The Mask of Fu Manchu

“You published an account, as you term it,” Rima interrupted, “of what happened in the Tomb of the Black Ape and afterwards. I didn’t think it was too flattering to me, but I know you made a lot of money out of it. I don’t really think, Uncle—” turning and snuggling up against Sir Lionel—”that it’s quite fair, do you? Shouldn’t we have a share?”

“Yes.” The chief stared at me with smothered ferocity. “You’ve written me up in a painfully frank way, Greville, now I come to think about it...Ah! Here’s Petrie!”

As he spoke, I saw the doctor come in from the terrace at a brisk pace. There was urgency in his manner, and when, sighting us, he hurried forward I realised that he was ill at ease.

His first thought, however, was for his patient; and dropping into a chair beside Rima, he looked at her in that encompassing manner which comes to a man who for many years has practised as a physician.

“Quite restored, I see,” he said, and glanced critically at the cocktail. “Only one, Rima. Excitants are not desirable...yet!”

Seeing me about to call a waiter:

“As I’m rather late, Greville,” he went on, “let’s go in to dinner; if possible, find a quiet table, as there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Knew it!” said the chief loudly, watching the speaker. “Got something on your mind, Petrie. What is it?”

“You’re right,” Petrie admitted, smiling slightly. “I don’t quite know what to make of it.”

“Nor do I,” Sir Lionel replied, “unless you tell me what it is.”

“A long message from Smith in Damascus. It was relayed over the telephone. That’s what detained me. But don’t let us talk about it now.”

We stood up and walked along the corridor, which is a miniature jewel bazaar, to the dining room. I had arranged for a quiet table at the farther end, and presently, when we were all seated and the chief, who was host, had given his orders:

“This message is disturbing, in a way,” said Petrie. “There’s a Dutch steamer of the Rotterdam Lloyd Line, the Indramatra, leaving Port Said tomorrow night for Southampton; and Smith insists that, baggage or no baggage, you must all leave in her!”

“What!” Sir Lionel cried so loudly that many heads were turned in our direction. “He must be mad. I won’t budge an inch—not one inch—until Ali Mahmoud arrives with the gear.”

Dr. Petrie looked grave.

“I have the message here,” he continued; “and when I have read it to you, possibly you may change your mind....Dr. Fu Manchu has been in Damascus. He has disappeared. Smith has every reason to believe that he is on his way here—to Cairo. His mission, Barton is to see you!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIXTH

NAYLAND SMITH COMES ABOARD

The Indramatra lay off the pontoon, opposite the Custom House at Port Said; and it was a night sailing. Ali Mahmoud had arrived in the nick of time; I could see him now from where I stood, supervising the shipment of the heavy baggage.

That curious sustained murmur, a minor chord made up of human voices, audible whenever cargo is being worked in this odd portal of the East, came to my ears, as I craned out watching the pontoon. I had left Rima, a stewardess, and two coolies busily unpacking trunks; for Rima had something of her uncle’s gift for making people work enthusiastically in her interests. Part other personal baggage had been deposited in her cabin, and, having explored the first of her trunks:

There isn’t a thing that’s fit to wear!” she had declared....I had considered it prudent to join the chief. That experienced old traveller had secured a suite with bath, at the Cairo office. Admittedly, the ship was not full, but, nevertheless, someone else had been pencilled in for this accommodation ahead of him. The someone else (a Member of Parliament, he turned out to be) was reduced to an ordinary double cabin, and the purser was having a bad quarter of an hour.

Sir Lionel, armed with a whisky and soda, was sprawling on the little sofa in his sitting room, his feet resting upon a stout wooden chest. He reminded me of an old buccaneer, gloating over ill-gotten treasure; and:

“Has Smith arrived?” he demanded. “No. I’m just going up to make inquiries, chief...” And so, now, I found myself craning out and watching the pontoon. It would be nearly an hour before the Indramatra sailed, but I could not imagine, since Sir Denis had missed us in Cairo, how he hoped to reach Port Said before we left. Nevertheless, he had advised us to expect him.

I glanced down at Ali Mahmoud, patiently checking the items of our baggage destined for the hold, and experienced a pang of regret in parting from him. Then again I stared towards the shore. I saw the headlights of a car which was being driven rapidly along the waterfront. I saw it pull up just short of the Custom House.

No other steamer was leaving that night, and although, admittedly, this might have been a belated passenger, something told me that it was Nayland Smith.

I was right.

Above the clatter of machinery and minor drone of human voices, with the complementary note of water lapping at the ship’s side, a clamour reached me from the shore. There was urgency in the sound. And as I watched, I saw a police launch which had been lying just off the pontoon, run in, in response to a signal. A few moments later, and the little red craft was describing a flattened arc as she headed out rapidly for the Indramatra.

One glimpse I had in a momentary glare of the searchlight, of a man seated in the stern, and then I was hurrying down to the lower deck. I had no more than reached the head of the ladder when Nayland Smith came bounding up. As I greeted him:

“Quick!” he snapped and grasped my arm. “The purser’s office—where is it? I don’t know this ship.”

“This way. Sir Denis.”

Pushing past groups of passengers, mostly planters and officials from the Dutch East Indies, we went racing across to the purser’s office. As I had expected, a number of people were waiting to interview that harassed official, but the curtain was drawn over his door, and I could hear an excited voice within. Sir Denis never hesitated for a moment. He rapped loudly, jerked the curtain aside, and:

“Mr. Purser!” he said, “I regret that I don’t know your name—my apologies. But it is vitally urgent that I should see you for a few moments.”

The purser, a Sumatra-bom Dutchman, stout and normally good-humoured, I judged, at the moment was not in an amiable mood. Mr. John Kennington, M.P, a fussy little man resembling Tweedledee in spectacles, was literally dancing about in his room.

“I say it’s an outrage, sir,” he was exclaiming, “an outrage. This fellow, Sir Lionel Barton, this travelling mountebank, has almost literally thrown me out of a cabin which I reserved in Cairo. As a British Member of Parliament, I wish to state——”

“I don’t know your name, sir,” said the purser, looking up wearily at Sir Denis—he spoke excellent English, for the Dutch are first-class linguists; “mine is Voorden: but you can see that I am very much engaged.”

“Such a state of affairs,” Mr. Kennington continued, extending his rotund person in the manner of a frog about to burst, “such a state of affairs would not be tolerated for a moment in the P. & O.”

That, of course, was a slip, and put the purser on our side at once. His growing distaste for the angry passenger was reflected upon normally placid features.

The P. & 0., sir,” said Nayland Smith, “is an admirable line, to which I can give you a personal introduction ensuring excellent accommodation.”

Mr. Kennington paused, turned, and looked up at the grim face of the speaker; then:

“Possibly, sir, you may know that Members of Parliament, travelling officially, are afforded certain facilities