The Trail of Fu Manchu

“Nor have I, sir.”

“Very well. All the men who were in that place called the Sailors’ Club at the time of the tragedy, escaped by some means we don’t know about. But, evidently, into a main sewer—”

“One seems to have been missing, sir!”

‘Yes!—and I’m glad he is!” snapped Nayland Smith viciously. “The Burmese killer evidently met his end there. But that the tall man described by the witness is Dr. Fu Manchu, personally I cannot doubt.”

“It certainly looks like it. But how did he get into this building? And where is he hiding?”

Dr. Petrie returned. His eyes were very sorrowful.

“Is she all right?”

He nodded.

“That yellow conjurer has got her under control,” he said between clenched teeth. “I know the symptoms. I have suffered them myself. God help us! What are we going to do?”

“What I’m going to do,” Gallaho growled, picking up his bowler from the armchair where he had thrown it, “is this: I am going to step along to Mrs. Crossland’s flat and have a serious chat with your friend——” he glanced at Fey— “Ibrahim.”

CHAPTER

56

IBRAHIM

“I have never met Mrs. Crossland,” said Nayland Smith irritably, “nor her husband. One can live in a block of London flats for years and never know one’s neighbours. But I am acquainted with them by sight, and also with their Egyptian servant, Ibrahim.”

“What do you think of him, sir?” growled Gallaho.

“Perfectly normal, and probably very trustworthy. But it doesn’t follow that he hasn’t been for all his life a member of the Si-Fan.”

“This Si-Fan business, sir, is beyond me.”

“It has proved to be beyond me,” said Nayland Smigh, shortly.

Gallaho gave voice to an idea.

“It must be very unpeasant,” he said, “to be the unknown husband of a well-known woman.”

They reached the door of Mrs. Crossland’s flat. Gallaho pressed the bell.

An elderly Egyptian in native dress opened the door. He was a very good Arab type and a highly ornamental servant. He stared uncomprehendingly at Inspector Gallaho, and then bowed to Sir Denis.

“This is Mrs. Crossland’s flat, I believe?” said the detective.

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Crossland is abroad.”

“A crime has been committed in this building to-night,” Gallaho went on, in his threatening way, “and I want to ask you a few questions.”

The Egyptian did not give way; he stood squarely in the doorway. It was a type of situation which has defeated many a detective officer. Gallaho knew that his ankles were tied by red tape; that he dared not, if intrusion should prove to have been unjustified, cross the threshold against the will of the man who held it.

Nayland Smith solved the situation.

Stepping past Gallaho, he gently but firmly pushed the Egyptian back, and entered the lobby.

“There are questions I want to ask you, Ibrahim,” he said in Arabic, “and I wish my friend to be present.” He turned. “Come in, Gallaho.”

The lobby of Mrs. Crossland’s flat resembled the entrance to a harem. It was all mushrabiyeh work and perforated brass lanterns. There were chests of Damascus ware, and slender Persian rugs upon the polished floors. Ibrahim’s amiable face changed in expression; his dark eyes glared dangerously.

“You have no right to come into this place,” he said in English.

And Nayland Smith, noting that he spoke in English even in this moment of excitement, recognized an unusual character; for he had spoken in Arabic.

Gallaho entered behind Sir Denis. He knew that the latter was not trammelled as he was trammelled; that he was strong enough to trample upon regulations.

“Close the door, Gallaho,” snapped Sir Denis; and, turning to the Egyptian: “Lead the way in. I want to talk to you.”

Ibrahim’s expression changed again. He bowed, smiled, and indicating with an outstretched arm an apartment similar in shape to Nayland Smith’s sitting-room, led the way.

Gallaho and Sir Denis found themselves in an apartment queerly exotic. The bay window which in Smith’s room admitted waves of sunlight, here was obstructed by a mushrabiyeh screen. Dim light from shaded lanterns illuminated the place. It was all divans and brassware, rugs and cushions; a stage-setting of an Oriental interior. Mrs. Crossland’s reputation and financial success rested upon her inaccurate pictures of desert life; of the loves of sheiks and their Western mistresses.

Nayland Smith looked about him.

Ibrahim stood by the door leading into the room in an attitude of humility, eyes lowered. But Sir Denis had sized up the man and knew that the task before them was no easy one.

“You have a Chinese friend, 0 Ibrahim,” he said in Arabic— “a tall, distinguished Chinese friend.”

Nothing in Ibrahim’s attitude indicated that the words had startled him, but:

“I have no such Chinese friend, effendim,” he replied, persistently speaking in English.

“You belong to the Si-Fan.”

“I do not even know what you mean, effendun.”

“Tell me. You may as well speak now——” Sir Denis had abandoned Arabic—”since you will be compelled to speak later if necessary. How long have you been in the service of Mrs. Grassland?”

“For ten years, effendun.”

“And here, in this flat?”

“My lady and gentleman live here for five years.”

“I suggest that Mrs. Crossland or her husband has a tall distinguished Chinese friend, who sometime visits here.”

“I am not acquainted with such a person, effendim.”

Nayland Smith tugged at his ear, whilst Gallaho watched him anxiously. It was a situation of some delicacy; because, always, there was a possibility that they were wrong.

The sinister visitor with the camera-case might have been working from some other base.

“There are no other resident servants?”

“None, effendim.”

It was an impasse. Failing some more definite clue Nayland Smith recognized the fact that despite his contempt for red tape where a major case was concerned he could not possibly force this perfect servant to give him access to the other rooms of the apartment.

He stood there tugging at his ear, and staring from object to object. The very air was impregnated with pseudo Orientalism. It held a faint tang of ambergris. He wished, now, that Petrie had been with him; for Petrie sometimes had queer intuitions. But of course, it had been impossible to leave Fleurette alone.

He glanced at Gallaho.

The latter took the cue immediately, and:

“A mistake, sir, I suppose?” he growled; and to Ibrahim:

“Sorry to have troubled you.”

They returned to the lobby: Gallaho had actually gone out into the corridor, when:

“This is a very fine piece, Ibrahim,” said Sir Denis.

He stood before an Egyptian sarcophagus half hidden in a recess.

“So I am told, effendim.”

“Has Mrs. Crossland had it long?”

“No, effendim.” At last, the Egyptian’s deadly calm was disturbed. “It was bought by Mr. Crossland in Egypt recently. It was delivered less than a week ago.”

“Beautiful example of late eighteenth,” murmured Nayland Smith. “Shipped through to London, I suppose?”

“Yes, effendim.”

They were bowed out by the Egyptian. The door was closed.

“Call to the Yard the moment we reach my flat!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Have this entire block covered.”

“Very good, sir. I was thinking the same thing.”

“We weren’t wrong—but our hands are tied.”

“My idea exactly, sir.”

Fey opened the door in response to their ring.

“How is Miss Petrie?” Nayland Smith challenged.

“The doctor is with her, sir.”

They went in and Gallaho took up the telephone. Sir Denis walked on into the sitting-room, pacing the carpet restlessly.

Gallaho’s gruff voice could be heard as he spoke to someone at Scotland Yard. Presently, Dr. Petrie came in. He shook his head.

“No change, Smith,” he reported. “She declines to leave her room. She is packing, methodically, but refuses all assistance. The idea has been implanted upon her mind that a call to leave here is coming shortly. God help us if we can’t find the man who imposed that thing upon her!”

“What would it mean?” snapped Smith.

“It would mean, I fear, that she would remain in this condition to the end of her life.”

“The poisonous swine! He is very powerful!”

“He has the greatest brain in the world to-day, Smith.”

Gallaho completed his directions at the telephone and came into the room. All idea of dinner had been brushed from their minds. There was a moment of awkward silence. Sounds of faint movement reached them: Fleurette was still engaged in her packing.

Then, the telephone bell rang.

There was something in this call coming at that moment which seemed to possess a special significance. All three waited. All three listened to Fey’s voice, out in the lobby.

And presently, Fey came in.

He had quite recovered his normal self. There was nothing in his appearance or in his behaviour to suggest that he had passed through an amazing ordeal. He bowed slightly to Dr. Petrie.

“Someone wishes to speak to you, sir.”

“What name?”

“Dr. Fu Manchu was the name, sir.”

CHAPTER

57

A CALL FOR PETRIE

As petrie crossed the lobby, Nayland Smith turned to Gallaho.

“Do you realize, Inspector,” he said, “that the greatest menace to the peace of the world who has come on earth since the days ofAttila the Hun, is at the other end of that line?”

“I am beginning to realize that what you say about this man is true, sir.” Gallaho replied. “But I think we can trace him by this call.”

“Wait and see.”

He kept glancing towards the door which communicated with Fleurette’s room. There was silence there. He wondered what she was doing. In this, perhaps, the incomprehensible plan of Dr. Fu Manchu reached its culmination. Nayland Smith walked to the lobby door and listened to Petrie’s words.

These did not help him much, consisting principally of “yes” and “no”. At last, Petrie replaced the receiver, stood up, and faced Smith.

His features were very drawn. Smith recognized how the last year had aged him.

“What am I to do?” he said, speaking almost in a whisper. “What am I to do?”

“Come in here,” said Sir Denis quickly. “Gallaho wants to use the line.”

Gallaho sprang to the telephone as Dr. Petrie and Nayland Smith walked into the sitting-room. They faced one another, and:

“What are his terms?” said Smith.

Petrie nodded.

“I knew you would understand.”

He dropped into an armchair and stared straight before him into the embers of the open fire.

“He wants something,” Nayland Smith went on evenly, “and he demands acceptance of his terms, or——” he pointed in the direction of the door beyond which Fleurette’s room lay. . . .

Petrie nodded again.

“What am I to do? What am I do to?”

“Give me the facts. Perhaps I can help you.”

“It was Dr. Fu Manchu at the end of the line,” said Petrie, in a monotonous voice. “Any doubts I may have had, disappeared the moment I heard that peculiar intonation. He apologized for troubling me; his courtesy never fails except in moments of madness——”

“I agree,” murmured Nayland Smith.

“He admitted, Smith, that you had made things pretty warm for him, assisted by the English and French police. Access to agents of the Si-Fan in England was denied to him—his financial resources were cut off. Of this he spoke frankly”

“Finally, he reached the point at which he had been aiming. He regretted that it had been necessary to make a clandestine call at this apartment; but Fleurette, the woman he had chosen for his bride” (Petrie spoke in almost a monotone) “had been torn from him. Matters of even greater urgency demanded ...”

He paused, staring into the heart of the fire.

“Demanded what?’ Nayland Smith asked, quietly.

He was listening—but no sound came from the room occupied by Fleurette.

“He has an exaggerated idea of my powers as a physician. He is a man of great age—God knows what age; and it appears that he is cut off from a supply of the strange elixir by means of which, alone, he remains alive. His offer is this:

I am to bring him certain ingredients which he has named, and assist him in preparing the elixir, which apparently he is unable to prepare alone; or——”

“I fully appreciate the alternative,” snapped Nayland Smith. “But one thing I don’t quite understand. I am wondering if something else underlies it, why his need of your services?”

Perrie smiled unmirthfully.

“It appears that he is in a situation—he frankly admits that he is hunted—where the attendance of any physician attached to his group would be impossible. Also, it appears, the pharmaceutical details require adroit manipulation.”

“What does he want you to do?”

Gallaho came in from the lobby.

“That was a Westminster call, sir,” he reported. “The caller was in this area. I expect further details later.”

“Excellent,” murmured Nayland Smith. “Listen to this, Gallaho. Go ahead, Petrie.”

“He assured me,” Dr. Petrie went on, “and neither you nor I, Smith——” he looked at Sir Denis appealingly—”has ever doubted his word, that Fleurette would remain mentally his slave in the state in which she is, now, unless he chose to restore her to normal life.”

“If he said so,” said Nayland Smith solemnly, “I don’t doubt it.”

“Your job is to go, sir,” said Gallaho, with a faint show of excitement. “I’ll have you covered, and we’ll get this yellow devil!”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Dr. Petrie smiled wearily.

“Where Dr. Fu Manchu is concerned, things are not quite so simple as that. You see, my daughter’s sanity is at stake.”

“You mean that no one but this Fu Manchu can put her right?”

“That’s what I mean, Inspector.”

Chief detective-inspector Gallaho picked up his hat, looked at it, and threw it down again. He began to chew invisible gum, glancing from Sir Denis to Dr. Petrie.

“Sir Denis and I know this man,” the latter went on; “we know what he can do—what he has done. You would be entitled officially to take the steps you have mentioned, Inspector;

I can only ask you not to take them; to treat what I have told you as a confidence.”

“As you say, sir.”

“I am ordered to assemble certain drugs; some of them difficult to obtain, but none, I believe, unobtainable. The final ingredient, the indispensable ingredient, is a certain essential oil unknown anywhere in the world except in the laboratory of Dr. Fu Manchu. A small quantity of this still remains in existence.”

“Where?” jerked Nayland Smith.

Dr. Petrie did not reply for a few seconds. He bowed his head, resting it in a raised hand; then:

“At a spot which I have given my word not to name.” He replied. “I am to go there, and get it. And when I have collected the other items of the prescription, and certain chemical apparatus described to me. I am to join Dr. Fu Manchu.”

“Where are you to join him?” Inspector Gallaho asked, hoarsely.

“This I cannot tell you, Inspector. My daughter’s life is at stake.”

There was another silence, and then:

“He is, then, in extremis?” murmured Nayland Smith.

“He is dying,” Dr. Petrie replied. “If I can save him, he will restore Fleurette to me—on the word ofFu Manchu.”

Nayland Smith nodded.

“Which in all my knowledge of his execrable life, he has never broken.”

CHAPTER 58

JOHN KI

“Don’t wake her,” said Dr. Petrie.

He beckoned to the nurse to follow him. Outside in the sitting-room, where misty morning light was just beginning to assert itself, Nayland Smith in pyjamas and dressing-gown was pacing up and down smoking furiously. Petrie was fully dressed, and:

“Hello, Petrie!” said Smith. “You’ll crack up if you go on like this.”

“She is so beautiful,” said the nurse, a dour Scotch woman, but as capable as all London could supply. “She is sleeping like a child. It’s a strange case!”

“It is a very strange case.” Petrie assured her. “But you fully understand my instructions, nurse, and I know you will carry them out.”

“You may count upon that, Doctor.”

“Go back to your patient now, and report to Sir Denis, here, if there is any change when she awakens.”

“I understand, Doctor.”

Nurse Craig went out of the room, and Petrie turned to Nayland Smith. The latter paused in his restless promenade, puffing furiously on a cracked briar, and:

“This job is going to crock you, Petrie,” he declared. “Neither you nor I is getting younger; only Dr. Fu Manchu can defy the years. You look like hell, old man. You have been up all night, and now——”

“And now my job begins,” said Petrie quietly. “Oh, I know I am stretching myself to the limit, but the stakes are very high, Smith”

Nayland Smith gripped Petrie’s shoulder and then began walk up and down again.

Petrie dropped into an armchair, clutching his knees, and staring into the heart of the fire. Fey came in unobtrusively and made the fire up. It had been burning all night, and he, too, had not slept.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

“Yes,” said Nayland Smith, “Dr. Petrie has to go out in an hour. Get bacon and eggs, Fey, and coffee.”

“Very good, sir.”

Fey went out.

“I haven’t slept,” rapped Nayland Smith; “couldn’t sleep, but at least I have relaxed physically. You,” he stared at Petrie, “haven’t even undressed.

“No——” Petrie smiled; “but as you may have observed, I have shaved.”

“A hit, Petrie. I haven’t. But I propose to do so immediately. Take my advice. Strip and have a bath before bacon and eggs. You’ll feel a new man.”

“I believe you are right, Smith.”

And when presently, the two, who many years before had set out to combat the menace represented by Dr. Fu Manchu, sat down to breakfast, except for asides to Fey who waited at table, they were strangely silent. But when Fey had withdrawn:

“I don’t doubt,” said Nayland Smith, “and you cannot doubt, that Fleurette would live in a borderland to the end of her days if the man who has set her there does not will it otherwise. We are compromising with a remorseless enemy, Petrie, but in this compromise I am wholly with you. Gallaho is out for the moment. He is the most fearless and the most conscientious officer I have met with in recent years. He will go far. It rests between us now, old man, and I suppose it means defeat.”

“I suppose it does,” said Petrie, dully.

“Naturally, you know where to assemble the drugs and paraphernalia demanded by Dr. Fu Manchu. You have passed your word about the place where the particular ingredient is to be found.”

He ceased speaking and glanced at the clock on the mantle-piece.

“I shall have to be going, Smith,” said Petrie, wearily. “It is utterly preposterous and utterly horrible. But——”

He stood up.

Nayland Smith grasped his hand.

“It’s just Fate,” he said. “Dr. Fu Manchu seems to be our fate, Petrie.”

“You don’t blame me for consenting?” “Petrie, you had no choice.”

* * *

Dr. Petrie discharged his taxicab at a spot in Vauxhaull Bridge Road where he had been told by Dr. Fu Manchu to discharge it. Carrying the suitcase with which he had set out from Nayland Smith’s flat, and which now contained drugs and apparatus which must have surprised any physician who examined them, and which indeed surprised Dr. Petrie, he walked along that dingy thoroughfare until he came to a certain house.

It was a grey and a gloomy house, its door approached by three dirty steps.

Battersea was coming to life.

Battersea is one of London’s oddest suburbs—a suburb which produced John Burns, a big man frustrated;

Communist to-day, if votes count for anything, encircled in red on the Crimes’ Map; yet housing thousands of honest citizens, staunch men and true. A queer district—and just such a district as might harbour an agent of Dr. Fu Manchu.

Laden tramcars went rocking by, bound cityward. There were many pedestrians. Battersea was alert, alive—it was a nest of workers.

But of all this Dr. Petrie was only vaguely conscious: his interest lay far from Battersea.

He went up the three steps and rang the bell.

In response to his ringing, the door, presently, was opened by a very old Chinaman.

Petrie stared at an intricate map of wrinkles which decorated that ape-like face. Memory bridged the years; he knew that this was John Ki, once keeper of the notorious “Joy Shop” in the older Chinatown, and now known as Sam Pak.

A sort of false gaiety claimed him. He had gone over to the enemy, become one with them, and accordingly:

“Good morning, John,” he said; “a long time since I saw you.”

“Velly much long time before.”

The toothless mouth opened in a grin, and old Sam Pak ceremoniously stood aside, bowing his visitor in.

Petrie found himself in a frowsy, evil-smelling passage, the floor covered with worn and cracked linoleum; hideous paper peeling from the walls. There was a room immediately on the left, the door of which was open. He entered, heard the front door close, and the old Chinaman came in behind him.

This was a room which had apparently remained untouched, undecorated and undusted since the days of Queen Victoria. Upon a round mahogany table were wax flowers under a glass case; indescribably filthy horsehair chairs;

a carpet through which the floor appeared from point to point;

a large print on one wall representing King Edward VII as Prince of Wales, and a brass gas chandelier hanging from the centre of a ceiling of the colour of Thames mud.

Petrie set down his suitcase very carefully on the floor, and turned to Sam Pak.

“What now, John?”

“Waitee, please; go be long yet.”

The aged creature went out; and Petrie, staring through indescribably dirty lace curtains upon the prospect outside, saw a Morris car pull up.

It was driven by a man who wore a tweed cap, pulled well down over his eyes, but who almost certainly was an Asiatic . ..

Old Sam Pak, better known to Dr. Petrie as John Ki, returned.

He was carrying a small steel casket. He handled it as though it had been a piece of fragile Ming porcelain, and with one skinny hand indicated the suitcase.

Petrie nodded, and unfastened the case.

A quantity of cotton waste was produced by Sam Pak from somewhere, and wrapped around the steel receptacle; this was then deposited in the case, and the case was closed.

“Key?”

The aged Chinaman extended upon one skinny finger a curiously shaped key attached to a ring.

“Keep—velly particular.”

“I understand.”

Dr. Petrie took it, placed it in his note-case and returned the note-case to his pocket.

Sam Pak signalled from the window and the driver of the Morris came up the steps.

He carried the suitcase out to the car.

“Very careful, my man!” called Petrie, urgently; and realized that, for the first time in his life, he was interested in the survival of Dr. Fu Manchu.

He was indifferent to his destination. He lay back in the car and dully watched a panorama of sordid streets.

CHAPTER

59

LIMEHOUSE

That strange journey terminated at a small house in Felling Street, Limehouse.

The driver of the Morris, who might have been Chinese, but who more probably was a half-caste, jumped down and banged on an iron knocker which took the place of a bell.

The door was opened almost immediately, but Petrie was unable to see by whom.

His driver’s behaviour during this long and dismal journey had been eccentric. Drizzling rain had taken the place of fog, and the crowded City streets under these conditions would have reduced a Sam Weller to despair. Many byways had been explored for no apparent reason. The driver constantly pulled up, and waited, and watched.

Dr. Petrie understood these manoeuvres.

The man suspected pursuit, and was anxious to throw his pursuers off the track.

Now he signalled to Dr. Petrie to come in. Petrie climbed out of the car and walked into the open door-way.

“The bag?” he said.

“Leave now,” the driver replied; “get presently.”

“Those are my orders, Dr. Petrie,” came in a cultured voice.

And Petrie found that a Japanese gentleman who wore spectacles was smiling at him out of the shadows of the little passage-way.

“If those are your orders, good enough.”

The driver went out; the door was closed. And Petrie followed the Japanese to a back room, the appointments of which aroused him from the lethargy into which he was falling.

This might have been a private room in an up-to-date hairdresser’s establishment, or it might have been an actor’s dressing-room. All the impedimenta of make-up was represented and there was a big winged mirror set right of the window. The prospect was that of a wall beyond which appeared a number of chimneys.

“My name is Ecko Yusaki,” said the man who wore the spectacles, “ and it is a great privilege to meet you, Dr. Petrie. Will you please sit in the armchair, facing the light.

Petrie sat in the armchair.

“Your interests are not the same as my own,” the smooth voice continued, and Mr. Yusaki busied himself with mysterious preparations; “but they are, I imagine, as keen. I am one of the most ancient brotherhood in the world, Dr. Petrie—the Si-Fan.” (He made a curious gesture with which Petrie was unpleasantly familiar) “and at last my turn has come to be useful. I am——” he turned displaying a row of large, gleaming teeth—”a specialist in make-up, but recently returned from Hollywood.”

“I see,” said Petrie. “Regard me as entirely in your hands.”

Thereupon, courteously, and with a deft assurance which spoke of the enthusiast, Mr. Yusaki set to work.

Petrie submitted, closing his eyes and thinking of Fleurette, of his wife, of Nayland Smith, of Sterling, of all those caught in the mesh of the dreadful Chinese Doctor.

At last, Mr. Yusaki seemed to be satisfied, and:

“Please glance at this photograph, Dr. Petrie,” he said . . . “No! one moment!” he snatched the photograph away . . . “Through these!”

He adjusted tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles over Petrie’s ears.

Petrie stared at a photograph nearly life size which the Japanese was holding before him. It was that of a man apparently grey-haired, who wore a moustache and a short pointed beard, and who also wore spectacles; a sad looking man nearer sixty than fifty, but well preserved for his years.

“You see?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“Please look now in the mirror.”

Petrie turned to the big mirror.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Good God!”

He saw the original of the photograph—yet the face at which he looked was his own!

Speech failed him for a moment, and then:

“Who am I?” he asked, in a dull voice.

“You are a member of the Si-Fan——” Again the respectful gesture resembling the Roman Catholic Sign of the Cross— “who to-day is making a great sacrifice for the Cause. My part is done, Dr. Petrie—except for a small change of dress; and the car is waiting. . . .”

CHAPTER

60

DR. PETRIE’S PATIENT

When the Queenstown Bay came to her berth, Dr. Petrie was one of the first visitors aboard.

Shortly after he reached the deck, endeavouring to recall his instructions, an elderly Egyptian, wearing European dress, approached him. The usual scurry characterized the docking of the liner; stewards and porters were rushing about with baggage; visitors were looking for those they had come to meet; cargo was being swung out from the holds; and drizzling rain desended dismally upon the scene.

“Dr. Petrie!”

The man spoke urgently, close to Petrie’s ear.

“Yes.”

“My name is Ibrahim. Please—your dock check.”

Petrie handed the slip to the Egyptian.

“Please wait here. I shall come back.”

He moved along the deck, and presently disappeared amongst a group of passengers crowding towards the gangway.

Petrie felt that he was in a dream. Yet he forced himself to play his part in this grotesque pantomime, the very purpose of which he could not comprehend: the sanity of his daughter was at stake.

Ibrahim rejoined him. He handed him a passport.

“Please see that it is in order,” he said. “You have to pass the Customs.”

Petrie, inured to shock, opened the little book; saw a smaller version of the photograph which Mr. Yusaki had shown him, gummed upon the front page; and learned that he was a Mr. Jacob Edward Crossland, aged fifty-five, of no occupation, and residing at 14, Westminster Mansions!

The extent and the powers of the organization called the Si-Fan were so amazing that he had never succeeded in getting used to them. No society, with the possible exception of the Jesuits, ever had wielded such influence nor had its roots so deeply set in unsuspected quarters.

He could only assume that Mr. Crossland, husband of the well-known woman novelist, was one of these strange brethren: assume, too, that Mr. Crossland would slip ashore as a visitor.

And—what?

Disappear from his place in society? Yusaki had said he was making a great sacrifice for the Cause. It was all very wonderful and very terrifying.

“I have tipped the stewards, effendim—and your baggage is already in Custom House. Will you please follow me? . . .”

Dr. Petrie walked down the ladder wearing a white raincoat which he had acquired at the house of Mr. Yusaki, and a grey hat of a colour and style which he detested.

Apparently, Mr. Crossland travelled light. A small cabin-trunk and a suitcase lay upon the Customs bench. The cabin trunk he was requested to open. Ibrahim produced the necessary key, displaying wearing apparel, a toilet case, books and other odds and ends. The two pieces were passed. The porter hired by Ibrahim carried them out towards the dock gates.

“Be careful, please,” the Egyptian whispered.

Detective-inspector Gallaho and Sergeant Murphy were standing at the gate!

Nothing quite corresponding to this had ever occurred in Petrie’s adventurous life. He had joined the ranks of the law breakers!

He must play his part; so much was at stake. He must deceive his friends, those interested, as he was interested, in apprehending the Chinese physician. If his nerve, or the art of Mr. Yusaki should fail him now—all would be lost!

The critical gaze of Gallaho was fixed upon him for a moment, then immediately transferred to Ibrahim.

Petrie passed the detective, forcing himself not to look in his direction. A taxicab was waiting upon which the pieces of baggage were loaded, under the supervision of Ibrahim. Petrie observed with admiration that his own suitcase had already been placed inside.

He knew now where his course lay, and his amazement rose by leaps and bounds.

The presence of Gallaho at the dock gates was explained. The police were covering the Crossland flat. The man, when he had left that morning, had naturally been followed. He was regarded as a factor so important in the case that Gallaho had covered in person. Gallaho would be disappointed. The cunning of the group surrounding Dr. Fu Manchu exceeded anything in Petrie’s experience.

He glanced at the placid, elderly Egyptian seated beside him,and:

“How long have you belonged to the Si-Fan?” he asked, speaking in Arabic.

Ibrahim shrugged his shoulders.

“Sir,” he replied in the same language, “it is not possible for me to reply to your questions. Silence is my creed.”

“Very sound,” Petrie murmured, and gave it up.

His sentiments when he reached Westminster, and was greeted respectfully by the hall porter as Mr. Crossland, were of a kind inexpressible in any language known to man.

Then, as he stepped out of the elevator—Nayland Smith was standing on the landing!

Petrie suppressed an exclamation. One piercing stare of those blue-grey eyes had told him that he was recognized.

But Smith gave no sign, merely bowing and stepping aside as Ibrahim busied himself with the baggage.

Three mintues later, Dr. Petrie stood in the pseudo-Oriental atmosphere of the Crossland flat, and Ibrahim closed the door behind him.

“Please wait a moment.”

The Egyptian walked through the harem-like apartment which opened out of the lobby, and disappeared.

Petrie had time to wonder if the authoress of the celebrated novels of desert love also was a member of the Si-Fan, or if this must be counted a secret of her husband’s life which she had never shared. He wondered what part this man normally played in their activities, and doubted the nationality of Crossland.

Surely no man entitled to his name could link himself with a monstrous conspiracy to subject the Western races to domination by the East?

Above all, to what reward did Crossland look which should make good the loss of his place in the world of decent men?

“If you will please come this way, sir.”

Ibrahim, who had carried out the precious suitcase, now returned without it, and stood bowing before Petrie.

Petrie nodded and followed the Egyptian across that shaded room with its mushrabiyeh windows, and through a doorway beyond, which, in spite of the Oriental camouflage, he recognized to correspond with one in Nayland Smith’s apartment.

He found himself in a large bedroom.

The Eastern note persisted. The place, viewed from the doorway, resembled a stage-set designed by one of the more advanced Germans for a scene in Scheherazade. The bed stood upon a dias; its posts were intricately carved and inlaid, and a canopy of cloth of gold overhung its head. A low couch he saw, too, and a long, inlaid table of Damascus work. Upon this table chemical apparatus appeared, striking a strange note in that apartment. He noted that the contents of his suitcase had been added to the other materials upon the table.

And, in the bed, Dr. Fu Manchu lay. . . .

Petrie stared, and stared again, unable to accept the evidence of his own senses.

Less than two months had elapsed since he had seen the Chinese doctor. In those two months, Fu Manchu had aged incredibly.

He was shrunken; his strange, green eyes were buried in his skull; his long hands lying on the silk coverlet resembled the hands of a mummy. The outline of his teeth could be seen beneath drawn lips. To the keen scrutiny of the physician, the truth was apparent.

Dr. Fu Manchu was dying!

“ ‘0 mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low?’“ came sibilantly through parched lips. “I observe, Dr. Petrie, that this beautiful passage from an otherwise dull play is present in your mind . . . You honour me.”

Petrie started, felt his fists clenching. The body of Fu Manchu was in dissolution, but that phenomenal brain had lost none of its power. The man still retained his uncanny capacity for reading one’s unspoken thoughts.

“I must harbour what little strength remains to me,” the painful whisper continued. “For your daughter’s health of mind and body, you need have no fear. I was compelled, since there is still work for me if I can do it, to impose a command upon her. It nearly exhausted my powers, which are dwindling minute by minute.”

The whispering voice ceased.

Petrie watched that strange face, but no words came to him. In it he had seen, as others had seen, a likeness to the Pharaoh, Seti I—but the Pharaoh as one imagined him in his prime. Now, the resemblance to the mummy which lies in Cairo was uncanny.

Ideas which his scientific mind rejected as superstitious, danced mentally before him. . . .

What was the real age of this man?

“I have removed the command which I imposed upon her,” the whistling voice continued, “because I have accepted your word, as you have always accepted mine. Your daughter, Dr. Petrie, is restored to you as you would wish her to be. I shall never again intrude upon her life in any way.”

“Thank you!” said Petrie—and wondered why he spoke so emotionally.

He was thanking this cold-blooded, murderous criminal for promising to refrain from one of his many crimes! Perhaps the secret of his sentiment lay in the fact hat he knew the criminal to be one whose word was inviolable.

“I have taken these steps——” Fu Manchu’s voice sank lower—”because with all your great skill, which I respect, your assistance may have come too late.”

He paused again. Petrie watched him fascinatedly.

“Sir Denis Nayland Smith has succeeded for the . . . first time in his life in sequestering me from most of those resources upon which normally ... I can draw. ... In these circumstances I was compelled to forego one ... of the periodical treatments upon which my continued . . . vitality depends. ... I was then cut off from the material. My present condition is outside my experience ... I cannot say if restoration ... is possible. . . .”

Complete resignation sounded in the weak voice.

“In the absence of Dr. Yamamata . . . who usually acts for me, but who unfortunately at present is in China . . . there is no other physician known to me who could possibly . . . assist—in any way. I shall be obliged, Dr. Petrie, if you will give the whole of your attention to ... the written formula which lies . . . upon the table. Any error would be fatal. . . . Only one portion of the essential oil remains in the phial contained in the steel casket. ...”

He ceased speaking and closed his eyes.

His hands had never moved; it was like listening to a dead man speaking from the grave.

CHAPTER

61

THE CROSSLAND’S FLAT

“Detective-inspector Gallaho, sir,” Fey announced.

It was approaching evening when Gallaho called on Nayland Smith; and, entering the lobby, he wrenched his bowler off, threw it on to a chair and walked into the sitting-room.

“Hullo, Gallaho!” said Sir Denis. “A devil of a row going on in the corridor?”

“Yes, sir. The vacant flat has been let—to an Indian Army gentleman, I believe. His stuff is being moved in.”

“You’ve checked up, I see!”

“Well——” Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf— “I’ve got a man posted at each of the four exits, and I’ve sized up the workmen from Staple’s depository on the job. Nobody is going to slip out in the confusion—that is, nobody over six feet in height that I don’t know!”

“Efficient work, Inspector.”

Gallaho stared, chewing invisible gum.

“I have come to a certain conclusion, sir,” he declared. “What I do about it depends upon your answer to a question I am going to ask.”

“What’s the question?” snapped Nayland Smith.

“It’s just this, sir: who’s in charge of this Fu Manchu case?”

“I am.”

“Good enough. That means I am under your orders, definitely.”

“Definitely”

“That saves me a lot of trouble,” sighed Gallaho, leaning upon the mantelpiece. “Because I have certain theories, and I can’t act upon them without your instructions.”

He paused, and seemed to be listening.

“I know what you’re listening for,” said Sir Denis. “But I am very happy to be able to tell you, Gallaho, that Miss Petrie is entirely restored. The nurse installed by Dr. Petrie insists that she shall remain in bed. But there isn’t really the slightest occasion for it. Mr. Sterling and the nurse are with her now. She is completely normal.”

“That’s an amazing thing,” growled Gallaho.

Nayland Smith stared past him as if at some very distant object, and then:

“The powers of the mind are amazing,” he said, quietly. “But this theory of yours, Gallaho?”

“Well, sir, my theory is this: that slimy old Arab. Ibrahim, went out this morning and I followed him. I took Murphy along in case we had to split up. He went to West India Dock, and went on board a liner in from Jamaica. He came ashore again, with his employer, Mr. Crossland.”

“I know,” Sir Denis interrupted. “I met them here, as they arrived.”

“Oh, I see. . . .” Gallaho stared very hard. “Well, in my opinion, there’s something funny about it. You see, sir, I had some inquiries made about Mr. Crossland. His wife’s in New York. That’s certain—I mean the woman who writes books. But Mr. Crossland himself was last heard of in Madeira.”

“He might have joined the ship at some port of call.”

“He might,” Gallaho replied. “In fact, he must have done. But it’s very funny. Except the Egyptian, nobody has come out of that flat since we visited it. ... I’m wondering who’s still inside——”

Nayland Smith did not answer for some moments, then:

“You mean, Gallaho,” he said, “that you don’t think the man who is now presumably in Mr. Crossland’s flat, is really Mr. Crossland at all?”

“I suppose I must be mad,” growled Gallaho, almost rubbing his elbow into the mantelpiece. “His passport was obviously in order; he was accepted by the servants downstairs here, and he was met by Ibrahim, who took charge of his baggage. I suppose I must be barmy. But there’s something about it that isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on the weak spot—but I wish I had your authority to barge into Mr. Crossland’s flat. I think I should find something.”

Nayland Smith walked up and down in silence, but at last:

“In my opinion, you are right, Inspector,” he replied. “If my opinion is of any value, I regard you as a man brilliantly equipped for his chosen profession.”

Detective-inspector Gallaho became definitely embarrassed.

“You apparently don’t know the meaning of fear, although you have an active imagination. I owe my life to this singular combination, and this, I shall never forget.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The present Commissioner and myself do not see eye to eye, but I don’t dispute his brilliance as an organizer. What I mean is this, Gallaho; you have hit the nail on the head.”

Gallaho, watching the speaker, was chewing assiduously, and now:

“Am I to understand, sir,” he asked, “that you agree with my view of this case?”

“I do.”

“You mean you have reason to suppose, as I have reason to suppose, that the proper course, in the interests of justice, would be to secure powers to examine the flat of Mr. Crossland?”

“Exactly.”

There was a further interval of silence. Tramcars rocked upon their way, far below. Some vague hint of activity upon the river reached that high apartment.

“I take it, sir, you are officially in charge?”

“I have told you so.”

“And you don’t wish Mr. Crossland’s apartment to be searched?”

“Definitely, I forbid the step.”

“Very good, sir.”

Gallaho’s eyes strayed in the direction of the door which communicated with the room occupied by Fleurette.

“You see,” said Nayland Smith, “you are not dealing with a common criminal. You are dealing with the Emperor of Lawbreakers. Dr. Petrie and myself have worked side by side for many years, opposing this man’s monstrous plans. I have never succeeded in bringing him to justice. There are reasons why I can do nothing at the moment—nothing whatever. ...”

He fixed his keen eyes upon Inspector Gallaho.

“I understand, sir. When do I get the O.K.?”

“When Dr. Petrie rejoins us.”

CHAPTER 62

COMPANION CROSSLAND

Into the oriental bedroom dusk had crept. Long ago Ibrahim had turned the lamps on.

Petrie had lost identity: he was merely a physician battling with the most difficult case ever entrusted to him. He sat beside Dr. Fu Manchu, holding the lean, yellow wrist and registering the pulse; watching the mummy-like face, wondering if he had committed any error, and hoping—yes, hoping—that success would crown his hours of effort!

Under no obligation whatever, for no man who had ever met him had doubted the word ofFu Manchu, he was battling to save the life of this monster, this octopus whose tentacles, stretching out from some place in Asia, touched, it seemed, the races of the world. He was cherishing a plague, fanning into life again an intellect so cold, so exact, that the man in whose body it was set could sacrifice his own flesh and blood in the interests of his giant, impersonal projects.

For one insane moment, the glamour of the Si-Fan swamped common-sense. Petrie found himself questioning his own ideals; challenging standards which he believed to be true. Definitely, the world was awry; perhaps it was possible that this amazing man—for that he was an outstanding genius, none could deny—had a plan to adjust the scheme of things “nearer to the heart’s desire”.

How could he know?

Weighed in the balance with the mandarin doctor, he was a negligible quantity. Perhaps the redemption of mankind, the readjustment of poise, could only be brought about by a remorseless, steely intellect such as that of Dr. Fu Manchu. Perhaps he was a fool to fight against the Si-Fan . . . Perhaps the Si-Fan was right, and the Western world wrong!

Night had come, and upon its wings had descended again that demon Fog. Wisps streaked the room. . . .

And the night wore on—until ghostly spears of dawn broke through the shaded windows.

Dr. Fu Manchu suddenly opened his eyes.

Their brilliant greeness was oddly filmed; a husky whisper reached Petrie’s ears:

“Success!”

He had never believed that he could touch without loathing the person of the Chinese physician, but now, again, he tested his pulse, and as he did so:

“You observe the change?” the weak voice continued. “I have challenged Fate, Dr. Petrie, but again I have won. The crisis is past.”

Petrie stated at him in amazement. Not only his pulse, but his voice, indicated a phenomenal return of vitality.

“The life property—which is the sun.” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “revivifies swiftly. You are surprised.”

The queer film left his eyes. It appeared to the amazed stare of Petrie that the hollows in those yellow cheeks already were filling out. . . .

“Of the Western physicians whom chance has thrown in my path, I have not yet met your peer. You are a modest man, Dr. Petrie. True healers are rare—but you are one of these. If ever you join me it will be voluntarily. From this day onward you have nothing to fear from any plans I may deem necessary to undertake.”

The treatment which Dr. Petrie had administered to Fu Manchu was one which, personally, he should have described as imbecile. The B. M. A. would have disowned any physician employing such measures. He had been unable to discover any element of sanity, any trace of unity in the drugs which he had been directed to assemble.

The queer oil, with its faint violet tinge, was the only element in the strange prescription which he could not identify. Yes; it was magic!—something transcending the knowledge of the Western world!

Dr. Fu Manchu was growing younger, hour by hour. . . .

“You are amazed, Dr. Petrie.” The harsh voice was beginning to regain its normal quality. “Any physician of Europe or America would be amazed. Perhaps you do not realize, even yet, that the old herbalists were not all mad. There is an essential oil—you have used it to-night—which contains those properties the alchemists sought. It is the other ingredients, and they are simple, which convert it into that elixir vitae found only once in the Middle Ages.”

He sat up!

Petrie started back. Before the Fu Manchu against whom he had fought for so many years, the vital, powerful Fu Manchu, he found himself an enemy. He faced a menace which had all but wrecked his own happiness; which yet might wreck the structure of Western society.

“My compliments, Dr. Petrie. I had not overestimated your accomplishments.”

Ten years—twenty years—a hundred years—had been shed by the speaker, as a snake discards its old skin. The man who now sat upright in the bed fixing the gaze of his green eyes upon Dr. Petrie, was a phenomenon; the Phoenix had arisen from its ashes.

A vision of what this might mean to the world crossed Petrie’s mind:—a battle-piece red with blood and violence; a ghastly picture of death and destruction.

“You have played your part honourably,” said Dr. Fu Manchu.

He reached out a long, yellow hand, and pressed a bell. Ibrahim entered—and, realizing the miracle which had taken place, prostrated himself upon the carpet and pronounced a prayer of thanksgiving.

There were sounds of movement in the corridor outside. Vaguely, Petrie recalled that a similar disturbance had occurred during the previous evening—but it had reached him as through a fog.

Ibrahim was followed by a man wearing morning dress—a clean-shaven man whose lined face seemed out of keeping with his jet black hair. At Dr. Petrie—who still wore the make-up imposed by Mr. Yusaki—this man stared amazedly.

“This is Companion Grassland,” said Dr. Fu Manchu sibi-lantly. “His counterfeit presentment intrigues him. Companion Crossland has resigned his place in the world which knew him. I am ready.”

He moved towards the door.

“Ibrahim will assist you to resume your normal appearance. I ask for your word that you will remain here until Ibrahim tells you it is time to go.”

“I agree.”

“Dr. Petrie, I salute you—and bid you farewell. . . .”

CHAPTER

63

A LACQUER CABINET

Relays of detectives had been on duty all night, watching every exit from the building. Nayland Smith was pacing up and down the sitting-room when Gallaho was announced. He had paced up and down all night. Fleurette, ignoring the orders of the nurse, had joined him. She was curled up in the big armchair. Alan Sterling had ‘phoned twice.

“Any news, sir?”

“No.”

Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf.

“It’s beginning to occur to me that we may be wrong.”

“Always a possibility, Gallaho. . . .”

The detective taking reports from the men on duty, had observed that the remainder of the incoming tenant’s furniture was being delivered. A secretary, wearing smart morning dress, had taken charge of operations. One of Staple’s large green vans was outside the service entrance; a smaller one was drawn up behind it.

“Those mahogany chairs,” the secretary had said as Gallaho had lingered for a moment, “and the large lacquer cabinet are to be brought down again. There is no room for them. Put them on the small van. . . .”

“I mean,” Gallaho went on doggedly, “we may have been barking up the wrong tree. There’s the possibility . . .”

The door bell had been ringing, but Gallaho had failed to hear it. Fey had opened the front door. And now:

“Darling!” cried Fleurette—

She leapt from the armchair and threw herself into her father’s arms. . . .

For Dr. Petrie had walked in!

Fleurette broke down completely.

She was still crying like a little child, but crying happily, when a small covered van which had left the building some ten minutes before was pulled up in a builder’s yard in Chelsea.

A man wearing a morning suit and a soft black hat got down from his place beside the driver and ran around to the rear of the van. Its load consisted of a set of mahogany chairs and a tall blue lacquer Japanese cabinet.

Climbing into the van, he opened the door of this Cabinet.

Dr. Fu Manchu stepped out.

“Companion Grassland,” he said, “you have earned merit—”

The End