The Drums of Fu-Manchu (36 page)

Ardatha held my hand tightly, and a swift glad wave of happiness swept over me. The unbelievable had come true.

“I am by no means sure how long this peaceful interlude will last,” Smith continued. “My taking forcible means to save Marcel Delibes may be construed, however, as a triumph for the Si-Fan. In this case our interests were identical. Possibly we shall be granted a reprieve!”

“We deserve one!” I was staring at something which lay upon a side table. It resembled a small watch but I knew that I had never seen it before. “What have you there, Smith?”

“Exhibit B!” He smiled. “It must have been in the possession of the dwarf—the smallest and also the most malignant human being I have ever come across. Gallaho found it in the cavity between the two rooms, so that I assume the dwarf intended to return, having recovered the silver tube, and to make his escape by way of the window of number 36. I suspect that this possibility had been provided for.”

“But what is it?”

Ardatha’s grasp on my hand tightened.

“It is a radiophone,” she said. “Sometimes—not often—those carrying out Si-Fan instructions are given one. In this way they are kept directly in contact with whoever is directing them.”

I turned my aching head and looked into her eyes.

“Did
you
ever use one, Ardatha?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, “when I was sent to get the portfolio of the police commissioner in London!”

“You understand now, Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “that voice which we both heard in the study of M. Delibes? I am going to ask you, Ardatha, to show me how to get ‘directly in contact’!”

Ardatha released my hand and stood up. She was supremely graceful in all her movements. Her poise was perfect, and I knew now that that momentary despair had been for
me
…

“I will do so if you wish. Nothing may happen. You can only listen: you cannot reply.”

She took the tiny instrument which Smith handed to her and made some adjustments. We both watched closely. Paris lay about us, not sleeping, but seething with rumours of war. But in that room was silence—silence in which we waited.

It was broken.

A guttural voice spoke rapidly in a tongue unknown to me. It ceased. Ardatha adjusted the instrument.

“To move it to there,” she said—but her tones were not steady—“means ‘I do not understand.”

And now (I confess that my heart leapt uncomfortably) that guttural voice spoke in English… and I knew that the speaker was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

“Can it be Sir Denis who calls me?”

Ardatha’s fingers moved.

“Indeed! I rejoice that you live, Sir Denis. I suspect that Ardatha is with you. Any information which she may be able to impart you will find of small value. I assume that one of my three Negritos pygmies is lost. But this is no more than just. Your work in regard to M. Delibes resulted in the cancelling of the grotesque order for your removal. I welcome your co-operation… I regret my dwarf. Such a specimen represents twenty years’ culture. Destroy the Ericksen tube: it is dangerous. Those who use it do not live long. The radiophone I commend to you. Waste no time seeking me…”

That unique voice faded away. Ardatha was trembling in my arms.

F
ollowing publication of
Daughter of Fu Manchu
, Sax Rohmer opted to rework “The Blue Monkey” as “The Mark of the Monkey.” The second of three stories the author wrote about Nayland Smith, but without his customary nemesis, it first appeared in
Brittania & Eve
in April 1931 before being printed in
Collier’s
and in
Family Herald & Star Weekly
and collected in the UK edition of Rohmer’s anthology of short fiction,
Tales of East and West
.

As in “The Blue Monkey” before it, the tale begins with Smith and Dr. Petrie on holiday in Dartmoor and also borrows from Rohmer’s own life as the author spent several years in a secret marriage while continuing to live with his disapproving father. All three stories written over the course of a dozen years end in the perpetrator committing suicide rather than being brought to justice. A mysterious Burmese monkey once again adds exotic flavor to the mystery.

These three orphaned adventures have only been collected as part of the Fu Manchu canon once before in an omnibus series published in France in the 1970s. The story ranks among Rohmer’s rarest published in book form, having been out of print for eighty years.

* * *

William Patrick Maynard was authorized by Sax Rohmer’s Literary Estate to continue the Fu-Manchu series beginning in 2009 for Black Coat Press. The titles are available online at
blackcoatpress.com
.

“
A
peaceful spot,” said I, lighting a cigarette and tilting my chair back.

Indeed, the cathedral close of Exeter retains its spirit of peace even under the most adverse circumstances. We had hurried over dinner, anxious to escape the clatter of a large party of tourists, and now, in the little forecourt of the hotel, watched the dusk of a tropically hot day claiming those ancient precincts. My companion nodded.

“In the absence of sight-seers, very,” he agreed.

I smiled. My friends nerves were rather highly strung at the moment and this short holiday was designed on the morrow to lead us to the moor, the air of which I have always maintained professionally to be the finest nerve cure in England.

If ever a man needed a holiday that man was Nayland Smith, and in spite of the intense virility which showed in his every movement, in the vigor of his iron-gray hair, and the clear, eager outline of his sun-tanned face, I knew that my old friend had been taxed to the
edge of even his iron endurance. But Fate plays us some strange tricks, and as I soaked myself in the healing balm which seemed to pour from the old cathedral I stood, unknowingly, upon the verge of desperate things.

That peace was chimerical.

A smart roadster came spinning around the close and was pulled up immediately in front of where we sat. A man stepped out and entered the hotel, glancing aside at Smith as he passed.

I thought he started slightly as his glance rested on the gaunt, eager face, but a moment later he had disappeared into the building. He was a slimly built man, wearing a tweed suit of the familiar plus-four variety, and was of a very dark complexion, his coal-black hair white at the temples. I might have thought no more about it, but:

“Did you particularly notice that man who went in?” Smith challenged.

“Not particularly, but I saw him stare at you.”

“Did he?” Smith jerked. “I thought so, too.”

He made no further comment; nor did I.

Presently, the man came out again carrying a number of letters. He was reading what looked like a cablegram. He paused for a moment almost beside me, so that I could study his profile without offense.

He was, I saw, an ugly man, yet of a charming ugliness. His features were curiously irregular, and his fine, nervous hands, clearly visible as he held the cablegram before him, suddenly suggested to me an explanation of something exotic which I had found intriguing. Stuffing cablegram and letters into a capacious pocket of his jacket, he stepped into the car. As he went purring away around the corner, Smith stood up abruptly and, turning, walked into the hotel.

I was used to his erratic behavior but nevertheless I leaned over in my chair and stared back to see where he had gone. He was standing
outside the reception office, talking to Mrs. Sefton, the amiable manageress. I stood up and went over to join them.

“Yes,” said the manageress, as I came up, evidently in reply to a question of Nayland Smith’s, “there were four letters and a cable for Mr. Marsburg and one registered parcel for Mr. Pine.”

“Also from America, no doubt?” my friend suggested.

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “From somewhere in India. I can’t really remember where.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Sefton,” said Nayland Smith, who was well known at the establishment. “I must have been mistaken. Pardon me for troubling you. But it is interesting to know that Henry Marsburg is in Devon. Staying near Moretonhampstead, you say?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Yes. So Mr. Pine tells me. But they would know at the Quarry Inn. Mr. Pine is staying there.”

She hurried back to the little office.

“The Quarry Inn,” Smith murmured and, turning to me: “Do you know the Quarry Inn, Petrie?”

“Yes. I’ve called there for a drink once or twice. It’s between Moretonhampstead and Princetown. One of the most bleak and desolate spots on the moor.”

“Oh!” said Smith. “Do you suppose they would have a room at this Quarry Inn?”

“A room?” I echoed blankly. “Do you propose to stay there?”

“As good a center as any other, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” said I, watching him closely. “Has this sudden idea anything to do with the fact that Henry Marsburg is staying out there?”

Nayland Smith laughed suddenly, clapping his hand on my shoulder.

“You’ve hit it, Petrie!” he acknowledged.

“I thought so,” I went on. “You scent a mystery in the fact that the owner of one of the largest department stores in America should choose to hide himself on Dartmoor?”

“Not at all,” Smith assured me. “In the first place, he is not alone. There’s his daughter with him. Also his secretary, Mr. Pine, who called here tonight for letters. Marsburg stayed here for a time and continues to use the address for correspondence purposes. Furthermore, as I chance to know, his hobby is ferns and lichens. He has published a work on the subject, and has delivered a number of lectures before learned societies. He’s fern hunting, Petrie. There’s nothing irregular about that.”

He was fencing with me and I knew it; but:

“When do you suggest going?” I asked resignedly.

“First thing in the morning.”

* * *

A wire-haired terrier gave us an unnecessarily warm reception until the lessee of the cottage—Henry Marsburg—came to our assistance.

He was dressed in a manner which irresistibly suggested a Boy Scout: khaki shirt with open neck, and blue shorts; thick woolen socks disappearing into strong brown brogues. The outfit and the silver hair were wildly incongruous. He greeted us charmingly.

“I have read your book, Mr. Marsburg,” said Nayland Smith, after we had introduced ourselves, “
Mosses and Ferns of North America
. In fact, it proved of great assistance to me in a recent official inquiry.”

“Indeed!” said Marsburg, flushing with pleasure. “That’s certainly good to hear. Sir Denis. But really, you know, it’s very elementary, very elementary. Almost any Devon lane has something to teach me. Now, just look at this, sir…”

He took up a little tray. But what it contained, I had no time to notice, for at this moment his daughter, Isola, came in.

“Isola!” cried Marsburg eagerly, “I want you to meet Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie.”

The girl greeted us with a charming smile; but her listless manner excited my professional curiosity. She was slight and unmistakably attractive. But although she had clear skin and a healthy, sunburned complexion, she nevertheless conveyed, in some mysterious way, an impression of colorlessness. Her very fair hair, which boasted a perfect wave, was by nature, I thought, straight and rather lank. Her large, blue, heavy-lidded eyes conveyed nothing but disinterested weariness. I wondered if she were recuperating from an illness or if she suffered from the effects of over-gayety. Her lips were too full for beauty, but her smile was sweet, and she smiled often but talked rarely.

Mr. Marsburg addressed himself to Smith, and I chatted with the girl, endeavoring to learn if her listless manner might be due to the boredom of her present life; for it was easy to see that she did not share her father’s enthusiasms.

However, she seemed to be perfectly contented with things as they were; and when a little later Smith and I took our leave, I was no nearer solving the mystery of her queerly detached manner, and found myself thrown back on my first theory or theories.