“But,” he took me up, “as an expert, can you tell me how Dr. Fu Manchu’s agents, having disposed of me here—which admittedly might be convenient—could hope to profit? At the moment, six men are watching the entrance. A further sixty are available if anything in the nature of an Arab raid should be attempted.”
“I agree. But the gong. If they got in unseen, surely they can get out?”
He stared at me; his eyes were steely in that cold light.
“I had hoped you might have overlooked this fact,” he said, “because it reduces us to our only real safeguard: the word of Fu Manchu! In all the years that I have fought for his destruction, Greville, I have never known him to break it. We shall go unmolested for ten minutes after Rima is restored to us! Then—unleash the dogs of war! Carry on.”
“Ten minutes after Rima is returned to us!”...Did the light of his faith in the word of Fu Manchu truly burn so bright?
I led on and upward—and presently we found ourselves in that awe-inspiring black corridor which communicates with the short passage leading to the room called the King’s Chamber, but which (as Sir Lionel has always maintained) in its very form destroys at a blow the accepted theory, buttressed by famous names, that this majestic pile was raised as the tomb of Khufu.
Automatically, I directed the light of my lamp farther upward. The vast, mysterious causeway was empty, as far as the feeble rays could penetrate.
We mounted to the ramp on the left side and climbed onward. Ages of silence mantled us, and, strangely, I felt no desire to give voice to the many queries which danced in my brain. An image led me on; I seemed to hear my voice speaking a name:
Rima!
I climbed more swiftly.
This might be a trap; but according to available evidence, no one had entered the Pyramid that night; but plainly I had heard the gong...and dervishes were gathering at Gizeh....
We reached the horizontal passage to the King’s Chamber;
and instinctively both of us paused. I stared back down the slope as far as the light of my lamp would reach. Nothing moved.
“Will you be good enough to take over the duties of pack mule, Greville,” said Nayland Smith crisply.
He handed me the case. The entrance to the place yawned in front of us. Sir Denis took a repeater from his pocket, examined it briefly, and slipped it back. Then, shining a light into the low opening:
“Follow closely,” he directed.
For one instant he hesitated—any man living would have hesitated—then, ducking his head and throwing the light for ward along the stone passage, he started forward. I followed;
my disengaged hand gripped an automatic.
I saw the end of the passage as Nayland Smith reached it;
I had a glimpse of the floor of that strange apartment which many thousands have visited but no man has ever properly comprehended; and then, following him in, I stood upright in turn.
As I did so, I drew a sharp breath—indeed, only just succeeded in stifling a cry....
A bright light suddenly sprang up! So lighted, the place presented an unfamiliar aspect. No bats were visible. The chamber looked more lofty, but for that very reason more mysterious. The lamp which shed this brilliant illumination—a queer, globular lamp—was so powerful that I could not imagine from what source its energy was derived.
It stood upon a small table, set close beside the famous coffer; and behind it, so that the light of this lamp shone down fully upon him, a man—apparently the sole occupant of the King’s Chamber—was seated in a rush chair of a type common in Egypt. He wore a little black cap surmounted with a coral ball, and a plain yellow robe. His eyes were fixed steadily upon Sir Denis.
It was Dr. Fu Manchu!
CHAPTER THIRTIETH
DR.
FU MANCHU KEEPS HIS
WORD
Nayland Smith stood quite still, the ray of his torch shining down on the floor at his feet. Those incredible green eyes beyond the globular lamp watched him unblinkingly.
As I supposed at the time—although, of course, I was wrong—I had seen Dr. Fu Manchu once only in my life. And as I saw him now, an astounding change presented itself. That wonderful face, on which there rested an immutable dignity, seemed to be the face of a younger man. And the power which radiated from the person or this formidable being was of a character which I could never hope to portray. He seemed to exude force. The nervous energy of Sir Denis was of a kind which could almost literally be felt, but that which emanated from Dr. Fu Manchu vibrated with an intensity which was uncanny.
How long a time elapsed in the utter silence of that strange meeting place before a word was spoken, I cannot say, but the dragging seconds seemed interminable.
The atmosphere was hot—stiflingly hot. My head seemed to be swimming. I glanced swiftly at Nayland Smith. His teeth were clenched tightly, and I knew that his right hand, which he held in his pocket, rested upon a Colt repeater. I could not guess what or whom he had expected to meet, but every lineament of his stem face told me that he had never anticipated meeting the Chinese doctor.
It was the latter who broke that unendurable silence.
“We meet again. Sir Denis—a meeting which I observe you had not anticipated. Yet you might have done so.”
Fu Manchu spoke coldly, unemotionally, and except for certain gutturals and at other times an odd sibilant, his English was perfect, deliberate to the point of the pedantic, but carrying no trace of accent. I remembered that, according to Petrie, the Chinese doctor spoke with facility in any of the civilised languages, as well as many savage tongues and dialects.
I had eagerly read all that my friend had written about him, during the years that he and Sir Denis had warred almost constantly with their great adversary, my reading embracing hundreds of Petrie’s notes which had never been published. Memories returned to me now, as I found myself face to face with this great but evil man. I wish I possessed the doctor’s facility of style. His pen, I think, could have done greater justice to a scene in attempting which I find my own more than halting.
“You saw me in Ispahan,” the calm voice continued. Its effect in that enclosed chamber was indescribable. “Prior to which, you had recognized my methods. You had tricked those acting for me, and I arrived too late to rectify their errors of judgment, for which, however, two paid with their lives.”
Nayland Smith continued to watch the speaker, but uttered never a word.
“Perhaps my personal appearance in that street on the. night of my second attempt to secure the relics was an indiscretion. But I had lost faith in my agents. You foiled me. Sir Denis. You saw me; I did not see you. You seem to have overlooked the fact that I walked without the aid of a stick.”
Nayland Smith visibly stared—but did not speak.
“Sir Lionel Barton’s box-trick,” Fu Manchu went on—his peculiar utterance of the chief’s name producing a horrifying effect upon my mind—”necessitated this hasty journey to Egypt, at great personal inconvenience. I arrived an hour after you. Therefore, Sir Denis, since you know with whom you are dealing, and since with my present inadequate resources I have none about me upon whose service I can rely, is there anything singular in my meeting you personally?”
“No.” Sir Denis spoke at last, never taking his gaze from that lined, yellow face. “It is characteristic of your gigantic impudence.”
No expression of any kind could be read upon Dr. Fu Manchu’s face, except that his eyes, long, narrow, and of a brilliant green colour which I can only term unnatural, seemed momentarily to become slightly filmed.
“You have played the only card which we couldn’t defeat,” Sir Denis went on; “and here—” he pointed to the case which I had set upon the floor—”is your price. But, before we proceed further...”