The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, Sax Rohmer [knowledgeable books to read TXT] 📗

From my brief history of the wonderful and evil man who once walked, by the way unsuspected, in the midst of the people of England⁠—near whom you, personally, may at some time unwittingly, have been⁠—I am aware that much must be omitted. I have no space for lengthy examinations of the many points but ill illuminated with which it is dotted. This incident at the docks is but one such point.

Another is the singular vision which appeared to me whilst I lay in the cellar of the house near Windsor. It has since struck me that it possessed peculiarities akin to those of a hashish hallucination. Can it be that we were drugged on that occasion with Indian hemp? Cannabis indica is a treacherous narcotic, as every medical man knows full well; but Fu-Manchu’s knowledge of the drug was far in advance of our slow science. West’s experience proved so much.

I may have neglected opportunities⁠—later, you shall judge if I did so⁠—opportunities to glean for the West some of the strange knowledge of the secret East. Perhaps, at a future time, I may rectify my errors. Perhaps that wisdom⁠—the wisdom stored up by Fu-Manchu⁠—is lost forever. There is, however, at least a bare possibility of its survival, in part; and I do not wholly despair of one day publishing a scientific sequel to this record of our dealings with the Chinese doctor.

Time wore on and seemingly brought us no nearer, or very little nearer, to our goal. So carefully had my friend Nayland Smith excluded the matter from the press that, whilst public interest was much engaged with some of the events in the skein of mystery which he had come from Burma to unravel, outside the Secret Service and the special department of Scotland Yard few people recognized that the several murders, robberies and disappearances formed each a link in a chain; fewer still were aware that a baneful presence was in our midst, that a past master of the evil arts lay concealed somewhere in the metropolis; searched for by the keenest wits which the authorities could direct to the task, but eluding all⁠—triumphant, contemptuous.

One link in that chain Smith himself for long failed to recognize. Yet it was a big and important link.

“Petrie,” he said to me one morning, “listen to this:

“ ‘… In sight of Shanghai⁠—a clear, dark night. On board the deck of a junk passing close to seaward of the Andaman a blue flare started up. A minute later there was a cry of “Man overboard!”

“ ‘Mr. Lewin, the chief officer, who was in charge, stopped the engines. A boat was put out. But no one was recovered. There are sharks in these waters. A fairly heavy sea was running.

“ ‘Inquiry showed the missing man to be a James Edwards, second class, booked to Shanghai. I think the name was assumed. The man was some sort of Oriental, and we had had him under close observation.⁠ ⁠…’ ”

“That’s the end of their report,” exclaimed Smith.

He referred to the two C.I.D. men who had joined the Andaman at the moment of her departure from Tilbury.

He carefully lighted his pipe.

“Is it a victory for China, Petrie?” he said softly.

“Until the great war reveals her secret resources⁠—and I pray that the day be not in my time⁠—we shall never know,” I replied.

Smith began striding up and down the room.

“Whose name,” he jerked abruptly, “stands now at the head of our danger list?”

He referred to a list which we had compiled of the notable men intervening between the evil genius who secretly had invaded London and the triumph of his cause⁠—the triumph of the yellow races.

I glanced at our notes. “Lord Southery,” I replied.

Smith tossed the morning paper across to me.

“Look,” he said shortly. “He’s dead.”

I read the account of the peer’s death, and glanced at the long obituary notice; but no more than glanced at it. He had but recently returned from the East, and now, after a short illness, had died from some affection of the heart. There had been no intimation that his illness was of a serious nature, and even Smith, who watched over his flock⁠—the flock threatened by the wolf, Fu-Manchu⁠—with jealous zeal, had not suspected that the end was so near.

“Do you think he died a natural death, Smith?” I asked.

My friend reached across the table and rested the tip of a long finger upon one of the subheadings to the account:

“Sir Frank Narcombe summoned too late.”

“You see,” said Smith, “Southery died during the night, but Sir Frank Narcombe, arriving a few minutes later, unhesitatingly pronounced death to be due to syncope, and seems to have noticed nothing suspicious.”

I looked at him thoughtfully.

“Sir Frank is a great physician,” I said slowly; “but we must remember he would be looking for nothing suspicious.”

“We must remember,” rapped Smith, “that, if Dr. Fu-Manchu is responsible for Southery’s death, except to the eye of an expert there would be nothing suspicious to see. Fu-Manchu leaves no clues.”

“Are you going around?” I asked.

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

“I think not,” he replied. “Either a greater One than Fu-Manchu has taken Lord Southery, or the yellow doctor has done his work so well that no trace remains of his presence in the matter.”

Leaving his breakfast untasted, he wandered aimlessly about the room, littering the hearth with matches as he constantly relighted his pipe, which went out every few minutes.

“It’s no good, Petrie,” he burst out suddenly; “it cannot be a coincidence. We must go around and see him.”

An hour later we stood in the silent room, with its drawn blinds and its deathful atmosphere, looking down at the pale, intellectual face of Henry Stradwick, Lord Southery, the greatest engineer of his day. The mind that lay behind that splendid brow had planned the construction of the railway for which Russia had paid so great a price, had conceived the scheme for the canal which, in the near future, was to bring two great continents, a full week’s