The Drums of Fu Manchu

The Drums of Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

Mystery Comes To Bayswater

“Damn it! There is someone there!”

I sprang up irritably, jerked the curtains aside and stared down into Bayswater Road. My bell, “Bart Kerrigan” inscribed above it on a plate outside in the street, was sometimes rung wantonly by late revelers. The bell was out of order and I had tried to ignore its faint tinkling. But now, staring down, I saw someone looking up at me as I stood in the lighted room: a man wearing a Burberry and a soft hat, a man who signaled urgently with his arms, indicating: “Come down!”

Shooting the bolt open so that I should not be locked out, I ran downstairs. A light in the glazed arcade which led to the front doer refused to function. Groping my way I threw the door open.

The man in the Burberry almost upset me as he leapt in.

“Who the devil are you?”

The door was closed quietly and the intruder spoke, his back to it as he faced me.

“It’s not a holdup,” came in coldly incisive tones. “I just had to get in. Thanks, Kerrigan, but you were a long time coming down.”

“Good heavens!” I stepped forward in the darkness and extended my hand. “Nayland Smith! Can I believe it?”

“Absolutely! I was desperate. Is your bell out of order?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Don’t turn the light up.”

“I can’t; the fuse is blown.”

“Good. I gather that I interrupted you, but I had an excellent reason. Come on.”

As we hurried up the semi-dark staircase, I found my brain in some confusion. And when we entered my flat:

“Leave your dining room in darkness,” snapped Nayland Smith. “I want to look out of the window.”

Breathless, between astonishment and the race up the stairs, I stood behind him as he stared out of the dining room window. Two men were loitering near the front door—and glancing up toward my lighted study.

“Only just in time!” said Nayland Smith. “I tricked them—but you see how wonderfully they are informed. Evidently they know every possible spot in which I might take cover. Unpleasantly near thing, Kerrigan.”

In the lighted study I gazed at my visitor. Hat removed, Nayland Smith revealed a head of virile curling hair, more grey than black. Stripping off his Burberry, he faced me. His clean-cut features, burned by a recent visit to the tropics, looked almost haggardly thin, but the fire in his eyes, the tense nervous vitality of the man must have struck a spark of animosity or of friendship in any but a soul dead.

He stared at me analytically.

“You look well, Kerrigan. You have passed twenty-seven, but you are lean as a hare, clean-cut and obviously fit as a flea. The last time I saw you was in Addis-Ababa. You were sending articles to the Orbit and I was sending reports to the Foreign Office. Well, what is it now?”

He stared down at the littered writing desk. I moved towards the dining room.

“Drinks? Good!” he snapped. “But you must find them in the dark.”

“I understand.”

When presently I returned with a decanter and syphon:

“Look here,” I said, “I was never happier to see a man in my life. But bring me up to date: what’s the meaning of all this?’

Nayland Smith dropped a page which he had been reading and began reflectively to stuff coarse-cut mixture into his briar.

“You are writing a book about Abyssinia, I see.”

“Yes.”

“You are not on the staff of the Orbit, are you?”

“No. I am in the fortunate position of picking and choosing my jobs. I did the series on Abyssinia for them because I know that part of Africa pretty well. Now, I am doing a book on present conditions.”

As I poured out drinks: “Excuse me,” said Nayland Smith, “I just want to make sure.”

He walked into the darkened dining room, carefully closing the door behind him. When he returned:

“May I use your phone?”

“Certainly”

I handed him a drink of which he took a sip, then, raising the telephone receiver, he dialed a number rapidly, and:

“Yes!” His speech was curiously staccato. “Put me through to Chief Inspector Wessex’ office. Sir Denis Nayland Smith speaking. Hurry!”

There was an interval. I watched my visitor fascinatedly. In my considerable experience of men, I had never known one who lived at such high pressure.

“Is that Inspector Wessex? . . . Good. I have a job for you, Inspector. Instruct Paddington Police Station to send a party in a fast car. They will find two men—dark skinned foreigners—hanging about near the corner of Porchester Terrace. They are to arrest them—never mind the charge—and lock them up. I will deal with them later. Can I leave this to you?”

Presumably the invisible chief inspector agreed to take charge of the matter, for Nayland Smith hung up the receiver.

“I have brought you your biggest story, Kerrigan. I know you can afford to await my word before publishing. I may add”—tapping the loose manuscript on the desk—”that you have missed the real truth about Abyssinia, but I can rectify that.” He began in his restless way to pace up and down the carpet. “Without mentioning any names, a prominent cabinet minister resigned quite recently. Do you recall it?”

“Certainly”

“He was a wise man. Do you know why he retired?”

“There are several versions of the story.”

“He has a fine brain—and he retired because he recognized that there was in the world one first-class brain. He retired to review his ideas on the immediate destiny of civilization.”

“What do you mean?”

“The thing most desired, Kerrigan, by all women, by all sensible men, in this life, is peace. Wars are made by few but fought by many. The greatest intellect in the world today has decided that there must be peace! It has become my business to try to save the lives of certain prominent persons who are blind enough to believe that they can make war. I was en route for Sir Malcolm Locke’s house, which is not five minutes’ drive away, when I realized that a small Daimler was following me. I remembered, fortunately, that your flat was here, and trusted to luck that you would be at home. I worked an old trick. Fey, my man, slowed up around a corner just before the following car had turned it. I stepped out and cut through a mews. Fey drove on. But my two followers evidently detected the trick. I saw them coming back just before you opened the door! They know I am in one of two buildings. What I don’t want them to know is where I am going. Hello—!”

The sound of a speeding automobile suddenly braked came up from Bayswater Road.

“Into the dining room!”

I dashed in behind Nayland Smith. We stared down. A police car stood outside. There were few pedestrians and there was comparatively little traffic. It was the lull before eleven o’clock, the lull which precedes the storm of returning theatre and picture goers. A queer scene was being enacted on the pavement almost directly below my windows.

Two men (except that they were dark fellows I could discern no more from my viewpoint) were struggling and protesting volubly amid a group of uniformed constables. Beyond, on the park side, I saw now a small car