The Island of Fu Manchu

Sometimes, as we climbed, white-hot flashes revealed forest valleys below the mountain road which we traversed; sometimes, in complete darkness which followed, the mountain seemed to shiver; our headlights resembled flickering candles. Our lives and more than our lives were in the hands of the driver, but as he had been allotted to us by the American authorities as the one man for the job, I resigned myself.

“I have it in my bones,” said Nayland Smith during a momentary lull, “that tonight we shall finally defeatDr. Fu Manchu. The very elements seem to be enraged.”

But I was silent. I had, in a sense, come closer to Dr. Fu Manchu than Nayland Smith had ever had an opportunity to do. Something of the almost supernatural dread with which the Chinese scientist had inspired me was gone. He was not an evil spirit; he was a physical phenomenon, and his strength resided in the fact that he had perfected a method for enslaving the genius of the world and bending it to his will. At last I understood that Dr. Fu Manchu was something which human ingenuity might hope to outwit. But his armament was formidable.

Of that drive up to the lip of the valley which once had been the crater of a great volcano, I retain strange memories. But memorable above all was that moment when, coming round a hairpin bend on the edge of a sheer precipice, the black curtain of the storm was rent by dazzling light, and there, away beyond a forest-choked valley, an eerie but a wonderful spectacle, I saw for the second time the mighty bulk of The Citadel, upstanding stark, an ogre’s castle, against the blaze.

Indeed, a jagged dagger of lightning seemed to strike directly down upon its towering battlements. Almost I expected to see them crumble. Darkness fell and there came a crash of thunder so deafening that it might well have echoed the collapse of Christophers vast fortress into the depths.

At long last we turned inland from the road skirting the precipice and plunged into a sort of cutting. I heaved a sigh of relief.

“There are two sides to this road,” said Smith. “I confess I prefer it.”

We were now, in fact, very near to our destination; but since I had never seen the outside of the place but only the extensive buildings which surrounded the quadrangle, I was surprised by its modest character. A wide sanded drive opened to the right of the road, and across it was a board on which might be read: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” The drive was bordered by tropical shrubbery and palm trees. Some fifty yards along I saw a bungalow which presumably served the purpose of a gate lodge. Smith checked the driver, and we pulled up just beyond.

“There are three possibilities,” he said. “One, that we shall find the place deserted except for legitimate employees of the Corporation, against whom it would be difficult to bring a case. In (his event, the presence of the zoological exhibits and of the experimental laboratory might plausibly be accounted for: hemp cultivation after all is conducted today on scientific lines. The glass coffins you describe might be less easy to explain.

“And the second possibility is—some trap may have been laid for us. I doubt, assuming that the Doctor and his associates have gone below-ground, if it would be possible under any circumstances to obtain access from this point. However, you see, my instructions have been well carried out.”

In a dazzling blaze of lightning he looked round.

“I warrant you can find no evidence of the fact, Kerrigan, (hat a considerable party of Federal agents, supported by two companies of Haitian infantry with machine guns, is covering the area.”

“There is certainly no sign of their presence. But why did they not challenge the car?”

“They have orders to challenge nothing going in, but anything or anybody coming out. Now, let us have a report.”

He flashed a pocket torch, in-out, in-out.

From a darker gulley in the bank of the road. Just above th& sanded drive, two men appeared; one was in the uniform of the Haitian army, his companion wore mufti. As they came up, Smith acknowledged the officer’s salute and turning to the other: “Anything to report, Finlay?” he asked.

“Not a thing, chief—except that Major Lemage, here, has got his men under cover, and my boys all know their jobs. What’s the programme?”

“Are there any lights showing?”

“Sure. There’s one right in the gate-office. Night porter, I guess.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Haven’t seen any.”

“Then we will stick to our original plan. Come on, Kerrigan.”

As we walked past the car and up the sanded drive Finlay dropped back, following at some ten paces.

“What was the third possibility you had in mind. Smith?” I asked.

“That Fu Manchu evidently regards himself as a potential world power. He may still be here. He may attempt to brazen the thing out. Your absence will have puzzled him, but there are numbers of burrows in all volcanic rocks such as those which compose the Cavern, so it seems highly unlikely that he will be able to find out what occurred. But the absence of Ardatha and Hassan is susceptible of only one construction: a major mistake—and Fu Manchu rarely makes major mistakes. However, we must move with care. You say that the lift is at the end of a sort of tunnel in which are the glass coffins?”

“Yes, a cellar built, I believe, in the foundations of the laboratory.”

“Which you can identify?”

“I think so.”

The bungalow, when we reached it, was so like a thousand and one inquiry offices at entrances to works, that again, as had occurred many times before, the idea seemed fabulous that anything sinister lurked behind a facade so commonplace. Lightning blazed, and cast ebony shadows of palm trunks bordering the drive, shadows like solid bars, across to the spot where we stood. There was a brass plate on the door, inscribed: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” A light shone from a window.

Smith pressed the bell, and a sort of tingling excitement possessed me as I stood there waiting to see who would open the door. We had not long to wait.

A Haitian, his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a lanky fellow smoking a corncob pipe, looked at us with sleepy eyes. In the office I saw a cane armchair from which he had evidently just risen, a newspaper on the floor beside it. There was a large keyboard resembling that of a hotel hall porter. At the moment that I observed this the man’s expression changed.

“What do you want?” he asked sharply. “You do not belong here.”

“I want to see the manager,” snapped Smith. “It is urgent.”

“The manager is in bed/’

“Someone must be on duty.”

“That is so ~ I am on duty.”

“Then go and wake the manager, and be sharp about it. I represent the Haitian Government, and I must see Mr. Horton at once. Go and rouse him.”

Smith’s authoritative manner was effective.

“I have to stay here,” the man replied, “but I can call him.”

He went inside and took up a telephone which I could not see; but then I heard him speaking rapidly in Haitian. Then came a tinkle as he replaced the receiver. He returned.

“Someone is coming to take you to the manager,” he reported.

Apparently regarding the incident as closed, he went in and shut the door.

I stared, at Smith.

“One of the Corporation staff,” he said in a low voice. “I doubt if he knows anything. However—wait and see.”

We had not waited long before a coloured boy appeared from somewhere.

“You two gentlemen want to see Mr. Horton?”

“We do,” said Smith.

“Come this way.”

As we moved off behind the boy I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Finlay raise his hand and turn, then flash a light in the darkness behind him. We were being closely covered.

The boy led along the back of those quarters in which for a time I had occupied an apartment. I saw no lights anywhere. Just beyond, and fronting on the big quadrangle, was a detached bungalow. Some of the windows were