The Bride of Fu Manchu

“Yes; but he’s none the worse for it. He dozed off on the couch, he tells me, and they operated in his case, I have discovered, by inserting a tube through the ventilator in the wall above. He sprang up at the first whiff, but never succeeded in getting to his feet.”

“Please tell me,” I interrupted excitedly, “is there any blood in the lobby?”

Sir Denis shook his head grimly.

“I take it that you are responsible for the shot-hole through the door?”

“Yes, and I scored a bull!”

“The lobby is tiled. They probably took the trouble to remove any stains. Apart from several objects and documents which they have taken away, they have left everything in perfect order. And now, Sterling—the details.”

Sir Denis looked very tired; his manner was unusually grave; and:

“Before I begin,” he said rapidly—”Petrie? Is there any change?”

The Frenchman shook his head.

“I am very sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Sterling,” he replied, “that Dr. Petrie is sinking rapidly.”

“No? Good God! Don’t say so!”

“It’s true!” snapped Nayland Smith. “But tell me what I want to know—I haven’t a minute to waste.”

Filled with a helpless anger, and with such a venomous hatred growing in my heart for the cruel, cunning devil directing these horrors, I outlined very rapidly the events of the night.

“Even now,” said Nayland Smith savagely, “we don’t know if they have it.”

“The formula for ‘654’?”

He nodded.

“It may have been in Rorke’s study in Wimpole Street, or it may not; and it may have been here. In the meantime, Petrie’s case is getting desperate, and no one knows what treatment to pursue. Fah Lo Suee’s kindness towards yourself, following a murderous assault upon one of her servants, suggests success. But it’s merely a surmise. I must be off!”

“But where are you going. Sir Denis?” I asked, for he had already started towards the door. “What are my orders?”

He turned.

“Your orders,” he replied, “are to stay in bed until Dr. Bnsson gives you permission to get up. I am going to Berlin “ “To Berlin?” He nodded impatiently.

“I spent some time with the late Sir Manston Rorke,” he went on rapidly, “at the School of Tropical Medicine, as I have already told you. And I formed the impression that Rorke’s big reputation was largely based upon his friendship with Professor Emil Krus, of Berlin, the greatest living authority upon Tropical Medicine.

“I suspected that Rorke almost invariably submitted proposed treatments to the celebrated German, and I hope—I only hope—that Petrie’s formula ‘654’ may have been sent on to the Professor for his comments. I have already been in touch by telephone with Berlin, but Dr. Emil Krus proved to be inaccessible.

“The French authorities have placed a fast plane and an experienced pilot at my service, and I leave in twenty minutes for the Templehof aerodrome.”

I was astounded—I could think of no words; but:

“It is Dr. Petrie’s only chance,” the Frenchman interrupted. “His condition is growing hourly worse, and we have no idea what to do. It is possible that the great Krus”—there was professional as well as national jealousy in his pronunciation of the name—”may be able to help us. Otherwise——”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You see. Sterling?” said Nayland Smith. “Take care of yourself.”

He ran out.

I looked up helplessly into the bespectacled face of Dr. Brisson. Dawn was breaking, and I realized that I must have been insensible for many hours.

“Such friendship is a wonderful thing, doctor,” I said.

“Yes. Sir Denis Nayland Smith is a staunch friend.” Brisson replied; “but in this—there is more than friendship. The south of France, the whole of France, Europe, perhaps the world, is threatened by a plague for which we know of no remedy. The English doctor Petrie has found means to check it. If we knew what treatment should follow the injection of his preparation ‘654’ we could save his life yet.”

“Is it, then, desperate?”

“It is desperate. But as surely you can appreciate, we could also save other lives. If a widespread epidemic should threaten to develop, we could inoculate. I do not understand, but it seems that there is someone who opposes science and favours the plague. This is beyond my comprehension, but one thing is clear to me: only Dr. Petrie, who is dying, and Professor Krus—perhaps—know how to fight this thing. You see? It may be that the fate of the world is at stake.”

Indeed I saw, and all too plainly.

“Have the police been informed of the outrages here last night?” I asked.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and his bearded face registered despair.

“In this matter I am distracted,” he declared, “and I have ceased even to think about it. Sir Denis Nayland Smith, it seems, has powers from Paris which override the authorities of Nice. The Department is in his hands.”

“You mean that no inquiry will be made?”

“Nothing—as I understand. But as I confessed to you, I do not understand—at all.”

I sprang up in bed—my brain was superactive.

“This is awful!” I exclaimed—”I must do something—I must do something!”

Dr. Brisson rested his hands upon my shoulders.

“Mr Sterling,” he said, and his eyes, magnified by the powerful lenses of his spectacles, were kindly yet compelling, “what you should do—if you care to take my advice, is this:

you should rest.”

“How can I rest?”

I sank back on the pillows, while he continued to watch me.

“It is difficult, I know,” he went on. “But what I tell you. Dr. Cartier would tell you, and your friend Dr. Petrie, also. You are a very strong man, full of vigour, but you have recently recovered from some severe illness. This I can see. The Germans are very clever—but we in France are not without knowledge. For at least four hours, you should sleep.”

“How can I sleep?”

“There is nothing you can do to help your friend. All that experience has taught us, we are doing. I offer you my advice. An orderly from the hospital is in the lobby and will remain there until he is relieved. Your housekeeper, Mme Dubonnet, will be here at eight o’clock. Please take a small cachet which I have in my bag, and resign yourself to sleep.”

I don’t know to what extent the doctor’s kindly and deliberate purpose influenced me, but as he spoke I recognized how weary I was.

The hiatus induced by that damnable mimosa drug had rested me not at all: my brain was active as from the moment that I had succumbed to it. My body was equally weary.

“I agree with you, doctor,” I said, and grasped his hand. “I don’t think I need your cachet. I am dead tired. I can sleep without any assistance.”

He nodded, and smiled.

“Better still,” he declared. “Nature is always right. I shall close the shutters and leave you. Ring for your coffee when you awake. By then, if Sir Denis’s instructions have been carried out, the telephone will have been repaired, and you can leam the latest news about Dr. Petrie.”

I remember seeing him close the shutters and walk quietly out of the room. I must have been very tired...for I remember no more.

chapter fourteenth

IN MONTE CARLO