The Bride of Fu Manchu

and you will have to answer. When you go to Yamamata’s room, do not fear the injection. But all that you are told will happen when you have received the Blessing of the Celestial Vision, see that you carry out....Pretend—it is your only chance. Pretend! I will see you again as soon as possible. Now follow me.”

These strange words she had spoken with extraordinary rapidity, as she had bent over me, apparently fumbling with the button which controlled the door.

And now, with that slow, lithe, cat-like walk in which again I recognized her father, she moved ahead, leading me. My brain was working with feverish rapidity.

The little Rose-petal!

This must be the Chinese name of Fleurette. Our association, I gathered, did not meet with the approval of Dr. Fu Manchu. And what was the Blessing of the Celestial Vision? This I had yet to leam.

At the end of the corridor I saw a small green lamp burning before an arched opening. Here Fah Lo Suee paused, signalling me to be silent.

“Remember,” she whispered.

The green light in the little lamp flickered, and a heavy door of panelled mahogany slid aside noiselessly.

“Go in,” said Fah Lo Suee.

I obeyed. The door closed behind me, and a whiff of air laden with fumes of opium told me that I was in that queer study which, presumably, was the sanctum of Dr. Fu Manchu.

One glance was enough. He was seated at the big table, his awful but majestic face resting upon one upraised palm. The long nails of his fingers touched his lips. His brilliant eyes fixed me so that I experienced almost a physical shock as I met their gaze.

“Sit down,” he directed.

I discovered that a Chinese stool was set close beside me. I sat down.

Dr. Fu Manchu continued to watch me. I tried to turn my eyes aside, but failed. The steel-grey eyes of Sir Denis Nayland Smith were hard to evade, but I had never experienced such a thralldom as that cast upon me by the long, narrow, green eyes of Dr. Fu Manchu.

All my life I had doubted the reality of hypnotism. Sir Denis’s assurance that Fah Lo Suee had nearly succeeded in hypnotising me at the hospital had not fully registered; I had questioned it. But now, in that small, opiated room, the reality of the art was thrust upon me.

This man’s eyes held a power potent as any drug. When he spoke, his voice reached me through a sort of mist, against which something deep within—my spirit, I suppose—was fighting madly.

“I have learned that you are acquainted with the little flower whose destiny is set upon the peak of a high mountain. Of this, I shall ask you more later. She is nature’s rarest jewel: a perfect woman....You have, unwittingly as I believe, thrust yourself into the cogs of the most delicate machine ever set in motion.”

I closed my eyes. It was a definite physical effort, but I achieved it.

“Now, when you are about to devote your services to the triumph of the Si-Fan, consider the state of the world. The imprint of my hand is upon the nations. Mussolini so far has eluded me; but President Hoover, who stood in my path, makes way for Franklin Roosevelt. Mustapha Pasha is a regrettable nuisance, but my organization in Anatolia neutralises his influence. Von Hindenburg! the old marshal is a granite monument buried in weeds...!”

Persistently I kept my eyes closed. This dangerous madman was thinking aloud, communicating his insane ideas to a member of the outer world, and at the same time pronouncing my doom—as I realized: for the silence of the father confessor is taken for granted....

“Rumania, the oboe of the Balkan orchestra...I have tried to forget King Carol—but negligible quantities can upset the nicest equation by refusing to disappear. A man ruled by women is always dangerous—unless his women are under my orders....Women are the lever for which Archimedes was searching, but they are a lever which a word can bend. You may have heard, Alan Sterling, that I have failed in my projects. But consider my partial successes. I have disturbed the currencies of the world....”

That strange, guttural voice died away, and I ventured to open my eyes and to look at Dr. Fu Manchu.

He had lighted a little spirit lamp which formed one of the items upon the littered table, and above the flame, on the end of a needle, he was twirling a bead of opium. He glanced up at me through half-closed eyes.

“Something upon which Science has not improved,” he said softly. “Yes, I could hasten the crisis which I have brought about, if I wished to do so.”

He dropped the bead into the jade bowl of a pipe which lay in a tray beside him.

“Here is a small brochure,” he went on, and took a book from a table rack, thrusting it in my direction. “Apologia Alchymiae—a restatement of alchemy. It is the work of a London physician— Mr. Watson Councell, whose recent death I regret, since otherwise I should have solicited his services. There are five hundred copies of this small handbook in circulation. Singular to reflect, Alan Sterling, that no one has attempted the primitive method of manufacturing synthetic gold, as practised by the alchemists and clearly indicated in these few pages. For fable is at least as true as fact. Gold....” He placed the stem of the pipe between his yellow teeth...“I could drown the human race in gold!”

“But Russia is starving, and the United States undernourished. The world is a cheese, consuming itself....Even China—my China...”

He fell silent—and I watched him until he replaced the little pipe in its tray and struck a gong which stood near to his left hand.

A pair of Chinamen, identical in appearance, and wearing identical white robes, entered behind me—I suddenly found one at either elbow. Their faces resembled masks carved in old ivory and mellowed by the smoke of incense.

Dr. Fu Manchu spoke a few rapid words in Chinese—then:

“Companion Yamamata will see you,” he said, his voice now very drowsy, and that queer film creeping over his brilliant eyes; “he will admit you to the Blessing of the Celestial Vision, by which time I shall be ready to discuss with you certain points in regard to the future and to instruct you in your immediate duties.”

One of the Chinese servants touched me upon the shoulder and pointed to the open doorway. I turned and walked out.

chapter twenty-fourth

COMPANION

YAMAMATA

I presently found myself in a typical reception room of a consulting surgeon. I was placed in a chair around which were grouped powerful lights for examination purposes. Companion Yamamata, who was scrutinizing some notes, immediately stood up and introduced himself, peremptorily dismissing the Chinamen.

He was young and good-looking in the intellectual Japanese manner; wore a long white coat having the sleeves rolled up; and as he rose from the table where he had been reading the notes, he laid down a pair oftortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and looked at me with humorous, penetrating eyes. He spoke perfect English.

“I am glad that you are becoming a Companion, Mr. Sterling,” he said. Tour province of science is not mine, but I am given to understand by Trenck that you are a botanist of distinction. Your medical history—” he tapped the pages before him—”is good, except for malarial trouble.”

I stared at him perhaps somewhat stupidly. His manner was utterly disarming.

“How do you know that I have had malaria?” I asked. “I don’t think I display any symptoms at the moment.”

“No, no, not at all,” he assured me. “But, you see, I have your history before me. And this malaria has to be taken into account, especially since it culminated in blackwater fever so recently as three months ago. Blackwater, you know, is the devil!”

“I do know,” said I grimly.

“However,” he displayed gleaming teeth in a really charming smile, “I am accustomed to these small complications, and I have prepared the dose accordingly. Will you please strip down to the waist. I always prefer to make the injection in the shoulder.”

He stepped to a side table and took up a hypodermic syringe, glancing back at me as he did so.

“Suppose I object?” I suggested.