The Drums of Fu Manchu

doctor, for I was unaware of any movement, indeed, of any presence other than that of Fu Manchu.

The image moved back, and I saw now that the speaker was seated in a carved chair.

“This interesting device,” the precise, slightly hissing voice continued, “is yet in its infancy. If I intruded at a fortunate moment, this was an accident—for I am unable to hear you. Credit for this small contribution belongs to one of the few first-class mechanical brains which the West has produced in recent years.”

I felt a grip upon my shoulders. Nayland Smith stood beside me.

“He was at work upon the principle at the time of his reported death! . . . He has since improved upon it in my laboratories.”

Only by a tightening of Smith’s grip did I realize the fact that this, to me, incomprehensible statement held a hidden meaning.

“I find it useful as a means of communication with my associates, Sir Denis. I hope to perfect it. Do not waste your time trying to trace the mechanic who installed it. My purpose in speaking to you was this: You have recently learned the distressing details concerning the death of General Quinto. Probably you know that he complained of a sound of drums just before the end—a characteristic symptom . . .”

The uncanny speaker paused—bent forward—I lost consciousness of everything save of his eyes and of his voice.

“My drums, Sir Denis, will call to others before I shall have satisfied the fools in power today that I, Fu Manchu and I alone, hold the scales in my hand. I ask you to join me now—for my enemies are your enemies. Consider my words—consider them deeply.”

Smith did not stir, but I could hear his rapid breathing.

“You would not wish to see the purposeless slaughter in Spain, in China, carried into England? Think of that bloody farce called the Great War!” A vibrating guttural note had entered into the unforgettable voice. “I, who have had some opportunities of seeing you in action, Sir Denis, know that you understand the rules of boxing. Your objectives are the heart and the point of the jaw: you strike to paralyze brain and blood supply. That is how I fight. I strike at those who cause, at those who direct, at those who aid war—at the brain and at the heart, not at the arms, the shoulders—the deluded masses who suffer and die in order that arrogant fools may be gratified, that profiteers may grow fat. Consider my words . . .”

Dr Fu Manchu’s eyes now were opened widely. They beckoned, they called to me . . .

“Steady, Kerrigan.”

Darkness. The screen was blank.

A long time seemed to elapse before Nayland Smith spoke, before he stirred, then:

“I have seen that man being swept to the verge of Niagara Falls!” he said, speaking hoarsely out of the darkness. “I prayed that he had met a just fate. The body of his companion—a maddened slave of his will—was found.”

“But not Fu Manchu! How could he have escaped?”

Smith moved—switched up the light. I saw how the incident had affected him, and it gave me courage; for the magnetism of those eyes, of that voice, had made me feel a weakling.

“One day, Kerrigan, perhaps I shall know.”

He pressed a bell. Fey came in.

“This television apparatus is not to be used, not to be touched by anyone. Fey.”

Fey went out.

I took up my glass, which remained half filled.

“This has staggered me,” I confessed. “The man is more than human. But one thing I must know: what did he mean when he spoke of someone—I can guess to whom he referred—who died recently but who, since his death, has been at work in Fu Manchu’s laboratories?”

Smith turned on his way to the buffet; his eyes glittered like steel.

“Were you ever in Haiti?”

“No.”

“Then possibly you have never come across the ghastly tradition of the zombie?”

“Never.”

“A human corpse, Kerrigan, taken from the grave and by means of sorcery set to work in the cane fields. Perhaps a Negro superstition, but Doctor Fu Manchu has put it into practice.”

“What!”

“I have seen men long dead and buried laboring in his workshops!”

He squirted soda water into a tumbler.

“You were moved, naturally, by the words and by the manner of, intellectually, the greatest man alive. But forget his sophistry, forget his voice—above all, forget his eyes. Doctor Fu Manchu is Satan incarnate.”

* * *

 “Inspector Gallaho Reports In the days that followed I thought many times about those words, and one night I dreamed of beating drums and woke in a nameless panic. The morning that followed was lowering and gloomy. A fine drizzling rain made London wretched.

When I stood up and looked out of the window across Hyde Park I found the prospect in keeping with my reflections. I had been working on the extraordinary facts in connection with the death of General Quinto and trying to make credible reading of the occurrence in Nayland Smith’s apartment later the same night. All that I had ever heard or imagined about Dr Fu Manchu had been brought into sharp focus. I had sometimes laughed at the Germanic idea of a superman, now I knew that such a demigod, and a demigod of evil, actually lived.

I read over what I had written. It appeared to me as a critic that I had laid undue stress upon the haunting figure of the girl with the amethyst eyes. But whenever my thoughts turned, and they turned often enough, to the episodes of that night those wonderful eyes somehow came to the front of the picture.

London and the Home Counties were being combed by the police for the mysterious broadcasting station controlled by Dr Fu Manchu. A post-mortem examination of the general’s body had added little to our knowledge of the cause of death. Inquiries had failed also to establish the identity of the general’s woman friend who had called upon him on the preceding day.

The figure of this unknown woman tortured my imagination. Could it be, could it possibly be the girl to whom I had spoken out in the square?

I ordered coffee, and when it came I was too restless to sit down. I walked about the room carrying the cup in my hand. Then I heard the doorbell and heard Mrs. Merton, my daily help, going down. Two minutes later Nayland Smith came in, his lean features wearing that expression of eagerness which characterized him when he was hot on a trail, his grey eyes very bright. He nodded, and before I could speak:

“Thanks! A cup of coffee would be just the thing,” he said.

Peeling off his damp raincoat and dropping it on the floor, he threw his hat on top of it, stepped to my desk and began to read through my manuscript. Mrs. Merton bringing another cup, I poured his coffee out and set it on the desk. He looked up.

“Perhaps a little undue emphasis on amethyst eyes,” he said slyly.

I felt myself flushing.

“You may be right, Smith,” I admitted. “In fact I thought the same myself. But you see, you haven’t met her —I have. I may as well be honest. Yes! She did make a deep impression upon me.”

“I am only joking, Kerrigan. I have even known the symptoms.” He spoke those words rather wistfully. “But this is very sudden!”

“I agree!” and I laughed. “I know what you think, but truly, there was some irresistible appeal about her.”

“If, as I suspect, she is a servant of Doctor Fu Manchu, there would be. He rarely makes mistakes.”

I crossed to the window.

“Somehow I can’t believe it.”

“You mean you don’t want to?” As I turned he dropped the manuscript on the desk. “Well, Kerrigan, one thing life has taught me—never to interfere in such matters. You must deal with it in your own way.”

“Is there any news?”

He snapped his fingers irritably.