The Island of Fu Manchu

He was, as I have indicated, yellow and wrinkled, with fragments of scanty hair and beard clinging, colourless, to the parchment of his skin. He sat cross-legged upon the cushions, and for one moment, looking into his sunken eyes, a vague apprehension touched me. I had met a strangely penetrating glance. When I spoke I was staring over his head.

“You have some attractive wares for sale.”

I glanced back at him. He was nodding, and I saw now that he held a common clay pipe in his left hand, and that the peculiar odour of the place was directly traceable to the tobacco he was smoking.

“Yes, yes!” he thrust the stem of the pipe into an apparently toothless mouth. “As you say. But business is very slack, Mr, Kerrigan.”

I don’t know if it was the perfect English in which he addressed me, or his knowledge of my name that more greatly surprised me; but I can state with certainty that his confirmation of my hopes that here indeed was a link with Ardatha made my heart beat even faster than it was already beating.

“Why do you call me Mr. Kerrigan?”

“Because that is your name.” He smiled with a sort of naive cunning. “Of course, I was expecting you.”

“But how did you know me?”

“By three things. The first: your appearance, of which I had been advised; the second: your behaviour. Those two things, conjoined to the third, assured me of your identity.”

“And what was the third?”

“I could see your heart beating under your coat when you looked up and read the name Zazima.”

“Indeed?”

Without the clay pipe, the aged philosopher might have been the immortal Barber of Baghdad.

“Yes, it is true. I cannot think why you have been so long in coming.”

“How was I to know you were in Panama? I have been searching in Colon and Cristobal.”

“But why in Cristobal?I, Zazima, have been here in Panama for forty years.”

“This I did not know.”

I was beginning now to wonder about the nationality of Zazima, and I decided that he was some kind of Asiatic, certainly a man of culture. Behind him, on the wall, hung a piece of Moorish tapestry, faded, worn, but from a collector’s point of view, probably of great value; and I saw Zazima as an Eastern oracle, sitting there, cross- legged, inscrutable.

He removed the clay pipe from his shrunken lips, and: “Recite to me the message which the lady delivered,” he said, “since here is some mystery. I know you bear it in your memory, for I have lived and loved myself.”

Doubtful, always suspecting treachery, for if I had learned anything during my association with Nayland Smith it had been that the power of the Si-Fan was everywhere, I hesitated. I have had occasion before to refer to a sort of lowering of temperature, a sense of sudden chill, which subconsciously advised me of the presence of Fu Manchu. I knew others who had shared this experience. And as I stood there, watching the strange old man in the high- backed chair, I became aware of just that sensation.

No doubt I betrayed myself: for Zazima spoke again. He spoke gently, as one who seeks to soothe a nervous child.

“Those who oppose the Master fight with the elements. You are in no danger. If you are sensible in this, my humble shop, of a greater presence, have no fear. Beneath my roof you are safe. Danger is to the lady you love. Tell me, if you please, what message she sent to you.”

A moment more I hesitated, and then: “She told me,” I said, “that I should have news of her at the shop of Za—. There, her words were cut off/’

I watched Zazima closely. His sunken eyes were closed; he seemed to be in a state of contemplation. I decided that the Moorish tapestry covered a doorway. But presently those piercing eyes regarded me again.

“We who work for the Master, work unafraid. The lady’s message, Mr. Kerrigan, should have run ‘at the shop of Zazima in Panama: look for the head in the window’. I sorrow to learn that you have sought in vain. However, it is not too late.”

“Quick, tell me”—my hand shot out in supplication—”where is she? Where can I find her?”

“It is not for me to answer, Mr. Kerrigan.”

He alighted from the chair. I cannot state that he stood up—for I realized at this moment that he was a dwarf. Clay pipe in hand he passed me, crossed to the window, pulled aside the folds of the Chinese carpet, and straining forward reached the box which contained the shrivelled head. With this he returned.

“It is twenty dollars,” he said; “which is a stupid price.”

“But”—I shrank back—”I don’t want the thing!”

“The lady’s message should have concluded with these words: *Look for the head in the window. Buy it!”

I stared down at him suspiciously. Was I becoming involved in a cunning web spread byDr. Fu Manchu? For of the fact that the Chinese Doctor, if not present in person, dominated this scene I was convinced. Yet—for now I was cool enough—I saw that I must trust Zazima. Ardatha had asked me to seek him out. Dark, sunken eyes watched me, and I thought that there was an appeal in them.

“As you say, it is a stupid price.”

I handed twenty dollars to Zazima, and he surrendered to me my strange purchase.

“Have you nothing else to tell me?”

“Nothing. I have sold you the head. A great Chinese philosopher has written: ‘When the cash is paid words cannot restore it’. The matter is concluded.”

I turned to go. Zazima had reseated himself on the high-backed chair.

“Do not open the box,” he added softly, “until you are alone,” And he seemed to speak as one who is prompted.

CHAPTER XIX

FLAMMARIO THE DANCER

As I sat outside a cafe which Sergeant Abdy had recommended to me, I was far from easy in my mind. Having first wrapped my strange possession in a newspaper, I had bought a cheap attache case which now stood on the table before me; it contained the shrivelled head. A halt for refreshment had proved to be imperative, and in any case I had to wait for a train. My luncheon dispatched, I lingered over an iced drink.

It was cool beneath the awning. Before me rose ranks of royal palms seeming to mount guard along the tiled paths. Coloured boys had given up pestering me to have my shoes cleaned, to buy post-cards, tickets for bull-fights, and other things which I didn’t want. Dark-eyed senoritas transported me in spirit to Spain as they moved on jutting iron balconies of ancient stone houses. Caches rattled lazily along the cobbled streets. It was pleasantly hot and the sky looked unreally blue.

But I had much to think about.

I could not fail to remember that the most delicate operation in the murders due to the Snapping Fingers was that of introducing the unknown agent of death. Suppose (I argued) I carry in the mahogany box such an agent; suppose I am being used, cunningly, to destroy my friends and myself!

It was not outside the bounds of possibility. In Zazima’s shop I had been acutely aware of a hidden presence. Against this was the indisputable fact that Ardatha had directed me to go there—that I had been expected.

Ardatha! What had my journey availed? I knew no more than I had known before I had set my eyes on the strange dwarf called Zazima. And there was something else. As I had come out into the cobbled, sloping street, carrying my purchase, an idea had been strong upon me that I was watched—not by someone inside the shop, but by someone outside’, that this person was following me at a distance. So strong did this conviction become that as I turned into Sixth Street I paused for a moment and then turned back.

I almost fell over a slim, sallow-faced man who was on the point of rounding the corner!

Muttering an apology, he hurried on; but his appearance had set me a problem. Where had I seen .that sallow face before? A wide-brimmed hat had somewhat obscured his features, but nevertheless I knew that this was not the first time I had seen him.

Abstractly selecting a cigarette from my case, I watched a coche which slowly approached, hood up, for the noonday sun was hot. In any more objective mood I might well have failed to note the