The Trail of Fu Manchu

In regard to her father, there was no doubt whatever. Her discovery of him had turned her world upside down. She resettled herself in the chair.

The Prince was fighting for her.

That strange hiatus in her life, about which the doctor had been so reticent, meant that he still had power to claim her. Now, they said he was dead.

It was unbelievable.

Fleurette found it impossible to grasp this idea that Dr. Fu Manchu was dead. She had accepted the fact—it had become part of her life—that one day he would dominate a world in which there would be no misunderstanding, no strife, no ugliness; nothing but beauty. To this great ideal she had consecrated herself, until Alan had come.

“Little Flower ... I am calling you!”

It was his voice—speaking in Chinese!

And Fleurette knew that ancient language as well as she knew French and English.

She sat bolt upright in the armchair. She was torn between two worlds. This normal, clean room, with its simple appointments, its neatness, its homeliness—the atmosphere which belonged to Sir Denis, that generous, boyish-hearted man who was her father’s trusty friend; and a queer, alluring philosophy, cloying, like the smoke of incense, which belonged to the world from which Nayland Smith had dragged her.

“Little Flower—I am calling you.”

Fleurette wrenched her gaze away from the fire.

In the burning logs, the face of Dr. Fu Manchu was forming. She sprang to her feet, and pressed a bell beside the mantelpiece.

There was a rap on the door.

“Come in.”

Fey entered. He brought Western reason, coolness, to her racing brain.

“You rang, miss?”

Fleurette spoke rather wildly; and Fey, although his manner did not betray the fact, was studying her with concern.

“You see, Fey, I arranged to wait dinner until my father and Sir Denis came back. As a matter of fact, I am rather hungry.”

“Quite, miss. Perhaps a little snack? Some caviar and a glass of wine?”

“Oh, no, Fey. Nothing quiet so fattening. But if you would get me just two tiny egg sandwiches with a layer of cress—you know what I mean—and perhaps, yes, a glass of wine . . .”

“Certainly, miss, in a moment.”

Fey went out.

Fleurette pulled the armchair around, so that she did not face the fire. It was a gesture—but a defensive one.

That voice—that voice which could not be denied—”Little Flower I am calling you”—had sounded, she knew, in her subconscious mind only. But because she knew this . . . she feared. If she had not known how this voice had reached her, she would have surrendered, and have been conquered. Because she did know, and was not prepared to surrender, she fought.

They thought he was dead . . He was not dead.

She heard Fey at the telephone giving terse orders. She was really hungry. This was not merely part of a formula designed to combat the subconscious call which had reached her; but it would help. She knew that if she wanted Alan, that if in future she wished to live in the same wholesome world to which her father belonged, she must fight—fight.

She wandered across to a bookshelf and began to inspect the books. One watching her would have said that she smiled almost tenderly. Nayland Smith’s books betrayed the real man.

Those works which were not technical were of a character to have delighted a schoolboy. Particularly Fleurette was intrigued by a hard-bitten copy of Tom Sawyer Abroad which had obviously been read and re-read. Despite his great brain and his formidable personality, what a simple soul he was at heart!

Fleurette began to read at random.

“. . . But I didn’t care much. I am peaceable and don’t get up no rows with people that ain’t doing nothing to me. I allowed if the paynims was satisfied I was. We would let it stand at that. . .”

She read other passages, wondering why her education had not included Mark Twain; recognizing by virtue of her training that the great humorist had also been one of the world’s great philosophers.

“Your sandwiches, miss.”

Fleurette started.

Fey was placing a tray upon a small table set beside the armchair. Removing the silver cover he revealed some delicately cut sandwiches. With a spoon and fork he adroitly placed two upon a plate, removed a half-bottle of wine from an ice-bucket, uncorked it and poured out a glassful.

He set down the glass beside the plate, adjusted the armchair in relation to the fire with careful consideration, bowed slightly, and went out.

The man was so efficient, so completely sane, that no better antidote could have been prescribed in Fleurette’s present mood. Mark Twain had begun the cure; Fey had completed it.

She began to eat egg sandwiches with great relish. She knew instinctively that the expedition upon which her father had gone to-night, with Sir Denis and that strange character, Inspector Gallaho, would result in the discovery of the fact that Dr. Fu Manchu had survived the catastrophe in the East End, of which she knew very little, for they had withheld details. She was disposed to believe that Gallaho, alone, had faith in the Prince’s death; her father’s manner betrayed doubt; Sir Denis had said nothing, but she divined the fact that until he saw Dr. Fu Manchu dead before him he would never believe that that great intellect had ceased to function.

Fleurette ate three sandwiches, drank a glass of wine, and, in a mood of contemplation, found herself staring again into the fire.

“Little Flower, I am calling you.”

His voice again!

She sprang up. She knew, for she had been trained to know, that no voice really had sounded in the room. It was her subconscious brain. But . . . this she knew also—it was real—it was urgent.

Already she began to see again that glamorous but meaningless life out of which she had climbed, assisted by Alan, as a swimmer clambers out of a tropical sea. She could see it in the fire. There were snow-capped mountains there, melting into palm groves, temples and crowded bazaar streets; a hot smell of decay and perfume—and now, all merged into two long, gleaming eyes.

She watched those eyes fascinatedly; bent closer, falling under their thraldom.

“Little Flower, I am calling. ...”

Her lips parted. She was about to speak in response to that imperious call, when a sound in the lobby snatched her back to the world of reality.

It was the ringing of the door bell.

Fleurette stood up again and walked towards the book case. She pulled out Tom Sawyer Abroad, which she had replaced, and opened it at random. She read, but the words did not register. She could hear Fey crossing the lobby and opening the front door of the apartment. She did not hear any word spoken.

She thought she detected a vague scuffling sound.

Fleurette replaced the book, and stood still, very near to the door communicating with the lobby, listening. The scuffling continued; then came a dull thud.

Silence.

A wave of apprehension swept over her, turning her cold.

“Fey!” she called, and again more urgently, “Fey!”

There was no reply.

She ran to the bell beside the mantlepiece, pushed it and actually heard it ringing. She stood still, hands clenched, watching the door.