The Island of Fu Manchu

There was a momentary silence, an awed silence, as Mr. Hannessy passed the chart to Commander Ingles.

“It can be read only by aid of a powerful lens,” Barton went on; “but it shows an enormous cavern, in which the cache is marked by a red cross. Further inquiry—you know something about it. Smith—led to the discovery that this cavern, which has an underwater outlet to the sea, was big enough to hide a battle fleet”

“I am prepared to hear. Sir Lionel,” said Commander Ingles, studying the chart through a magnifying glass, “that you have identified the location of this cave. You know its exact bearings?”

“Commander Ingles—I know my way there as well as I know my way from my town house (now sold) to my club. And listen. Smith. The passage from da Cunha’s manuscript in the British Museum was copied byDr. Fu Manchu, in person, so long as a year ago. I have evidence to prove that. But I have beaten him to it this time. Wilton of Drury Lane, the best manuscript faker in Europe, made me a duplicate of Christophe’s chart. Wilton’s duplicate was exact in every particular—except that the treasure cache and the precise bearings of the entrances to the cave from land and sea were slightly altered. It was Wilton’s chart that was stolen by Dr. Fu Manchu. This is the original!”

Nayland Smith was tugging at one ear.

“There’s your secret submarine base, gentlemen.It will be my privilege to—”

“Who’s there?” cried Commander Ingles and glanced back over his shoulder.

He had been absorbed in study of the chart. Now, his lens clattered on to the table.

“I heard nothing,” snapped Nayland Smith.

“Nor did I. But, nevertheless, something touched me!”

“Touched you?” Barton began to chuckle. “Perhaps it was my story!”

“I insist that someone bent over my shoulder whilst I was examining the chart.”

We all sat perfectly still, listening. Commander Ingles was not a man whose self-possession is easily ruffled, but it was plain to see that he was disturbed.

The ceaseless voice of the city came up to us from the streets far below, dazzling sunshine shone in at the windows. Yet I, my brain working feverishly, became possessed of an uncanny sense that something, some supernormal thing, had joined our council. Then: “Who opened that door?” Nayland Smith demanded sharply.

Those with their backs to the door indicated turned in a flash. all looked in that direction.

The door leading to my room was half-open—and, now, the marmoset, in Barton’s quarters beyond began to whistle shrilly!

Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and then sprang up. He reached the open door first but I was not far behind him. Everybody was up. As we dashed through to Sir Lionel’s room I saw at a glance that the outer door, that which led into the hotel corridor, was wide open.

Smith muttered something under his breath and went running out.We came behind in a pack.

The corridor outside was bare from end to end. Neither elevator was moving. Several of the party began to talk at once.

“Silence!” rapped Smith angrily.“I want to listen.”

Silence fell, save for the whistling chatter of the monkey, and we all listened.

We all heard it: Pad, pad, pad . . . .

Soft footsteps were moving along the corridor, far away to the left. But no living thing was visible.

“Rush to that staircase, Kerrigan!” cried Smith. “Bar the way of anything—visible or invisible.”

And as I dashed off, a conviction seized my mind that he, too, had grasped the possibility, hitherto incredible, which indeed I had regarded as inadmissible, that something—something which we could not see, had been amongst us and not for the first time.

I raced headlong to the end of the corridor, trusting to my considerable poundage to sweep anything from my path. However, nothing obstructed me.

Coming to the head of the staircase which forty floors below gave access to the foyer, I stood still breathing heavily and listening.

Smith’s snappy orders had followed me in my rush:—

“You, Barton—that way. Watch all the doors. If one opens, rush for it. Commander, cover both elevators. Allow no one and nothing to enter, whoever comes out . . .”

Fists clenched, I stood listening.

That sound of padded footsteps was no longer audible. No elevator was moving, and apart from a buzz of excited voices from our party along the passage, I could hear nothing; so that as I stood there the seeming insanity of the thing burst upon me, irresistibly. We were all victims of some illusion, some trick. Its object must have been to get us out of the apartment. As this idea seized me I turned from the head of the staircase and began to run back.

“Smith!” I shouted, “it’s a ruse! Someone should have stayed in the room.”

“Don’t worry.” Smith was standing there on guard. “I have stuck here and Barton’s door is locked.”

But we found no one and heard no one. The shadow had come—and gone.

Completely baffled,we reassembled in the sitting-room and resumed our places about the table. Nayland Smith solemnly deposited before Barton the ancient pistol, the silver bullet and the chart.

“You left them behind. I picked them up for safety.”

We stared rather blankly at one another for a moment, and then: “It seems to me, gentlemen,” said John Hannessy, “that the experience which we have Just shared calls for a consultation.”

Everybody was in tacit agreement with the speaker. Commander Ingles replied in his crisp way: “I give my testimony here and now without hesitation, that something, something palpable, touched my shoulder at the moment that I called out. Something or someone we could not see was in the room at that time. We all know that a door was open which had not been open when this session began. We all know that the communicating doors were closed. And I think I am right”—he looked around—”in saying that we all heard the sound of soft footsteps in the corridor outside.”

He paused suddenly, staring down at some notes on the table before him. His silence was so unexpected, and his expression so strange, that: “What’s wrong?” growled Barton, leaning forward. “What have you found there?”

Commander Ingles looked round from face to face, and I saw that he held a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Just this . . . I will read out what is written here: “ ‘FIRST NOTICE’—”

“What!” snapped Smith, and was on his feet in a moment.

“I will repeat: TIRST NOTICE.

“ ‘The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan is aware of the aims of an expedition led by Sir Lionel Barton and Sir Denis Nayland Smith. In view of the fact that the Council is in a position to negotiate with the Government of the United States regarding a matter of first importance, this is a warning, both to the Government of the United States and to Sir Denis Nayland Smith and those associated with him. The mobility of the United States Navy is seriously threatened, but the Council is in a position to nullify the activities both of a certain eastern neighbour and also those of a western power. This is to notify all whom it may concern, that you have two weeks in which to decide. An advertisement in a daily newspaper consisting of the words “Negotiate. Washington” will receive prompt attention. “ ‘President of the Seven’.”

CHAPTER XVIII

ZAZIMA

“Better luck today, Kerrigan,” said Nayland Smith.

“Thanks,” I replied. “I can do with it.”

Cristobal!—I was at last in Cristobal (or more exactly in Colon) where I had confidently expected to meet Ardatha again. Yet for two days and the greater part of one night I had combed the towns and their environs without success. Recollections of how that last conversation with Ardatha had been abruptly terminated, haunted my mind. Had Fu Manchu detected her in the act of phoning to me—and changed his plans?

The essential clue had been partially lost as the line was disconnected, but at least I knew that news of her was to be had at the shop of someone whose name began with Z. Although Z is comparatively unusual as the index letter of a surname, my quest had led me nowhere.