The Mask of Fu Manchu

Personally, I was on the verge of collapse and knew it. My brain was a veritable circus; my body was deadly weary. Desperately though anxiety rode me, I would have given all I had for one hour of sleep, offorgetfulness, of relief from this fever which was bum-ing me up. Nayland Smith came forward and, seating himself beside me, put his arm around my shoulders.

“Listen, Greville,” he said. “Petrie is due back in a few minutes, now. He won’t have long to spare. But I’m going to make him put you to sleep. You understand?”

I had never in my life stood so near to the borders of hysteria.

“Thanks,” I replied; “of course I do. And I’ll submit to it; but there’s a proviso...”

“What is it?”

“Not for more than an hour. I can’t bear the thought of lying like a log while I might be of use to her.”

He gripped my tightly for a moment, and then stood up. “You are off duty,” he snapped dryly. “I’m in charge, and you’ll take my orders. When Petrie comes, you’ll do exactly as Petrie directs. In the meantime, have I your permission to examine and photograph this letter? You will then, quite properly, wish to destroy it, as your correspondent directs.”

I agreed. At which very moment the door was thrown open and Petrie came in. One glance he cast at Sir Denis, and then directed that searching professional gaze upon me; the analytical look of a diagnostician. I saw that he was not favourably impressed.

“Smith,” he said, with another glance at Sir Denis, “our friend here must sleep.”

Nayland Smith nodded.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Petrie continued; “you’re most terribly overwrought, Greville. But if you share my opinion that sleep is necessary, I think I can manage you.”

“I do,” I replied.

“In that event, the matter is simple enough. We will go up to your room, now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH

THE MESSENGER

“Wake-up, old chap, there’s good news!”

I opened my eyes to find myself staring up into the face of Nayland Smith. My brain was confused; I could not coordinate circumstances, and:

“What is it?” I asked drowsily; “what’s the time?”

“Never mind the time, Greville. Wake up! There’s work for you.”

Then full consciousness came. But before I had time to clear the borderland:

“He will be crowned in Damascus,” said Nayland Smith staring intently into my eyes.

His gaze held me; but in the moment that he spoke I had seen that Dr. Petrie stood behind him, that I was lying in my room. Even as I realised what he was endeavouring to do, I realised also that he had partially succeeded.

For my memory was thrown back as he willed it to be, to the pavement of the Sharia Kamel. Dawn, as I recalled the scene, was not far off. And I was walking in the direction of Shepheard’s. Out of the shadows of the recess where the shops lie back, a ragged figure approached me, whining for bakshish. I saw him clearly; every line and lineament of his dirty face, his straggly gray beard, his ragged garments, his crutch. I could hear it tapping on the pavement....

I saw myself give him alms and turn away; I heard his words: “He will be crowned in Damascus.” I knew again the mystification which had descended upon me in that moment;

and felt the depth of wonder about where I had been and of how I came to find myself in that place, at that time.

Starting up in bed:

“It was an old beggarman,” I cried hoarsely, “in the Sharia Kamel, who spoke those words!”

And while Nayland Smith and Petrie listened eagerly I told them all that I had remembered. And, concluding:

“What’s the news?” I demanded, now fully awake, and conscious that my hours of sleep had given me new life.

“It’s as I predicted, Greville,” Nayland Smith replied. “She is being held to ransom.”

I sprang out onto the floor. Queerly enough, that news came like balm to my troubled mind. Rima was in the hands of Dr. Fu Manchu! A dreadful thought, one would suppose-but better, far, far better than doubt. One thing at least I knew definitely: that if terms had been demanded by the Chinaman, it remained only strictly to carry them out.

The most evil man I had ever known, he was also, according to his own peculiar code, the most honourable. I met Nayland Smith’s glance and knew that he understood me.

“I have burned your letter, Greville,” he said quietly

“Thank you,” I replied. “And now, tell me: Who brought the news?”

“The messenger is in Barton’s room,” Dr. Petrie answered, watching me with keen professional interest. “How do vou feel? Fairly fit?”

“Thanks to you, I feel a new man.”

Nayland Smith smiled and glanced aside at Petrie.

“You may recall,” he said, “that no less an authority than Dr. Fu Manchu always regarded your great talents as wasted Petrie!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH

MR

ADEN’S

PROPOSAL

“Leave this to me, Barton,” Nayland Smith said sharply. “If you interfere in any way I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”

Sir Lionel clenched his fists and glared at our visitor; then, crossing, he stood with his back to us, looking out of the window. He was dishevelled, unshaven, wrapped in his dilapidated old dressing gown, and in a mood as dangerous as any I had ever known.

Professional duties had compelled Dr. Petrie to leave, and so there were four of us in the long pleasant room, with its two windows overlooking the garden. I was little better groomed than the chief, for I had been fast asleep five minutes before, thanks to Petrie’s ministrations. But Sir Denis, although his grey suit had seen much wear, looked normally spruce.

I stared with murderous disfavour at a man seated in an armchair over by the writing table.

Heavily built, he wore the ordinary morning dress of a business man, and indeed was of a type which one may meet with in any of the capitals of the world. His face, inclined to be fat, was of a dead white colour. Thick iron-gray hair was cut close to his skull, and he had a jet-black moustache. I hated his dark, restless eyes.