The Island of Fu Manchu
by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER I
SOMETHING IN A BAG
“Then you have no idea where Nayland Smith is?” said my guest.
I carried his empty glass to the buffet and refilled it.
“Two cables from him found me at Salonika,”
I replied: “the first from Kingston, Jamaica, the second from New York.”
“Ah! Jamaica and New York. Off his usual stamping ground. Nothing since?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure he isn’t back home?”
“Quite. His flat in Whitehall is closed.”
I set the whisky-and-soda before Sir Lionel Barton and passed my pouch, for he was scraping out his briar. My dining-room seemed altogether too small to hold this huge, overbearing man with a lion’s mane of tawny hair streaked with white; piercing blue eyes shadowed by craggy brows. He had the proper personality for one of his turbulent, brilliant reputation: the greatest Orientalist in Europe is expected to be unusual.
“Do you know, Kerrigan”— he stuffed Rhodesian tobacco into his pipe as though he had been charging a howitzer—“I have known Smith longer than you, and although I missed the last brush with Fu Manchu—”
“Well?”
“Old Smith and I have been out against him together in the past. To tell you the truth”—he stood up and began to walk about, lighting his pipe as he did so—”I have an idea that we have not seen the last of that Chinese devil.”
“Why?” I asked, and tried to speak casually.
“Suppose he’s here again—in England?”
Sir Lionel’s voice was rising to those trumpet tones which betrayed his army training; I was conscious of growing excitement.
“Suppose, first for argument’s sake, that I have certain reasons to believe that he is. Well—would you sleep soundly tonight? What would it mean? It would mean that, apart from Germany, we have another enemy to deal with—an enemy whose insects, bacteria, stranglers, strange poisons, could do more harm in a week than Hitler’s army could do in a year!” He took a long drink. I did not speak.
“You”—he lowered his voice—”have a personal interest in the matter. You accepted the assignment to cover the Greek campaign because—”
I nodded.
“Check me when I go wrong and stop me if I’m treading on a corn; there was a girl—wasn’t Ardatha the name? She belonged to the nearly extinct white race (I was the first man to describe them, by the way) which still survives in Abyssinia.”
“Yes, she vanished after Smith and I left Paris, at the end of Fu Manchu’s battle to put an end to dictators. Nearly two years ago—”
“You-searched?”
“Smith was wonderful. I had all the resources of the Secret Service at my command. But from that hour. Barton, not one word of information reached us, either aboutDr. Fu Manchu, or about—Ardatha.”
“I am told”—he pulled up, his back to me, and spoke over his shoulder—“that Ardatha was—”
“She was lovely and lovable,” I said and stood up.
The struggle in Greece, the wound I had received there, the verdict of Harley Street which debarred me from active service, all these experiences had failed to efface my private sorrow—the loss of Ardatha.
Sir Lionel turned and gave me one penetrating glance which I construed as sympathy. I had known him for many years and had learned his true worth; but he was by no means every man’s man. Ardatha had brought romance into my life such as no one was entitled to expect: she was gone. Barton understood.
He began to pace up and down, smoking furiously; and something in his bearing reminded me of Nayland Smith. Barton was altogether heavier than Smith, but he had the same sun-baked skin, the same nervous vitality: he, also, was a pipe addict. His words had set my brain on fire.
I wondered if an image was before his mental vision, the same vision which was before mine: a tall, lean, cat-like figure; a close-shaven head, a mathematical brow; emerald-green eyes which sometimes became filmed strangely; a voice in its guttural intensity so masterful that Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon might have animated it; Dr. Fu Manchu, embodiment of the finest intellect in the modem world.
Now, I was wild for news; but deliberately I controlled myself. I refilled Barton’s glass. He belonged to a hard-drinking generation and I never attempted to keep pace with him. I sat down again, and: “You must realize,” I said, “that you have stirred up—”
“I know, I know! I am the last man to raise hopes which may never materialize. But the fact that Nayland Smith has been in the West Indies practically clinches the matter. I threw myself on your hospitality, Kerrigan, because, to be quite frank, I was afraid to go to a hotel—”
“What!”
“Yes—and my town house as you know, went to the auctioneers on the day war started. Very well. In the small suitcase—all the baggage I carry—is something for which I know Dr. Fu Manchu has been searching for many years! Since I got hold of it there have been some uncommonly queer happenings up at my place in Norfolk. In fact things got so hot that I bolted!”
I stood up and walked across to the window; excitement grew in my brain by leaps and bounds. There was no man whom I feared as I feared the brilliant Chinese doctor; but if Ardatha lived Fu Manchu was the one and only link by means of which I might find her.
“Go on,” I said, “I am all attention.”
Grey, wintry dusk was settling over Kensington Gardens. Few figures moved on the path which led from the gate nearly Opposite to the Round Pond. At any moment now would come the mournful call of a park-keeper, “All out.” And with the locking of the gates began the long night of black-out.
“I know why Smith has been to the Caribbean,” Barton went on. “There’s something in that bag which would have saved him the journey. The United States government—Hello! What’s wrong?”
A figure was standing at the park gate, looking up at my window; a girl who wore a hooded cape. I suppose I uttered an exclamation as I clutched the ledge and stared across the road.
“What is it, Kerrigan?” cried Barton. “What is it?”
“It’s Ardatha!” I whispered.
CHAPTER II
A SECOND VISITOR
I doubt if any man ever descended a long flight of dark stairs faster than I did. A pulse was throbbing in my head as I dashed along the glass-roofed portico that divided the house from the front door. Yet as I threw the door open and ran out, already the hooded figure had vanished.
Then, as I raced across to the gate, I saw her. She had turned back into the park, and was just passing out of the shadow of a big tree near the comer where a path at right angles crossed that leading to the Round Pond. Normally, Bayswater Road at this hour would have been a race track, but war had muted the song of London and few vehicles were on the road.
In the Park, a grey mist swam in among the trees whose leafless branches reached out like lean and clutching arms menacing the traveller. But there, ahead, was the receding, elusive figure.
I continued to run. My condition was by no means all that it might have been, but I found breath enough to call. “Ardatha!” I cried, “Ardatha!”
Step by step I was overhauling her. Not another pedestrian was in sight. “Ardatha!”
I was no more than twenty yards behind her as she paused and looked back. In spirit she was already in my arms, her kiss on my lips—when she turned swiftly and began to run! For one incalculable moment I stood stock still. Astonishment, mortification, anger, fought for precedence in my mind. What, in sanity’s name, could be the
