Sax Rohmer
The Wrath of Fu Manchu
The Wrath of Fu Manchu
"By your leave, sir."
Thurston stepped quickly to the side of the carpeted alleyway, as a steward, pushing a trolley stocked with baggage, went past. His traveller's eye noted Dutch Airlines labels on some of the pieces. But he was more interested in a man who followed the trolley.
He was of thickset, shortish figure and wore a chauffeur's uniform. His yellow, pock-pitted face and sunken eyes were vaguely menacing and his walk more nearly resembled a lope, catlike and agile.
"What a dangerous looking brute," was the thought which crossed Thurston's mind. He asked himself by which of the passengers now joining the Lauretania at Cherbourg this forbidding servant could be employed.
He hadn't long to wait for an answer.
A Chinese cook (or Thurston thought he was Chinese) hurried along just ahead of him in the direction of the square before the purser's office. He carried something on a tray, wrapped in a white napkin. There was no one else in the alleyway until a woman turned into it and began to saunter in Thurston's direction.
The cook, seeing her, behaved in so incredible a manner that Thurston felt tempted to close his eyes, count ten and then look again. He set the tray down, dropped to his knees and touched the carpet with his forehead!
The woman showed no surprise, never even glanced at the crouching white figure, but continued calmly on her way. As she passed by, the man gathered up his tray, and without once looking back, hurried on. The mysterious passenger had now drawn near enough for Thurston to get a clear impression. She carried a small handbag to which was tied another of the KLM tags.
It was alligator leather, similar to several piled on the trolley.
Thurston tried not to stare, tried to pretend that he hadn't noticed the singular behaviour of the Chinese cook. But this chivalrous effort was wasted.
Apparently, the woman remained unaware of his presence as she had been unaware of the prostrate Chinese. Her gait was leisurely, almost languid. She wore a cream shantung suit which displayed her graceful figure to perfection. A green scarf wound turban fashion (perhaps because of the high wind in the harbour) lent her features some of the quality of a delicate ivory mask. Except for superciliously curved lips, her face could not be said to bear any expression whatever.
She was beautiful, but unapproachable.
Like a vision she appeared, and was gone. He was left with a picture of half-closed, jade-green eyes, of slender white hands, hands nurtured in indolence.
Thurston was too experienced a voyager to bother his friend. Burns, the purser, until the Lauretania had cleared Cherbourg. But he meant to find out all that Burns knew about this imperious beauty attended by an Oriental manservant and whom a Chinese member of the crew treated as a goddess.
Having time on his hands, for he travelled light and had already unpacked, he roamed the ship, drawing room, smoking room, lounges, decks, but never had a glimpse of the jade-eyed woman of mystery.
When he took his seat at the purser's table for dinner, Thurston read a signal from Burns and lingered until the others had gone; "Come along to my room," the purser invited. "Haven't had a moment to spare until now."
When they were in Burns' room, the door closed and drinks set out. Burns unburdened himself.
"Glad to have someone like you to talk to. I mean someone not officially concerned. We often have difficult passengers, but this time we've got a woman who is a number one headache. Good looker, too. Jenkins, the chief steward, is raising hell. She won't have a steward or stewardess in her room. She's got a yellow faced man-servant on board, and he's to take care of everything. Bit irregular?"
Thurston put his glass down.
"Woman with green eyes? Ivory skin? Wonderful figure?"
Bums' eyes, which were not green, but blue, twinkled.
"Powers of observation good! That's the dame. Her papers show that she's from the Dutch East Indies."
"Ah! That may explain it. A yellow streak?"
"Could be. She's Mrs van Roorden, widow of a Javanese planter. But her pock-marked attendant, who's in the servant's quarters, of course, is Burmese! Add that up."
"I can't," Thurston confessed. "Is she travelling alone — I mean, except for the manservant?"
Burns nodded and began to light his pipe.
"More or less, yes. She came on board with a Mr Fordwich, whom I don't know anything about, except that I'm told he's a member of a big Chicago concern with overseas interests. He came from Java to England and then flew over to France. That is, according to his passport."
Thurston, accepting a nod from Burns, passed his glass for a refill and smiled.
"I can add to your information about the mysterious Mrs van Roorden. Listen to this."
He told the purser what he had seen in the alleyway. Bums' eyes opened even more widely than usual.
"Damn funny! I'll get Jenkins to check on the cook's staff. We have some Chinese boys down there, I know. Sure he was Chinese?" ' Thurston considered. He was not well up on Far Eastern types.
"Almost sure," he said at last. "You see, I had only a glimpse of the man. But I'm certain he was an Asiatic."
Bums nodded thoughtfully.
"Now, on our last run, we had a mutual friend on board who could have settled the point out of hand! Sir Denis Nay-land Smith."
"What! He may be in New York when I get there. I'll look him up. Amazing man, isn't he? I knew him very well when he was head of the CID at Scotland Yard. Member of my club. Smith's a fellow who has crowded more adventure into his life than any ten ordinary men. He must be out on a job. Wonder what it is?"
"Communists, I expect," Bums murmured.
But Bums happened to be wrong, as Thurston was to find out.
In fact, at about the time that he sat talking to the purser of the Lauretania, the centre of a storm cloud the existence of which had brought Nayland Smith to New York was actually located in Cairo.
In an old Arab house not far from the Mosque of El Ash-raf, a house still undisturbed by Western "improvements," a tall, gaunt man paced slowly up and down a room which once had been the Na'ah or saloon of the harem.
Lofty, and lighted by a lantern in the painted roof, it was tastefully paved in the Arabian manner, had elaborate panelled walls and two mushrabiyeh windows. Before one of these recessed windows a screen had been placed.
The man pacing the tiled floor wore a loose yellow robe, a black cap on his massive skull. Although unmistakably Chinese, his finely lined features were those of a scholar who had never spared himself in his quest of knowledge. It was a wonderful face. It might have belonged to a saint — or to the Fallen Angel in person.
His walk was feline, silent. He seemed to be listening for some expected sound. Suddenly he paused, turned.
A door opened at the end of the saloon and a man entered quietly, an old white-bearded man who wore Arab dress. He was met and challenged by a glance from emerald green eyes. Momentarily, an expression of eagerness crept across the impassive Chinese face.
"You have it, hakim?"
The words were spoken in Arabic, sibilantly. They were answered by a deep bow.
"I have it. Excellency."
From under his black robe, the old physician took out a small phial, half filled with a nearly colourless liquid.
"You guarantee its absolute purity?"
"I swear to it. Am I a fool to dream of deceiving Dr Fu Manchu?"
Dr Fu Manchu's nearly unendurable gaze remained fo-cussed on the bearded face a while longer, and then:
"Follow," he directed.
He walked under a decorated arch into a neighbouring room equipped as a laboratory. Much of the apparatus in this singular apartment would have puzzled any living man of science to define its purpose or application. On a long, glass-topped table a number of test tubes was ranged in a rack.