up the keys. Their having fallen from the lock clearly had made him suspicious. When presently he opened the door and stepped in he glanced from side to side, doubt written upon one of the most villainous faces I had ever beheld.
He wore a shirt with an open collar, grey flannel trousers, and those sort of corded sandals which are rarely seen in Europe. By reason of his build, his glossy black hair and the cast of his features, I knew him for one of Dr Fu Manchu’s Thugs. Indeed, as I looked, I saw the brand of Kali on his forehead. His yellow face was scarred in such a way that one eye remained permanently closed, and the effect of the wound which reached the upper lip was to produce a perpetual leer.
His doubts were not easily allayed, for he stood staring about him for some time, his poise giving me the impression of a boxer on tiptoes. He had replaced the key in the door with the pendant bunch and now going out again, he returned with a tray upon which was something under a cover, a bowl of fruit and a pitcher. For yet another long moment before he crossed towards Nayland Smith he hesitated and glanced aside at me.
Then, walking over to the alcove, he was about to set the tray upon the ledge when I sprang.
I caught him at a disadvantage, collared his legs and threw him forward, head first. The tray and its contents crashed to the floor. But even as he fell I recognized the type of character with whom I had to deal.
He twisted sideways, took the fall on his left shoulder, and lashing out with his feet, kicked my legs from under me! It was a marvelous trick, perfectly executed. I fell half on top of him, but reached for a hold as I did so.
It was unnecessary . . .
As the Thug forced his trunk upward on powerful arms Smith brought the forceps down upon the glossy skull! Against this second attack the yellow man had no defense. There was a sickening thud. He dropped flat on his face and lay still.
Behind The Arras
“We are safe for an hour,” snapped Smith. “Come on!”
“Some sort of weapon would be a good idea,” I said, bruised and still breathless from my fall.
“Quite useless! Brains, not brawn, alone can save us now.”
As we stepped out into the passage came that ghastly moaning and a draught of cold air. It tricked me into a momentary panic, but Nayland Smith turned and examined a narrow grille set near the top of the end of the passage; for here was a cul-de-sac.
“There’s an air shaft above that,” he said. “Judging from the look of this place, we are down below water level. The fact that the actual ventilator above evidently faces towards the sea conveys nothing.”
The passage was about thirty feet long. A bulkhead light was roughly attached to one of the stone walls. It was reflection from this which had shone through the iron bars of our prison. We hurried along. There were other doors with similar grilles on one side, doubtless indicating the presence of more cells. At the end was a heavy door, but it was open.
“Caution,” said Smith.
A flight of stone steps confronted us. We mounted them, I close behind Smith. I saw ahead a continuation of the passage which we had just left, but one wall was wood paneled. This passage also was lighted by one dun lamp.
Creeping to the end, we found similar corridors opening right and left.
Speaking very close to my ear:
“Let’s try right,” Smith whispered.
We stole softly along. Here, again, there was one dim light to guide us, but we passed it without finding any way out of the place. We came to a second door which proved to be unlocked. Very cautiously Nayland Smith pushed it open.
We were in a maze . . . beyond stretched yet another passage! But peering ahead I observed a difference.
The floor was thickly carpeted with felt. There was no lamp, but points of light shone upon the ancient stonework of one wall, apparently coming from apertures in the panels which formed the other. Only by a grasp of his hand did Smith enjoin special caution as we pushed forward to a point where two of these openings appeared close together.
We looked through.
I recognized a remarkable fact. That rough and ancient woodwork which extended along the whole of the right-hand wall was no more than a framework or stretcher upon which tapestry was supported.
We were in a passage behind the arras of a large apartment.
Something seemed to obscure my vision. Presently I realized what it was: At certain points the tapestry had been cut away and replaced by gauze, painted on the outside, so that to those in the room the opening would be invisible.
I saw a chamber furnished with all the splendor of old Venice, but it was decaying splendor. The carved chairs richly upholstered in royal purple were damaged and faded; a mosaic-topped table was cracked; the patterned floor was filmed with ancient dust. Tapestry (through one section of which I peered) covered all the walls. Upon it were depicted scenes from the maritime history of the Queen of the Adriatic. But it was moldy with age.
Four magnificent wrought-iron candelabra, each supporting six red candles, gave light, and a fine Persian carpet was spread before a sort of dais upon which was set a carven ebony chair resembling a throne. Dr Fu Manchu, yellow robed, the mandarin’s cap upon his head, sat there—his long ivory hands gripping the arms of the chair, his face immobile, his eyes like polished jade.
Standing before him, one foot resting on the dais, was a defiant figure: a man wearing evening dress, a man whose straight black hair and black moustache, his pose, must have revealed his identity to almost anyone in the civilized world.
It was Rudolf Adion!
* * *
There had been silence as we had crept along the felt-padded floor behind the tapestry; a false step would have betrayed us. This silence remained unbroken, but the clash of those two imperious characters stirred my spirit as no rhetoric could have stirred me—and my conception of the destiny of the world became changed . . .
Then Adion spoke. He spoke in German. Although my Italian is negligible I have a fair knowledge of German. Therefore, I could follow the conversation.
“I have been tricked, trapped, drugged!” The suppressed violence in the orator’s voice startled me. “I find myself here—I realize now that I am not dreaming—and I have listened (patiently, I think) to perhaps the most preposterous statements which any man has ever made. I have one thing to say, and one only: Instantly77—he beat a clenched fist into his palm—”I demand to be set free! Instantly! And I warn you—I will not temporize—that for this outrage you shall suffer!”
He glanced about him swiftly, and as his face which I had always thought to lack natural beauty was turned in my direction, something in those blazing eyes, in the defiant set of his chin, won an admiration which I believed I could never have felt for him.
But Dr Fu Manchu did not move. He might have been not a man, but a graven image. Then he spoke in German. I had not heard that language spoken so perfectly otherwise than by a native of Germany.
“Excellency is naturally annoyed. I have sought a personal interview for one reason only. I could have removed you from office and from life without so much formality. I wished to see you, to talk to you. I believe that as one used to giving but not to receiving orders, the instructions of the Council of Seven of the Si-Fan might have seemed to be unacceptable.”
“Inacceptable?” Rudolf Adion bent forward threateningly. “Inacceptable! You fool! The Si-Fan! I have had more than enough of this nonsense! My time is too valuable to be wasted upon Chinese conjurers. Let this farce end or I shall be reduced to the extremity of a personal attack.”
Fists clenched, nostrils dilated, he seemed about to spring upon that impassive figure enthroned in the ebony chair. Knowing from my own experience what he must be suffering at this moment, of humiliation, ignorance of his whereabouts, a bewilderment complete as that which belongs to an evil dream, I thought that Rudolf Adion was a very splendid figure.
