“It hangs on a hair I agree, and I suppose that Quinto, as Monaghani’s chief adviser, might have precipitated a war—”
“Yes—undoubtedly. But what you don’t know (nor did I until tonight) is this: General Quinto had left Africa on a mission to Spain. If he had gone I doubt if any power on earth could have preserved international peace! One man intervened.”
“What man?”
“If you can imagine Satan incarnate—a deathless spirit of evil dwelling in an ageless body—a cold intelligence armed with knowledge so far undreamed of by science—you have a slight picture of Doctor Fu Manchu.”
In my ignorance I think I laughed.
“A name to me—a bogey to scare children. I had never supposed such a person to exist.”
“Scotland Yard held the same opinion at one time, Kerrigan. But you will remember the recent suicide of a distinguished Japanese diplomat. The sudden death of Germany’s foremost chemist, Erich Schaffer, was front-page news a week ago. Now—General Quinto.”
“Surely you don’t mean—”
“Yes, Kerrigan, the work of one man! Others thought him dead, but I have evidence to show that he is still alive. If I had lacked such evidence—I should have it now. I forced the general’s dispatch box, we failed to find the key. It contained three sheets of note paper—nothing else. Here they are.” He handed them to me. “Read them in the order in which I have given them to you.”
I looked at the top sheet. It was embossed with a hieroglyphic which I took to be Chinese. The letter, which was undated, was not typed, but written in a squat, square hand. This was the letter:
First notice
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan has decided that at all costs another international war must be averted. There are only fifteen men in the world who could bring it about. You are one of them. Therefore, these are the Council’s instructions: You will not enter Spain but will resign your commission immediately, and retire to your villa in Capri.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
I looked up.
“What ever does this mean?”
“I take it to mean,” Smith replied, “that the first notice which you have read was received by General Quinto in Africa. I knew him, and he knew—as every man called upon to administer African or Asiatic people knows—that the Si-Fan cannot be ignored. The Chinese Tongs are powerful, and there is a widespread belief in the influence of the Jesuits; but the Si-Fan is the most formidable secret society in the world: fully twenty-five per cent of the colored races belong to it. However, he did not resign his commission. He secured leave of absence and proceeded to London to consult me. Somewhere on the way he received the second notice. Read it, Kerrigan.”
I turned to the second page which bore the same hieroglyphic and a message in that heavy, definite handwriting. This was the message:
Second notice
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan would draw your attention to the fact that you have not resigned your commission. Failing your doing so, a third and final notice will be sent to you.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
I turned to the last page; it was headed Third Notice and read as follows:
You have twenty-four hours.
PRESIDENT OF THE SEVEN
“You see, Kerrigan,” said Nayland Smith, “it was this third notice”—which must have reached him by district messenger at Sir Malcolm’s house—”which produced that state of panic to which Bascombe referred. The Council of Seven have determined to avert war. Their aim must enlist the sympathy of any sane man. But there are fourteen other men now living, perhaps misguided, whose lives are in danger. I have made a list of some of those whose removal in my opinion would bring at least temporary peace to the world. But it’s my job at the moment to protect them!”
“Have you any idea of the identity of this Council of Seven?”
“The members are changed from time to time.”
“But the president?”
“The president is Doctor Fu Manchu! I would give much to know where Doctor Fu Manchu is tonight—”
And almost before the last syllable was spoken a voice replied:
“No doubt you would like a word with me. Sir Denis . . .”
For once in all the years that I knew him. Smith’s iron self-possession broke down. It was then he came to his feet as though a pistol shot and not a human voice had sounded. A touch of pallor showed under the prominent cheekbones. Fists clenched, a man amazed beyond reason, he stared around.
I, too, was staring—at the television screen.
It had become illuminated. It was occupied by an immobile face—a wonderful face—a face that might have served as model for that of the fallen angel. Long, narrow eyes seemed to be watching me. They held my gaze hypnotically.
A murmur, wholly unlike Smith’s normal tones, reached my ears . . . it seemed to come from a great distance.
“Good God! Fu Manchu!”
Satan Incarnate
I can never forget those moments of silence which followed the appearance of that wonderful evil face upon the screen.
The utterly mysterious nature of the happening had me by the throat, transcending as it did anything which I could have imagined. I was prepared to believe Dr Fu Manchu a wizard—a reincarnation of some ancient sorcerer; Apollonius of Tyana reborn with the fires of hell in his eyes.
“If you will be so good, Sir Denis”—the voice was sibilant, unemotional, the thin lips barely moved—”as to switch your lights off, you will find it easier to follow me. Just touch the red button on the right of the screen and I shall know that you have complied.”
That Nayland Smith did so was a fact merely divined from an added clarity in that image of the Chinese doctor, for I was unaware of any movement, indeed, of any presence other than that of Fu Manchu.
The image moved back, and I saw now that the speaker was seated in a carved chair.
“This interesting device,” the precise, slightly hissing voice continued, “is yet in its infancy. If I intruded at a fortunate moment, this was an accident—for I am unable to hear you. Credit for this small contribution belongs to one of the few first-class mechanical brains which the West has produced in recent years.”
I felt a grip upon my shoulders. Nayland Smith stood beside me.
“He was at work upon the principle at the time of his reported death! . . . He has since improved upon it in my laboratories.”
Only by a tightening of Smith’s grip did I realize the fact that this, to me, incomprehensible statement held a hidden meaning.
“I find it useful as a means of communication with my associates, Sir Denis. I hope to perfect it. Do not waste your time trying to trace the mechanic who installed it. My purpose in speaking to you was this: You have recently learned the distressing details concerning the death of General Quinto. Probably you know that he complained of a sound of drums just before the end—a characteristic symptom . . .”
The uncanny speaker paused—bent forward—I lost consciousness of everything save of his eyes and of his voice.
“My drums, Sir Denis, will call to others before I shall have satisfied the fools in power today that I, Fu Manchu and I alone, hold the scales in my hand. I ask you to join me now—for my enemies are your enemies. Consider my words—consider them deeply.”
Smith did not stir, but I could hear his rapid breathing.