The Island of Fu Manchu

“Yes, perhaps that is it. But I have something to ask you and something to tell you, and the time is short. First you look for a girl called Ardatha?”

“Yes!”

“And you believe that she is withDr. Fu Manchu?”

“Of course—”

“She is not.”

“What do you say?”

“She is with—my friend. Please let me go on. The name of this dear friend of mine is Lou Cabot. He is part owner of The Passion Fruit Tree where I am hostess. He is also the chief agent of the Si- Fan in the Canal Zone. He was sent to New York to bring Ardatha here—”

“Is he a sallow-faced fellow?” I broke in savagely, for I was thinking of the man I had seen with Ardatha in the Regal Athenian—the man of Panama. “Greasy black hair and semi side-whiskers?”

“He might look so, to you; but please listen. The Society, the Si-Fan, is split into two parts; there is a conspiracy against the President, and Lou is of those who plan his ruin. A dangerous game, I told him—and so he will find it! So far so good. But now, if you please, because he is so sure of himself, he has taken her away.”

“What!”

“Please, be patient: she may not have fought so hard; Lou has a charm for women—”

“Enough of that!” I said sharply.

Flammario glided to my side, threw one arm round me and rested her head on my shoulder.

“I am a woman,” she whispered. “Perhaps I know better than you when a man is fascinating to women. I do not think, myself, that her heart has changed about you. But I know—how well I know—that mine has changed! Listen again; my friend has wounded my pride. I know him, now, for a vain fool. He will surely die when the plot is known—”

“Yes, but—”

“Yes, but I wish to see him die!” She laughed; it was musical but demoniacal laughter. “And if I can show you these two together I am sure that you will kill him . . .”

Flammario was undeniably beautiful in an exotic way; but as she pronounced those last words I thought of a puma, a sleek, satiny, lithe, dangerous beast.

“I assure you I shall do my best! But where is she? Where is she?”

“I think I know. Later tonight I shall be sure.”

“Then—quickly; what am I to do?”

She drew away from me. It was now nearly quite dark, and she appeared as a phantom.

“I will tell you—for someone must be here soon. You will make your friends promise—about me; and then, be at the Passion Fruit tonight before twelve o’clock. You must be prepared to act—”

“How? Tell me!”

I heard the elevator stop at our floor, heard the gate clang. I saw the phantom figure of Flammario drawn swiftly upright.

“Quick! Which is the better way?”

I hesitated.

“You promised—I trusted you. You can say I was here, but first let me go!”

“This way.”

I led her through to Barton’s room and opened the outer door.

“Tonight, before twelve—I shall expect you . . .”

CHAPTER XX

THE SHRIVELLED HEAD

As I closed the door after Flammario, footsteps passed by out-. side. Whoever had come up in the elevator was not bound for our apartment. In a few more precious moments I might have learned so much; but now it was too late. Ardatha in the hands of the sleek, sallow scoundrel I had seen in Panama! The mere idea made my blood boil. In some way I regarded the Chinese doctor as one might have regarded a disembodied spirit, although a spirit of evil, a sexless supermortal. But Lou Cabot! Could it be true?

Switching up the light, I fumed and looked at a large cage which stood on a side-table. Its occupant lay in the sleeping-box, only a tiny, grey-whiskered head drooping disconsolately out. I saw a bowl of food, untouched, upon the sanded floor. Peko the marmoset was near his end.

I approached the bars, staring in anxiously. Wicked little eyes regarded me, teeth were bared; and there was a faint whistling chatter. Peko might be moribund, but he could still hate all humanity. I returned to the sitting- room, lighted up, and took out the head in its mahogany box.

Shrivelled, hideous thing it was; and upon it (as again overcoming my revulsion, I studied it more closely) there still rested the shadow of a distant agony. Was this no more than a trap? Why should I trust Zazima? Yet, because the fate of Ardatha meant more to me—nor do I deny it—than the success or failure of the expedition upon which I was engaged, I knew that I was prepared to believe in his sincerity, prepared to believe Flammario. I was mad with apprehension.

Opening the case, I peered inside eagerly. I could see nothing concealed there. Perhaps I must remove the head; perhaps some message was hidden in the shrivelled skull itself. But as I held the box by its carved and crudely-coloured base, I made a discovery which induced an even greater excitement. One of the painted knobs moved slightly.

I was about to attempt to pull it from its place when the head began to speak!

When I say that it began to speak, I do not mean that any movement of those wasted features became perceptible; I mean that a low, obscene whispering proceeded from it.

I all but dropped the box. I was appalled. I think that any man must have been appalled. But I set it on the table. Then, as that high sibilance continued, I clenched my fists and forced myself to listen.

“So it befell—so it befell . . .” The whispering was in English! “I was called—lea . . . Chief was I of all the Quechua of Callao. But the Jibaros came: my women were taken; my house was fired, my head struck off. We were peaceful folk. But the head-hunters swept down upon us. Thought still lived in my skull, even when it was packed with burning sand. My brain boiled, yet I knew that I was lea, chief of the Quechua of Callao . . .”

The uncanny whisper died away. I stood there rigidly, staring at the head, when again a voice spoke from the box: “Such is the brief obituary oflea, chief of the Callao Quechuas.”

And this was the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu!

“If I address Mr. Bart Kerrigan,” it continued, ‘“be good enough to press the red indicator on the right of the box, once.”

A sort of icy coolness which, in my case, sometimes takes the place of panic, came now to my aid. Bending forward I pressed the red knob which I had already discovered.

“The grotesque character of the receiving-set before you,” that high distant voice resumed, “was designed for a special purpose. It is otherwise similar to the example which Sir Denis deposited in Scotland Yard Museum rather more than a year ago, but which is no longer of any use. Listen attentively. If Sir Denis or anyone else join you, press the blue indicator on the left of the box. The safety of Ardatha depends upon your obedience.”

Almost, I ceased to breathe.

“What I have to say must be said briefly: it is for you to employ it to good purpose. Your Western world is locked in a stupid clash of arms. You have created a situation resembling those traffic blocks which once were a feature of London. The shadow of Russia, that deformed colossus, frightens the children of Europe, none more so than the deluded Germans; but since one cannot wield the sword at the same time as one guides the ploughshare, nations far distant tremble for their trade. This is where East meets West. The more equally the scales be weighted, the more certainly a decimal of a gramme added to one of them must tip it.”

The voice ceased; I feared that that which I most particularly wanted to hear was to be denied to me, but: “I hold such a decimal of a gramme in my hand,” the cold guttural voice continued. “That dangerous meddler. Sir Lionel Barton, dreamed of outwitting me. He failed. Mention to him that Haiti, and not Panama, is the home of The Snapping Fingers. He captured Peko, the marmoset who shares all my secrets, including that of longevity. You are unaware of the fact, but I have twice attempted to recover him, and twice have been unsuccessful. In holding Peko