The Bride of Fu-Manchu (26 page)

“T
his is where the Chinaman went,” he said. “It speaks loudly for the iron rule of the doctor, Sterling, that although this man had presumably brought important news, not only did he avoid awakening Fu-Manchu, but he even left the doors of the palm house open. However, where did he go? That’s what we have to find out.”

A long flight of rubber-covered stairs descended ahead of us. The walls and ceiling were covered with that same glassy material which prevailed in the radio research room. I counted sixty steps and then we came to a landing.

“Look out for traps,” rapped Nayland Smith, “and distrust every foot of the way.”

We tested for doors on the landing, but could find none. A further steep flight of steps branched away down to the right.

“Come on!”

The lower flight possessed the same characteristics as the higher, and terminated on another square landing. A long corridor showed beyond—so long that the light of our torches was lost in it.

“One man to stand by here,” came the crisp order, “and keep in contact with the man at the top.”

We pressed on. We were now reduced to a party of four. There were several bends in the passage, but its general direction, according to my calculations, was southerly.

“This is amazing,” muttered Nayland Smith. “If it goes on much farther, I shall begin to suspect that it is a private entrance to the Casino at Monte Carlo!”

Even as he spoke, another bend unmasked the end of this remarkable passage. Branching sharply down to the right, I saw a further flight of steps—rough wooden steps; and the naked rock was all about us.

“What’s this?”

“We must be down to sea level.”

“Fully, I should think.”

Sir Denis turned; and:

“Fall out another man,” he directed; “patrol between here and the end of the passage. Keep in contact with your opposite number, a shot to be the signal of any danger. Come on!”

A party of three, we pressed on down the wooden steps. There was a greater chilliness in the air, and a stale smell as of ancient rottenness. Another landing was reached, wooden planked; roughly hewn rock all about us. More wooden stairs, inclining left again.

These terminated in an arched, crudely octagonal place which bore every indication of being a natural cave. It was floored with planks, and a rugged passage, similarly timbered, led yet farther south—or so I estimated.

“Stay here,” Nayland Smith directed tersely. “Keep in touch with the man at the top.”

And the last of the police party was left behind.

Sir Denis and I hurried on. Fully a hundred yards we went— and came to a yawning gap, which our lights could not penetrate. Moving slowly now, we reached the end of the passage.

“Careful!” warned Sir Denis. “By heavens! What’s this?”

We stood on a narrow wharf!

Tackle lay about; crates, packing cases, coils of rope. And the sea— for I recognized that characteristic smell of the Mediterranean— lapped its edge!

But not a speck of light was visible anywhere. The water was uncannily still. One would not have suspected it to be there.

“Lights out!” snapped Sir Denis.

We extinguished our lamps. Utter darkness blanketed us: we might have stood in a mine gallery.

“Don’t light up!” came his voice. “I should have foreseen this. But even so, I don’t see how I could have provided against it... My God! What’s that?”

A dull sustained note, resembling that of a muted gong, vibrated eerily through the stillness... In fact, now that he had drawn my attention to it, I believed that it had been perceptible for some time, although hitherto partly drowned by the clatter of our rubber soles upon wooden steps.

For one moment I listened—and knew...

“You were right, Sir Denis,” I said; “this place isn’t deserted. Someone is closing
the section doors!”

“Quick! For your life! Back to the stairs...”

We turned and ran into the wooden-floored tunnel; our feet made a drumming sound upon the planks. The man left on duty at the foot of the stairs was missing. Up we went helter-skelter, neither of us doubting the urgency. We met with no obstruction and, breathing hard, began to race up the higher flight.

Neither patrol was to be seen. I suspected that they had gone back along the corridor to establish contact with the man at the farther end.

In confirmation of my theory came the sound of a shot, curiously muffled and staccato, from some point far ahead.

We pulled up, panting and—staring.

A section door was descending, cutting us off from the corridor! It was no more than three feet from the ground, and falling—falling— inch by inch...

“We daren’t risk it!” groaned Nayland Smith. “If we did, and weren’t crushed, we should be shut in between this and the next.”

I heard shouting in the corridor beyond; a sound of racing feet. But even as I listened and watched, the dull grey metal door was but fifteen inches above floor level, and:

“We must try back again,” I said hoarsely. “There must be some way out of that place, even if we have to swim for it.”

“There’s no way out,” Sir Denis rapped irritably. “The entrance is below sea level.”

“What!”

“You saw the patches of oil on the wharf?”

“I did. But—”

“Nevertheless, we’ll go back. There may be some gallery communicating with another exit.”

We began to descend again.

I was trying to think, trying to see into the future. An appalling possibility presented itself to my mind: that this might be the end of everything! So tenacious is the will to live in all healthy animals that predominant above every other consideration at the moment towered that of how to escape from this ghastly cavern.

Nayland Smith’s torch—he was leading by a pace—shone upon the oil-stained planking of the wharf.

“Lights out!”

In complete darkness we stood there. That warning note which indicated the closing of the section doors had ceased.

They were closed.

Failing our discovery of another way out, rescue depended upon the forcing of many such obstacles!

Considering what I knew of the equipment of Ste Claire, I realized that the whole of the party within its walls must be cut off one from another in the innumerable sections. Lacking intelligent work on the part of someone outside—and I believed the Chief of Police to be inside—it was a hopeless task to attempt to calculate how long we might have to wait for that rescue.

And now, a voice—a voice once heard never to be forgotten— broke the silence: it echoed eerily from wall to wall of the cavern.

“Sir Denis Nayland Smith...”

It was Dr. Fu-Manchu speaking!

My heart throbbed painfully, and I choked down an exclamation.

“You are not called upon to answer if it please you to remain silent, but I know that you are there. I may add that you will remain there for a considerable time. Apart from certain personal inconvenience, Sir Denis, do not congratulate yourself upon having altered my plans. Dr. Petrie’s experiments were a menace more serious than any intrusion of yours. The impossibility of adapting my flying army to certain Russian conditions was an obstacle which in any event I had not succeeded in surmounting. However, Dr. Petrie is with me now, and his proven genius in my own special province should be of some service in the future.”

I could hear Nayland Smith breathing hard close beside me, but he spoke no word.

“Mr. Alan Sterling,” the guttural, mocking voice continued, “I have reconstructed your brief romance with Fleurette. It is regrettable. I remain uncertain if I can efface your handiwork...”

I doubted if any man had ever participated in so fantastic a scene; and now, as if to crown its phantasy, Sir Denis spoke out of the darkness beside me.

“Who built your submarine?” he asked in an ordinary conversational tone.

And with that courtesy proper between life-long enemies, Dr. Fu-Manchu replied:

“My submersible yacht was designed by Ernst von Ebber, whose ‘death’ some ten years ago you may recall. But it incorporates many new features of Ericksen. It was built at my yard on the Irrawaddy, in your beloved Burma.

“I must leave you. If I do so with a certain reluctance, this is due to the fact that I always pay my gambling debts. My life was at your mercy, Sir Denis—and you held your hand...”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

S
ILENCE.

That guttural, imperious voice had ceased.

“No lights—yet!” came harshly from Nayland Smith. “He has paid the debt. He won’t pay twice!”

And in that clammy darkness I stood waiting—and listening.

Sir Denis began speaking again, close to my ear, in a low voice. “Where did you place him?”

“Almost directly opposite to where we stand—”

“But higher up?”

“Yes.”

“I agree. There’s some gallery there. We must move warily. I gather that you are a powerful swimmer?”

My heart sank. Keyed up though I was to the supreme object— escape—contemplation of plunging into that still, cavernous water appalled me.

“Fairly good—but I’m rather below par at the moment!”

“That is understood, Sterling. Only vital issues at stake could demand such an effort. As a matter of fact, I believe this pool to be no more than fifty or sixty yards from side to side. My own powers as a swimmer being limited, I trust I am right. I might manage once across!”

“What’s your plan, Sir Denis?”

“This: If we show ourselves again we may be shot down; but this we can test: I suggest that we place a light on the edge of the wharf, as a beacon, and that you slip quietly into the water. There’s a ladder near to where we stand. Getting your direction from the light, swim across.”

“I’m game. What next?”

“Find out if there is any way of climbing up.”

“In this utter darkness?”

“Palpably impossible! But you have probably swum across a river before now, carrying your valuables under your hat?”

“I have seen it done.”

“My rubber tobacco pouch, which is unusually large, will comfortably accommodate the automatic which I am now slipping into it, and also one of the flash lamps... Pass yours to me.”

Silently, I groped in the blackness, found Sir Denis’s outstretched hand, and transferred my lamp to him.

“I am tying up the pouch in a silk handkerchief,” he murmured... “Here we are—come nearer...”

As I moved cautiously forward, I felt his grasp on my shoulder; some of the man’s amazing vitality was imparted to me: I warmed to the ordeal.

“Tie the loose ends under your chin,” he directed.

And as I endeavoured to the best of my ability to carry out his directions, he went on, speaking in a low voice but urgently:

“If you can get ashore, use the light to find a way up. Keep the gun in your other hand. If you can make no landing, swim back. Is it clear—and can you do it?”

“It’s clear, Sir Denis; and failing interference I think I can do it.”

“Good man! Now, grab my arm, and when I move back move with me!”

I felt him stoop... then suddenly a light sprang up at my feet!

“Back,” he muttered.

He drew me back three paces, and, watching, I saw the light move— it moved slowly towards us... became stationary... moved again!

“I tied a piece of string to it,” he murmured in my ear.

The silence, save for those low-spoken words, remained unbroken, until:

“No snipers!” rapped Sir Denis. “Dr. Fu-Manchu retains his one noble heritage. His word is his bond. Get busy, now Sterling! I’ll place the light...”

Of that swim across the cavern I prefer not to think; therefore I shall not attempt to describe it. The temperature of the water was much lower than in the open sea.

At a point which I estimated to be not more than fifty yards from the wharf, I touched a rock bottom. I experimented, cautiously; found a foothold; and began to grope forward.

Shelves of rock met my questing fingers. I managed to scramble out of the water. Then, half sitting on a ledge, I unfastened my curious headdress and, gripping the tobacco pouch between my teeth, extracted the lamp. I continued to hold it so, the automatic still inside, while I directed a ray of light upward.

It was no easy climb, but I saw that there was a shelf of rock ten or twelve feet up. It sloped at an easy gradient to what looked like a small cave in the wall of the cavern.

I turned, looking back.

The faint beam of light from the lamp, gleaming on that still pool, pointed almost directly towards me.

I began to climb.

There were fewer difficulties than I had looked for. Without very great exertion, I gained the shelf and started for the gap in the rock. When I reached it, I hesitated for a moment. It was much higher and wider than I had thought it to be from below.

Taking the tobacco pouch from between my teeth, I grasped Nayland Smith’s automatic—and went forward.

I found myself in a rock passage not unlike that which we had negotiated on the other side of the pool, except that it was not boarded and that it sloped steeply downward.

Shining my light ahead, I followed this passage.