The Bride of Fu-Manchu (3 page)

He wore no hat, and his dark hair, liberally streaked with grey, was untidy—which I knew to be unusual. He was smoking a cigarette and staring at me in that penetrating way which medical men cultivate. But his eyes were unnaturally bright, although deep shadows lay beneath them.

“Been for a swim,” I replied; “Fell asleep and dreamed horribly.”

Dr. Petrie shook his head and knocked ash from his cigarette into the soil in the wine jar.

“Blackwater fever plays hell even with a constitution like yours,” he replied gravely. “Really, Sterling, you mustn’t take liberties for a while.”

In pursuit of my profession, that of an orchid hunter, I had been knocked out by a severe attack of blackwater on the Upper Amazon. My native boys left me where I lay, and I owed my life to a German prospector who, guided by kindly Providence, found me and brought me down to Manaos.

“Liberties be damned, doctor,” I growled, standing up to mix him a drink. “If ever a man took liberties with his health, that man is yourself! You’re worked to death!”

“Listen,” he said, checking me. “Forget me and my health. I’m getting seriously worried.”

“Not another case?”

He nodded.

“Admitted early this morning.”

“Who is it this time?”

“Another open-air worker, Sterling, a jobbing gardener. He was working in a villa, leased by some Americans, as a matter of fact, on the slope just this side of Ste Claire de la Roche—”

“Ste Claire de la Roche?” I echoed.

“Yes—the place you are so keen to explore.”

“D’you think you can save him?”

He frowned doubtfully.

“Cartier and the other French doctors are getting in a perfect panic,” he replied. “If the truth leaks out, the Riviera will be deserted. And they know it! I’m rather pessimistic myself. I lost another patient today.”

“What!”

Petrie ran his fingers through his hair.

“You see,” he went on, “diagnosis is so tremendously difficult. I found
trypanasomes
in the blood of the first patient I examined here; and although I never saw a
tsetse
fly in France, I was forced to diagnose sleeping sickness. I risked Bayer’s 205”—he smiled modestly—“with one or two modifications of my own; and by some miracle the patient pulled through.”

“Why a miracle? It’s the accepted treatment, isn’t it?”

He stared at me, and I thought how haggard he looked.

“It’s one of ’em,” he replied, “for sleeping sickness. But this was not sleeping sickness!”

“What!”

“Hence the miracle. You see, I made cultures; and under the microscope they gave me a shock. I discovered that these parasites didn’t really conform to any species so far classified. They were members of the sleeping sickness family, but
new
members. Then— just before the death of another patient at the hospital—I made a great discovery, on which I have been working ever since—”

“Overworking!”

“Forget it.” He was carried away by his subject. “D’you know what I found, Sterling? I found
bacillus pestis
adhering to one of the parasites!”

“Bacillus pestis?”

“Plague!”

“Good God!”

“But—here’s the big point: the
trypanasomes
(the parasites which cause sleeping sickness) were a new variety, as I have mentioned.
So was the plague bacillus
. It presented obviously new features! Crowning wonder—although you may not appreciate it—parasite and
bacillus
affiliated and working in perfect harmony!”

“You’ve swamped me, doctor,” I confessed. “But I have a hazy idea that there’s something tremendous behind this.”

“Tremendous? There’s something
awful
. Nature is upsetting her own laws—as we know them.”

This, from Dr. Petrie, gave me something to think about.

My father had been invited to lecture at Edinburgh—his old university—during Petrie’s first year, and a close friendship had sprung up between the keen student and the visiting lecturer. They had corresponded ever since.

During my own Edinburgh days the doctor was established in practice in Cairo; but I spent part of one vacation as his guest in London. And another fast friendship resulted. He had returned from Egypt on that occasion to receive the medal of the Royal Society for his researches in tropical medicine. I remember how disappointed I had been to learn that his wife, of whose charm I had heard many rumours, was not accompanying him on this flying journey.

His present visit—also intended to be a brief one—had been prolonged at the urgent request of the French authorities. Petrie’s reputation had grown greater with the passage of years, and learning that he was in London, they had begged him to look into this strange epidemic which threatened southern France, placing the Villa Jasmin at his disposal...

Three weeks later I was invalided home from Brazil. Petrie, who had had the news from my father, met the ship at Lisbon and carried me off to the Villa Jasmin to recuperate under his own watchful eye.

I fear I had proved to be a refractory patient.

“You didn’t see the other case, did you?” Petrie asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Well.” He set down his glass. “I wish you would come along to the hospital with me. You must have met with some queer diseases on the Amazon, and you know the Uganda sleeping sickness. There’s this awful grin—proof of some sort of final paroxysm—and particularly what Cartier calls the
black stigmata
. Your bulb hunting has taken you into a few unwholesome places; have you ever come across anything like it?”

I began to fill my pipe. “Never, doctor,” I replied.

The sound of a distant gun boomed through the hot silence. A French battleship was entering Villefranche Harbour...

CHAPTER THREE

“G
ood God! It’s ghastly! Cover him up again, doctor. I shall dream of that face.”

I found myself wondering why Providence, though apparently beneficent, should permit such horrors to visit poor humanity. The man in the little mortuary—he had been engaged in a local vineyard—had not yet reached middle age when this new and dreadful pestilence had cut him off.

“This,” said Petrie, “is the really singular feature.”

He touched the dead man’s forehead. It was of a dark purple colour from the scalp to the brows. The sun-browned face was set in a grin of dreadful malignancy and the eyes were rolled upward so that only their whites showed.

“What I have come to recognize as the characteristic sign,” Petrie added. “Subcutaneous haemorrhage; but strangely localized. It’s like a purple shadow, isn’t it? And when it reaches the eyes—finish.”

“What a ghastly face! I have seen nothing like it anywhere!”

We came out.

“Nor have I!” Petrie confessed. “The earlier symptoms are closely allied with those of sleeping sickness but extraordinarily rapid in their stages. Glandular swellings always in the armpit. This final stage—the
black stigmata
, the purple shadow, which I have managed to avert in some of the other cases, is quite beyond my experience. That’s where plague comes in.

“But now for the most mysterious thing of all—in which I am hoping you can really help me...”

If anyone had invited me to name Dr. Petrie’s outstanding characteristic, I should have said “modesty.”

Having run the car into its garage, Petrie led the way down the steep rocky path to a shed a hundred yards from the villa, which he had fitted up as a laboratory.

We entered. The laboratory was really an enlarged gardener’s hut which the absent owner of Villa Jasmin had converted into a small studio. It had a glass window running along the whole of one side. A white-topped table now occupied a great part of the space before it, and there was a working bench in a corner opposite the door. In racks were rows of test tubes, each bearing a neatly written label, and there were files of specimen slides near the big microscope.

I noted the new pane of glass in a section of window which had been cut out one night less than a month ago when some strange burglar had broken in and explored the place. Since that time Petrie had had steel shop-blinds fitted to the interior of the windows, which could be closed and locked at night.

He had never secured any clue to the identity of the intruder or formed any reasonable theory as to what his object could have been.

At that moment, several of the windows were open, and sunlight streamed into the place. There was a constant humming of bees in the garden outside. Petrie took up a little sealed tube, removed the stopper, and shook out the contents of the tube into a glass tray. He turned to me, a strange expression upon his haggard brown face.

“Can you identify this, Sterling?” he asked. “It’s more in your line than in mine.”

I found it to consist of several bruised leaves, originally reddish purple in colour, attached to long stalks. I took up a lens and examined them carefully, the doctor watching me in silence. I saw, now, that there were pollen-like fragments adhering to a sticky substance exuded by the leaves.

There were some curious brown blotches, too, which at first I took to be part of the colouring, but which closer examination showed to be due to a stain.

“It’s
drosophyllum,”
I murmured, “one of the fly-catching varieties, but a tropical species I have not come across before.”

Petrie did not interrupt me, and:

“There are stains of what looks like dark brown mud,” I went on, “and minute shiny fragments of what might be pollen—”

“It isn’t pollen,” Petrie broke in. “It’s bits of the wing and body of some very hairy insect. But what I’m anxious to know, Sterling, is this—”

I put down the lens and turned to the speaker curiously. His expression was grimly serious.

“Should you expect to find that plant in Europe?”

“No, it isn’t a European variety. It could not possibly grow even as far north as this.”

“Good. That point is settled.”

“How do you account for the stains?”

“I don’t know how to account for them,” Petrie replied slowly, “but I have found out what they are.”

“What are they?”

“Blood!—and what’s more, human blood.”

“Human blood!”

I stopped, at a loss for words.

“I can see I am puzzling you, Sterling. Let me try to explain.” Petrie replaced the fragments in the tube and sealed it down tightly.

“It occurred to me this morning,” he went on, “after you had gone, to investigate the spot where our latest patient had been at work. I thought there might be some peculiar local condition there which would give me a new clue. When I arrived, I found it was a piece of steeply terraced kitchen-garden—not unlike our own, here. It ended in a low wall beyond which was a clear drop into the gorge which connects Ste Claire with the sea.

“He had been at work up to sunset last evening about halfway down, near a water tank. He was taken ill during the night, and this morning developed characteristic symptoms.

“I stood there—it was perfectly still; the people to whom the villa is leased are staying in Monte Carlo at present—and I listened for insects. I had gone prepared to capture any that appeared.”

He pointed to an equipment which lay upon a small table.

“I got several healthy mosquitoes, and other odds and ends. (Later examination showed no trace of parasite in any of them.) I was just coming away when, lying in a little trench where the man had apparently been at work up to the time that he knocked off—I happened to notice that.”

He pointed to the tube containing the purple leaves.

“It was bruised and crushed partly into the soil.”

He paused, then:

“Except for the fragments I have pointed out,” he added, “there was nothing on the leaves. Possibly a passing lizard had licked them... I spent the following hour searching the neighbourhood for the plant on which they grew. I drew blank.”

We were silent for some time.

“Do you think there is some connection,” I asked slowly, “between this plant and the epidemic?”

Petrie nodded.

“Of course,” I admitted, “it’s certainly strange. If I could credit the idea—which I can’t—that such a species could grow wild in Europe, I should be the first to agree with you. Your theory is that the thing possesses the properties of a carrier, or host, of these strange germs; so that anyone plucking a piece and smelling it, for instance, immediately becomes infected?”

“That was not my theory,” Petrie replied thoughtfully. “It isn’t a bad one, nevertheless. But it doesn’t explain the bloodstains.”

He hesitated.

“I had a very queer letter from Nayland Smith today,” he added. “I have been thinking about it ever since.”

Sir Denis Nayland Smith, ex-Assistant Commissioner of Metropolitan Police, was one of Petrie’s oldest friends, I knew, but:

“This is rather outside his province, isn’t it?” I suggested.

“You haven’t met him,” Petrie replied, labouring his words as it seemed. “But I think you will. Nayland Smith has one of the few first-class brains in Europe, and
nothing
is outside his—”

He ceased speaking, staggered and clutched at the table edge. I saw him shudder violently.