The Drums of Fu Manchu

contained is unknown to me. It belongs to none of the groups with which I am familiar. It is the most concentrated poison in gaseous form which I have ever encountered. In addition to the other experiments (see report) I smelled this gas—but for a moment. The result was extraordinary. It induced a violent increase of blood pressure, followed by a drumming in my ears which created such an illusion of being external that for a time I was persuaded someone was beating a drum in the neighborhood . . .”

As I laid the letter on the table:

“Have you considered,” Nayland Smith asked, “what revolutionary contributions Doctor Fu Manchu could make to science, particularly to medicine, if he worked for heaven and not for hell?”

“Yes, it’s a damnable thought.”

“The greatest genius living—perhaps as great as has ever been born—toiling for the destruction of humanity!”

“Yet, at the moment, he seems to be working for its preservation.”

“But only seems, Kerrigan. Its preservation for his own purposes—yes! I strongly suspect, however, that his recent attempt upon me was dictated by an uncanny knowledge of my movements.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am being shadowed day and night. There have been other episodes which I have not even bothered to mention.”

“You alarm me!”

“Fortunately for myself, the doctor has his hands full in other directions. If he once concentrated upon me I believe I should give up hope. You see, he knows that I am watching his next move, and with devilish cunning, so far, he has headed me off.”

“His next move . . .” I stared questioningly.

“Yes. In his war against dictators. At the moment it is concentrated upon one of them—and the greatest.”

“You don’t mean—”

“I mean Rudolf Adion! In view of the way in which he is guarded and of the many attempts by enemies to reach him which have failed, it seems perhaps absurd that I should be anxious because one more man has entered the lists.”

“But that man is Doctor Fu Manchu!”

“Not a doubt about it, Kerrigan. Yet, officially, my hands are tied.”

“Why?”

“Adion has refused to see me, and I cannot very well force myself upon him.”

“Have you definite evidence that Adion has been threatened?”

Nayland Smith lighted his pipe and nodded shortly.

“I am in the difficult position of having to keep an eye on a number of notable people—many of them, quite frankly, not friends of Great Britain. With a view to doing my best to protect them, the legitimate functions of the secret service up to a certain extent have been switched into this channel, and I had information three days ago that Adion had received the first notice from the Si-Fan!”

“Good heavens! What did you do?”

“I immediately advised him that whatever he might think to the contrary, he was in imminent peril of his life. I suggested a conference.”

“And he refused to see you?”

“Exactly. Whatever is pending—and rest assured it will affect the fate of the world—it is clearly a matter of some urgency for I am informed that a second notice has reached Adion.”

“What do you make of it? What is he planning?”

Nayland Smith stood up, irritably snapping his fingers.

“I don’t know, nor can I find out. Furthermore, for any evidence to the contrary, there might be no such person as Doctor Fu Manchu in the world. Do you think it conceivable that such a personality is moving about among us—as undoubtedly he is—and yet not one clue fall into the hands of a veritable army of searchers?”

I watched him for some time as he paced nervously up and down the carpet, then:

“Having met Doctor Fu Manchu,” I replied slowly, “I am prepared to believe anything about him. What is bothering me at the moment. Smith, is this: On your own admission he knows that you are trying to protect Adion.”

Nayland Smith sighed wearily.

“He knows every move I make, Kerrigan. Almost, I believe, those which I am likely to make but upon which I have not yet decided.”

“In other words your own danger is as great, if not greater, than that of the chancellor.”

He smiled wryly.

“Since one evening in Burma, many years ago—an evening of which I bear cherished memories, for it was then that I first set eyes on Doctor Fu Manchu—I have gone in hourly peril of assassination. Yet, here I am—thanks to the doctor’s sense of humor! You see”—he began to walk up and down again—”I doubt if ever before have I had the entire power of the Si-Fan directed against me. And so this time, I am wondering . . .”

A Car in Hyde Park

An unavoidable business appointment called me away that afternoon. My personal inclination was never to let Nayland Smith out of my sight although heaven knows what I thought I could do to protect him. But as he never went about alone and rarely failed to notify me of any move in the game in order that I might be present, we parted with an understanding to meet at dinner.

My business took me to Westminster. Fully an hour had passed, I suppose, when I began to drive back, and I found myself in the thick of the afternoon traffic. As I made to cross towards Hyde Park I was held up. Streams of vehicles coming from four different directions were heading for the gate. I resigned myself and lighted a cigarette.

Idly I inspected a quantity of luggage strapped on the rack of a big saloon car. It was proceeding very slowly out of the Park in that pent-up crawling line of traffic and had just passed my off-side window. There were new labels over many old ones, but from my position at the wheel I could read none of them, except that clearly enough this was the baggage of a world traveller, for I recognized the characteristic hotel designs of Mount Lavinia in Colombo, Shepheard’s in Cairo and others East and West which I knew.

The constable on the gate had apparently become rooted just in front of me with outstretched arms. Curious for a glimpse of these travellers who were presumably bound for Victoria Station, I leaned back and stared out at the occupants of the car. A moment I glanced—and then turned swiftly away.

A chauffeur whose face I could not see was driving. There were two passengers. One was a darkly beautiful woman. She was smoking a cigarette, and I could not fail to note her long ivory hand, her slender, highly burnished fingernails. In fact, except for their smooth beauty, those hands reminded me of the hands of Dr Fu Manchu. But it was that one glimpse of her compardon which had urged me to turn aside, praying that I had not been recognized . . .

It was Ardatha!

Useless to deny that nay heart had leapt at sight of her. She wore a smart little hat crushed down on her coppery curls, and some kind of fur-collared coat. I had seen no more, had noticed no more. I had eyes for nothing but that bewitching face. And now, as I stared at the broad, immovable back of the constable, I was thinking rapidly and hoping that he would remain stationary long enough for me to rearrange my plans.

Somehow, I must follow that car!

Once at Victoria it should not be difficult for a man with newspaper training to learn the destination of the travelers. If I failed to do so I could never face Nay land Smith again with a clear conscience. But here was a problem. I must enter the Park now for I was jammed in the traffic stream, and the car which contained Ardatha was leaving or waiting to leave! It meant a detour and I had to plan quickly. I must bear left, leave by the next gate (I prayed I might not be held up there) and make my way to Victoria across Knightsbridge.

This plan was no sooner formed than the constable moved and waved me on.

I proceeded as fast as I dared in the direction of the next gate—and I was lucky. Oncoming traffic was being