window, so that it was no more than an inch removed from the dirty glass, was the strangest exhibit of all.

It was a human head.

The head was that of a bearded old man, reduced by the mysterious art of Peruvian head-hunters to a size no greater than that of an average orange. The shrivelled features still retained the personality of the living man. One expected him at any moment to open those sunken lids, and to look out with tiny, curious eyes upon a giant world.

This repellent thing was mounted and set in a carved mahogany box, having a perfectly-fitting glass cover resembling a clock case. And as I stared at the ghastly relic, for my inspection of the window of Zazima had occupied only a matter of seconds, I became aware that from the black shadows of the shop beyond someone was watching me.

The face of the one who watched was so like that in the mahogany box, magnified, that horror touched me and I know that I bent forward and peered more closely into those dim shadows.

Faintly I could discern a bent old man sitting upon cushions piled upon a high-backed wooden chair. He wore a robe or dressing-gown. And as I peered in over the shrivelled head in the window, a thin hand was raised. I was invited to enter.

I opened the door of the shop. A bell jangled as I did so, and from an ancient church somewhere farther down the street a clock chimed the half hour.

Immediately, as the door closed behind me, I became aware of an indescribably fusty atmosphere. I had stepped out of the Panama of today into a crypt in which were preserved age-old memories of the Panama which had seen rack, death by fire, Spanish swords countering English; or into an even earlier Panama worshipping strange gods, a city unknown to the Inquisition or to the England of Francis Drake.

It seemed at first glance that the bulk of Zazima’s offerings were displayed in the window. There were some carpets on the walls and some faded charts and prints. A few odds and ends lay about the untidy place. But it was upon the face of the proprietor, for such I assumed the old man in the high-backed chair to be, that my attention was focused.

He was, as I have indicated, yellow and wrinkled, with fragments of scanty hair and beard clinging, colourless, to the parchment of his skin. He sat cross-legged upon the cushions, and for one moment, looking into his sunken eyes, a vague apprehension touched me. I had met a strangely penetrating glance. When I spoke I was staring over his head.

“You have some attractive wares for sale.”

I glanced back at him. He was nodding, and I saw now that he held a common clay pipe in his left hand, and that the peculiar odour of the place was directly traceable to the tobacco he was smoking.

“Yes, yes!” he thrust the stem of the pipe into an apparently toothless mouth. “As you say. But business is very slack, Mr, Kerrigan.”

I don’t know if it was the perfect English in which he addressed me, or his knowledge of my name that more greatly surprised me; but I can state with certainty that his confirmation of my hopes that here indeed was a link with Ardatha made my heart beat even faster than it was already beating.

“Why do you call me Mr. Kerrigan?”

“Because that is your name.” He smiled with a sort of naive cunning. “Of course, I was expecting you.”

“But how did you know me?”

“By three things. The first: your appearance, of which I had been advised; the second: your behaviour. Those two things, conjoined to the third, assured me of your identity.”

“And what was the third?”

“I could see your heart beating under your coat when you looked up and read the name Zazima.”

“Indeed?”

Without the clay pipe, the aged philosopher might have been the immortal Barber of Baghdad.

“Yes, it is true. I cannot think why you have been so long in coming.”

“How was I to know you were in Panama? I have been searching in Colon and Cristobal.”

“But why in Cristobal?I, Zazima, have been here in Panama for forty years.”

“This I did not know.”

I was beginning now to wonder about the nationality of Zazima, and I decided that he was some kind of Asiatic, certainly a man of culture. Behind him, on the wall, hung a piece of Moorish tapestry, faded, worn, but from a collector’s point of view, probably of great value; and I saw Zazima as an Eastern oracle, sitting there, cross-legged, inscrutable.

He removed the clay pipe from his shrunken lips, and: “Recite to me the message which the lady delivered,” he said, “since here is some mystery. I know you bear it in your memory, for I have lived and loved myself.”

Doubtful, always suspecting treachery, for if I had learned anything during my association with Nayland Smith it had been that the power of the Si-Fan was everywhere, I hesitated. I have had occasion before to refer to a sort of lowering of temperature, a sense of sudden chill, which subconsciously advised me of the presence of Fu Manchu. I knew others who had shared this experience. And as I stood there, watching the strange old man in the high-backed chair, I became aware of just that sensation.

No doubt I betrayed myself: for Zazima spoke again. He spoke gently, as one who seeks to soothe a nervous child.

“Those who oppose the Master fight with the elements. You are in no danger. If you are sensible in this, my humble shop, of a greater presence, have no fear. Beneath my roof you are safe. Danger is to the lady you love. Tell me, if you please, what message she sent to you.”

A moment more I hesitated, and then: “She told me,” I said, “that I should have news of her at the shop of Za—. There, her words were cut off/’

I watched Zazima closely. His sunken eyes were closed; he seemed to be in a state of contemplation. I decided that the Moorish tapestry covered a doorway. But presently those piercing eyes regarded me again.

“We who work for the Master, work unafraid. The lady’s message, Mr. Kerrigan, should have run ‘at the shop of Zazima in Panama: look for the head in the window’. I sorrow to learn that you have sought in vain. However, it is not too late.”

“Quick, tell me”—my hand shot out in supplication—”where is she? Where can I find her?”

“It is not for me to answer, Mr. Kerrigan.”

He alighted from the chair. I cannot state that he stood up—for I realized at this moment that he was a dwarf. Clay pipe in hand he passed me, crossed to the window, pulled aside the folds of the Chinese carpet, and straining forward reached the box which contained the shrivelled head. With this he returned.

“It is twenty dollars,” he said; “which is a stupid price.”

“But”—I shrank back—”I don’t want the thing!”

“The lady’s message should have concluded with these words: *Look for the head in the window. Buy it!”

I stared down at him suspiciously. Was I becoming involved in a cunning web spread byDr. Fu Manchu? For of the fact that the Chinese Doctor, if not present in person, dominated this scene I was convinced. Yet—for now I was cool enough—I saw that I must trust Zazima. Ardatha had asked me to seek him out. Dark, sunken eyes watched me, and I thought that there was an appeal in them.

“As you say, it is a stupid price.”

I handed twenty dollars to Zazima, and he surrendered to me my strange purchase.

“Have you nothing else to tell me?”

“Nothing. I have sold you the head. A great Chinese philosopher has written: ‘When the cash is paid words cannot restore it’. The matter is concluded.”

I turned to go. Zazima had reseated himself on the high-backed chair.

“Do not open the box,” he added softly, “until you are alone,” And he seemed to speak as one who is prompted.

CHAPTER XIX

FLAMMARIO THE DANCER

As I sat outside a cafe which Sergeant Abdy had recommended to me, I was far from easy in my mind. Having first wrapped my strange possession in a newspaper, I had bought a cheap attaché case which now stood on the table before me; it contained the shrivelled head. A halt for refreshment had proved to be imperative, and in any case I had to wait for a train. My luncheon dispatched, I lingered over an iced drink.

It was cool beneath the awning. Before me rose ranks of royal palms seeming to mount guard along the tiled paths. Coloured boys had given up pestering me to have my shoes cleaned, to buy post-cards, tickets for bull-fights, and other things which I didn’t want. Dark-eyed senoritas transported me in spirit to Spain as they moved on jutting iron balconies of ancient stone houses. Caches rattled lazily along the cobbled streets. It was pleasantly hot and the sky looked unreally blue.

But I had much to think about.

I could not fail to remember that the most delicate operation in the murders due to the Snapping Fingers was that of introducing the unknown agent of death. Suppose (I argued) I carry in the mahogany box such an agent; suppose I am being used, cunningly, to destroy my friends and myself!

It was not outside the bounds of possibility. In Zazima’s shop I had been acutely aware of a hidden presence. Against this was the indisputable fact that Ardatha had directed me to go there—that I had been expected.

Ardatha! What had my journey availed? I knew no more than I had known before I had set my eyes on the strange dwarf called Zazima. And there was something else. As I had come out into the cobbled, sloping street, carrying my purchase, an idea had been strong upon me that I was watched—not by someone inside the shop, but by someone outside’, that this person was following me at a distance. So strong did this conviction become that as I turned into Sixth Street I paused for a moment and then turned back.

I almost fell over a slim, sallow-faced man who was on the point of rounding the corner!

Muttering an apology, he hurried on; but his appearance had set me a problem. Where had I seen .that sallow face before? A wide-brimmed hat had somewhat obscured his features, but nevertheless I knew that this was not the first time I had seen him.

Abstractly selecting a cigarette from my case, I watched a coche which slowly approached, hood up, for the noonday sun was hot. In any more objective mood I might well have failed to note the passenger; but now his sallow features imprinted themselves upon my passive brain with medal-like accuracy. He had removed the wide-brimmed hat and lay back in the shadow of the hood; but I knew him, knew him for a spy—for the man who had followed me as I left Zazima’s shop.

More, that fugitive memory was trapped. He was the man who had been with Ardatha in the foyer of the Regal Athenian!

The carriage clattered past at some little distance from the cafe, and turned into a side street just beyond an ancient church whose huge iron-studded doors probably dated back to the days when Drake met the Spaniards in Nombre de Dios Bay.

I was closely covered. What was the purpose of this espionage?

The link with Ardatha was established; its implications horrified me. My anxiety to examine the head grew so intense that for a moment I thought of hiring a room in the restaurant merely for that purpose.

Sergeant Abdy’s reappearance induced wiser councils. He dropped down on a chair facing me.

“Checked up on Zazima,” he reported. “Nothing against him. He has contacts in the Chinese quarter, and it’s suspected some of his stock is stolen and the rest smuggled. If so, he’s clever. But he’s never given any trouble . . .”

* * *

Both Nayland Smith and Sir Lionel were out when I returned, but Smith had left a message which read: “Back for late dinner. Don’t go out until I join you.”

I passed through the foyer with its arcades and lighted show cases, and for all my distracted frame of mind could not fail to notice that I was an object of interest to a number of visitors lounging about in a seemingly aimless fashion. Indeed, it did not call for a newspaper training to see, as Smith had seen, that Colon was a hotbed of foreign agents, each watching the other, but all bent upon some common purpose.

What was the purpose?

I wondered if this gateway of a sea lane which joined two oceans was normally beset by spies. That remark of Smith’s, “The Panama Canal has two ends,” recurred to me again and again.

One graceful brunette seemed bent on making my acquaintance: she was tall, slender, but despite her light brown skin, the colour of which might have been due to sun-bathing, she had that swaying carriage which betrays African ancestry. Her brilliant amber eyes, shaded by long curling lashes, fixed upon me, she conveyed so frank an invitation that I found it embarrassing. As I stepped into the elevator: “Who is that dark girl?” I asked the man.

“Oh, that’s Flammario, the dancer from the Passion Fruit Tree.”

“Does she live here?”

“No, sir; and if you think she’s man-hunting—you’re wrong. Did you check up on the emeralds? That girl is a good little business woman. I guess she owns about half the town.”

This information made Flammario’s behaviour even more hard to understand. But by the time that I reached the apartment, I had dismissed her from my mind: someone else occupied it exclusively.

I set the carved wooden box on the table in the sitting-room and stared through the glass at that dreadful exhibit.

Who had he been, this old man who had met death by decapitation? What tragedy of the Peruvian woods was locked up in my strange possession, and, paramount thought, why had Zazima forced the thing upon me?

The idea that this fragment of dreadful mortality formed a link with Ardatha was one I was anxious to dispel; yet I clung to it. Lighting a cigarette, I considered the relic, and suddenly an idea occurred to me. I wondered that it had not occurred to me before.

The reason for so roundabout a method was not clear, but Zazima may have known himself to be spied upon. That someone else had been concealed at the back of his shop I had felt quite certain, some servant of Fu Manchu—possibly the Doctor himself. I must suppose that the hidden watcher had good reason for remaining hidden. The answer to the problem must be that vital information of some sort was hidden in the box!

I anticipated no difficulty in opening it; the front was secured by a catch similar to that of a clock face. Yet, I hesitated; I loathed the idea of touching that little shrivelled head mounted upon a block of some hard black wood. I peered in through the glass, expecting to find a note there. But I could see nothing. The box was decorated with carving, some kind of native work, and I thought it possible, noting the thickness of the wood, that part of the base might conceal a secret drawer. Another possibility was that the head was hollow; that if I took it out I should find something hidden inside.

Conquering revulsion, I was about to open the glass front and examine that shrivelled fragment of a long-dead man when abruptly I desisted.

I had heard a rap, short but imperative, at the outer door!

Hastily I placed the shrivelled head with its mahogany casket in a bureau. I was anxious that none of the staff should see it: I mistrusted everyone where Dr. Fu Manchu was concerned. As I locked the bureau and slipped the key into my pocket, the rapping on the outer door was repeated, this time more insistently. I thought it might be Barton, but I could not imagine why he did not ring the bell.

Swift dusk was falling; and as I opened the door the lights in the passage outside had not yet been switched up.

A woman stood here.

Because of the darkness, because she was graceful and slender, a pang of joy stabbed me. For a moment I thought . . . Ardatha. Then, the visitor spoke: “I have come because I want to help you—I must speak to you.”

It was Flammario the dancer!

* * *

Brilliant amber eyes looked into mine; they were beautiful; but their beauty was of the jungle.

“Please, no, do not turn up the light. I promise you, I declare to you, that I am here to be of help. It is that your interests are mine. I know that you—look for someone.”

She preceded me into the rapidly-darkening room, for dusk falls swiftly in the Tropics, and seated herself in an armchair, not far from the door. Her movements had a wild animal grace, which might have been a product of her profession or have been hereditary. She was very magnetic; an oddly disturbing figure. I was far from trusting her. And now (she had a velvety, caressing voice): “Will you please promise me something?” s” asked.

“What is it?”

“There are two other ways out of here. Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“If Sir Denis Nayland Smith comes, or Sir Lionel Barton, will you help me escape?”

I hesitated. My thirst for knowledge, knowledge that might lead me to Ardatha, prompted me to accept almost any terms, and Flammario had said, “I know that you look for someone.” Yet I distrusted her. I suspected her to be a servant of Dr. Fu Manchu, an instrument, a mouthpiece; otherwise from what source had she gained her knowledge of my companions? But my longing for news of Ardatha tipped the balance.

“Yes, I will do my best. But why are you afraid of them; and how do you come to know their names?”

“I had a friend—he is now my enemy”—the huskily musical voice came to me from a shadowy figure. “He, my friend, is a member of a secret society called the Si-Fan. You know it, eh?”

“Yes. I know it.”

“He told me much about it—far more than he should have told to anyone. And because I seem to know about the Si-Fan, I think that those others might—”

“Might hold you as a suspect?” I suggested.

“Yes.” The word came in a whisper. “It would not be fair. And so”—she had the quaintest accent—”will you promise me that I am not arrested?”

A moment longer I hesitated, and then: “Yes,” I said.

She laughed softly, a trilling, musical laugh.

“You Englishmen are so sweet to women—so are American men. It is foolish; but sometimes it pays.”

She was now a dim shape in the armchair.

“You mean until we have been tricked we expect women to play the game?”

“Yes, perhaps that is it. But I have something to ask you and something to tell you, and the time is short. First you look for a girl called Ardatha?”

“Yes!”

“And you believe that she is withDr. Fu Manchu?”

“Of course—”

“She is not.”

“What do you say?”

“She is with—my friend. Please let me go on. The name of this dear friend of mine is Lou Cabot. He is part owner of The Passion Fruit Tree where I am hostess. He is also the chief agent of the Si-Fan in the Canal Zone. He was sent to New York to bring Ardatha here—”

“Is he a sallow-faced fellow?” I broke in savagely, for I was thinking of the man I had seen with Ardatha in the Regal Athenian—the man of Panama. “Greasy black hair and semi side-whiskers?”

“He might look so, to you; but please listen. The Society, the Si-Fan, is split into two parts; there is a conspiracy against the President, and Lou is of those who plan his ruin. A dangerous game, I told him—and so he will find it! So far so good. But now, if you please, because he is so sure of himself, he has taken her away.”

“What!”

“Please, be patient: she may not have fought so hard; Lou has a charm for women—”

“Enough of that!” I said sharply.

Flammario glided to my side, threw one arm round me and rested her head on my shoulder.

“I am a woman,” she whispered. “Perhaps I know better than you when a man is fascinating to women. I do not think, myself, that her heart has changed about you. But I know—how well I know—that mine has changed! Listen again; my friend has wounded my pride. I know him, now, for a vain fool. He will surely die when the plot is known—”

“Yes, but—”

“Yes, but I wish to see him die!” She laughed; it was musical but demoniacal laughter. “And if I can show you these two together I am sure that you will kill him . . .”

Flammario was undeniably beautiful in an exotic way; but as she pronounced those last words I thought of a puma, a sleek, satiny, lithe, dangerous beast.

“I assure you I shall do my best! But where is she? Where is she?”

“I think I know. Later tonight I shall be sure.”

“Then—quickly; what am I to do?”

She drew away from me. It was now nearly quite dark, and she appeared as a phantom.

“I will tell you—for someone must be here soon. You will make your friends promise—about me; and then, be at the Passion Fruit tonight before twelve o’clock. You must be prepared to act—”

“How? Tell me!”

I heard the elevator stop at our floor, heard the gate clang. I saw the phantom figure of Flammario drawn swiftly upright.

“Quick! Which is the better way?”

I hesitated.

“You promised—I trusted you. You can say I was here, but first let me go!”

“This way.”

I led her through to Barton’s room and opened the outer door.

“Tonight, before twelve—I shall expect you . . .”

CHAPTER XX

THE SHRIVELLED HEAD

As I closed the door after Flammario, footsteps passed by out-. side. Whoever had come up in the elevator was not bound for our apartment. In a few more precious moments I might have learned so much; but now it was too late. Ardatha in the hands of the sleek, sallow scoundrel I had seen in Panama! The mere idea made my blood boil. In some way I regarded the Chinese doctor as one might have regarded a disembodied spirit, although a spirit of evil, a sexless supermortal. But Lou Cabot! Could it be true?

Switching up the light, I fumed and looked at a large cage which stood on a side-table. Its occupant lay in the sleeping-box, only a tiny, grey-whiskered head drooping disconsolately out. I saw a bowl of food, untouched, upon the sanded floor. Peko the marmoset was near his end.

I approached the bars, staring in anxiously. Wicked little eyes regarded me, teeth were bared; and there was a faint whistling chatter. Peko might be moribund, but he could still hate all humanity. I returned to the sitting-room, lighted up, and took out the head in its mahogany box.

Shrivelled, hideous thing it was; and upon it (as again overcoming my revulsion, I studied it more closely) there still rested the shadow of a distant agony. Was this no more than a trap? Why should I trust Zazima? Yet, because the fate of Ardatha meant more to me—nor do I deny it—than the success or failure of the expedition upon which I was engaged, I knew that I was prepared to believe in his sincerity, prepared to believe Flammario. I was mad with apprehension.

Opening the case, I peered inside eagerly. I could see nothing concealed there. Perhaps I must remove the head; perhaps some message was hidden in the shrivelled skull itself. But as I held the box by its carved and crudely-coloured base, I made a discovery which induced an even greater excitement. One of the painted knobs moved slightly.

I was about to attempt to pull it from its place when the head began to speak!

When I say that it began to speak, I do not mean that any movement of those wasted features became perceptible; I mean that a low, obscene whispering proceeded from it.

I all but dropped the box. I was appalled. I think that any man must have been appalled. But I set it on the table. Then, as that high sibilance continued, I clenched my fists and forced myself to listen.

“So it befell—so it befell . . .” The whispering was in English! “I was called—lea . . . Chief was I of all the Quechua of Callao. But the Jibaros came: my women were taken; my house was fired, my head struck off. We were peaceful folk. But the head-hunters swept down upon us. Thought still lived in my skull, even when it was packed with burning sand. My brain boiled, yet I knew that I was lea, chief of the Quechua of Callao . . .”

The uncanny whisper died away. I stood there rigidly, staring at the head, when again a voice spoke from the box: “Such is the brief obituary oflea, chief of the Callao Quechuas.”

And this was the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu!

“If I address Mr. Bart Kerrigan,” it continued, ‘“be good enough to press the red indicator on the right of the box, once.”

A sort of icy coolness which, in my case, sometimes takes the place of panic, came now to my aid. Bending forward I pressed the red knob which I had already discovered.

“The grotesque character of the receiving-set before you,” that high distant voice resumed, “was designed for a special purpose. It is otherwise similar to the example which Sir Denis deposited in Scotland Yard Museum rather more than a year ago, but which is no longer of any use. Listen attentively. If Sir Denis or anyone else join you, press the blue indicator on the left of the box. The safety of Ardatha depends upon your obedience.”

Almost, I ceased to breathe.

“What I have to say must be said briefly: it is for you to employ it to good purpose. Your Western world is locked in a stupid clash of arms. You have created a situation resembling those traffic blocks which once were a feature of London. The shadow of Russia, that deformed colossus, frightens the children of Europe, none more so than the deluded Germans; but since one cannot wield the sword at the same time as one guides the ploughshare, nations far distant tremble for their trade. This is where East meets West. The more equally the scales be weighted, the more certainly a decimal of a gramme added to one of them must tip it.”

The voice ceased; I feared that that which I most particularly wanted to hear was to be denied to me, but: “I hold such a decimal of a gramme in my hand,” the cold guttural voice continued. “That dangerous meddler. Sir Lionel Barton, dreamed of outwitting me. He failed. Mention to him that Haiti, and not Panama, is the home of The Snapping Fingers. He captured Peko, the marmoset who shares all my secrets, including that of longevity. You are unaware of the fact, but I have twice attempted to recover him, and twice have been unsuccessful. In holding Peko I confess that you hold my heartstrings. In the wooden base upon which the head of lea is mounted, you will find a small phial containing a heavy liquid resembling Chartreuse. Press the red indicator twice, when you have found it.”

Without hesitation (I wondered if anyone had ever disobeyed Dr. Fu Manchu) I removed the shrivelled head, the base of which I found to be fixed in two grooves so that it could be pulled out from the box. I inverted it and saw that there was a sliding lid. Inside the cavity lay a phial and a tiny tortoiseshell snuff-box packed in cotton wool.

I reclosed this strange casket, replaced the head and followed instructions.

“You have in your hand,” the imperious voice responded, “that which means the life not merely of an animal.One minim, no more, is to be added to one gill of fresh goat’s milk. This must be given to the marmoset at once. Afterwards, the milk once daily, with the liqueur only on every third day. An added fragment of the powder in the snuff-box will induce him to eat any suitable food. Press the red indicator once if you understand; otherwise, twice.”

When I had signified that I understood: “See that Peko lives,” the distant voice went on. €

Again the voice ceased. I was in a state of intense nervous tension, but at last: “Find Cabot,” the voice added, now faintly and from far away. “Delay may be dangerous . . . Take care of Peko . . . I will restore . . .”

The voice ceased entirely.

CHAPTER XXI

CONCERNING LOU CABOT

“It will be interesting to learn,” said Nayland Smith, “whether the Zone Police,Dr. Fu Manchu or a jealous woman first discovers the whereabouts of this man Lou Cabot. However well hidden he may be, I may add that I do not envy Lou Cabot.”

The hour grew late, and with every moment that passed my impatience grew hotter. Somewhere, perhaps within call of the balcony outside our windows, Ardatha was imprisoned at the mercy of the sallow-faced, sleek-eyed scoundrel who had tracked me in Panama I Smith relighted his pipe, shooting a quick glance in my direction.

“I do not necessarily believe the woman Flammario,” he added, puffing vigorously.

“What could her object be?”

“Assuming it to be revenge—and your description depicts a woman whom it would be unwise to offend—it does not necessarily follow that her construction of the situation is the correct one. What I find hard to believe is this: that a member of the Si-Fan, presumably a senior official and therefore one well acquainted with their methods and efficiency, should, for a mere infatuation, invite the terrible penalties which must follow.”

“I see your point,” I replied miserably; “But if there is any truth at all in Flammario’s story what other explanation can there be?”

“One which occurred to me immediately,” snapped Smith. You had it from Fu Manchu himself. In one respect the Doctor stands unique amongst all the villains I have known; he never lies. Civil war has broken out in the ancient order of the Si-Fan: the man Cabot has joined the rebels. This, Flammario told you. I assume that Cabot is acting under the orders of the opposition leader.”

“You mean that his interest in Ardatha is not personal, as Flammario thinks?”

“I mean just that. She, as a woman, would naturally think otherwise. Ardatha is in some way useful to the rebel members, and so they are endeavouring to smuggle her away. This is not the first time, Kerrigan, that strife has broken out in the Council of Seven. The last rebel who endeavoured to assume control of that vast organization—”

He ceased speaking and began to pace up and down restlessly.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“A train of thought, Kerrigan—possibly an inspiration.”

He was still promenading, plunged in a brown study, when the door opened and Barton came in.

“Fu Manchu is undeniably a wizard physician,” Sir Lionel declared. “Treatment prescribed seems to have taken years off that beastly little marmoset. It is now as full of fight as a bulldog.”

“I am glad,” I said, and spoke with sincerity. “I was afraid we were going to lose the thing.”

“Any more messages from the Talking Head?” he inquired in his loud, facetious way.

“No.” Smith suddenly emerged from some maze of speculation in which he had been lost. “We have tried pressing the red control, and as you see the door of the box is open.”

“I am prepared to believe that it is a receiving-set and not some kind of hypnotic machine,” growled Barton, “when I have actually heard it for myself. It isn’t connected up in any way: it’s just an empty box—except, of course, for the shrivelled head.”

“No doubt I should be as sceptical as you,” Smith admitted, “if I had not had previous experience of this amazing apparatus. The head, of course, has nothing to do with the matter. Fu Manchu lacks a true sense of humour; but he has a strong sense of the baroque. Some time when you are in London and have an hour to spare, I must take you along to Scotland Yard Museum. One of these receivers is there. European experts have overhauled the mechanism and have unanimously declared it to be without equipment for receiving and transmitting sound waves—yet it did, as Kerrigan can testify. My dear Barton, Dr. F*u Manchu is many generations ahead of others in nearly all the sciences. I have never been able to make you understand that he has at his disposal many first class brains other than his own.”

“The facts of that zombie business are not too clear to me, either,” I confessed.

“If, as I suspect,” said Smith rapidly, “Haiti or its neighbourhood prove to be the Doctor’s new headquarters, it is possible, Kerrigan, that you may learn more of this matter in the near future.”

His gaze became abstracted again.

“What were you thinking about. Smith,” I asked eagerly, “with regard to the internal troubles of the Si-Fan?”

“I was thinking,” he replied, and spoke with unwonted slowness, “of the woman feared by the whole of the Negro population of Haiti, the woman known as Queen Mamaloi.”

“There has been a thorough check-up on this man Cabot,” said Beecher of the Zone Police. Captain Jacob Beecher was tall, had a square frame and a square face. He looked efficiently dangerous. “We have a considerable dossier Cabot already. In fact, at one time there was a movement to throw him out of the area.”

“What for?” asked Smith.

‘‘Well, in that gin cellar of his he’s sitting pretty to pick up information, and it was thought—but it couldn’t be proved—that he was Fifth Column man for one of the dictator teams. Personally, I still think he is. He has a lot of money and substantial interests around Panama; but although The Passion Fruit Tree is a dividend-maker, I don’t believe all his money comes from there.”

“Where does this bird roost?” asked Barton.

“We”, sir, he has Ritzy quarters right on the premises, and I guess the villa where Flammario lives (she’s his partner) is Lou’s property, anyway.”

“But,” I asked, “where is he now? Have you any information on that point?”

“No, sir. We know he went to- New York beginning of last week, and there’s some evidence that he came back two or three days ago. But he hasn’t been seen in The Passion Fruit or in any of his usual haunts. One thing is fairly certain: his girl friend has soured on him.”

“You are sure of this?” snapped Smith.

“Certain. Some of my boys who keep an eye on the place—it’s right enough in its way, but at times they’ve sailed pretty close to the rocks—report that there’s another dame in the case. Plammario is out for murder.” He looked about with his cold, unwinking eyes. “I may add, gentlemen, that although we have never had that pretty on the books, it’s known that she doesn’t stick at trifles.”

“Is the man an American Citizen?” I asked.

“Yes, they are both Americans by adoption. Makes it kind. of difficult, you see. But whatever the truth may be about Cabot, I have always held that the woman has nothing to do with his political work—if he is really engaged on political work.”

“Have you ever heard of a society known as the Si-Fan?” asked Smith.

“Sure. One of the Chinese Tongs, isn’t it? When I was in the Philippines I came across them once in a while, but, except maybe in the Chinese quarter, I don’t think they figure in the Canal Zone.”

“Indeed!” murmured Smith. “But I assume you have had no occasion to pursue such an inquiry?”

“None whatever—how would I? It isn’t the Chinese we worry about around here . . .”

“Nor is the Si-Fan exclusively Chinese,” said Smith. “But since you can give me no information on this point, we will not pursue it. Let us make our plans for the evening.”

“My plans are made,” said Barton. “We’ve been taking chances here. What about the charts? The steel box is in the hotel safe. What about damned monkey? One of us has always got to be in this apartment until we leave. I don’t like missing the fun—but I’ll stay on guard tonight.”

“As you wish. Barton,” said Smith. “I entirely agree with you. And now Captain Beecher, the position is this: we have to find Lou Cabot, and this woman Flammario has undertaken to tell us tonight where he is hiding.”

“If anyone can find out, she can,” murmured the police officer. “The Passion Fruit scouts know every sewer in the town.”

“Very well. Mr. Kerrigan and I propose to go along there immediately.Is the place a restaurant, a cabaret or a club?”

“All three,” was the reply, “and plenty expensive. There’s a cover charge of five dollars a head, paid as you go in, whether you want supper or not. If you like, I’ll come along with you. But I rather thought of standing by, with a few of the boys, in case any quick action should be called for.”

“That would be best,” said Smith. “Merely give me full particulars regarding the place, and be somewhere within sight of the entrance if I should want you.”

“All ready,” said Police Captain Beecher. “As the idea is to get in touch with Flammario I suggest, when you go in, that you sit at a table outside the bar—the balcony, see. Don’t go down on to the dance floor. The bar opens right out of the lobby. If you want to leave in a hurry, that’s the best place. One of my boys who knows you by sight will be right outside. Maybe I’ll come, too.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE PASSION FRUIT TREE

I cannot vouch for the accuracy of my notes regarding The Passion Fruit Tree. The bare idea of Ardatha being in the power of the man Lou Cabot, of whose private life I ha4 heard much before our arrival, had made me long to have my fingers around his throat. The primary appeal of the resort was to tourists. That puritan spirit which governs the Canal Zone! disapproved of the impression which might be carried away by visitors to The Passion Fruit, which twice had been closed and twice reopened again under ostensibly new management.

It did not present a dazzling facade to the world; merely a shadowy doorway above which in illuminated letters appeared the words “The Passion Fruit Tree”. A cloudless sky thickly studded with stars dimmed the glamour of the appeal. It was a hot, still night, and a murderous pulse was beating in my temples.

On entering I discovered the lobby to be painted with murals representing jungle scenes, and from a reception office trellised with flowering vines a shrewd-looking old coloured woman peered out. A powerful mulatto in uniform was in attendance, and everywhere one saw pictures of Flammario. We paid the extortionate entrance fee and walked through to the bar. The strains of a dance band reached my ears, and now I saw that one side of the bar opened upon a balcony which overlooked the dance-floor.

Subdued lighting prevailed throughout, as did the Jungle scheme of decoration. I was dimly aware of the presence of people at fables on the balcony, but Smith and I alone sat at the bar over which a coloured attendant presided. When he had ordered drinks: “I am naturally suspicious,” said Smith in a low voice, “hen we are dealing with the Si-Fan. Even now I am not satisfied that this may not be a trap of some kind.”

“But, Smith, no attempt is likely to be made here!”

“I was thinking more particularly of Barton and of Ardatha.”

Our drinks were served, he paid the man, and the latter walked to a chair at one end of the bar.

“Regarding Barton, I see what you mean. It might be an elaborate plan to split up the party?”

Smith nodded, “But,” he added, “Barton is an old campaigner and as we know, very well capable of taking care of himself. Furthermore, although I have not notified him of the fact, there is a police officer on duty outside our apartment tonight.”

“But Ardatha?”

“I am disposed to think”—he spoke in a very low voice—”that she is actually in Colon. All this may be a red herring designed to get us out of the way whilst she is smuggled elsewhere. But in the circumstances we can do nothing but wait for some sign from this woman Flammario.”

“I still believe,” said I, “that she is sincere.”

“Possibly,” Smith replied. “At least in her passionate hatred of Cabot. Let us hope so.” He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes to midnight. Suppose we go in and survey the scene.”

We went out on to the balcony, a place heavy with tobacco smoke and a reek of stale perfume. There were three men at an end table and two women at another. The women were obviously dancing partners. They were smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee: after a momentary professional glance in our direction, they resumed a bored conversation. The men, I thought, looked harmless enough; probably passengers from a ship passing through the Canal, out visiting the high spots of Colon. We looked down at the dancing-floor.

An orchestra concealed under the balcony was serving out swing music, pianissimo and at a very slow tempo. Only three pairs were dancing, and these also bore unmistakable evidence of being passengers ashore for the night. There were supper tables set along a sort of arcade on the left of the floor, but not more than half were occupied. Except for the persistent jungle note, it was a scene which had its duplicate in almost any city in the world. A hot irritation possessed me.

“Smith,” I said, “this somnolent booze-shop is going to get on my nerves. Whenever I think what we are up against—of the fate of Ardatha—this awful inactivity drives me mad.”

“The calm before the storm,” he answered, in a low voice. “Observe the two men at a supper table right at the other end; the table with the extinguished lamp.”

I looked in the direction indicated. Two stocky Asiatics, whose evening clothes could not disguise their tremendously powerful torsos, were seated there. Slit-like eyes betrayed no indication of where or at whom they were looking. But although individually I had never seen the men before, they were of a type with which I had become painfully familiar in the past.

“Good God, Smith!” I exclaimed. “Surely a pair of Fu Manchu’s thugs.”

“Certainly.”

“Then you were right—it is a trap. They are waiting for us!”

“Somehow, I don’t think so,” he replied. “I regard their presence as distinctly encouraging. In my opinion they are waiting for Lou Cabot. Our night will not be a dull one, Kerrigan.”

* * *

The band ceased, the dancers returned to their places.

All the lights went out and then a drum began to beat with all the rhythm of a darabukkeh. A lime, directed through a trap in the roof, shone across the empty floor and upon the figure of Plammario.

Her costume did not interfere in any way with appreciation of her beauty, and as she stood there for a moment motionless, none could have denied that the gods had endowed her with a splendid form. Her brilliant eyes were raised to the balcony, and although I doubted if she could see because of the beam of light, I was convinced that she was looking for us.

To the drum beat was added a monotonous reed melody, and Flammario began to dance. It was one of those African dances which, for my part, I regard as definitely unpleasant, but judging from the rapt silence of a now invisible audience I may have been in the minority. She moved languorously along the edge of the arcade where the supper tables were set, until at last she was directly beneath us. There for a moment she paused, raised her eyes, and: “Yes!” she said.

The deep-toned, slightly hoarse voice was clearly audible above the throb of the music, and into that one word Flammario had injected triumph—and a barbaric hatred. As she continued her dance, proceeding now towards the entrance through which she had made her appearance. Smith bent to my ear.

“She has found him! The woman wins. There is not a moment to waste if we are to get there ahead of Fu Manchu’s thugs. Now to establish contact.”

To a frenzied crescendo the dancer finished. She stood for a moment arms upraised and then stepped back into the shadow behind the limelight. Smith and I were up, tense, ready for action. But the almost complete darkness remained unbroken, and as we waited Flammario re-appeared, wearing a silk wrap. She acknowledged the applause of her audience. Again she retired, and as the lights sprang up, instinctively I stared in the direction of the end supper table.

The two yellow men had gone.

“Good God!” snapped Smith, “it’s going to be touch and go. Somehow, Kerrigan, they have got hold of the information!”

He had started back towards the bar when he was intercepted by a strange figure entering. It was that of a hunchback negro, emaciated as with long illness, his small, cunning eyes so deeply set in his skull as to be almost invisible.

“Mr. Kerrigan, please?”

He looked from face to face.

“Yes,” snapped Smith, “this is Mr. Kerrigan. What do you want?”

“Follow, if you please. Hurry.”

We required no stimulus, but followed the stooping figure. As we came into the bar I saw that the attendant had the flap raised at the further end. We hurried through a doorway beyond: the door was closed behind us. Down a flight of stairs we ran and along a corridor not too well lighted. At the end I saw Flammario. She wore a long sable cloak and as we hurried forward I realized that she stood at the door of a small but luxuriously furnished dressing-room.

“Quick!” she cried. Her eyes were gleaming madly. “You are ready to start?”

“Yes. This is Sir Denis Nayland Smith. You have found Cabot?”

“I told you I had found him. I tell you now we must hurry.”

“Two agents of the Si-Fan were here a few moments ago,” said Smith rapidly. “Did you see them?”

She shrugged impatiently and the fur fell away from one bare shoulder. She snatched it back into place.

“I have to dance again in half an hour,” she explained simply. “Of course I saw them.” She stepped forward, forcing a way between Smith and myself. “Paulo!” she cried.

I turned and looked along the empty passage. The hunchback negro had disappeared.

“Do you think they have got the information?” Jerked Smith. “There is no time to think,” cried Flammario. “I tell you we must act. My car is outside. I know the way.”

“A police car would be faster,” said Smith on an even note. “One is waiting.”

Flammario was already running along the passage. “Any damn car you like!” she shouted, “but hurry? I have only half an hour and I want to see him killed. Hurry! I show you where he is—and the girl is with him.”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CLUE OF THE RING

Police Captain Jacob Beecher was waiting beside a Police Department car not three paces from the side entrance to The Passion Fruit Tree.

“All set,” he said, as we ran out. “Where to?”

“Listen, Big Jake,” cried Flammario hoarsely, “this is my night and I give the orders.”

Even in this side-turning to which moonlight did not penetrate I could see the flash of her eyes.

“I am listening,” growled.Beecher.

“This is a gentleman’s agreement and I have two gentlemen with me. You and your boys just cover us. Leave the rest to me and my friends.”

“But where in hell are we going?” growled Beecher. “Tell me and I’ll make arrangements.”

“We are going right to Santurce, and we are moving fast. Do you know the home that used to belong to Weisman, the engineer they fired from the Canal service—eh?”

“Sure I know it.”

“That is where we go.”

“It was hired to somebody else.”

“Somebody else we are looking for.”

Then, Nayland Smith and a police driver in front and I and Flammario at the back, we set out through a velvety tropical darkness sharply cut off where a brilliant moon splashed it into silver patches. Santurce, as a residential suburb, I had deliberately overlooked in my recent quest for the shop of Zazima, so that soon, leaving more familiar parts of Colon behind, I found myself upon strange ground Flammario clutched my arm, pressed her head against my shoulder and poured out a torrent of words.

“It is Paulo who finds him. Paulo can find anyone or anything in the Canal Zone. But Paulo is of the Si-Fan. You understand—eh?”

“Yes. I expected it.”

“Although he would do anything for me, he is terrified of them. Why does he run away tonight? Where do those two thugs go? What do you think?”

“I think he gave them the information.”

“It seems that way to me.” She nestled closer. I was aware of a musky perfume. “You are right about your girl friend. He has her locked up. But give Lou time and he sets an iceberg on fire. No, please, do not be angry. I tell you. I can overlook so much—why not? But all the town knows he leave me flat—me, Flam-mario. Queer, eh, how a woman feels about a thing like this? Just as hard as I used to love-him—I hate him now.” She slipped a bare arm about my shoulder. “You will kill him, won’t you?”

With a sincerity which was not assumed, I replied: “Given half a chance, I absolutely undertake to do so.”

Flammario’s heavily painted lips were pressed to my left ear.

On the corner of a street in which there were detached villas, each surrounded by its own garden, a big black saloon car was drawn up with no lights on. We passed it and swung into a street beyond.

A moment later we too pulled up. I had now quite lost my bearings. White-fronted houses with their shuttered windows, young palms shooting slender masts out of banks of foliage, made a restful picture in the tropical moonlight, a picture bearing no relation to the facts which had brought us there. As we scrambled out, Flammario ahead of all, a police officer detached himself from the shadows of a high wall.

“Squad all ready,” he reported. ‘“What orders?”

“Do nothing until we are in,” Smith replied rapidly, “and keep well out of sight. The signal will be a blast on my police whistle—or shooting. The men are standing by?”

“In the big saloon, back there. Captain Beecher worked fast. Making for their posts right now.”

Flammario already was running ahead.

“One thing is important,” said Smith insistently. “Grab anyone that comes out.”

We overtook Flammario racing up a tree-shaded path towards a green-shuttered house from which no lights shone.

“How do we get in?” she panted. “Have you figured that out?”

“I have figured it out,” Smith replied, and I observed for the first time that he was carrying a handbag.

The front of the house was bathed in moonlight, but dense shrubbery grew up to it on the left and here I saw a porched door. We pulled up, watching and listening.

“Listen,” said Flammario. “This house is planned by an architect with a one-track mind. He does most of the building around here. Can you count on the police? Because when we break in, if I know Lou he will run for it.”

“The place will be surrounded in another minute,” snapped Smith irritably. “This door here in the shadow; does it lead to the kitchen?”

“Yes. And that is our way in. It is half glass. Smash it, and if the key is inside, we are through.”

“We could try,” muttered Smith.

We advanced, always in shadow, to the porch.

“Show a light, Kerrigan,” said Smith.

I shone the ray of a torch upon the door—then caught my breath. The glass panel was shattered to fragments, the door half open.

“My God!” groaned Smith, “we’re too late!”

* * *

The kitchen quarters showed no evidence of disturbance.If utensils recently had been in use, someone had cleaned and put everything away. There was a spotless, white-tiled larder. In that immaculate domestic atmosphere the barbaric figure of Flammario, wrapped in her sables, those jungle eyes flashing from point to point, struck a note truly bizarre.

“They are here ahead of us,” she began, in a hoarse whisper. “That mongrel Paulo—”

“Quiet!” Smith said, imperatively yet in a low voice. “I want to listen.”

All the three of us stood there, listening.

Very remotely, sounds from the Canal reached me; shipping sounds which transported my thoughts to the early stages of this ghastly business which had led me to Colon. But immediately about us and inside the house was complete silence. I was about to speak when: “SshF whispered Smith.

Tensely I listened—and presently I heard the sound which had arrested his attention. It was a very faint creaking, and it came from somewhere upstairs.

“They are still here!” exploded Flammario. “Have your guns ready!”

With that she raced out of the kitchen into a passage beyond, switching up the lights as she went—a feat which surprised me at first, until I recollected her words about the architect with a one-track mind. I found myself in a dining-room very simply furnished. The curtains were drawn along the whole of one side and to these Flammario darted, wrenching them apart. I saw a garden dappled with molten silver where the moon poured down upon it. There was a terrace outside with cane chairs and tables; but there was no one there.

The atmosphere smelled stale as that of a room unused; and for some reason, in an automatic way, I unfastened the catch of one of the French windows and pulled it open. The perfume of some night-scented flower was borne in upon a light breeze. Even as I did so, I recognized that I was acting irrationally, that the place would be filled with nocturnal insects, and so reclosed the window.

“There it is again!” said Smith.

We fell silent, listening. Unmistakably, there was a sound of movement upstairs.

Smith was already dashing for a door at the other end of the room. Flammario overtook him and switched up a light in a square lobby. He started up a short flight of carpeted stairs so rapidly that I made a bad third. On the landing, the light of which was subdued, three doors offered—and they were all locked.

“This is where we want the copper!” said Flammario, huskily. ‘“Blow that whistle of yours.”

“Quiet!”

I could hear her rapid breathing as she stood beside me in semi-darkness; for the only light was a sort of shaded lantern. One, two, five, ten seconds we waited; but the silence remained unbroken. I pictured Ardatha gagged and bound—I pictured her dead. I think in all my quest of her since she had revealed to me the truth of her slavery to Dr. Fu Manchu, I had experienced no keen sense of longing to hear her voice, of terror that I should never hear it again.

“Blowing a lock out is not so easy in fact as in fiction,” said Smith. “But these are not the good old-fashioned kind of doors—just matchwood and three-ply. See what a hundred and seventy pounds can do with that one, Kerrigan. I’ll tackle this.”

Pushing Flammario aside, I stood back from the door to within a stride of the staircase and then, shoulder down, hurled myself upon it.

A metallic rattle and a faint creak rewarded my first charge. Smith had attacked that immediately facing the staircase. He had had no greater success.

“Kick a panel out, Kerrigan!” he cried. “There may be a key inside.”

I tried, whilst the strange woman from The Passion Fruit Tree urged us on.

“Go to it, boys!” she screamed huskily. “Never weaken» We are here to kill!”

I did some damage to the door, which, although stout, was of unseasoned wood. Failing to break through I cursed under my breath, clenched my teeth and once more standing back hurled my weight upon it. So successful was the second attack that the door crashed open I pitched head first into darkness.

Staggering to my feet, breathing heavily, I groped my way back to the doorway to find the switch. As I turned up the light, a sound of banging and splintering came from the landing outside.

I was in an untidy office. The drawers of a roll-top desk had been broken open and the place showed other evidences of a hasty search. However, it was empty, and it seemed to possess no other door. I ran back on to the landing just as Smith had kicked his right heel through a panel.

Reaching in, he evidently found a key, for a moment later the door was thrown open. I followed him into what proved to be a small suite, sitting-room, bedroom and bathroom, fitted up in an effeminate and luxurious manner.

There were framed pictures of women, mostly cabaret artistes, upon the walls; a deep-cushioned divan; a shaded lamp held aloft by an ivory nymph in a niche behind it. Fine Persian carpets covered the floor: I saw leopard skins and exotic furniture. There was a faint perfume in the place.

“This is Lou’s new nest,” said Flammario breathlessly;“I know his tracks.” She ran into the bedroom. “Not a trace. No one has been here.”

“Where is Ardatha?” muttered Smith. “Come on; the third door.”

But outside we pulled up at a hissed injunction, .and stood a while silent.

“Do you hear it?” cried Flammario. “That rat, Lou, is hiding in the loft!”

“How do we get to the loft?” snapped Smith.

“Through this door. There are two other rooms beyond, and a back stair to the loft.”

Turn and turn about. Smith and I hurled ourselves against the third door until at last with a splintering crash it gave. We crowded into a short passage, rooms right and left: both doors were wide open. In one which had shuttered windows we found the evidence for which we sought.

It was a bedroom with a bathroom attached. The lock of the door had been smashed in. The bed was disordered but the coverlet had not been turned down: in other words, no one had slept in the bed. Smith ran eagerly from point to point like a hound keen on the scent.

“This is where he had her locked up!” he cried.

“Sure!” snarled Flammario. “These cigarettes in the tray were smoked by a woman.”

“You are right! And after the door was crashed in, the woman was dragged out. It is easy enough to reconstruct the scene. And, hello, what have we here?”

I saw something glittering at his feet as, stooping, he picked up a ring—a beautifully-cut scarab of lapis lazuli set in a dull gold band. At sight of it I knew—and what I knew chilled me. No further possibility of doubt remained.

It was Ardatha’s ring.

CHAPTER XXIV

FLAMMARIO’S CLOAK SLIPS

“She was conscious when they carried her off,” said Smith. “This ring was left as a clue. A consolation to know that they did not drug her.”

But Flammario was already out in the passage which, as I saw now, terminated on a landing leading up to a back staircase. The stair ended before a small door.

We ran up. The landing before the door was so narrow as to give little purchase for an attack, but: “There’s no metal surround to this keyhole,” said Smith. “The door is fast. I shall try to shoot the lock out . . . . Ssh Listen!”

He and I stood still for a moment, listening again. A subdued scrambling sound which might almost have been made by a rat came to my ears.

“Here goes!” snapped Smith.

It was as he fired once, twice, and muffled detonations echoed weirdly about the place that I thought of Flammario—turned and found she was not there!

“Smith!” I cried, “Flammario has gone!”

“Can’t help that!” he cried. “Those shots will have brought up the raid squad.”

I followed him into a store-room lighted by a single lamp suspended from rafters.It contained nothing more than the usual lumber of suburban households, representing, I suspected some of the effects of the former occupant. Then I saw something else.

There was one window, a low gable window. That part of it made to open was not wide enough to permit the passage of a man’s body, but the frame of the larger part beneath had been forced out of place; fragments of glass lay on the floor, suggesting that, leaning through the opening above, someone who had been in the attic had knocked the glass in from the outside and then forced the sash. As Smith craned out: “A balcony just below,” he reported, “running outside those rooms we have already seen. And, hello!—a stair up to it from the garden!”

He turned and ran to the door.

“You understand, Kerrigan?” he cried. “Fu Manchu’s thugs got here before us! The man Cabot, who had Ardatha locked in that room below, bolted up here to save himself. What he had planned to do he has done: forced a way through this window, dropped on to the balcony below and, unless the police catch him—made a clean get-away!”

We were running along the lower passage now, making for the staircase.

A theory to account for the remarkable behaviour of Flammario at the moment that Smith and I had entered the loft had just begun to form in my mind as we ran down the stairs, across, and out through the kitchen to the back porch. The balcony from which the fugitive had made his escape ran along this side of the house. As we came into the darkness there. Smith, a pace ahead of me, pulled suddenly and grasped my wrist with a grip that hurt.

A high, piercing shriek, followed by gurgling, sobbing sounds split the silence frightfully.

As that dreadful cry died away I heard a shout, a sound of running footsteps. The police were closing in. Two paces forward we moved hesitantly, and there, half in shadow and half silhouetted against a silver curtain of moonlight, I saw Flammario. She stood at the foot of the steps leading down from the balcony. Her cloak had slipped: she looked like a sculptured Fury.

Hearing us, she turned in our direction. I could see the glitter of her amber eyes. Then, stepping into the shadows at her feet she retrieved the sable cloak, and threw it about her shoulders.

“I reckon that balances our account, Lou,” she panted.

Captain Beecher raced up to join us, followed by two other police officers, as a ray from Smith’s torch shone fully down upon a man who lay there. He was prone, but in falling had twisted his head sideways, as if at the moment that death came he had looked swiftly behind him. Staring eyes held a question which had been horribly answered.

It was the man of Panama.

His fingers were embedded in the turf on which he lay, and the hilt of a dagger decorated with silver which glittered evilly in the light, protruded squarely from between his shoulder-blades.

Police Captain Beecher glanced from the dead man to the fur-wrapped figure of Flammario, whose tawny eyes regarded him contemptuously.

“So we have you on the books at last!”

“Forget it!” rapped Smith; “she won’t run away. The girl, the girl who was captive here, has been carried off. She must not be smuggled out of Colon. Advise the port. Hold all outgoing shipping till further orders. Spare no efforts.”

But what with frustrated hopes and new fears, such a cloak of misery had descended upon me that I could not think consistently. There was movement all about; the issuing of rapid orders; men hurrying away. And presently, reaching me as if from a distance, came Smith’s words: “Take care of Flammario. After all, she has done her best for us. Return straight to the hotel.”

A hand touched my arm. I looked into brilliant amber eyes.

“Drive me back, please,” said Flammario, “or I shall be late for my show.”

Of what she said to me on the way back, this red-handed murderess, I recollect not one word. I know that her arms were about me. I presume it was a normal gesture employed whenever she found herself alone in a man’s company. I think, just before we reached the side entrance to The Passion Fruit Tree, that she kissed me on the lips, that I started back. She laughed huskily. I would have left her at the door, but: “You have lost your girl friend,” she said; “you must want a drink.” I think in her half-savage way she was trying to be sympathetic. “Go through there to the bar. If you wait, I have drink with you.”

As she ran towards her dressing-room, I opened the back door to the bar. It was true that suddenly, and only at that moment, did I realize how badly I needed a stiff brandy and soda. The barman turned swiftly, but recognizing me, allowed me to pass.

There was no one in the bar; and he had just placed my drink before me when the lights went out.

Morbid curiosity induced me to walk out on to the balcony. A subdued, excited hum of conversation rose from below: evidently there had been other arrivals. Then, to the muted strains of the unseen band. Flammario entered.

She stood there picked up by the lime and slowly began to dance—her lips set in the eternal, voluptuous smile of the African dancers of all time, the smile which lives forever upon the painted walls of Ancient Egypt.

CHAPTER XXV

A GREEN HAND

“Smith?” I said, “He’s not dying.”

“Thank God, no.”

He and I stood looking down at Sir Lionel Barton where he lay livid, his breathing scarcely perceptible. I turned to a man wearing a white jacket who stood at the front of the bed.

“You are sure, doctor?” Andrews nodded and his smile was reassuring.

“He’s had an emetic and I’ve washed him out with permanganate of potassium,” he replied. “Also, I’ve poured coffee down his throat—very strong. Fortunately he has a constitution like a bullock. Oh, he’ll be all right. I have given him a shot of atropine. We’ll have him round before long.”

“But how,” I said, looking about from face to face, “did this happen? What of the police officer on duty outside?”

“Went the same way!” repliedDr. Andrews; “but not for the same reason; nor is he responding so well.”

“How do you account for that?”

“You see”—the doctor took up a tumbler from a side-table—”this contains whisky, and also (I have tested it) a big shot of opium. In other words. Sir Lionel Barton has swallowed a narcotic and I have thoroughly washed him out. But the sergeant of police smoked a drugged cigarette.”

“What!”

“Yes,” snapped Smith. “I have the remains of the packet: they are all drugged.”

“But surely he could taste it?”

“No.” The physician shook his head. “Indian hemp was used in this case, and the brand of cigarette was of a character which”—he shrugged his shoulders—”would disguise almost anything.”

“But where could the man have obtained these cigarettes?”

“Don’t ask me, Kerrigan,” said Smith wearily. “As well ask why Barton, alone in these apartments, permitted someone to drug his whisky.”

“But was he alone here when you returned?”

“He was found alone. I was recalled from police headquarters, and from there I phoned you. They had discovered the police sergeant unconscious in the corridor. Naturally the management came in here, and found Barton.”

“Where was he?”

“In an armchair in the sitting-room, completely unconscious, with that glass beside him.”

“And?”

“Yes!We have lost our hostage, Kerrigan. The marmoset has gone.”

“But, Smith!” I cried, desperately, “it doesn’t seem humanly possible!”

“Anything is possible when one is dealing with Dr. Fu Manchu. The fact which we have to face is that it has happened. Two men, fully capable of taking care of themselves, fully on the alert, are drugged. Someone, unseen by anybody in the hotel, gains access to these rooms, removes the cage containing the marmoset and lowers it out of the sitting-room window, which I found open, to someone else waiting in the garden below. At that late hour the garden would be deserted. In short, the rest of the matter is simple.”

“Thank God, old Barton has survived,” I said. “But heaven help us all—we are fighting a phantom . . . . Ardatha!”

Smith leaned across the bed on which the unconscious man lay and grasped my shoulder.

“Fu Manchu has recovered her. It may be an odd thing to say, when speaking of the greatest power for evil living in the world today, but for my part I would rather think of her with the Doctor than with—”

“Lou Cabot? Yes, I agree.”

“In taking no part in your conversation, gentlemen,” said Dr. Andrews, “I am actuated by a very simple motive. I don’t know what you are talking about. That there is or was someone called Dr. Fu Manchu I seem to have heard, certainly. In what way he is associated with my two patients I do not know. But regarding Lou Cabot—I presume you refer to the proprietor of The Passion Fruit Tree—you touch upon familiar territory. I have had the doubtful honour of attending this man on more than one occasion.”

“You will attend him no more,” said Smith.

“What is that?”

“He’s dead,” I began.

Smith flashed a silent, urgent message to me, and: “He died tonight, doctor, up at Santurce,” he explained, “under mysterious circumstances.”

“Good riddance!” murmuredDr. Andrews. “A more cunning villain never contrived to plant himself in the Canal Zone. The fellow was an agent for some foreign government. Doctors must not tell, but I heard strange things when he was delirious on one occasion.”

“Foreign government,” murmured Smith, staring shrewdly at the speaker. “Perhaps a foreign power, doctor, but not a government—yet.”

* * *

Several hours elapsed before Barton became capable of coherent speech. The man drugged with hashish cigarettes was causing Dr. Andrews some anxiety. Lying back in an armchair, visibly pale in spite of a sun-tan on a naturally florid skin, Barton stared at us. It was dawn, and to me a wretched one.

No clue, not even the most slender, as to the whereabouts of Ardatha had been picked up. Flammario had forced a confession from the hunchback Paulo. The agents of the Si-Fan had intercepted him as he had returned with the news for which she was seeking. In this way, by less than twenty minutes, the Si-Fan ‘ had anticipated our visit to the villa occupied by Lou Cabot, the circumstances of whose death the authorities had agreed to hush up in the interest of the vastly more important inquiry being carried out by Nayland Smith.

“I must be getting old,” said Barton weakly. “At any rate, I feel damned sick. Definitely, I refuse to drink any more coffee.”

“Very well,” said Smith, “but whisky is taboo until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! It’s tomorrow already,” growled Barton. His blue eyes were rapidly regaining their normal fire. “Naturally you want to know how I came to make such an infernal ass of myself. Well, I can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell us?”

“I mean I don’t know. I had just mixed myself a final and was going out to make sure that the police officer you were kind enough to allot to me (whose presence I had discovered earlier) was awake, when I thought I heard that damned padding sound.”

“You mean the soft footsteps we have heard before?”

“Yes. Now let me give you the exact facts. I assure you they are peculiar. I had been to take a look at that blasted marmoset. He was asleep. I opened the door of my own room on to the main corridor, and glanced along to see if the police officer was awake. He was. He sang out, and I wished him good-night; but he is a garrulous fellow and he held me in conversation for some time.”

“Your door remaining open?” suggested Smith. “Yes—that’s the point.”

“Was the sergeant smoking?”

“He smoked all the time.”

“Was his manner normal?”

‘“Undoubtedly. Never stopped talking.”

“And you heard no unusual sound?”

“None whatever. I came in, sat down, lighted a pipe and was about to take a drink—when I saw something. I want to make it clear. Smith, that I saw this before I took the drink and I want to add that it was not a delusion and that I was very wide awake.”

“What did you see?” Barton stared truculently at Smith as he replied: saw a green hand”

“A green hand!” I echoed.

Smith began to pace up and down restlessly, tugging at the lobe of his left ear.

“I saw a human hand floating in space—no arm, no body. It was sea green in colour. It was visible for no more than a matter of ten seconds; then it vanished. It was over by the door, there—’

“What did you do?” snapped Smith.

“I ran to the spot. I searched everywhere. I began to wonder if there was anything wrong with me. This prompted me idea of a drink, so I sat down and took one. The last thing I remember thinking is that this hotel sells the world’s worst whisky.”

“You mean that you fell asleep?”

“No doubt about it.”

Smith kept up that restless promenade.

“A green hand,” he muttered, “And those padding footsteps! What is it? What in heaven’s name is it?”

“I don’t know what it is,” growled Barton, “but I thank God I’m alive. It’s Fu Manchu—of that I am certain. But there’s no love lost between us. Why didn’t he finish me?”

“That I think I can answer,” Smith replied. “Several days have yet to elapse before his First Notice or ultimatum expires. The Doctor has a nice sense of decorum.”

“I gather that he has recaptured the girl Ardatha. You have my very sincere sympathy, Kerrigan. I don’t know what to say.I, alone, am responsible and I lost your hostage.”

I bent down and shook his hand, as he lay back in the armchair.

“Not a word. Barton,” I said, “on that subject.Our enemy uses mysterious weapons which neither you nor I know how to counter.”

“Death by The Snapping Fingers,” murmured Smith. “The green hand and the Shadow which comes and goes, but which no one ever sees. How did Fu Manchu get here? Where did he hide? How does he travel and where has he gone?” He pulled up in front of me. “You have to make a quick decision, Kerrigan. As you know, my plans are fixed. Tomorrow we leave for Port au Prince.”

“I know,” I groaned; “and I know that it would be useless for me to remain behind.”

CHAPTER XXVI

SECOND NOTICE

Only my knowledge that in war-scarred Europe many thousands suffered just as I was suffering held me up during the next few days. Although I know I dreamed of her every night, resolutely in the waking hours I strove to banish all thought of Ardatha from my mind. As I saw the matter, we had lost every trick so far. In a mood of deadly, useless introspection I remained throughout the journey to Haiti. For the time all zest for the battle left me; and then it returned in the form of a cold resolution, If she were alive I would find her again; I would face the dreadful Chinese doctor who held her life in his hands, and accept any price which he exacted from me for her freedom—short of betraying my principles.

Many times I had opened the glass front of the box containing the shrivelled head, and had pressed the red control. It had remained silent. But these notes, actually written some time later, bring me to the occurrence which jolted me sharply back from a sort of fatalistic passivity to active interest in affairs of the moment.

We were quartered in a hotel in Port au Prince; not that in which The Snapping Fingers had appeared. Nayland Smith habitually eschewed official residences, preferring complete freedom of movement. The beauty of Haiti, its flowers and trees arid trailing vines; the gay-plumaged birds and painted butterflies; those sunsets passing from shell pink through every colour appreciated by the human eye into deep purple night: all formed but a gaudy background to my sorrow. For those purple nights, throughout which distant drums beat ceaselessly—remorselessly—to me seemed to be throbbing her name: Ardatha—Ardatha Can I ever forget the dark hours in Haiti?

Following such a spell of restless drum-haunted insomnia, I came downstairs one morning, a morning destined to be memorable.

One side of the dining-room opened upon a pleasant tropical garden in which palms mingled with star apple trees and flowering creepers which formed festoons from branch to branch and trellised the pillars against one of which our table was set. At this season, we had learned from the proprietor, business normally was slack; but as in Cristobal, the hotel was full. In fact, failing instructions sent to the American consul, I doubt if we should have secured accommodation. Even so, our party had been split up; and looking around, whilst making my way across to my friends, I recognized the fact that of the twelve or fifteen people present in the dining-room, there were at least four whom I had seen in Colon!

Taking my place at the table: “Are these spies following us, Smith?” I asked, wearily shaking out my napkin, “or are we following them?”

“The very thing, Kemgan,” said Barton in a whisper audible a hundred yards away, “which I have been asking Smith.”

“Neither,” Smith replied shortly. “But the position of the Allied forces in Europe is so critical that if action is to come from this side of the Atlantic, it must come soon. I don’t suggest that the British Empire is in danger; I mean that any other Power wishing to take a hand in the game must act now or never. The United States is not impregnable on the Carribbean front. At least one belligerent is watching, and possibly a “neutral5. Dr. Fu Manchu is watching all of them.” He pushed his plate aside and lighted a cigarette. “Had a good night, Kerrigan?”

“Not too good. Did you?”

“No. Those infernal drums.”

“Exactly.”

“I thought I was back in Africa,” growled Barton. “Felt that way the first time I landed here.”

“It is Africa,” said Smith shortly. “An African island in the Caribbean. Those drums which beat all through the night, near, and far, on hills and in the valleys—since we arrived, do you know what they have been saying?”

I stared at him perhaps a little vacantly.

“No,” I replied; “the language of African drums is a closed book to me.”

“It used to be to me.” He ceased speaking as a Haitian waiter placed grape fruit before me and withdrew. “But they use drums in Burma, you know—in fact, all over India. In my then capacity—Gad! it seems many years ago—I went out of my way to learn how messages were flashed quicker than the telegraph could work, quick as radio, from one end of the country to another. I picked up the elements, but I can’t claim to be an expert. When you and I were together”—he turned to Barton—”in Egypt, and afterwards on the business of the Mask of the Veiled Prophet, I tried to bring my information up to date, but the language of these negro drums is a different language. Nevertheless, I know what the drums are saying.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “They are notifying someone, somewhere, that we are here.

Every move we make, Kerrigan, is being signalled.”

“To Fu Manchu?” asked Barton.

Smith hesitated for a moment, puffing at his cigarette as though it had been a pipe; then: “I am not sure,” he returned slowly. “I have been here before, remember; my only other visit was a short one. But during the night I used to note the drum beats. And working upon what I knew of drum language I ultimately identified, or think I did, the note which meant myself.”

“Amazing!” exclaimed Barton. “I have a bundle of notes some three hundred pages long on drum language, but I don’t believe I could identify my own name in any of them.”

“I say,” said Smith, still speaking very slowly, “that I am not sure. But I formed the impression at that time, and later events have strengthened it, that the drummers were not speaking to Dr. Fu Manchu. We can roughly identify the Doctor by his deeds. We know, for example, that The Snapping Fingers is operated by Dr. Fu Manchu. We know that the padding footsteps, the Shadow which comes and goes, is controlled by him. It was this Shadow which penetrated to our quarters in Colon and put opium in your whisky. The same Shadow which, unseen by the police officer, substituted a packed of drugged cigarettes for those which temporarily lay upon a ledge beside him. To these phenomena we must add now the Green Hand. But more and more, I find myself thinking about the woman called Queen Mamaloi—”

He paused, laid his cigarette down, and: “Good God!” he exclaimed.

An envelope had appeared upon the table beside his plate. No waiter was near. The next occupied table—for Smith had recognized the presence of a number of agents in the hotel—was well removed from ours.

“It came from the garden path there,” spluttered Barton. “I positively saw it blow up.”

I had merely seen it drop beside the plate. I remained silent, dumbfounded. Smith’s jaw muscles became very prominent, but he hesitated only a moment, and then with a table knife he split the envelope. He read aloud in a perfectly toneless voice:

SECOND NOTICE.

The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan point out that no reply has been received to its First Notice. Two Powers have opened negotiations with the Council relative to a readjustment of naval forces in the Caribbean and Panama waters. A copy of this Second Notice has been sent to Washington. You have three days.

President of the Council.

CHAPTER XXVII

FATHER AMBROSE

Father ambrose, s.j., arrived immediately after breakfast Father Ambrose had been recommended to Smith by Colonel Kennard Wood as one who knew more about Haiti than any other white resident. He was a stout, amiable-looking cleric, wearing glasses and carrying a heavy blackthome. He had a notably musical voice; and his rather sleepy eyes held a profound knowledge of men and their affairs.

The meeting took place in Smith’s room—as this was the largest; and he, having cordially welcomed the priest, broached the real business of the interview with a strange question: “Are you acquainted. Father Ambrose, with the superstition of the Zombie” Dead men who are dug up and restored to a sort of life?”

“Certainly,” the priest replied, in that rich, easy voice, “t is no superstition—it is a fact.”

“You mean that?” Barton challenged.

“I mean it. You see, these dead are not really dead; they are buried alive. These people, I mean the exponents of Voodoo, are acquainted with some kind of poison, or so I read it, which produces catalepsy. In this condition the victims are buried and their identities lost. They are then secretly dug up again and restored in the form of that dreadful creature—a Zombie. Personality has gone; in fact one would say that the soul had gone. They are entirely under the control of the Voodoo doctor.”

“You see, Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “Dr. Fu Manchu” is not the only man who knows this strange secret.”

“I have heard of Dr. Fu Manchu,” said the priest, “but to my knowledge he has never been in Haiti.”

“That,” said Barton, “e shall make it our business to find out.”

“The Zombie, then, in your view,” Smith went on rapidly, “is not just a Negro variety of the vampire tradition, but a scientific fact?”

Undoubtedly. The thing has been practised here in quite recent times—may be practised now.” A shadow crossed the speaker’s face. “Many of my flock, a large and scattered one, are, I regret to say, both professed Roman Catholics and also secret devotees of Voodoo.” He shook his head. “I can do nothing to stop it.”

“It is the cult of the serpent,” growled Barton. “This knowledge of unfamiliar drugs and of hypnotic suggestion has come down from West Africa, but it reached West Africa from Ancient Egypt. The recurrence of the Ra symbol and the importance of the snake prove my point, I think.”

“I quite agree with you,” Father Ambrose replied. “That point has not actually been established, but I hope to establish it before I die.”He fumbled for a moment in his pocket, and: “I recovered this from a penitent recently,” he added, and handed something to Smith.

Smith held it in the palm of his hand, staring down at it curiously. Gaily-plumaged birds flew from branch to branch outside the open window; there were strange movements in the crests of the coconut palms; the drums of the night were silent. I stood up to obtain a closer view of the object which the priest had produced.It was the figure of a snake, crudely carved in some soft wood and coloured green.

“Does any special significance attach to this?” Smith asked.

“Yes.” The priest nodded gloomily. “You see, this abominable cult, which in my opinion today has its head centre in Haiti, is divided up into sects; actually it is a kind of heathen religion. Each of these sects has a distinguishing mark or badge; the green serpent is that of a group or lodge to which my penitent belongs, or did belong. I made him swear that he would never attend again.”

“But how are the things used?” asked Smith.

“As passports!” said Barton. “They are used as a means of recognition. The analogy may be blasphemous. Father, but the Sign of the Cross was employed in a similar way amongst the early Christians. Other lodges have other symbols, of course, several of which I possess. In fact, I have a selection with me: thought they might be useful.”

“I see,” muttered Smith. He laid the little amulet thoughtfully on the table before him. “In your experience, are all these people pure Africans?”

“Not at all.” The priest shook his head. “Many people who have very little Negro blood are followers of Voodoo; some—who have none at all.”

“You amaze me!” I exclaimed.

He gave me a glance of his mild eyes.

“There is undoubtedly power in Voodoo,” he said sadly. “And to grasp power, unscrupulous men will follow strange paths. who could control this movement would have much power.”

“I quite agree,” said Smith. “I think I know one who has already done so. Another question. Father.Do you recall recent deaths due to The Snapping Fingers?”

“I recall them very well.”

“Would you ascribe them to Voodoo?”

The priest hesitated. He had produced a huge, curved calabash pipe, and as Smith passed his pouch: “I have warned you,” he said, indicating the enormous bowl, “and I hope you have plenty of tobacco in reserve. Now you have posed me a difficult question. Sir Denis. By the coloured population those deaths were universally accepted as the works of Voodoo. In the matter of their direction they may have been. Myself, I always thought they were due to some natural cause.”

“You mean some creature,” Smith suggested.

“Yes.” The last few strands of nearly half an ounce of tobacco had disappeared into the mighty bowl. “Some odd things live here, you know. And owing to the fact that Haiti is not yet fully developed, I imagine that there are others which have not yet been classified.”

Smith began to pace up and down; then: “Just glance at this map,” he jerked suddenly.

He opened on the cane table a large-scale map of Haiti. Barton’s blue eyes danced with curiosity; he, too, stood up as the priest bent over the map.

“Yes,” said Father Ambrose,“it is a good map. I know most of the routes.”

“You observe a red ring drawn around an area in the north.”

“I had noted it. Unfortunately, it is a part of Haiti with which I am imperfectly acquainted. My confrere. Father Lucien, looks after that area.”

“Nevertheless,” said Smith, “You certainly know it better than I do. I am going to ask you. Father, if you have ever heard of a legend, or tradition, of a large cave along that coast?”

“There are many,” the priest returned, puffing out great curls of tobacco smoke. “That rugged coast is honeycombed with caves. Perhaps you are referring to Christophe’s Cave, which so many people have tried to find, but which I am .disposed to think is certainly a legend.”

“Ah!” growled Barton.

“It has been suggested to me,” Father Ambrose smiled, “that the object of your present visit. Sir Lionel, is to look for Christophe’s treasure. I remember you were here a year or two ago, although I did not meet you then. But I may give you a warning. What information you have it is not my business to inquire, but much gold and some human lives have been wasted during the past century in that quest. Christophe’s Cavern has a history nearly as bad as that of Cocos Island.”

“You surprise me,” murmured Smith, laying the tip of his forefinger upon a point within the red circle upon the map. “But here, I am informed, there is a ruined chapel dating back to French days. Am I right?”

“You would have been a week ago.”

“What!”

Barton and Smith were staring eagerly at the speaker.

“The chapel was either struck by a thunderbolt or blown up by human hands at some time during last Thursday night. Scarcely one stone was left standing upon another. I had a full report in a letter of this mysterious occurrence from Father Lucien.”

Smith and Barton exchanged glances.

“Perhaps you realize now. Barton,” said Smith, “that Dr. Fu Manchu—one morning in New York, if I am not mistaken—took steps to check the chart in his possession from the original which you held . . . . ”

The ruined chapel, now demolished, had marked the entrance to Christophe’s Cavern!

* * *

“Queen Mamaloi,” said Father Ambrose in a low tone. “Yes, unfortunately, there is such a person.”

“She is not a myth?”

“Not at all—I wish she were. Who or what she is I cannot tell you. Only selected devotees of Voodoo have ever seen her.”

“Has there always been a Queen Mamaloi?” I asked.

The priest shook his head.

“Not to my knowledge.One never heard of her in Haiti until about”—he considered— “about 1938, I suppose. She is some very special sorceress, perhaps imported from Africa.”

“I thought,” said Barton in his coarsely jovial way, “that the Jesuits knew everything.”

Father Ambrose smiled.

“We know many things,” he replied, “but no man knows everything.”

“Are you acquainted”—Smith spoke slowly and emphatically—”with anyone who has seen this woman?”

“I am.” Father Ambrose indicated the little amulet on the cane table. “This penitent has seen her. Hence my putting the fear of hell into him and confiscating his charm.”

“Did he describe her?”

“He was too excited at the time,—I gather these meetings are orgiastic, you know—to be a credible witness. But one point I established quite firmly. She is not black.”

‘‘What!” Smith’s eyes glinted with sudden excitement. “You are sure of that?”

“Perfectly sure.”

“A white woman?” Father Ambrose extended his stout palms.

“Probably negro blood. Some of them, you know, are as white as you or I. I suppose that a European woman could have obtained this hold over the coloured people: it extends, mark you, beyond the boundaries of Haiti. At the great ceremony of the Full Moon—”

“Tomorrow night!” snapped Smith.

“Yes, there is to be a meeting tomorrow night, and many will come over the borders, nor”—he spoke sadly—”will they all be black. We fight phantoms here. Sir Denis, but we shall win in the end.”

Smith was pacing up and down again, furiously loading his cracked old briar. Suddenly he turned to Barton.

“You hear. Barton?” he said. “You hear? Two moves are open to us. In one, I fancy, we have been anticipated by Dr. Fu Manchu. I consider it at least equally important that we should see this woman.”

“And I assure you,” Father Ambrose interrupted, “that it is quite impossible you should see her, whatever your reason may be. Haiti is highly civilized, as you know—” he smiled; “but for any white man ignorant of Voodoo ritual to attempt to penetrate to that place, would be”—he shrugged his broad shoulders—”shall we say as dangerous as for one to walk into Mecca?”

“You say ‘that place’,” Smith remarked.

“Yes.”

“Does this mean (hat you know where it is?”

The priest hesitated, and then: “Yes, I know,” he replied. “But it is contrary to the dictates of my conscience to tell you. Voodoo is undoubtedly the work of Satan. I would encourage no man to touch it. It is, as you yourself have suggested, a survival of pagan creeds older than Christianity. It is the worship of the hidden side of the Moon.”

There was a brief silence during which Nayland Smith paced restlessly up and down, and the bowl of the priest’s pipe bubbled unmusically.

“I don’t presume. Father, to interfere with your conscience. But let me make our position a little more clear. For your private information I am not treasure-hunting, although it is true that I hope to find Christophe’s Cave. I am acting for the United States Government and for my own. There are two movements taking place in Haiti: one mechanical, the other psychological. It is my business to investigate both. You say yourself that Voodoo has great power. You evidently know a lot about it, more than you have told us. But one thing you do not know. A Secret Society and a very old one, the Si-Fan—”

“The Si-Fan!” interjected Father Ambrose. “But what has the Si-Fan to do with Haiti? You see”—he smiled apologetically « “I was in Tibet for four years before I came here. Nearly as many of my converts there were members of the Si-Fan as here they are devotees of Voodoo.”

‘“No doubt!” said Smith. “The roots of the Si-Fan may not go as deep as those of Voodoo, but nevertheless it is an ancient organization, and a very powerful one. It is controlled by a Chinese genius. It includes all races and creeds—all shades of colour. Personally I cannot say for how long it has included Voodoo.”

“What!”

“The Si-Fan is almost purely political. I need not emphasize the underground influence which could be set in motion by control of Voodoo. But those influences are already at work. There is a concrete danger to the United States Government growing hour by hour and day by day in the Caribbean. Several agents who have been sent to investigate have died or have never returned.”

“I confess,95 murmured the priest, “at I know of one, myself.”

“There have been many. And this woman, the Queen Mamaloi, is undoubtedly an agent of the Si-Fan. I am urged by no idle curiosity. It is my plain duty to see this woman, to establish her identity—to check her activities. Now, I have been making some inquiries myself.”

He turned again to the map and rested the point of a pencil upon a spot which appeared to be the peak of a mountain close to the Dominican border. He glanced interrogatively at the priest.

Father Ambrose nodded.

“Yes, that is the headquarters of Voodoo in Haiti,” he admitted. “Mome la Selle, the Magic Mountain. I cannot deny it; I can see it from my own windows at Kenscoff: but I would point out that if you go with a considerable armed party, you will find no one there; and that if you go alone, you will certainly never return.”

Smith relighted his pipe.

“You do more than your duty. Father,” he said. “We have heard your warning and we do not take it lightly. But I have a duty as well as you, and I am going to be present at this meeting.” He took up the little snake amulet. “Is it consistent with your convictions that I should borrow this?”

The priest’s pipe bubbled, great rings of smoke rose from the steaming bowl. At last: “You place the matter in a new light. Sir Denis,” he said. “I believe I shall be justified in withdrawing my opposition.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

DRUMS IN THE NIGHT

“We know roughly what we have to expect,” said Nayland Smith; “and I think our plans cover all the possibilities we can foresee.”

“I regret every moment lost in getting to work on the cave,” cried Barton. “There’s a party of United States marines ready to land. Even with their help it may take some time to clear the debris of the old chapel. In the present state of the war over there, Fu Manchu’s chance might come tomorrow!”

“And tomorrow we set to work,” snapped Smith. “Tonight I might have another job to do—”

“Which may iron you out altogether!”

“Barton,” said Smith, “I regret to have to remind you that I am in charge of this party. Be good enough to listen. Near the top of Mome la Selle, our destination, there is a perfectly flat plateau. As the place is a Voodoo holy-of-holies, the American authorities have contented themselves with aerial survey. But it’s a good landing ground. Three Army planes are standing by. They are our rearguard. Barton, and you’re in command. I am not prepared to trust a soul in Haiti now that I know the Si-Fan is here. Nobody but you knows when those planes start, or where they are going.”

“Right,” growled Barton. “You know you can count on me.”

“One thing is important: I must see the Queen Mamaloi; and the time of departure I have given you allows for the starting of the ceremony. Don’t start a moment earlier.”

It was afternoon before Smith and I set out for the house of Father Ambrose in Kenscoff. We went in the car of the American consul—and saloons are rare in Port au Prince. The consul’s chauffeur drove us. Smith’s plans were peculiarly complete, as I was presently to learn; but at the outset he was very silent, filling the interior of the car with clouds of tobacco smoke. I realized as the journey proceeded what he had meant when he had said, “This is Africa.” The route betrayed a vista of wild, unspoiled beauty. There were magnificent trees, banks of flowers, and, once clear of the town, absence of any evidence to show that we were not indeed in tropical Africa.

Although this was a modem road, the dwellings which bordered it might have had their being in Timbuctoo. An all but unbroken file of Haitian women, each with a burden of vegetables, fruit or other produce upon her head wound its way ant-like down to the market place; a returning stream marched upwards. I saw no white faces from the time that we left the borders of the town. But below, a wonderful prospect was unfolded.

From above. Port au Prince, nestling in a cup between two mountains, reminded me momentarily of Damascus seen from the Lebanon hills. Beyond, seemingly floating on a blue sea. La Gonave, the mystery island, alone disturbed the blue expanse of ocean to the horizon. Little curiosity was displayed by the hundreds of natives we passed. Exceptions were a fierce-eyed old woman riding a donkey, and a tall, distinguished-looking mulatto who carried a staff. The interest of this pair, I thought, although they were a mile or more apart, was definitely hostile. As the car passed the tall mulatto and his fierce glance sought us out in passing: “We are covered, Kerrigan,” said Smith. “Did you note that man?”

“Yes.”

“One of the Voodoo doctors, beyond doubt. Drums will beat feverishly tonight.”

He said no more right up to the moment that we reached the priest’s house, a long, low, creeper-clad building, flowers climbing above a verandah which overlooked a tropical garden where humming birds hovered and butterflies of incredible colours flitted from flower to flower. As we descended from the car: “The Father has comfortable quarters,” murmured Smith.

We were met by the genial priest and shown into a cool and spacious study. I thought, looking about me at the plain un-painted shelves laden with works in many languages, at the littered working-desk, a typewriter on a side table and a large crucifix upon a white wall, that here, probably, was the headquarters of Rome in its battle against African superstition, an advance post of Christianity all but hemmed in by the forces of ancient and evil gods.

* * *

When dusk fell Smith andI, with Father Ambrose, were in the garden. I looked into the crimson sunset and wondered what the new dawn would bring. With dramatic suddenness, the sky became a mirror of glorious colour—light jade, deep purple and a shell-like pink—all merging as I watched into an inverted casket of blue velvet, holding a million diamonds. A queenly moon rode in that serene heaven.

“It is time we went in,” said Father Ambrose.

Back in the study, now electrically lighted, for there was a small Kohler engine installed in the garage, I stood staring at Smith and he stared at me. We were heavily sun-burned, yet, except in the dusk, no man, I think, could have been deceived by our substitutes, two trustworthy lads selected by the priest who, wearing our clothes, had gone back in the consul’s car and would sleep in his compound that night. It was hoped, in this way, to lead spies to believe that we had returned to Port au Prince.

Smith wore an ill-fitting drill suit and a straw hat. I was similarly attired, except that I boasted a scarlet pullover beneath my jacket. My own headgear was a pith helmet of sorts.

“How many spare rounds in your belt?” Smith snapped.

“Twelve.”

He nodded grimly.

“More would be useless.”

As he began to load his pipe. Father Ambrose closed gauze shutters before the windows.

“The light attracts many nocturnal insects,” he explained; “some are beautiful, but others are unpleasant.”

Smith lighted his pipe and standing by the desk took from his pocket two objects. One was the green snake lent to us by the priest: the other was a jewel in the form of a seven-pointed star.

“This is the amulet from Barton’s collection,” he said, “to which I referred. Father.”

Father Ambrose changed his glasses and sitting down carefully examined the glittering jewel. Presently he looked up.

“The snake emblem, as I have told you,” he said, “denotes a shepherd, papaloi, or—shall we say?—a lodge master. But this”—he touched it gingerly—”is the badge of a high adept, or grand master. Strange how the significance of 7 haunts the pagan mysteries. I cannot imgaine where Sir Lionel obtained it.”

Smith laughed.

“The same has been said of many pieces in Barton’s collection! But I may take it that these tokens will pass?”

“I have little doubt of that, but grave doubt of my wisdom in countenancing this thing. Both are emblems of Damballa, the serpent god, and are anti-Christ, like the swastika. However, I have promised and I do my part. I have shown you the way to the spot where the donkeys are tethered, and when we have sampled a glass each of my rum cordial—a very special honour, I assure you—I fear you must set out.”

We sampled his rum cordial in the lamp-lit room, a book-lined oasis in a Haitian jungle, and anxiously he gave us final advice, unwittingly displaying, as he did so, a vast knowledge of this country in which he was absorbed. Finally, glancing at a clock upon his desk: “It is time that you started,” he said.”! should like to give you my blessing.”

A queer dignity invested the stout priest, as laying down his vast calabash pipe on a tray, he stood up. Although neither Smith nor I were communicants of his Church we knelt as though prompted by one instinct whilst, his deep voice lending authority to the Latin, he blessed our journey.

Five minutes later we had groped our way to the end of a narrow lane which bordered the bottom of the priest’s garden, where scarcely visible lizards shot phantomesque from before our advancing feet. The lanterns of fire-flies seemed to guide us. Two well-kept, patient donkeys were tethered there, saddled and ready, but unattended. As we tightened a strap here and there, and presently mounted: “This end of the business has been perfectly handled,” said Smith. “Barton is dining with the American Consul tonight as arranged, but amongst the servants there will almost certainly be one spy, and our absence will be reported.”

We ambled out onto the road that led up to the mountain; others, mostly on foot, were making in the same direction. And as though our joining that mysterious procession had been the signal, from before us, in the high forests, from behind us in the valleys, from all around—the drums began.

“After dark,” said Smith in a low voice, “Haiti reverts to its ancient gods.”

But we had jogged onward and upward for many miles talking in low tones before we came to the beginning of the most perilous road I remembered ever to have seen,

It skirted sheer precipices, and I doubt if two riders could have passed upon it. But this way the dark figures were going and none were coming back. I could see it ahead, a silver thread picked out by the moon, ant-like humans moving along it. In a sort of rocky bay Smith reined up.

“We have three hours yet,” he said. “I want to listen to the drums.”

We stayed there listening to the drums for five, seven, ten minutes. It was a language strange to me. Messages and responses merged into one confused throbbing; that throbbing which had haunted my nights, kept me wakeful when I should have been sleeping. Figures afoot, figures mounted, passed by the little belt of shade in which we lingered—all bound for the secret meeting place on the crest of the mountain. Some of the pilgrims carried lanterns; some carried torches. Presently: “I am in the news,” said Smith in a low voice, “but I can gather no more. You see, I know what may be termed my ‘signature tune’.”

Then, mounted on a mule, clearly outlined against the pearly moon, a figure rode slowly by. Apart from a sensation of lowered temperature, it was impossible to mistake the angular figure ~ impossible to mistake the profile.

It was Dr. Fu Manchu.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE SONG OF DAMBALLA

“Smith,” I whispered, “did you see? Did you see? It wasDr. Fu Manchu.”

“I saw.”

“I could have shot him!”

“That would have been a tactical blunder. But apparently he did not see us. There is even a possibility that he does not know that we are on this road. You noticed his retinue?”

“Six or eight thick-set fellows seemed to be preceding and as many to be following him.”

“His Burmese bodyguard.”

“But what does this mean? That the Voodoo ceremony is organized by Fu Manchu? That we are walking into a trap?”

“Somehow I don’t think so, Kerrigan, although I admit I may be wrong. But the presence of Fu Manchu in person rather confirms the theory on which I am acting.”

The eerie throbbing of the drums was now unbroken, a sort of evil pulse as of a secret world awakening. Figures, mostly on foot, singly and in groups passed the shadowed bay in the rocks which shielded us. Sometimes, but rarely, a mounted man or woman went by.

“Surely, Smith,” I said, “we should have kept him in view?”

“That would have been too dangerous. Moreover, it is reasonable to assume that he is bound for the same destination as ourselves. Great caution is indicated. We carry our lives in our hands, although I have not failed to take suitable steps to prevent the worst befalling. I may add that I don’t like the look of the mountain path which now lies before us, but nevertheless we must push on.”

We resumed our journey along a path cut from the face of a sheer precipice, a path which at no point was more than ten feet wide and at many, less. No wall or parapet was present, and the donkeys. Smith’s leading, after the way of their kind resolutely refused to hug the rugged wall and picked their ambling way along the very rim of the road.

I found it to be quite impossible to look down into that moon-patched valley below. I concentrated on the path ahead, where, emerging from shadow into silvery light, countless figures toiled onward and upward, their going marked by torch or lantern. Clearly one could trace it—a Jewelled thread woven at a dizzy height into the mountain side.

Now, there was a frosty nip in the air, and I was thankful for the advice of Father Ambrose, acting upon which we had wrapped ourselves warmly beneath our ancient drill jackets. Once—and my throat grew dry—a more speedy party overtook us on the way; a group of three Haitians swinging along with lithe, almost silent tread. Having attempted to urge my donkey to the inner side of the path and succeeded only in inducing him to kick a number of stones into the yawning chasm below, I was compelled to allow them to pass on my left. They were tall, powerful fellows, and it occurred to me that a good thrust from any one of them would have precipitated me and the obstinate little brute I rode into the depths beneath. Others there were on the path behind; but they did not seem to be overtaking us.

Then, from that seemingly endless procession, from thousands of feet above, and from behind, where the tail of the pilgrimage straggled up from the valleys, arose a low chanting-It seemed to mingle with the throb of the drums, to be part of the black magic to which this night was consecrated.

“Do you hear it?” came Smith’s voice. “Yes—it’s horrible.”

“It is known, I believe, as the Song of Damballa. Of course, it is purely African in character.”

He spoke as one who criticizes some custom depicted upon a movie screen or mentioned by a travelled member in the bar of a club. Knowing, and I knew it well, that we were surrounded by devil worshippers, by those who delighted in human sacrifice, among whom, if they suspected our purpose, our lives would not be worth a sou, I was amazed. Often enough I had been amazed before at the imperturbable self-possession, a concentration on the Job in hand, a complete disregard of personal hazard, which characterized this lean and implacable enemy of Dr. Fu Manchu. And I confess that above all other perils I feared Dr. Fu Manchu.

Discovery by the woman called Queen Mamaloi was a prospect bad enough, but recognition of the fact that the Chinese doctor was possibly directing this black saturnalia frankly appalled me. And now from far in the rear came a new sound.

There were cries, greetings. Above the Song of Darnballa, the throbbing of drums, I detected the clatter of horse’s hoofs.

“This may be difficult,” said Smith, speaking over his shoulder. “Some senior official is apparently approaching, and ii is just possible—”

“God help us!” I groaned.

“We can probably manage,” Smith replied, “assuming that he is Haitian—although I confess I should prefer to have my back to the wall. You have no Chinese or Hindustani?”

“Not a word.”

“Arabic, then. This has a powerful effect on these descendants of West Africans. It has come down to them as the language of their oppressors.”

“Yes, I have a smattering of Arabic.”

“Good. If anyone addresses you, reply in Arabic. Say anything you can remember—don’t stop to consider the meaning.”

Now, the outcry grew nearer. The horseman was forcing his way up the mountain path, passing the slow moving pilgrims to the shrine of Voodoo. I looked back. We had just negotiated a dizzy bend and I could see nothing of the approaching rider.

* * *

“Have your gun ready,” said Smith, and brought his donkey to a halt.

I did the same, although the iron-jawed little beast was strongly disinclined to pull up. The horseman was now not fifty yards behind.

“If he is looking for us,” said Smith, “and we are recognized, don’t hesitate.”

Looking back, I could make out dimly that the pilgrims between ourselves and the perilous bend had halted their march and were standing back against the rocky wall to give passage to the horseman. A moment later he rounded the comer, riding a lean bay mare and obviously indifferent, to the chasm which yawned beneath him. As he passed each of the standing figures he bent in his saddle and seemed to scrutinize features. A moment later he had reached us.

He partly reined up and bent, looking into my face. I sat in the shadow, the moon behind me, but its light shone directly upon the features of the mounted man.

He was that fierce-eyed mulatto whom we had passed on our way to the house of Father Ambrose, who had stared so hard into the car!

He shouted something in a strange patois, and remembering Smith’s injunction: “Imshi ruah Bundukiyah I replied sharply.

The mulatto seemed to hesitate; then, as the prancing bay almost lashed the flanks of my donkey: “Yalla Ydlla” cried Smith.

The mulatto spurred ahead.

“Move!” said Smith; “or the others will overtake us.”

And once again we proceeded on our way.

We presently came to a welcome break or bay in that perilous mountain road, and here I saw that numbers of the marching multitude had halted for a rest. An awesome prospect was spread at our feet. We were so high, the moon was so bright, and shadows so dense, that I seemed to be looking down upon a relief map illuminated by searchlights. Eastward, at a great distance, shone a lake resembling a mirror, for in it were the inverted images of mountains which I assumed must lie beyond the Dominican border. As I reined up and gazed at this breath-taking prospect, a hand was laid upon my saddle. Swiftly I glanced down at a man who stood there,

He was a pure Negro, and when he spoke he spoke in halting English,

“You come from Petionville—yes?” he asked.

“Kattar kherak,” I replied, and extended my hand in a Fascist salute.

Smith edged up beside me.

“El-hamdu li’llah” he muttered and repeated my gesture.

The Negro touched his forehead, stepped aside and was swallowed in shadow.

“So far,” said Smith, speaking cautiously, “we are doing well, but it is fairly obvious that when we have mounted another two or three thousand feet, we shall arrive at the real gateway to the holy of holies. There we must rely upon our amulets. Above all, Kerrigan, never speak a word of English, and pray that we meet no one who speaks a word of Arabic!”

He was looking about him at dimly perceptible groups who had paused there to rest. Of the mounted mulatto there was no trace, nor—and of this above all things I was fearful—of Dr. Fu Manchu. Many of the pedestrians were refreshing themselves, seated upon the ground. Newcomers arrived continuously. Chanting had stopped, but from near and far came the throbbing of the drums.

“A drink is perhaps indicated,” said Smith, “and then for the next stage.”

As we extracted flasks from our pockets, I was watching the silver and ebony ribbon speckled with moving figures which led higher and higher towards the crest of the Magic Mountain. What awaited us there? Should I learn anything about Ardatha? What was the meaning of this monstrous congregation patiently toiling up the slope of Morne la Selle? That it was something of interest to Dr. Fu Manchu we knew; but what was the mystery behind it all—and who was the Queen Mamaloi?

Smith was very reticent throughout the halt. I recognized the fact that he was afraid of being overheard speaking English, and I fully appreciated the danger. So, our flasks stowed away, we presently started again with scarcely a word exchanged, the Padre’s donkeys obediently ambling along at our command.

The chanting began again as we ascended the mountain: the drums had never ceased.

CHAPTER XXX

THE SEVEN-POINTED STAR

“This,” said Smith,“I assume to be the Voodoo Custom House. Here we shall be called upon to produce our passports.”

We were up, I suppose, between seven and eight thousand feet. We had traversed some of the most perilous mountain paths I had ever met with, but I had learned that the little donkeys, provided one did not attempt to interfere with them, particularly with their fondness for walking upon the extreme outer edge of the precipice, were sure-footed as goats.

For the past two or three miles the road had led through a pass or gorge to which no moonlight penetrated. A mountain stream raged and splashed at the bottom and the path lay some little way above it. The darkness at first seemed impenetrable; but the procession wound on without interruption and our plodding steeds proceeded with unabated confidence. And so presently, through that velvety blackness dotted with moving torches, I too began to discern the details of the route.

Now it opened with dramatic suddenness upon what seemed to be an almost circular valley, hemmed in all around by mountain crests. Its slopes were densely wooded, but immediately facing the gorge there was a clearing as flat as a sports stadium and fully half a mile across. Torches moved among the trees; there were drums very near to us, now; and I saw hundreds of figures gathered before a long, low building which blazed with lights. Away on the right there was a sort of compound where horses, mules and donkeys were tethered. Towards these horse-lines Smith led the way.

“Stick to Arabic,” he snapped.

The place was staked out with lanterns, and proved to be in certain respects an up-to-date parking ground. Furthermore, the man in charge, despite the religious character of the ceremony, was something of a profiteer; a burly Haitian wearing a check suit which was too small for him, and a stock in which there was an enormous pearl pin. Momentarily I was translated to Epsom Downs on Derby Day. In the queer patois which I had not yet fully grasped I understood him to say as we dismounted and tethered our donkeys: “A dollar for the two.”

“Imshi, hammar!” snarled Smith, and taking fifty cents from his pocket handed it to the man.

“Not enough! not enough!” he exclaimed.

“Etia bdrra! gehdnnum” I growled and gave the Fascist salute.

As before, this singular behaviour proved effective. He looked from face to face, pocketed the money, glanced at the donkeys and walked away.

“So far so good,” muttered Smith. ‘“Now let us take our bearings and make our plans. Here, you observe, is a perfect landing ground.”

We walked slowly towards the verandah of the lighted house on the further side of the clearing; and it soon became apparent that the place was a sort of rest-house or caravanseri. All around in the extensive space before it, pilgrims were squatting on the ground, devouring refreshments which they had brought with them. But, as I saw, the more prosperous were entering the building. Many already were seated upon the verandah, and I could see movement in a room beyond. The front of the house was masked in shadow, and Smith grasped my arm as we stepped into the dark belt.

“You see what this is, Kerrigan; a separation of the sheep from the goats. Judging from the sound of the drums our real objective is beyond.”

I stood there listening.

In some manner which I find myself unable to explain, this continuous throbbing of drums had wrought a sort of change of the spirit. It had stirred up something Celtic and buried, provoked urges of which hitherto I had been unconscious. My desire for Ardatha had become a fever; my hatred of the Si-Fan, of Dr. Fu Manchu, of all those who held her captive, had increased hour by hour until now it was a burning fiery torrent. This recognition, or rather, I suppose, the reassuming of control by the conscious over the subconscious, rather shocked me. Unperceived by my Christian self I had been reverting to savagery!

“‘Yes,” I spoke with studied calmness. “As you say, here is the gateway. The Queen Mamaloi is somewhere beyond.”

“Here is the gateway,” Smith replied, “and here is our test. Remember, stick to Arabic.”

Whereupon, still grasping my arm, he moved forward to the verandah of the lighted building.

As we mounted three wooden steps, I was thinking of Ardatha.

* * *

Crossing the verandah I found myself in a long, low room which in many respects resembled a canteen. One glance convinced me, in spite of the light complexions of some of those present, that Smith and I were the only people in the place of non-African blood. There were a number of chairs and tables spread about the unpolished floor, and I think nearly as many women as men were present.

Their behaviour was so strange that I wondered what they had been drinking—for at one end of the room there was a counter presided over by two coloured women. I saw that in addition to a quantity of solid fare, most of it unfamiliar and from my point of view unappetizing, bottles of rum, gin and whisky were in evidence. In some of the faces a sort of ecstasy began to dawn; and watching, I realized the fact that they were responding to the drums.

Movements of shoulders and arms, shuffling of feet, and already a muted chanting, told me that at any moment all the great coloured throng might obey that deep tribal impulse which is part of Africa, and throw themselves wildly into the abandonment of a ritual dance.

Smith spoke in my ear.

“Don’t seem to be curious,” he whispered, “and remember—nothing but Arabic.Let us stand here for a while and smoke. I see that some of the men are smoking.”

I lighted a cigarette whilst he began to load his briar. I cannot say if it was the drums, the overstrung human instrument represented by those about me, or something else. But I was tensed to a pitch of excitement which I knew to be supernormal. I tried, as I lighted the cigarette, to drag myself down to facts; to watch Smith calmly loading his pipe; to study those about me; to appreciate our perils and how we were to deal with them.

“Hang on to yourself, Kerrigan,” said Smith in a low voice. “e are near to the Master Drums. They have a queer effect—even upon Europeans.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have been watching your eyes.” He replaced the pouch in his pocket and lighted his pipe, his penetrating glance fixed upon me over the bowl. ‘It’s a kind of hypnotism, but you mustn’t let it touch you.”

His words acted like a cold douche. Yes, it was a fact. In common with the Negroes and Negresses about the place, I had been reacting to those satanic drums! I knew it now, and knowing, knew also that the insidious influence could never prevail upon me again.

“Thanks, Smith,” I said. “I agree. It was getting me.”

“I am particularly interested,” he went on, “in the fact that there seems to be no one in the room Whom we know. But the traffic at the bar has curious features.”

“What are they?”

“Well, if you watch, you will be able to check my own impresssions. You will observe, I think, that certain customers go there, give an order, and then almost immediately head for that door on the left and go out. The others either remain at the bar, or carry their purchases back to their table. Just watch this pair for example.”

A man and a woman coming in from the verandah outside crossed straight to the counter. The girl was a full-blooded Negress and physically a beautiful creature; her male companion was light brown, his complexion pitted like that of a smallpox patient, his small yellow eyes darting from right to left suspiciously as he crossed the room. But, failing other evidence, his hair, for he wore no hat, must have betrayed his African origin.

“Watch,” said Smith.

I watched.

The pair walked to the counter; the man gave an order to one of the women. Glasses were filled and set before them. But as payment was made I detected a change of attitude on the part of the server. She glanced swiftly at the girl and then at her companion. In a businesslike way which momentarily made me think that we had intruded upon some harmless feast day frolic, she handed change to the man.

“Now,” whispered Smith, “watch closely.”

The drinks, I was unable to Judge of their character, were quickly despatched; the man squeezed the girl’s hand and lolled upon the counter. The girl walked quickly along left, and I saw the second attendant open a door and close it again as the Negress made her departure.

“Exactly what does that mean?” I murmured.

“It means,” said Smith, “that, still speaking Arabic, we go to the counter and order drinks. Do nothing further until I give the word, and leave the talking to me.”

We crossed.

There was something hellish, something of a Witch’s Sabbath, in the behaviour of those around us. To a man, to a woman, they were now swaying in time with the beating of the drums; eyes were rolling and in some cases teeth were gnashing. I did not know what to expect, but presently I found myself at the bar, and with affected nonchalance leaned upon it.

One of the women attendants, who had been chatting in quite a natural way with the pock-marked man, broke off her conversation and approached us: she had feverishly bright eyes.

“Gible el. . . ismu eh,” said Smith imperiously, indicating a bottle of Black and White whisky.

The woman spoke rapidly in Haitian, then in English: “You want some whisky Black and White?”

“Aiwa, aiwa!”

The woman poured out two liberal portions and set before us a bottle of some kind of mineral water. Smith put down a dollar bill and she gave him change. At first, she had seemed somewhat suspicious, and the pockmarked man had looked at us with jaundiced eyes; now, however, she seemed to have accepted us. Someone else came up to the bar and her attention was diverted. The newcomer was a full-blooded Negro and a magnificent specimen. He nodded casually to the pock-marked man who returned die salutation and then turned his back upon him. Smith touched my arm.

I watched intently. The newcomer ordered a packet of cigarettes; they were placed before him and he set several coins on the counter. Smith bent to my ear: “Look!” he breathed.

Held in the Negro’s palm as he had opened it to drop the coins, I had a momentary glimpse of a green object . . . It was the coiled snake of Damballa!

The signal exchanged between the woman who had served him and the other at the further end of the counter must have been imperceptible to one not anticipating it. The Negro walked along, nodded to the second woman, the door was opened, and he went out.

“That’s our way!” murmured Smith.

An evil spiritual excitement, a force that could be physically felt, was throbbing about the room. Out in front of the verandah drums began to beat softly, and starting as a whisper, but ever increasing in volume, came that hymn of Satan, the Song of Damballa.

Damballa goubamba

Kinga do ke la

As I looked, men and women, singly and in pairs, sprang up and began to dance. They appeared to be entirely oblivious of their surroundings, to be, in the evil sense, possessed; one after another they threw themselves with utter abandonment into the rhythmical but incomprehensible dance. They moved out to the verandah, across it and out into the torch-speckled dusk of the clearing beyond. The atmosphere was foul with human exhalation. Treating us to a further and comprehensively suspicious glance, the pock-marked man also walked out.

“Now for it,” muttered Smith. “Don’t touch this stuff!”

Surreptitiously he emptied his glass on to the floor. I followed suit.

“When I call the woman, show her the green snake. Leave the rest to me.” He turned in her direction. “Ta Wa hinaf” he rapped.

She started, stared for a moment then drew near. Opening my palm, I exhibited the green serpent. “Ah!” she exclaimed, and seemed taken aback. Smith held the seven-pointed star before her eyes. “Ahu huna Damballa” he muttered, and concealed the Jewel. For a moment, extraordinarily penetrating eyes had surveyed us, but at sight of the star the woman pressed her hands to her breast and bowed her head. Smith confidently strode towards the left and I followed him. The other woman opened the door and stood in that same attitude of subjection as we walked out—to find ourselves in a lean-to porch, almost right up to which the forest grew.

From here it seemed that pines climbed unbroken to the mountain ridge, and at first it was so dark that I found it bewildering. But as we stood there taking our bearings, I presently noticed, in what little moonlight filtered through from above, that a track, a mere bridle-path, led from the door onward and upward amongst the pines.

No living thing was in sight. From before that strange house of entertainment which we had left, singing and drumming grew even louder. Beyond, very far beyond it seemed, deep in the forest, other drums were beating, deep-toned, mysterious drums, and I thought that they were calling to us.

“Clearly this is our way,” said Smith, in a low voice. “I am evidently a person of some consequence, as Father Ambrose assured us, and one presumes that initiates are supposed to know the path. Come on.”

We set out. The track climbed up and up through the trees, and although I was keeping a tight hold upon myself, one obsession there was which I could not conquer. It seemed to be fostered by those distant drums. It was not fear of those who worshipped the serpent, bloodthirsty though their rites may be—indeed, according to some accounts cannibalistic—nor tremors that we had been betrayed. It was a fear which constantly made me mistake some odd-shaped bush, some low-growing branch, for the gaunt figure of Dr. Fu Manchu. Amid all the other horrors of the night I found it impossible to forget the fact that the great and sinister Chinese doctor was somewhere near.

Large nocturnal insects flew into our faces; other, unseen creatures rustled in the undergrowth. The sound of the deep-toned drums grew even nearer, so that that of the saturnalia we had left behind was rarely audible at all. More and more stars gleamed into view, until the darkness beneath the pines became a sort of twilight; we had glimpses of the disc of the moon.We were nearing a crest beyond which it was evident that there lay another plateau or perhaps a high valley. The going was very heavy. We had been steadily climbing for close upon an hour, and my condition was not too good. Suddenly Smith pulled up.

“Do you know, Kerrigan,” he said, breathing rapidly, “except for the fact that we are nearing the place at which the drums are beating, I should have begun to doubt if we had taken, the right route.”

“Why?”

“Unless the pace of everyone using that path is more or less attuned to ours, how is it (a) that we have overtaken no one, and (b) that no one has overtaken w?”

It was a curious point, the force of which struck me at once. Smith took out his flask, and I was not sorry to resort to mine.

“I am inclined to believe,” I replied, “that all, or nearly all, the chosen few preceded us. In other words, we are late—”

“Ssh!” he checked me: “do you hear it?”

And during a momentary diminuendo in the passionate throbbing of the drums, I heard it—a faint, but unmistakable disturbance of the pine needles which formed a carpet upon most of the path below. Someone followed in our footsteps.

“Just time to take cover,” snapped Smith, “if we are quick!”

On the right of the path at this point a ravine yawned darkly: only the crests of the tallest trees rose above it.On the left the ground sloped gently upward. Some kind of flowering shrub abounded, and here the pines were scanty. Smith scrambled up this slope and dived into its sheltering darkness. His voice reached me in a whisper: “Down here, Kerrigan! There’s a perfect view of the path and we can’t be seen. Also, it may be dangerous to go further. There may be unsuspected chasms.”

I groped my way until he seized my hand. He was lying prone near the comer of a flowering bush. Wearily I threw myself down beside him. The throbbing of the drums was producing an effect wholly dissimilar to that which it seemed to exercise upon the black devotees: a sort of stupefaction. It was bemusing me, drugging me. I found it difficult to think connectedly.

“I am glad we are not alone on the path,” I said in a low voice. ‘‘Evidently it is the right one, after all.”

“Quiet!” said Smith. “Someone is near.”

As he spoke, I realized the fact that from where we lay concealed, owing to the position of the moon and the falling away of the forest on the right of the path, a considerable expanse, perhaps twenty yards, was clearly visible, illuminated by a bluish haze of light. The stirring of the pine cones continued. The sound grew nearer.

Who was approaching?

As to whom I expected it would be difficult to speculate. But what I saw was this:—The tall Negro who had preceded us from the rest house, and the Negress who had come earlier and separated from her pock-marked companion.

Clearly the girl had waited for the man and we must have passed them at some point on the route. In response to that hereditary instinct which the drums stir up in the African heart, they had reverted to nature. The man’s arm was around the girl’s waist, her head rested upon his breast, as with a uniform step in time with the drums they paced upward through the pines. Utterly aloof from the world of today, the last shackle which bound them to the chariot of the white man was cast aside with the garments of civilization. She had woven a chaplet of flowers into her hair, and watching them as they passed and were lost to view, I knew that although a woman missionary might have been shocked, there was nothing bestial and nothing vile and nothing of shame in die strange reversion to primitive type.

The ancient gods had called them, and, simply, they had obeyed.

The rustling of the pine cones died away. I could hear no sound of other approaching footsteps, and the throb of the drums seemed to have increased again in volume.

‘“You see,” said Smith in a low voice, “there is power in Voodoo. One wonders what proportion of the inhabitants of Haiti have come under its spell. A great primitive force, Kerrigan, a force we must now assume to be directed byDr. Fu Manchu.”

“Presumably women are admitted to the higher mysteries.”

“Certainly,” Smith replied. “This I knew. Remember it is the Queen Mamaloi they go to meet, and I strongly suspect—”

He paused.

“What?”

“That there will be some further comb-out before we are admitted to the holy of holies.”

“Since we are ignorant of the routine,” I said, “this comb-out may mean our finish.”

“I have been considering the point, Kerrigan.” He stood up and walked down to the path. “I have been considering it since the moment that we started. I think if we follow the black lovers, who will be unlikely to pay any attention to us, and observe what occurs, it may be to our advantage.”

CHAPTER XXXI

QUEEN MAMALOI

We passed the crest and looked down into a tiny sheltered valley. Mountain trees fringed it in thinly, and set amid those on the opposite slope I saw a one-storey building surrounded by a high stockade. Lanterns and torches competed with the moonlight pouring down upon the stockade, and in silhouette, an ebony god and goddess of Voodoo, the pair ahead of us stood for a moment on the lip of the declivity outlined against the tropical sky. They began to descend.

Recollections of our distance from the caravanserai which was the first gate to the mysteries at this moment stampeded in my brain. Assuming that we succeeded in surviving whatever test might lie before us, how were we to return? Together, Smith and I watched the receding figures until they were lost amongst the scattered trees which grew upon the lower slopes.

“We must not lose sight of them,” he said rapidly. “Short of stripping, I am prepared to follow whatever routine they may adopt.”

I laughed, perhaps not very mirthfully.

“Have you any idea. Smith,” I asked, “how we are going to get back?”

“Whatever the purpose of this meeting may be, and whether we escape or are discovered, I have arranged, Kerrigan, as you know, that in roughly one hour from now, three planes suitably armed will land on the plateau from which we have come. I am convinced that no opposition will be met with. Barton will lead them here. In other words”—he glanced at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch—”if we can survive for two hours, we shall not be unsupported.”

We began very slowly to descend in turn.

It seemed to me that under the moon there was nothing in the world but drums. I began to understand the symptoms of the rhythm-drunk people I had known, people who when they were not dancing, or listening to swing music, had swing echoes in their brains. This was the apogee, the culmination of that hypnosis which is created by beats. Although we approached the clearing, there were dark patches in the path; and once as I stumbled Smith caught my arm.

“The drums,” he said, “it’s a kind of dope, you know.”

“I know,” I groaned.

“Try to deafen your ears to it. I mean, concentrate on the idea. This is what gets them. Their primitive intelligence can’t battle against it. The music of the Pied Piper. Cover up, Kerrigan. I know it is making you stupid. Our real fight is ahead.”

His cold, incisive words acted as they had done so often before, as a swift sedative. Yes, it was the drums. They filled the night with their throbbing, and in some way that throbbing had got into my brain. I adopted a violent method of repelling this insidious intrusion,

I thought hard of Dr. Fu Manchu; and when I had succeeded in conjuring up a vision of that Shakespearean brow, that satanically brilliant face, those cat-like emerald eyes, I believe I returned to sanity, and to a new fear—the fear ofDr. Fu Manchu.

Smith, I am sure, understood the internal struggle that was going on, for he walked beside me in silence, until: “Look!” he rapped suddenly. “There is the second gate—the second test. Can we pass it?”

I looked down.We were quite near to the level space before the stockade which, at closer view, clearly surrounded a temple of sorts. The path we were following had become a ravine. Long since, the Negro and Negress ahead had become lost to view, and now we proceeded cautiously.

Twenty or thirty paces brought us round a sudden bend and into full view of the stockade. A huddled group of perhaps a dozen pilgrims was gathered before a great gateway. A murmur of voices became audible above the throbbing of the drums.

Even in the bluish shadow of the gully, I could see Smith looking about him and then: “There is no other way,” he muttered. “It’s in or back.”

Could we ever get back?

* * *

The group ahead before the gateway was explained by the presence of a pine log thrown like a barrier across the opening. Right and left of it, backed by semi-naked Negroes holding torches aloft, were two men.One, he on the right, was a pure and obese Negro who continued to wear the uniform of western slavery; the other, on the left, was the fierce-eyed mulatto who had stared into the car as we had driven to the house of Father Ambrose, who had passed us on the mountain path!

Smith recognized him as swiftly as I.

“It is known that we are here,” he muttered. “That mulatto is posted to intercept us. But, even if he sees us, there is still hope.”

‘“What hope?”

“He is certainly not familiar with our appearance, for he was deceived on the road. He cannot know that we carry the seven-pointed star. Glance over the gang now undergoing inspection. The gateway is in shadow, but you can see them in the torchlight. Some of them look whiter than you or I. They are from over the border. This thing goes very deep.”

“Let us join the group waiting to be passed by the fat Negro.”

“I disagree,” said Smith, “if ever I saw a eunuch, he is one. Think of our Arabic! No, I prefer the mulatto.”

“But, Smith, it’s madness!”

“In an emergency, Kerrigan, madness is sometimes sanity.”

I resigned myself. We entered the gateway and moved to the left of the barrier. Glancing back I saw that a few stragglers, all Haitians, were coming down the slope. As we approached the mulatto I saw directly in front of us the black lovers. Six or seven others preceded them. Smith bent to my ear: “You see, Kerrigan,” he whispered, “it is unnecessary to strip!”

But I had seen, and the sight had afforded me a momentary relief. Two figures at least, at right and left, were those of men dressed much as we were dressed. Others were there who had thrown off the yoke and gleamed black beneath the moon. But we were not alone.

“Watch closely,” Smith whispered. “All turns on the man not identifying us. Next, stick to Arabic. Finally, if challenged, shoot him.”

I watched those who had been allowed to pass the barrier. They had all exhibited some token which they held in their hands. An interrogatory seemed to follow; then, making an odd gesture to the forehead, they were allowed to pass.

“Note that salute,” muttered Smith.

When the Negro and Negress approached the mulatto we were close behind them.

He concentrated his fierce gaze upon them, ignoring us. The man opened his hand: the girl touched an amulet which hung upon her breast. The mulatto spoke rapidly in the strange patois which I had been unable to learn, but Smith was listening intently. He pressed his lips almost against my ear: “Stick to Arabic,” he reiterated.

And as the Negro and Negress went through, we followed.

Those fierce eyes were fixed upon me. They glittered fierily in the light of surrounding torches, and I confess that my heart sank. Silently I held out the serpent amulet. The mulatto glanced at it; then his evil gaze returned to my face, and suddenly he addressed me in English!

‘“What is your name and number?” he demanded. “From what place do you come?”

Thrown temporarily off my guard, I believe I was about to answer him in the same language, when Smith kicked my ankle so hard that I stifled a cry. But he saved the situation.

“Uskut!” hissed. “Daraga awala”

And as I spoke. Smith threw his left arm about my shoulders and held out in his right palm the seven-pointed star.

“Ahu hina Damballa!” he said menacingly.

The result smacked of magic. The mulatto fell into that curious pose adopted by the women at the rest-house, his hands pressed to his breast, his head bowed. Smith gave the salute which he had noted.

We were through.

Aswe walked across the enclosed space towards the temple of Voodoo: “I have taken special note of the fact,” said Smith, “that owing to the position of the moon, one side of the stockade casts a complete shadow for some ten feet out from its base. That is the spot to make for.”

We gained the shadow belt unmolested. Drawing a deep breath I looked about me. There were, as I have said, many torches and some lanterns. I saw now that they were distributed in a rough circle before the building, which on closer inspection proved to be a sort of shrine embedded in the trees. Before it was a platform, or dais, flanked by tall masts resembling totem poles. Double doors, massively carved and brightly painted, gave on to this platform. Right and left of these doors, which were closed, stood two motionless figures as if sculptured in ebony. By the light of the full moon pouring down upon them, I recognized the forest lovers!

Drums, although I could not see the drummers, continued their sinister throbbing. And now, all those summoned presumably being present, torches and lanterns were extinguished, the drum throbs died away. A voice cried out in a tongue which I had never heard spoken. The double doors swung open.

A sort of rapturous sigh passed through the multitude. With complete unanimity, they dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. A woman came into the moonlight, and I knew that she was the Queen Mamaloi . . .

CHAPTER XXXII

THE SMELLING-OUT

Her hair was hidden by a high, jewelled headdress; jewels all but covered slim, bare arms: a girdle resembling those seen in Ancient Egyptian pictures, glittering with gems, hung from her waist. There, radiant in silver light, from proud head to curving hips, to little sandalled feet, I saw an ivory statue—a statue of Isis. The deep-toned drums entirely ceased to beat. Every man and every woman who gathered before the temple fell prone. A long queerly modulated phrase, a moaning sigh, passed like a breeze among the worshippers.

I was dumbfounded, fascinated, swept for a moment into a mystic vortex which her presence had created. She stood no more than twenty paces away, wholly bathed in the radiance of the moon; and I looked, as if hypnotized, into the brilliant jade-green eyes of Queen Mamaloi, the witch woman, high priestess of Voodoo—Koreani, Dr. Fu Manchu’s daughter!

Smith pulled me down just within that fraction of a second which otherwise might have shown me standing alone. Earlier I had knelt to a priest: I lay now prostrate before a sorceress!

His grasp on my arm warned me to be silent.

She spoke, in Haitian, in French, and in some other language which I had never heard spoken before, save by that voice which had announced her coming. But the sound of it seemed to act upon her listeners like a maddening drug. They moaned, cried out inarticulately; they gesticulated as they rose to their knees. Smith drew very near.

‘The Unknown Tongue,” he whispered; “the secret language of Voodoo.”

Korean! had a bell-like voice—this I remembered; a voice which, because of its production and unusual quality, was audible from a distance: in short, the voice of a trained elocutionist and of one who might have been a great actress. Her speech was accompanied by a subdued but passionate throbbing of unseen drums.

More and more, as she spoke, I appreciated the power of the spirit driving her. Here was a mastery comparable with that of Dr. Fu Manchu. French, Haitian (of which I knew little enough), in turn were discarded, so that presently Korean! spoke altogether in the Unknown Tongue—of which I knew nothing. Frenzy grew upon her audience until some among the throng might have been said to have become possessed. They groaned, gnashed their teeth, contorted their bodies. The substance of the address I found difficulty in tracing, but the danger to the community represented by this woman’s influence was all too apparent.

Suddenly, in obedience to some command from theQueen Mamaloi, all threw themselves upon their knees; faces buried in hands they began to pray fervently. Koreani, silent, statuesque, stood with uplifted arms.

“She has asked them to pray for a sign from Damballa the Snake God,” whispered Smith. “I suspect that the real purpose of this ceremony is about to become evident.”

But even he could not foresee the miracle we were to witness. The drums became silent.

Thanks to the position which Smith had taken up we stood, as I have mentioned, in deep shadow cast by the stockade. We should become visible only if the ring of torches were lighted again before the temple. Within this ring devotees were writhing on the ground in an ecstasy of supplication. Koreani stood motionless, her brilliant eyes raised to the moon.

And, magically, those supplications were answered.

A harsh, guttural voice spoke. Smith’s sudden grip on my arm made me wince. The opening words were unintelligible; but, following them, came a phrase in Haitian: finally, in French, the imperious voice declaimed: “I, Damballa, have been called. I answer. I am here among you, but your blind eyes cannot see me. I come because there are traitors here, spies—those who work not for the glory of the African races, but for gain to themselves. Tonight there shall be a great smelling-out. True men, stand fast. Spies—I shall find you! To me, my servants. Damballa speaks.”

The jewel-laden ivory arms of Korean! dropped to her sides. I saw her clenched hands. The Negro and Negress right and left of the painted doorway seemed to be stricken immobile. Stupefaction silenced every prayer. There was movement—then stillness, broken only by panting breaths. Although the speaker seemingly stood beside the high priestess, no one was there.

But the voice of Damballa was the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu!

* * *

Three figures wearing hideous ritual masks and carrying torches came out from dense undergrowth on the left of the temple. Three others appeared on the right. Finally, stalking into torchlight from the direction of the barricade, there came a seventh, a herculean man, masked, robed, and carrying a glittering scimitar. The hush about us was electrical with suspense.

Although I knew that he hurt me unconsciously. Smith’s grip on my arm was as that of steel pincers.

‘Touch and go, Kerrigan!” he hissed in my ear.““We are spotted! Don’t fight. It’s hopeless.We can only trust—”

“The smelling-out begins!” cried that harsh voice. “Sons and daughters of Damballa, you are safe.”

This phrase was repeated in Haitian, then in that incomprehensible language, the Unknown Tongue. Urged to his task by the bodiless Voice, the giant Sword-Bearer began a sinister inspection. Frightened groups were huddled together within the stockade. I could hear chattering teeth. Other Masks had appeared at the entrance. Retreat was cut off.

Every face was scrutinized. The Voice seemed to speak from immediately beside the Sword Bearer. Korean! stood motionless as that ivory statue which she resembled.

Alternately sibilant and guttural, that uncanny voice muttered—muttered—in what language I could not make out. Then came one short, sharp command. The scimitar shot out and touched a cowering Haitian. He shrieked so wildly that I thought the blow had been a mortal one. But his shriek was of fear.One of the masked torchmen sprang forward, grasped the selected man and hurled him into the open space before the temple. He fell, and lay there quivering. A woman who had stood beside him moaned and collapsed.

So the “smelling-out” began, and so it went on, until ten victims, women as well as men, stood, knelt or lay in the open space. All about me were whispered prayers, and they were not Voodoo prayers. The children of Damballa who had called upon their black god now prayed to the God of the Christians to exorcise him!

Many devotees had fainted after the seekers had passed. But Korean!, proud, motionless, stood silent, her brilliant eyes widely opened.

The Sword Bearer drew near with his hideous company.

‘“Remember,” Smith whispered.

And now the muttering Voice began to speak in English!

“I smell other enemies. More light—more light!”

Torches were lifted before us.

“Ah—there!”

The scimitar flashed towards me. The voice of Dr. Fu Manchu had spoken from the left side of the Sword Bearer. And I succumbed to a mad impulse.

I side-stepped, hauled away, and drove a straight right at the spot where the head of the speaker should have been!

Amazing to relate, it was there! I registered a glancing blow on an unmistakable human jaw, and I saw a green hand appear out of space!

A wild cry, and a crushing weight which seemed to descend upon my skull . . .

CHAPTER XXXIII

DR. MARRIOT DOUGHTY

Of my awakening, or rather, my first awakening, I retain one vivid memory—a memory etched upon my brain. My head ached with a violence greater than I had ever experienced; coherent thought was impossible. I lay in a bunk in a small white cabin; and because of a gentle swaying sensation and of the silence, I thought that I must be afloat in an anchored ship. Every detail of my immediate surroundings was clearly discernible in moonlight which poured in at a long, low porthole directly above the bunk. I struggled to sit up. The effect upon my head was disastrous; but just before I fell back again into unconsciousness I had a glimpse of what lay beyond the porthole.

I looked down upon forest-clad mountain slopes, ravines and scattered dwellings; upon something resembling a coloured relief map—and a map that swept up and then receded at an incredible speed. Just ahead and not far beneath, I saw a mighty building crowning a dizzy crest, a giant’s castle, a fabulous structure towering up to the moon.

Almost as I saw it, I found myself over it; and it was gone! But I knew (hat it was the Citadel, the impregnable fortress built by King Christophe, now deserted, shunned, save by the uneasy spirit of the Negro king.

My second awakening afforded the discovery that the pain in my skull was almost gone and that a cool, wet bandage surrounded my forehead. I was in bed, wearing silk pyjamas which did not belong to me, in a scrupulously neat room—a room, as I determined after that first glance, in a hospital. No doubt that vision of the Citadel, of flying silently through space, had been delirium. I tried to reason out what had happened after I had struck—madly—at a Voice and had contacted flesh and bone. The rearguard for which Smith had arranged must have arrived ahead of time; so I reasoned.

I had just come to this conclusion when the door (it had neither handle nor keyhole) slid noiselessly open and a man came in who wore a long white linen coat; undoubtedly, a doctor.

He paused for a moment, smiling with satisfaction to see me awake.He was an elderly man, wearing a pointed, greyish beard; he had a fine brow and those penetrating eyes which mark the diagnostician. He was a Vandyke type, and for some reason I found his features familiar.

“Good morning, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said in a pleasant, light voice. “It would be superfluous to inquire if you feel better/’

“Quite, doctor. Except for a certain drumming in my skull, I never felt better in my life.”

“Well, you know”—he seated himself on the side of the bed, taking out a clinical thermometer from its case—”even a thick skull like yours is calculated to buzz a bit when struck hard with the flat of a heavy sword.”

He took my temperature and nodded.

“Normal,” he announced, as he went into an adjoining room which was evidently a bathroom.

I heard him rinsing the thermometer and all the time I was thinking furiously: where had I seen the doctor before? In some way the elusive memory was bound up with another, something to do with undergraduate days and also with the Royal Navy. It was as he came out again that I tied up the links—Peter Marriot Doughty, who was reading medicine and who had the rooms above mine; he was now in the Navy; I had seen him off before I left for Greece. His father, a celebrated Harley Street consultant, had once had tea with Doughty and myself.

Probably my change of expression was marked.

“Yes, Mr. Kerrigan—what is bothering you?”

“Am I addressingDr. Marriot Doughty?”

“John Marriot Doughty, M.D., at your service.”

Momentarily I closed my eyes, doubted my sanity. Clearly now I recalled the long obituary notices; remembered almost the exact words of my telegram of condolence to my friend. Marriot Doughty, his father, had died in the Spring of 1937—but this wasDr. Marriot Doughty who stood before me!

When I opened my eyes John Marriot Doughty was smiling again.

“You remember me, Mr. Kerrigan? I once had the pleasure of taking tea in your rooms with my son.”

Words failed me: I merely stared.

“Have you recent news of Peter?”

I reconquered control of my tongue.

“He is with the destroyers operating off Libya, doctor. I had word from him last some four weeks ago.”

The dead man who lived, nodded.

“Good. Peter was always best in action. I broke a long family tradition, Mr. Kerrigan, when I abandoned the sea for the surgery. Peter has gone back. I think his mother would have wished it so. And now, I am going to get you on your feet. To lie there any longer, sir, would be pure malingering.”

But nevertheless I lay there, watching him. My complaisant analysis of the situation had been grossly at fault. My heart was behaving erratically. The rearguard had not arrived. Where was Nayland Smith? Since Dr. Marriot Doughty was indisputably dead, logically I also must be dead. Here was just such a passing-over as I had heard described at spiritualist meetings.

Undoubtedly I was dead: this was the Beyond.

Dr. Marriot Doughty’s gaze held a deep compassion; but it was the compassion that belongs to greater knowledge.

“Mr. Kerrigan,” he said, “my part is not to enlighten you regarding your new circumstances; my part is to set you on your feet again. There are toxic elements in your system based upon a faultily-treated wound in your left shoulder and affecting the lung structure, but not gravely. You are a healthy, powerful man. This trouble will disperse; in fact, it shall be my business to disperse it. The blow on the occipital area has resulted in no haemorrhage: forget it. In short—I know what you are thinking, but you are not dead. You are very cogently alive.”

I swung out of bed and stood up. A slight dizziness wore off almost immediately.

“Good,” said Dr. Marriot Doughty. “See that the bath is no more than tepid. Your own clothes are all here—at least, those you were wearing. I believe you will find the cartridge belt missing, and the pistol. When you are dressed I will come back and prescribe your breakfast.”

He turned to go.

“Doctor!”

He pulled up.

“Where is Nayland Smith?”

“Mr. Kerrigan, I would gladly answer your question—if I knew the answer. I shall return in about twenty minutes.”

“One moment! How long—”

“Have you been unconscious? Roughly, four days . . . . ”

* * *

As Marriot Doughty signalled to me to precede him, I found myself in a long corridor in which were many white doors, numbered like those in a hotel. An hour had elapsed.

“Some of the staff occupy this annexe,” he said. “It is new, and the apartments, as you have seen, are pleasant. My own quarters are in the main building near the research laboratories.”

He spoke in the mariner of one conducting a visitor over a power station. Nothing in my memories of those grim days is more grotesque than the easy conversational style of this physician who had been dead for four years. I could think of no suitable remark.

“Our headquarters at one time were in the South of France,9’ he went on. “But there we were subject to too much interference. Here, in Haiti, we are ideally situated.”

We came out into a large quadrangle, its tiled paths bordered by palms. I saw that the place we had left resembled a row of bungalows joined together. Most of the windows were open, and there were vases of flowers to be seen on ledges, rows of books. A swim suit hung out of one. It might have been a holiday camp. On the other side of the quadrangle was an extensive range of buildings which I could only assume to be a modem factory, although I saw no smokestack. Several detached structures appeared further off; and in and out of the various buildings men, most of them Haitians and wearing blue overalls, moved in orderly industry. I heard the hum of machinery. Wherever I looked, beyond, forest-robed mountain slopes swept up to the bright morning sky. This was a valley entirely enclosed on all sides. I turned to my guide.

“Where am I? What place is this?”

He smiled.

“Officially, it is the works of the San Damien Sisal Corporation. Geologically, it is the crater of a huge volcano, fortunately extinct. The best sisal in the world is cultivated and treated here. Although the output is small, it is of the very highest quality. The enterprise had been in existence for a long time; but we acquired control less than six years ago.”

“It appears to be most inaccessible.”

“There is a small railway by which produce is sent out. The hemp is grown on the lower slopes behind you.Over a thousand workers are employed by the Corporation.”

So we chatted. There was nothing ominous, no trace of the sinister anywhere. The well-ordered path, flanked by palms, along which we were walking; the fresh mountain air; a cloudless sky; those waves of verdure embracing the valley: all these things spoke of a bountiful nature well and gratefully appreciated. But I looked askance at every figure moving about me, and I had conceived a horror of the proximity of Dr. Marriot Doughty which I found it hard to conceal. I was in the company of a living-dead man—a zombie: were all these workers zombies also?

Before the door of a house which looked older and which was of a character different from the others, my guide paused and pressed a bell.

“Here,” he said, “I hand you over to Companion Horton, with a clean bill of health.” The door was opened by a Haitian. “Tell the manager that Mr. Bart Kerrigan is here.”

As the man stood aside to allow me to enter. Dr. Marriot Doughty nodded cheerily and turned away. The profoundly commonplace character of everyone’s behaviour, that reference to “the manager,” and now, the businesslike office in which I found myself, began insidiously to frighten me. Companion Horton, a lean, slow-spoken American, rose from a workmanlike desk to greet me. Above his chair I noticed a large photograph of a hemp plantation.

‘“You are very welcome, Mr. Kerrigan. Please sit down and smoke.”

I sat down and accepted a cigarette which he proffered.

“Thanks—Mr. Horton, I presume?”

“James Ridgwell Horton. That’s my name, sir, and I was born in Boston, June first, 1853—”

“Eighteen-fifty-three!”

“Sure thing. I don’t look my age, but then none of us do here. I will admit that there was a time when the thought of going right on living did not appeal. But when I found out that all my faculties became, not dulled but keener; when I realized that I could assimilate new ideas and examine them in the light of old experience, why, I changed my mind.”

No doubt my expression made the remark unnecessary, but: “I don’t think,” I said, trying to speak very calmly, “that I follow.”

“No? Well thafs too bad. May I take it you know that this is the headquarters of the Order of the Si-Fan?”

I suppose I had known—for some time past; yet, bluntly stated, the fact made my heart wobble.

“Yes—I know.”

“Just so; and you feel about it the way I felt twenty years ago. To you the Si-Fan is plain and simple a Black Hand gang; an underworld ramp; a bunch of professional crooks. I thought just that way. But if you will consider the methods by which any Totalitarian State makes progress, you will find that the Ancient Order has merely perfected them. Because you have met some of the high officials—maybe one of The Council—in shady quarters, you have jumped to wrong conclusions.”

But now this man’s sophistries began to infuriate me.

“I regard the heads of such States as glorified gunmen, Mr. Horton. Their methods (I grant the parallel) are the methods of any other criminal.”

“But consider how different their ends are from ours.”

“However noble you believe these to be, I cannot agree that the end justifies the means.”

“Well, well—I am instructed to pass you over to someone who may adjust your standpoint, Mr. Kerrigan.” He stood up. “If you will please come this way.”

He opened a door and invited me to follow. I thought he seemed to be a little crestfallen, as if my obstinacy saddened him. Certainly, one less like a desperate criminal than James Ridgwell Horton it would have been difficult to find. And now, as I walked along an uncarpeted and dimly lighted corridor by his side, a ghastly explanation of his presence there occurred to me. He was dead!

I was in the company of a zombie, a soulless intelligence; a robot controlled by a master wizard.

Before an arched opening a green light was burning. Even as Horton stopped, a swift sensation, as of momentary dropping of temperature, warned me of the identity of him to whom I was being conducted. He touched a button, and a heavy panelled door slid noiselessly open. On its threshold stood Hassan, the white Nubian!

“Mr. Kerrigan is expected,” said Horton, and Hassan stood aside.

I went in, and the heavy door closed behind me. But the appearance of Hassan had gone far to revive my waning courage. Did it mean that Ardatha was here?

The place was a lobby, lighted by a square, silk lantern and pervaded by a curious perfume: another door was beyond.

“Wait, please.”

Hassan opened the further door, stepped in and immediately came out again, indicating with a movement of one huge, muscular hand that I should enter. Clenching my teeth, I went into a small library. There were volumes on the shelves of a character which I had never come across before. The only illumination was provided by a globular lamp on a square, black pedestal set on a large desk. Upon this desk lay a number of books and papers and other objects which I had no leisure to observe.

For, seated behind the desk, in a grotesquely carved ebony chair, wasDr. Fu Manchu!

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE ZOMBIES

He wore a white linen coat, similar to that worn by Marriot Doughty; on his head was a black skull-cap. He glanced at me as I entered—and I avoided his glance: it was a protective instinct.

“Be seated, Mr. Kerrigan. You have not failed to note contusion and a slight abrasion in the neighbourhood of my left maxillary muscle. Had your very forceful blow struck me on the bone structure I fear that the damage might have been more serious.”

As I sat down facing him, I ventured to look. His left jaw was bruised and cut. Perhaps his quiet, deliberate speech was responsible (he spoke, in a sense, perfect English, but gave each syllable an equal value which made familiar words sound strange) or perhaps sudden, hot resentment—resentment of all he stood for¯inspired me; but, “A long cherished ambition is realized,” I said. “At least I have hit you once.”

He toyed with a jade snuff-box which lay upon the desk; his disconcerting eyes grew filmed. That sensitive hand, with its long, tended finger-nails, fascinated me.

“I bear no malice, Mr. Kerrigan. Animal courage is not one of the higher human qualities; but it is a quality, nevertheless, and I respect it—I can use courage. You have it. I welcome you. I absorb gladly all that is useful in the animal kingdom. Suitably directed, such a specialized army can defeat great—but ignorant¯ hosts.”

His voice, as always, was acting upon me like a drug. There was something of the inevitable, superhuman, a quality akin to those hidden but known forces of Nature, in his mere presence.

“You have met some of the Companions whom you believed to be dead. No doubt you have studied the tradition of the zombie—a tradition which persists in Haiti. Persistent traditions always rest on fact. It was exactly sixty years ago today that I devoted myself to a close examination of this subject. I had heard, as no doubt you have heard, of dead men working under the orders of witch-doctors: these automata were known as ‘zombies’. There are examples in Haiti at the present moment; and I do not refer to my own experiments.”

During the weeks that had elapsed since I had facedDr. Fu Manchu in that underground laboratory beside the Thames a marked change had taken place in him. Then I had thought him dying; now he was restored to his supernormal self.

“Those hapless creatures are not—as superficial observers have supposed—a kind of vampire, a corpse reanimated by sorcery; they are the products of a form of slow poisoning which induces catalepsy. When buried, they are not in fact dead. The Voodoo man disinters them and bends them to his purpose. They have no conscious identity; they remain slaves of his will.”

Opening the jade box, he raised a pinch of snuff to his nostrils.

“After researches which led me from Haiti to Central Africa, to the Sudan, and finally to Egypt, I discovered the nature of the drugs used and the manner of their administration. The process was known to the priests of Thebes. I was quick to realize that its possession placed a power in my hands which should secure for me mastery of every other secret in Nature!”

His voice rose. His brilliant green eyes, fully opened, revealed momentarily the mad fanaticism which inspired him. I had a glimpse of that terrifying genius which more than once had shaken governments.

“I determined, Mr. Kerrigan, to establish a comer in brains. For the purpose of carrying out those numerous experiments in physics, botany, zoology, biology, which I had projected, I would secure a staff of researchers from the best intellects in those sciences.” He tapped the jade snuff-box with a long, varnished finger-nail. “I sought my staff all over the world, employing the resources of the Si-Fan to aid me. I was not invariably successful; nevertheless, I secured a notable collection of first-class brains. My conquest of that age-old mystery, the Elixir Vitae, enabled me to arrest senility in suitable cases—as, for example, in my own.”

He stood up, and stepping to a door recessed between bookcases, pressed a button. The door slid open.

“Since you are to remain with us as an active participant, if you choose, in our work to create a sane world (but since, in any event, you will remain) I shall give you an opportunity of judging of our labours before any decision is demanded of you.”

A man came in, a young man who had an untidy mop of dark brown hair and very steadfast hazel eyes. He was a powerful fellow, wore blue overalls and had the hands of a toiler; but when he spoke I knew that he was a man of culture.

“Companion Allington,” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “this is Mr. Bart Kerrigan. As you are of about one age, I thought he might appreciate your company as guide. You may show him anything that he wishes to see.”

“Delighted, Mr. Kerrigan, and much obliged to you, sir.”

As I followed my new acquaintance along a short passage and out into a tree shaded courtyard, I thought that he had used first the words and just the tone of one speaking to his commanding officer.

* * *

“Do you mean that you are Squadron Leader Allington?”

““Well I used to be,” said Allington, grinning, cheerfully. “Only regret I’m out of the Service because I’m missing the gorgeous show over there.”

“You held the Royal Air Force altitude record.”

“Yes, for a time. Then I tried to be too clever on a non-stop flight and crashed into the Timor Sea. Remember?”

“Well, I remember you were missing. Were you—?” I hesitated, looking almost furtively into those smiling eyes. “Killed? Oh, no! I’m not one of the conscripts” I’m a volunteer!”

He laughed gaily, grasping my arm and leading me in the direction of a long, low building on the right. But his reference to “the conscripts” had turned me cold.

“Do you mean that you voluntarily joined the—”

“The Si-Fan? Yes, rather. So will you when the time comes. I was picked up by a steamer which happened to belong to them, you see. You have a lot to learn yet, Kerrigan. Whatever your job may be, this is the most wonderful service in the world.”

He selected a key from a number attached to a chain and opened the door of what I assumed to be one of a range of garages. If there had never been a Fuehrer or a Duce—one who had persuaded an entire nation to believe in his godlike mission—I should have been unable to trust my senses, to credit my reason; but what such men could do, certainly Dr. Fu Manchu could improve upon.

“Here we are,” said Allington, wheeling the wide doors apart. “You’ve got to see my taxis first, whether you want to or not!”

His buoyant enthusiasm, his typical Air Force manner, at that time and in those circumstances, I bracket in my memories with the informative remarks of Dr. Marriot Doughty as he had conducted me to my interview with Fu Manchu.

I found myself to be in a place resembling a long garage. Some twenty machines were there in line. At first sight they looked like small monoplanes: further inspection led to confusion. Squadron Leader Allington laughed.

“Screams, aren’t they?” he cried. “No undercarriage, no propeller! And”—he tapped my shoulder knowingly—”how do you suppose we get ‘em into the air?”

It was a poser. There was no airfield outside, no runway. “Look!”

He moved a lever. That section of roof immediately above the machine which I had been inspecting, swung open. I saw the sky.

“Straight up, Kerrigan! Even a hawk needs a take-off, but these birds rise straight from their heels.”

“How?”

“One of our conscripts. Professor Swain—whose name you may have heard—discovered a meteoric substance in Poland (his native land) which was anti-gravitational—”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that these planes are fitted with an insulated disc of Swainsten (named after its discoverer) which, when exposed, or partially exposed, to the earth’s influence, sends the bus flying upwards towards some unknown planet for which Swainsten has so keen an affinity that it overcomes gravity and atmosphere to get there! Uncontrolled, one would reach the stratosphere!”

“But—”

“The Swainsten disc is operated from the controls. The pilot can climb at terrific speed, or hover. It’s simply miraculous. I have learned, since I came here, that I didn’t know the first thing about flying! You begin to feel the fascination of having access to knowledge which others are groping to find. The whole show is like that. These things take the air as silently as owls.One could start from a bowling green and alight on a billiard table. Once afloat, propulsion is obtained from Ericksen waves—”

“But the Ericksen wave—”

“Disintegrates? I agree—if so directed. But, as fitted to the Bats (that is our name for these small planes) it enables the pilot to tune in to a suitable wavelength as one does with a radio set, and to pick up from it all the power he needs to develop anything up to three hundred miles an hour. There are larger models, of course, which can do more. I had the pleasure of bringing you here in one from the jamboree at Mome la Selle.”

It was dawning upon my mind that I was acquiring knowledge which I should never live to use: part, at least, of the mystery ofDr. Fu Manchu’s secret journeys was explained.

“The whole outfit is silent as a radio set; in fact it is broadly operated on the same principle, except that the energy is converted. I would give you a trial spin, but I have no instructions,. Some other time . . . . ”

When he had partially exhausted his enthusism for this, his pet subject (I gathered that he was Chief Pilot) I asked him a question which had been in my mind throughout.

“Aren’t there—urges, to return to your former friends?”

His mouth twisted into a wry expression.

“At first—yes; lots. I believe there have been cases where unwilling workers have been allowed to go. We have Professor Richner here—”