The muffled drumming of sleepless London seemed very remote from us,
as side by side we crept up the narrow path to the studio. This was a
starry but moonless night, and the little dingy white building with a
solitary tree peeping, in silhouette, above the glazed roof, bore an odd
resemblance to one of those tombs which form a city of the dead so near
to the city of feverish life on the slopes of the Mokattam Hills. This
line of reflection proved unpleasant, and I dismissed it sternly from my
mind.
The shriek of a train-whistle reached me, a sound which breaks the
stillness of the most silent London night, telling of the ceaseless,
febrile life of the great world-capital whose activity ceases not with
the coming of darkness. Around and about us a very great stillness
reigned, however, and the velvet dusk which, with the star-jeweled sky,
was strongly suggestive of an Eastern night--gave up no sign to show
that it masked the presence of more than twenty men. Some distance away
on our right was the Gables, that sinister and deserted mansion which
we assumed, and with good reason, to be nothing less than the gateway
to the subterranean abode of Dr. Fu-Manchu; before us was the studio,
which, if Nayland Smith’s deductions were accurate, concealed a second
entrance to the same mysterious dwelling.
As my friend, glancing cautiously all about him, inserted the key in
the lock, an owl hooted dismally almost immediately above our heads. I
caught my breath sharply, for it might be a signal; but, looking upward,
I saw a great black shape float slantingly from the tree beyond the
studio into the coppice on the right which hemmed in the Gables.
Silently the owl winged its uncanny flight into the greater darkness of
the trees, and was gone. Smith opened the door and we stepped into
the studio. Our plans had been well considered, and in accordance with
these, I now moved up beside my friend, who was dimly perceptible to me
in the starlight which found access through the glass roof, and pressed
the catch of my electric pocket-lamp...
I suppose that by virtue of my self-imposed duty as chronicler of the
deeds of Dr. Fu-Manchu--the greatest and most evil genius whom the
later centuries have produced, the man who dreamt of an universal Yellow
Empire--I should have acquired a certain facility in describing bizarre
happenings. But I confess that it fails me now as I attempt in cold
English to portray my emotions when the white beam from the little
lamp cut through the darkness of the studio, and shone fully upon the
beautiful face of Karamaneh!
Less than six feet away from me she stood, arrayed in the gauzy dress of
the harem, her fingers and slim white arms laden with barbaric jewelry!
The light wavered in my suddenly nerveless hand, gleaming momentarily
upon bare ankles and golden anklets, upon little red leather shoes.
I spoke no word, and Smith was as silent as I; both of us, I think, were
speechless rather from amazement than in obedience to the evident wishes
of Fu-Manchu’s slave-girl. Yet I have only to close my eyes at this
moment to see her as she stood, one finger raised to her lips, enjoining
us to silence. She looked ghastly pale in the light of the lamp, but so
lovely that my rebellious heart threatened already, to make a fool of
me.
So we stood in that untidy studio, with canvases and easels heaped
against the wall and with all sorts of litter about us, a trio strangely
met, and one to have amused the high gods watching through the windows
of the stars.
“Go back!” came in a whisper from Karamaneh.
I saw the red lips moving and read a dreadful horror in the widely
opened eyes, in those eyes like pools of mystery to taunt the thirsty
soul. The world of realities was slipping past me; I seemed to be losing
my hold on things actual; I had built up an Eastern palace about myself
and Karamaneh wherein, the world shut out, I might pass the hours in
reading the mystery of those dark eyes. Nayland Smith brought me sharply
to my senses.
“Steady with the light, Petrie!” he hissed in my ear. “My skepticism has
been shaken, to-night, but I am taking no chances.”
He moved from my side and forward toward that lovely, unreal figure
which stood immediately before the model’s throne and its background
of plush curtains. Karamaneh started forward to meet him, suppressing a
little cry, whose real anguish could not have been simulated.
“Go back! go back!” she whispered urgently, and thrust out her hands
against Smith’s breast. “For God’s sake, go back! I have risked my life
to come here to-night. He knows, and is ready!”...
The words were spoken with passionate intensity, and Nayland Smith
hesitated. To my nostrils was wafted that faint, delightful perfume
which, since one night, two years ago, it had come to disturb my senses,
had taunted me many times as the mirage taunts the parched Sahara
traveler. I took a step forward.
“Don’t move!” snapped Smith.
Karamaneh clutched frenziedly at the lapels of his coat.
“Listen to me!” she said, beseechingly and stamped one little foot upon
the floor--“listen to me! You are a clever man, but you know nothing of
a woman’s heart--nothing--nothing--if seeing me, hearing me, knowing,
as you do know, I risk, you can doubt that I speak the truth. And I tell
you that it is death to go behind those curtains--that he...”
“That’s what I wanted to know!” snapped Smith. His voice quivered with
excitement.
Suddenly grasping Karamaneh by the waist, he lifted her and set her
aside; then in three bounds he was on to the model’s throne and had torn
the Plush curtains bodily from their fastenings.
How it occurred I cannot hope to make dear, for here my recollections
merge into a chaos. I know that Smith seemed to topple forward amid the
purple billows of velvet, and his muffled cry came to me:
“Petrie! My God, Petrie!”...
The pale face of Karamaneh looked up into mine and her hands were
clutching me, but the glamour of her personality had lost its hold,
for I knew--heavens, how poignantly it struck home to me!--that Nayland
Smith was gone to his death. What I hoped to achieve, I know not, but
hurling the trembling girl aside, I snatched the Browning pistol from my
coat pocket, and with the ray of the lamp directed upon the purple mound
of velvet, I leaped forward.
I think I realized that the curtains had masked a collapsible trap, a
sheer pit of blackness, an instant before I was precipitated into it,
but certainly the knowledge came too late. With the sound of a soft,
shuddering cry in my ears, I fell, dropping lamp and pistol, and
clutching at the fallen hangings. But they offered me no support. My
head seemed to be bursting; I could utter only a hoarse groan, as I
fell--fell--fell...
When my mind began to work again, in returning consciousness, I found it
to be laden with reproach. How often in the past had we blindly hurled
ourselves into just such a trap as this? Should we never learn that
where Fu-Manchu was, impetuosity must prove fatal? On two distinct
occasions in the past we had been made the victims of this device,
yet even although we had had practically conclusive evidence that this
studio was used by Dr. Fu-Manchu, we had relied upon its floor being as
secure as that of any other studio, we had failed to sound every foot of
it ere trusting our weight to its support....
“There is such a divine simplicity in the English mind that one may
lay one’s plans with mathematical precision, and rely upon the Nayland
Smiths and Dr. Petries to play their allotted parts. Excepting two
faithful followers, my friends are long since departed. But here, in
these vaults which time has overlooked and which are as secret and as
serviceable to-day as they were two hundred years ago, I wait patiently,
with my trap set, like the spider for the fly!...”
To the sound of that taunting voice, I opened my eyes. As I did so I
strove to spring upright--only to realize that I was tied fast to a
heavy ebony chair inlaid with ivory, and attached by means of two iron
brackets to the floor.
“Even children learn from experience,” continued the unforgettable
voice, alternately guttural and sibilant, but always as deliberate as
though the speaker were choosing with care words which should perfectly
clothe his thoughts. “For ‘a burnt child fears the fire,’ says your
English adage. But Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith, who enjoys the
confidence of the India Office, and who is empowered to control the
movements of the Criminal Investigation Department, learns nothing
from experience. He is less than a child, since he has twice rashly
precipitated himself into a chamber charged with an anesthetic prepared,
by a process of my own, from the lycoperdon or Common Puff-ball.”
I became fully master of my senses, and I became fully alive to a
stupendous fact. At last it was ended; we were utterly in the power of
Dr. Fu-Manchu; our race was run.
I sat in a low vaulted room. The roof was of ancient brickwork, but the
walls were draped with exquisite Chinese fabric having a green ground
whereon was a design representing a grotesque procession of white
peacocks. A green carpet covered the floor, and the whole of the
furniture was of the same material as the chair to which I was strapped,
viz:--ebony inlaid with ivory. This furniture was scanty. There was a
heavy table in one corner of the dungeonesque place, on which were a
number of books and papers. Before this table was a high-backed, heavily
carven chair. A smaller table stood upon the right of the only visible
opening, a low door partially draped with bead work curtains, above
which hung a silver lamp. On this smaller table, a stick of incense, in
a silver holder, sent up a pencil of vapor into the air, and the
chamber was loaded with the sickly sweet fumes. A faint haze from the
incense-stick hovered up under the roof.
In the high-backed chair sat Dr. Fu-Manchu, wearing a green robe upon
which was embroidered a design, the subject of which at first glance
was not perceptible, but which presently I made out to be a huge white
peacock. He wore a little cap perched upon the dome of his amazing
skull, and with one clawish hand resting upon the ebony of the table, he
sat slightly turned toward me, his emotionless face a mask of incredible
evil. In spite of, or because of, the high intellect written upon it,
the face of Dr. Fu-Manchu was more utterly repellent than any I have
ever known, and the green eyes, eyes green as those of a cat in the
darkness, which sometimes burned like witch lamps, and sometimes were
horribly filmed like nothing human or imaginable, might have mirrored
not a soul, but an emanation of hell, incarnate in this gaunt,
high-shouldered body.
Stretched flat upon the floor lay Nayland Smith, partially stripped, his
arms thrown back over his head and his wrists chained to a stout iron
staple attached to the wall; he was fully conscious and staring intently
at the Chinese doctor. His bare ankles also were manacled, and fixed to
a second chain, which quivered tautly across the green carpet and passed
out through the doorway, being attached to something beyond the curtain,
and invisible to me from where I sat.
Fu-Manchu was now silent. I could hear Smith’s heavy breathing and hear
my watch ticking in my pocket. I suddenly realized that although my
body was lashed to the ebony chair, my hands and arms were free. Next,
looking dazedly about me, my attention was drawn to a heavy sword which
stood hilt upward against the wall within reach of my hand. It was a
magnificent piece, of Japanese workmanship; a long, curved Damascened
blade having a double-handed hilt of steel, inlaid with gold, and
resembling fine Kuft work. A host of possibilities swept through my
mind. Then I perceived that the sword was attached to the wall by a thin
steel chain some five feet in length.
“Even if you had the dexterity of a Mexican knife-thrower,” came the
guttural voice of Fu-Manchu, “you would be unable to reach me, dear Dr.
Petrie.”
The Chinaman had read my thoughts.
Smith turned his eyes upon me momentarily, only to look away again in
the direction of Fu-Manchu. My friend’s face was slightly pale beneath
the tan, and his jaw muscles stood out with unusual prominence. By this
fact alone did he reveal his knowledge that he lay at the mercy of
this enemy of the white race, of this inhuman being who himself knew
no mercy, of this man whose very genius was inspired by the cool,
calculated cruelty of his race, of that race which to this day disposes
of hundreds, nay! thousands, of its unwanted girl-children by the simple
measure of throwing them down a well specially dedicated to the purpose.
“The weapon near your hand,” continued the Chinaman, imperturbably, “is
a product of the civilization of our near neighbors, the Japanese, a
race to whose courage I prostrate myself in meekness. It is the sword
of a samurai, Dr. Petrie. It is of very great age, and was, until an
unfortunate misunderstanding with myself led to the extinction of the
family, a treasured possession of a noble Japanese house...”
The soft voice, into which an occasional sibilance crept, but which
never rose above a cool monotone, gradually was lashing me into fury,
and I could see the muscles moving in Smith’s jaws as he convulsively
clenched his teeth; whereby I knew that, impotent, he burned with a rage
at least as great as mine. But I did not speak, and did not move.
“The ancient tradition of seppuku,” continued the Chinaman, “or
hara-kiri, still rules, as you know, in the great families of Japan.
There is a sacred ritual, and the samurai who dedicates himself to this
honorable end, must follow strictly the ritual. As a physician, the
exact nature of the ceremony might possibly interest you, Dr. Petrie,
but a technical account of the two incisions which the sacrificant
employs in his self-dismissal, might, on the other hand, bore Mr.
Nayland Smith. Therefore I will merely enlighten you upon one little
point, a minor one, but interesting to the student of human nature.
In short, even a samurai--and no braver race has ever honored the
world--sometimes hesitates to complete the operation. The weapon near to
your hand, my dear Dr. Petrie, is known as the Friend’s Sword. On such
occasions as we are discussing, a trusty friend is given the post--an
honored one of standing behind the brave man who offers himself to his
gods, and should the latter’s courage momentarily fail him, the friend
with the trusty blade (to which now I especially direct your attention)
diverts the hierophant’s mind from his digression, and rectifies his
temporary breach of etiquette by severing the cervical vertebrae of the
spinal column with the friendly blade--which you can reach quite easily,
Dr. Petrie, if you care to extend your hand.”
Some dim perceptions of the truth was beginning to creep into my mind.
When I say a perception of the truth, I mean rather of some part of the
purpose of Dr. Fu-Manchu; of the whole horrible truth, of the scheme
which had been conceived by that mighty, evil man, I had no glimmering,
but I foresaw that a frightful ordeal was before us both.
“That I hold you in high esteem,” continued Fu-Manchu, “is a fact which
must be apparent to you by this time, but in regard to your companion, I
entertain very different sentiments....”
Always underlying the deliberate calm of the speaker, sometimes
showing itself in an unusually deep guttural, sometimes in an unusually
serpentine sibilance, lurked the frenzy of hatred which in the past had
revealed itself occasionally in wild outbursts. Momentarily I expected
such an outburst now, but it did not come.
“One quality possessed by Mr. Nayland Smith,” resumed the Chinaman, “I
admire; I refer to his courage. I would wish that so courageous a man
should seek his own end, should voluntarily efface himself from the path
of that world-movement which he is powerless to check. In short, I would
have him show himself a samurai. Always his friend, you shall remain so
to the end, Dr. Petrie. I have arranged for this.”
He struck lightly a little silver gong, dependent from the corner of
the table, whereupon, from the curtained doorway, there entered a short,
thickly built Burman whom I recognized for a dacoit. He wore a shoddy
blue suit, which had been made for a much larger man; but these things
claimed little of my attention, which automatically was directed to the
load beneath which the Burman labored.
Upon his back he carried a sort of wire box rather less than six feet
long, some two feet high, and about two feet wide. In short, it was a
stout framework covered with fine wire-netting on the top, sides
and ends, but being open at the bottom. It seemed to be made in five
sections or to contain four sliding partitions which could be raised or
lowered at will. These were of wood, and in the bottom of each was cut
a little arch. The arches in the four partitions varied in size, so that
whereas the first was not more than five inches high, the fourth opened
almost to the wire roof of the box or cage; and a fifth, which was
but little higher than the first, was cut in the actual end of the
contrivance.
So intent was I upon this device, the purpose of which I was wholly
unable to divine, that I directed the whole of my attention upon it.
Then, as the Burman paused in the doorway, resting a corner of the cage
upon the brilliant carpet, I glanced toward Fu-Manchu. He was watching
Nayland Smith, and revealing his irregular yellow teeth--the teeth of an
opium smoker--in the awful mirthless smile which I knew.
“God!” whispered Smith--“the Six Gates!”
“The knowledge of my beautiful country serves you well,” replied
Fu-Manchu gently.
Instantly I looked to my friend... and every drop of blood seemed to
recede from my heart, leaving it cold in my breast. If I did not know
the purpose of the cage, obviously Smith knew it all too well. His
pallor had grown more marked, and although his gray eyes stared
defiantly at the Chinaman, I, who knew him, could read a deathly horror
in their depths.
The dacoit, in obedience to a guttural order from Dr. Fu-Manchu, placed
the cage upon the carpet, completely covering Smith’s body, but leaving
his neck and head exposed. The seared and pock-marked face set in a sort
of placid leer, the dacoit adjusted the sliding partitions to Smith’s
recumbent form, and I saw the purpose of the graduated arches. They
were intended to divide a human body in just such fashion, and, as I
realized, were most cunningly shaped to that end. The whole of Smith’s
body lay now in the wire cage, each of the five compartments whereof was
shut off from its neighbor.
The Burman stepped back and stood waiting in the doorway. Dr. Fu-Manchu,
removing his gaze from the face of my friend, directed it now upon me.
“Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith shall have the honor of acting as
hierophant, admitting himself to the Mysteries,” said Fu-Manchu softly,
“and you, Dr. Petrie, shall be the Friend.”