I sat beside Smith in a cane rocking-chair on the terrace of the hotel. An avenue of mast-like coconut palms stretched away before us to the gate. The hotel was crowded; even at this early hour nearly all the chairs were occupied. There were elderly men studying guide books, younger men reading newspapers, but looking up whenever a new arrival passed along the terrace: one kindly, old lady there was who made a point of conversing with everybody; and there were several very pretty women who all seemed to be travelling alone. The major languages of Europe were represented.
“Never in a long government career,” said Smith, glancing at a dark-eyed Spanish girl who seemed willing to be talked to, “have I met with so many political agents in any one building.”
“How do you explain it?”
“I explained it a long time ago when I mentioned the fact that the Panama Canal has two ends. Kennard Wood, as you know, found indisputable evidence pointing to a plot by a certain power to close the Canal at an opportune moment. We sit on a potential front line, Kerrigan. All the advance units are here.”
“And I spend my time looking for Ardatha!”
“Why not? She is a most valuable ally. I am concerned about her almost as deeply as you are, A link with the enemy is not lightly to be broken.”
“Utterly fantastic. Smith, but true, that her safety, her very existence, may depend on the life of that wretched little animal—”
“The Doctor’s marmoset? Yes, Barton says the creature cannot last much longer unless he can discover something it will consent to eat. As it is reasonable to suppose that Fu Manchu knows now of our capture, what has puzzled me is the Doctor’s silence—”
“And our immunity!”
“That is less surprising. I know from experience that a cessation of hostilities usually follows the delivery of a Si-Fan ultimatum until the date has expired.We may hope for another week’s safety.”
Nevertheless, I had suffered wakeful hours, hours when I had lain listening for soft footsteps, for the coming of that Shadow which had been amongst us in New York. And I had known, on many a sleepless night, the dread of The Snapping Fingers.
“If I could only find that accursed shop!” I exclaimed. “I am beginning to despair.”
But Smith was plunged in sudden reflection; I doubted if he had heard me. And I was looking about aimlessly at the varied types of humanity represented on the terrace, when he jerked: “Did Ardatha state expressly that Z was to be found in Cristobal?”
“Why, yes—that is, let me think.”
To recall the exact words—to recall almost any words Ardatha had spoken to me since our strange reunion in London—was not difficult.
“Smith!” I spoke excitedly, “I believe I have been wasting precious time. She said that they were setting out for Cristobal, but then added, “When you reach
“That’s it!” snapped Smith, standing up. “Panama! Barton and I have our hands full, as you know, but in any case this is a Job you can do better alone. I will notify the Zone police. An officer will meet you. The sooner you start the better, Kerrigan. I suspect that Z is in Panama.”
Indeed, I required no urging; ten minutes later I was on my way.
Storage tanks and other anachronisms left behind, my Journey swept me straight into the Jungle. Through dense shadows of tropical foliage, I could see, with my mind’s eye, Morgan and his leather-skinned fighting men marching on Panama. Alligators basked in the pools, unfamiliar birds flitted from branch to branch; and I saw here at last a curtain against which the drama ofDr. Fu Manchu might fitly be played.On this, the Gold Road across the Isthmus, Spaniard and Buccaneer had clashed in many a bloody conflict.
Just beyond the mirror of the waters, beyond festoons of flowering vines, lay hundreds and hundreds of miles of primeval Jungle, forest, and mountain, much of it untrodden by a white man’s foot; places never yet explored, inhabited by humans, beasts, birds and insects so far unclassified.
When the train (surely one of the strangest under Uncle Sam’s control) pulled into Panama, I was thinking that somewhere in the secret swamps beyond. Dr. Fu Manchu had found the horror called the Snapping Fingers.
Sergeant Abdy of the Zone police met me, a man from the Middle West, but leather-skinned and truculent as any that followed Morgan in the days of the Gold Road.
“All the stores with phone numbers have been checked up, Air. Kerrigan. I guess there’s not much news for you.”
My heart fell.
“You mean there are no names beginning with ?”
“Just that, except for ‘Zone’. But listen—there’s the market stalls and the
Further details were all agreed as we walked along together and Sergeant Abdy gave me my bearings. When we parted, I confess that the size of the Job rather staggered me. Only by sheer good luck could I hope to find Z.
But Fate (I often think of the Arabs) has us in leading-strings. Parting from Sergeant Abdy, I set out more or less at random down a crooked, cobbled, narrow street which transported me in spirit to Clovelly in Devonshire. I doubt if I had proceeded twenty paces on my downward path before, on the comer of a shadowy courtyard, I saw above a shop, which appeared to be even more ancient than its neighbours, the name
ZAZIMA
I pulled up sharply, my pulse beating faster. Through a dirty, narrow-paned window I stared at some of the queerest objects ever assembled. There were two Voodoo masks of repellent appearance, some fragments of antique pottery, and a piece of grotesque mural decoration which might have come from a Yucatan temple. I saw a leather bowl filled with tarnished coins, backed by a partly unrolled Chinese carpet, which even my unpractised eye told me to be almost priceless. There were two cracked and battered tea chests, a number of lopsided and primitive wine bottles. But set right in front of the window, so that it was no more than an inch removed from the dirty glass, was the strangest exhibit of all.
It was a human head.
The head was that of a bearded old man, reduced by the mysterious art of Peruvian head-hunters to a size no greater than that of an average orange. The shrivelled features still retained the personality of the living man. One expected him at any moment to open those sunken lids, and to look out with tiny, curious eyes upon a giant world.
This repellent thing was mounted and set in a carved mahogany box, having a perfectly-fitting glass cover resembling a clock case. And as I stared at the ghastly relic, for my inspection of the window of Zazima had occupied only a matter of seconds, I became aware that from the black shadows of the shop beyond someone was watching me.
The face of the one who watched was so like that in the mahogany box, magnified, that horror touched me and I know that I bent forward and peered more closely into those dim shadows.
Faintly I could discern a bent old man sitting upon cushions piled upon a high-backed wooden chair. He wore a robe or dressing-gown. And as I peered in over the shrivelled head in the window, a thin hand was raised. I was invited to enter.
I opened the door of the shop. A bell jangled as I did so, and from an ancient church somewhere farther down the street a clock chimed the half hour.
Immediately, as the door closed behind me, I became aware of an indescribably fusty atmosphere. I had stepped out of the Panama of today into a crypt in which were preserved age-old memories of the Panama which had seen rack, death by fire, Spanish swords countering English; or into an even earlier Panama worshipping strange gods, a city unknown to the Inquisition or to the England of Francis Drake.
It seemed at first glance that the bulk of Zazima’s offerings were displayed in the window. There were some carpets on the walls and some faded charts and prints. A few odds and ends lay about the untidy place. But it was upon the face of the proprietor, for such I assumed the old man in the high-backed chair to be, that my attention was focused.
