Daughter of Fu-Manchu (22 page)

Rising slowly to my feet, I stole along the terrace. The moon shone into Smith’s room as it shone into mine. Just before reaching the window, I dropped down on my knees and cautiously craned forward to peer in.

Nayland Smith was in bed, the sheets drawn up to his chin. His eyes were closed… and Rima stood beside him.

Something that had puzzled me in that first stunning moment now resolved itself—grotesquely. I had realized that Rima carried a glittering object. I saw it clearly as I peered into the room.

It was the scent spray!

And, as I watched, I saw her stoop and spray the face of the motionless man in the bed!

She turned… She was coming out again.

I drew back and hurried to my shadowy corner. Rima appeared in the moonlight. She looked unnaturally pale. But with never a glance to right or left she walked to her room and went in. Her eyes were wide open—staring.

Absolute silence…

Then Nayland Smith appeared. He was fully dressed but he had removed his shoes.

He signaled to me to approach Rima’s window. A man stupefied— horror, amazement, incredulity, each fighting for a place—I obeyed. Dropping to my knees again, I peered in…

Rima, at the green marble wash-basin, was emptying the scent spray! She allowed hot water to run for some time, and then carefully rinsed, the container and the fitting. Replacing the latter in position, she put the bottle on the dressing table where I had found it… and went to bed!

Nayland Smith beckoned to me. I rose and walked very unsteadily along the terrace to his room.

“Rima!” I said. “
Rima!
My God, Sir Denis, what does it mean?”

He grasped my shoulder hard.

“Nothing,” he replied.

His keen eyes studied my amazement.

“Nothing?”

“Just that—nothing. I warned you it might prove to be an ordeal. Sit down. A peg of whiskey will do us both good…”

I sat down without another word. And Nayland Smith brewed two stiff pegs. Handing one to me:

“Here’s part of the explanation,” he jerked—and held a book under my nose. “Smell. Only
one
sniff!”

A sickly sweet odour came from the open pages. The book was that which Rima had been reading in the library.

“Familiar?”

I nodded; and took a long drink. My hand was none too steady. It was a perfume I could never forget. It formed my last memory of the meeting of the Seven at el-Khârga; my first memory of that dreadful awakening in the green-gold room in Limehouse!

“Hashîsh!”
snapped Nayland Smith—“or something prepared from it. Rima, by means of this doped book, was put into a
receptive
condition. It’s a routine, Greville, with which Petrie is unhappily familiar… hence Petrie’s detention on the way!

“Fah Lo Suee is an accomplished
hypnotist!
For this piece of information I am also indebted to the doctor: he once all but succumbed to her… and she was only in her teens in those days. She was posted outside the closed French windows of the library tonight. In some way, and at the psychological moment, she attracted Rima’s attention—and obtained mental control over her.”

“But… is this possible?”

“You have seen it in full operation,” he answered. “Rima was given hypnotic orders to go to her room for a scent spray. She obeyed. That was when from my post in the Chinese cabinet I heard her hurry upstairs. She brought the spray, opened the window—I heard her—and gave it to Fah Lo Suee (whose name, by the way, means ‘Sweet Perfume’). It was emptied, recharged and returned to her. She reclosed the window… having received those detailed posthypnotic instructions which we have seen her carry out tonight.”

“But”—my bewilderment was increasing—“I
spoke
to her after this! I even asked her why she had fetched the scent spray, and she said she had detected a sickly smell—like decaying leaves—and thought it would freshen the air.”

“Part of her orders!” he rapped. “Next, she was instructed to go to bed and sleep until midnight; then to spray
me
with the contents (which I preserved for analysis and replaced with water!) and then to remove all traces—as we know she did do! My dear fellow, Rima is utterly unaware that she has played this part… and doubtless it would have been an easy death!”

“You mean, when she wakes, she will know nothing about it?”

“Nothing whatever! Unless, perhaps, as in Petrie’s case, the memory of a troubled dream. However, I have hopes… if my Morse orders were promptly obeyed.”

“You mean your signal to Weymouth?”

He nodded, and:

“The ‘gypsies,’” he rapped.

“What!”

“Three are Dacoits—one posing as an old hag! The ‘boy’ of the party is Fah Lo Suee!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I
can’t blame myself,” said Weymouth, staring disconsolately out of the window. “She’s slipped through our fingers again. A real chip of the old block,” he added. “It took a load off my mind, after the Limehouse raid, to hear that Nayland Smith had seen
the Doctor,
in person, in Paris—and lost him!…”

The “gypsy” caravan behind the big plantation which formed a western boundary to Sir Lionel’s Norfolk place had been seized by a party of constabulary under Weymouth’s command—and had proved to be empty. This had happened three days before, but it still rankled in the superintendent’s mind.

“I can’t hang on here indefinitely,” he explained. “I’m badly needed in Cairo at the moment. The disappearance of Sir Denis and yourself was the real excuse for my leave, but now…”

His point was clear enough. Weymouth was a staunch friend, but he loved his job. He had come to England in pursuit of a clue which suggested that Nayland Smith and I had been smuggled into Europe. We were found. Duty called him back.

“It isn’t your present job, I admit,” said I; “but it’s the tail end of an old one, after all!”

He turned and stared at me across the room. I was back at the Park Avenue looking after a hundred and one interests of the chief’s which centred in London. He, with Rima, remained in Norfolk— where, now that Nayland Smith had left, he might count on peace. Of Nayland Smith’s present movements I knew nothing.

“You’ve hit it!” Weymouth admitted. “I’d like to be in at the death.”

Certainly it was a queer situation for him—for all of us. Dr. Fu-Manchu, most formidable of all those greater criminals who from time to time disturb the world, was alive… and his daughter, no poor second to this stupendous genius, had already proved that she was competent to form the subject of debate in the counsels of the highest.

Weymouth’s expression struck me as ominous; and:

“The death is likely to be that of Nayland Smith,” I said, “judging from our experience at Abbots Hold.”

Weymouth nodded.

“He stands between her and all she aims for,” he replied. “He’s countered two of her best three moves and he’s promised me word within the next hour. But”—he stared at me very grimly—“you and I, Greville, know more about the group called the Si-Fan than most people outside it.”

I laughed—somewhat hollowly, perhaps.

“Get back to Cairo,” I advised. “It’s probably safer than London at the moment—for you.”

Weymouth’s sense of humor on such points always failed him. His blue eyes hardened; he literally glared at me; and:

“I never ran away from Dr. Fu-Manchu,” he replied. “If you think I’m going to run away from his daughter you’re, wrong.”

At that I laughed again, and this time, my laughter rang true. I punched the speaker playfully.

“Don’t you know when I’m pulling your leg?” I asked. “I’d put my last shilling on your being here, job or no job, until the end of this thing is clearly in sight!”

“Oh!” said Weymouth, his naive smile softening the hard mask which had fallen when I had suggested his retiring to Cairo. “Well, I don’t think you’d lose your money.”

But when he had gone, I took his place at the window and stared down on the panorama of Piccadilly. I was thinking of Nayland Smith… “He stands between her and all she aims for.”… How true that was! Yes, he held most of the strings. Fah Lo Suee had started with a heavy handicap. Ibrahîm Bey occupied a cell in Brixton Prison. He would be tried and duly sentenced for attempted robbery with violence. The public would never learn the whole truth. But Ibrahîm Bey might be counted out of the running. The Egyptian authorities, working in concert with the French in Syria, were looking for Sheikh Ismail; and the Mandarin Ki Ming would have to hide very cleverly to escape the vigilance of those who had been advised of his aims…

My phone bell rang. I turned and took up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Is Mr. Shan Greville there?”

“Speaking.”

The voice—that of a man who spoke perfect English but was not an Englishman—sounded tauntingly familiar.

“My name will be known to you, I believe, Mr. Greville. I am called Dr. Amber.”

Dr. Amber!
The mysterious physician whose treatment had restored Sir Lionel—whom I had to thank for my own recovery!

“Owing to peculiar circumstances, which I hope to explain to you, I have hitherto been able to help only in a rather irregular way,” he went on. “Because of this—and of the imminent danger to which I am exposed—I must make a somewhat odd request.”

“What is it?”

“It is this: All I have to tell you is at your disposal. But you must promise to treat myself as non-existent. I have approached you in this way because the life of Sir Denis Nayland Smith is threatened— tonight! My record backs my assurance that this is a friendly overture. Have I your promise?”

“Yes—certainly!”

“Good. It will be a short journey, Mr. Greville—not three minutes’ walk. I am staying at Babylon House, Piccadilly; Flat Number 7. May I ask you to step across? You have ample time before dinner.”

“I’ll come right away.”
Dr. Amber!
Who was Dr. Amber? Where did he fit into this intricate puzzle which had sidetracked so many lives? Whoever he might be, he had shown himself a friend, and without hesitation, but fired by an intense curiosity, I set out for Babylon House—a block of service flats nearly opposite Burlington Arcade.

A lift-man took me to the top floor and indicated a door on the right. I stepped up to it and rang the bell.

The elevator was already descending before the door opened… and I saw before me the Chinese physician who had attended me in that green and gold room in Limehouse!

Fear—incredulity—anger—all must have been readable in my expression, when:

“You gave me your promise, Mr. Greville,” said the Chinaman, smiling. “I give you mine, if it is necessary, that you are safe and with a friend. Please come in.”

The typical and scanty appointments of the apartment into which I was shown possessed a reassuring quality. From a high window with a narrow balcony I could see the entrance to Burlington Arcade and part of one wall of the Albany.

“Won’t you sit down?” said my host, who wore morning dress and looked less characteristically Chinese than he had looked in white overalls.

I sat down.

A small writing desk set before the window was littered with torn documents, and a longer table in the center of the room bore stacks of newspapers. I saw the London
Evening News,
the
Times of India,
and the Chicago
Tribune
amongst this odd assortment. Certain paragraphs appeared to have been cut out with scissors. The floor was littered with oddments. I noticed other definite evidences of a speedy outgoing. A very large steamer trunk bearing the initials L. K. S. in white letters stood strapped in a corner of the room.

“It is my purpose, Mr. Greville,” said Dr. Amber, taking a seat near the desk and watching me steadily, “to explain certain matters which have been puzzling yourself and your friends. And perhaps in the first place, since I wish to be perfectly frank”—he glanced toward the big trunk—“I should tell you that ‘Dr. Amber’ is a pseudonym. I am called Li King Su; I hold a medical degree of Canton; and I once had the pleasure of assisting Dr. Petrie in a very critical major operation. He will probably remember me.

“You are quite naturally laboring under the impression that I belong to the organization controlled by the Lady Fah Lo Suee. This is not so. I belong to another,
older,
organization…”

He stared at me intently. But I didn’t interrupt him. I was considering that curious expression—“the Lady Fah Lo Suee.”

“I was—shall we say?—a spy in the house in which you first met me. The lady called Fah Lo Suee has now discovered the imposture, and—”

Again he paused, indicating the steamer trunk.

“My usefulness is ended. I am a marked man, Mr. Greville. If I escape alive I shall be lucky. But let us talk of something else… The Tomb of the Black Ape has proved something of a puzzle to Sir Denis Nayland Smith. The solution is simple: A representative of that older organization to which I have referred was present when Lafleur opened the place many years ago. By arrangement with that distinguished Egyptologist, it was reclosed. Later—in fact, early in 1918—a prominent official of our ancient society, passing through Egypt, had reason to suspect that certain treasures in his possession might be discovered and detained by the British authorities— for these were troubled times. He proceeded up the Nile and successfully concealed them in this tomb—the secret of which had been preserved with just such an end in view…”