And in that moment I understood why a great, intellectual nation had accepted him as its leader. Whatever his failings, this man was fearless.
But Dr Fu Manchu never stirred. The twenty-four red candles burned steadily. There was no breath of air in that decaying, deadly room. And the gaze of those still eyes checked the chancellor.
“Dictators”—the guttural voice compassed that Germanic word perfectly—”hitherto have served their appointed purpose. Their schemes of expansion I have been called upon to check. The Si-Fan has intervened in Abyssinia. We are now turning our attention to Morocco and Syria. China, my China, can take care of herself. She will always absorb the fools who intrude upon her surface as the pitcher plant absorbs flies. To some small extent I have forwarded this process.”
And Rudolf Adion remained silent.
“I opened the floodgates of the Yellow River”—that note of exultation, of fanaticism, came now into the strange voice. “I called upon those elemental spirits in whom you do not believe to aid me. The children of China do not desire war. They are content to live on their peaceful rivers, in their rice fields, in those white valleys where the opium poppy grows. They are content to die . . . The people of
And Adion still remained silent, enthralled against his will . . .
“My agents inform me that a great majority desires peace. There are no more than twelve men living today who can cause war. You are one of them. Your ideals cross mine. You would dispense with Christ, with Mohammed, with Buddha, with Moses. But not one of these ancient trees shall be destroyed. They have a purpose: they are of use—to me. You have been ordered by the Council of Seven not to meet Pietro Monaghani—yet you are here!”
Some spiritual battle the dictator was fighting—a battle which I had fought and lost against the power in those wonderful, evil eyes . . .
“I forbid this meeting. I speak for the Council of which I am the president. A European conflict would be inimical to my plans. If any radical change take place in the world’s map, my own draughtsmen will make it.”
Adion had won that inner conflict. In one bound he was upon the dais, looking down quiveringly upon the seated figure.
“I give you the time in which I can count ten! We are man to man. You are mad and I am sane. But I warn you—I am the stronger.”
I was so tensed up, so fired to action, that I suppose some movement on my part warned Nayland Smith, for he set a sudden grip upon my wrist which made me wince: it brought me to my senses. I think I had contemplated tearing a way through the tapestry to take my place beside Rudolf Adion.
“From several loopholes,” Dr Fu Manchu continued, his voice now soft and sibilant, “you are covered by my servants. I have explained to you patiently and at some length that I could have brought about your assassination twenty times within the past three months. Because I recognize in your character much which is admirable I have adopted those means which have brought us face to face. You have received the final notice of the Council; you have one hour in which to choose. Leave Venice tonight within that hour and I guarantee your safety. Refuse, and the world will know you no more . . .
The Lotus Floor
Nayland Smith was urging me back in the direction we had come. Having passed the door which we softly opened and closed:
“Why this way?” I whispered.
“You heard Fu Manchu’s words. He was covered by his servants from several loopholes—”
“Probably a lie—he has nerves of steel”
“That he has nerves of steel, I agree, Kerrigan, but I have never known him to lie. No, this is our way.”
We groped back along those dimly lighted passages until we came to the point at which of two ways we had selected that to the right. We now tried the left. And dimly in the darkness, for there was no light here, I saw a flight of wooden steps. Smith leading, we mounted to the top. Another door was there on the landing and it was ajar. Light shone through the opening.
“I expect this is the way my jailer came,” whispered Smith.
Beyond, as we gently pushed the door open, was a narrow lobby. Complete silence reigned . . . But at the very moment of our entrance this silence was interrupted.
Unmistakable sounds of approaching footsteps came from beyond a curtained opening. The footsteps ceased. There came a faint shuffling, and then—unmistakably again—the sound of someone retreating.
“Run for it!” Smith snapped, “or we are trapped!”
Dashing blindly across, I pulled up sharply on the threshold of a room. It was, I think, a horribly familiar perfume which checked me—that of hawthorn blossom! I clutched at Nayland Smith, staring, staring at what I saw . . .
It was the room with the lotus floor!
We had entered it from the other side, and at that door through which I had stepped into oblivion, Ardatha stood, her eyes widely open, her face pale!
“Mercy of God!” she said, “but how did you get here? Don’t move. Stay where you are.”
No word came from Nayland Smith. For a moment I could hear his hard breathing, then:
“Go round it, Kerrigan,” he said. “Stick to the black border. Don’t be afraid, Ardatha, you had nothing to do with this.”
As I reached the other side of the room and stood beside her:
“Ardatha!” I threw my arm about her shoulders. “Come with me! I can’t bear it!”
“No!” She freed herself, her face remained very pale. “Not yet!”
“Go ahead, Kerrigan.” Smith was making his way around the room. “Leave Ardatha to me; she’s in safe hands.”
With one last look into the amethyst eyes, I hurried on—but at the top of the steps which led to the wine cellar paused, stepped back and:
“It’s unnecessary to go the whole way,” I said. “The door of the Palazzo Mori is not locked. For God’s sake, don’t linger, Smith.”
He was standing looking down at her; she made no attempt to retreat . . .
My flashlamp had gone the way of my automatic, but a box of matches for some obscure reason had been left in my pocket. With the aid of these I groped my way through to that noisome passage which led to the old palace. Along I went, moving very slowly and working my way match by match. I wondered why Smith delayed, what he had in mind. Some quibble of conscience, I thought, for clearly it was his duty to arrest Ardatha.
My plan was to learn if the exit by way of the water were still practicable. I knew it must be very late, and I wondered if it would be possible to attract the attention of a passing gondolier. Otherwise we should have to swim for it.
The door remained unfastened as the police had left it Outside the wind howled through a dark night. The surface of the Grand Canal was like a miniature ocean. I could see no sign of any craft.
I confess that that second tunnel which led under the canal presented terrors from which I shrank.
Propping the great door open so that some dim light penetrated to the tomb-like hall, I began to retrace my steps. Approaching me, a ghostly figure, I saw Nayland Smith groping his way by the aid of a tiny torch—none other than his lighter!
He was alone . . .
As we stood together on the steps, buffeted by that keen breeze, and still at the mercy of the enemy should we be attacked from the rear:
“Smith,” I said, for the thought was uppermost in my mind, “what became of her?”
“She had a second set of keys—God knows where she had found them—and was on her way to release us . . . I hadn’t the heart to arrest her.”
We stood there in the stormy night for three, four, five minutes, but no sort of craft was abroad.
“Nothing else to it,” snapped Smith. “We must go through the tunnel. To delay longer would be madness.”
“But the door at this end may be locked!”
“It is—but I have the key”
