The Bride of Fu Manchu

I wondered if the measures taken to ensure secrecy would prove to be effective.

The very air was charged with rumours; the Nice police had caught the infection. Such suppressed excitement prevailed that the atmosphere vibrated with it.

Dr. Fu Manchu had declined to be transported to Paris until he had had an opportunity of consulting with his legal adviser. In this he was acting within his rights, as he had pointed out; and the departmental authorities, at a loss, welcomed the arrival of Sir Denis.

M. Chamrousse awaited us, his magisterial dignity definitely disturbed....

There was a guard before the doubly locked door, but in due course it was opened. The Prefet conducted Sir Denis and myself into the apartment occupied by Dr. Fu Manchu.

This officially was a cell; actually, a plainly furnished bed-sitting room.

At the moment of my entrance the scene was unreal— wholly chimerical. During my acquaintance with the Chinese doctor I had formed the opinion, reinforced later by what I had heard from Sir Denis of the monstrous tentacles of the organisation called Si-Fan, that ordinary frail human laws did not apply to this man who transcended the normal.

And, as I saw him seated in a meanly furnished room, this feeling of phantasy, of unreality, claimed me.

It was just as fantastic, I thought, as the mango-apple; the tsetse fly crossed with the plague flea; the date palms growing huge figs; the black spider which could reason....

He had discarded his astrakhan cap and fur coat, and I saw that he wore a yellow robe of a kind with which I was familiar. Chinese slippers were upon his feet. Something strikingly unusual in his appearance at first defeated me; then I realised what it was. He did not wear the little cap which hitherto he had worn.

For the first time I appreciated the amazing frontal development of his skull. I had never seen such a head. I had thought of him as resembling Seti the First; but the great king had the skull of a babe in comparison with that of Dr. Fu Manchu.

He sat there watching us as we entered. There was no expression whatever in that wonderful face—a face which might well have looked upon centuries of the ages known to man.

“I shall be glad to see you, Sir Denis,” came the guttural, imperturbable voice, “and Mr. Sterling may also remain. Pray be seated.”

He fixed a glance of his emerald-green eyes upon the prefet, and I knew and sympathised with the effect which that glance had upon its recipient. The dignified official backed towards the door. Sir Denis saved his dignity.

“It may be better if you leave us for a few moments, M. Chamrousse,” he whispered....When we were alone:

“Alan Sterling,” said Dr. Fu Manchu. And prisoner though he was, he was not so truly a prisoner as I; for he had caught and held my glance as no other man in the world had ever had power to do. I knew that my will was helpless. A dreadful sense of weakness possessed me, which I cannot hope to make clear to anyone lacking experience of that singular regard.

“I speak as one,” the guttural voice continued, “who may be at the end of his career. You lack brilliance, but you have qualities which I respect. You may look upon Dr. Petrie’s daughter as your woman, since she has chosen you. Take her, and hold her—if you can.”

He turned his eyes away. And it was as though a dazzling light had been moved so that I could see the world again in true perspective; then:

“Sir Denis,” he continued.

I twisted aside and looked at Nayland Smith. His jaws were clenched. It was plain that every reserve of his enormous vitality, mental energy, his will, was being called upon as he stared into the face of the uncanny being whom he had captured, who was his prisoner.

“In order that we may understand one another more completely,” the imperious voice continued, “I desire to make plain to you. Sir Denis Nayland Smith, that the laws of France, the laws of England, the laws of Europe, are cobwebs which I blow aside. It is your wish that I shall be carried to Paris, and thence to London. You believe that your English courts can end my labours....

“I have this to say to you: the work of a world reformer is a work in which there is no sleep—no rest. That which he achieves is always in the past, as he moves forward upon his endless path. Himself, he is alone—always looking into the future. You have fought me; but because you are untiring as myself, you have stimulated. You have checked me. But you cannot hold back the cloudburst nor stifle the volcano. I may fall—thanks to you. But what I have made stands granite fast.

“Ask me no questions: I shall answer none.”

I stared again at Sir Denis. His profile was as grimly mask-like as that of the Chinaman. He made no reply.

“Maitre Foli,” Dr. Fu Manchu continued, “my French legal adviser, has been detained unavoidably, but will be here at any moment.”

chapter fiftieth

“THE WORK GOES ON”

when presently we left the apartment of Dr. Fu Manchu, Nayland Smith’s face was very stem.

“He was rather obscure,” I said.

“Obscure?”

He turned his piercing grey eyes upon me with a glance almost scornful.

“I thought so.”

Whereupon Sir Denis smiled, that rare smile which when it came must have disarmed his bitterest enemy. He grasped my arm.

“Dr. Fu Manchu is never obscure,” he said; “he spoke the plain truth. Sterling. And truth is sometimes a bitter pill.”

“But—Maitre Foli! He is one of the greatest advocates in France!”

“Certainly. What did you expect? Surely you know that Dr. Fu Manchu never looks below excellence—living or dead! I warned you that Fu Manchu arrested and Fu Manchu convicted were totally different matters.”

We returned to the office of the prefet, and:

“Hello!” Sir Denis exclaimed—”he’s here!”

A stooping but imposing figure was seated in the leathern armchair before the table of the prefet. M. Chamrousse, not yet entirely his own man, following his encounter with the formidable Chinaman, was listening with every mark of deference to his distinguished visitor. The latter ceased speaking, and the prefet stood up as we entered.

“Sir Denis,” said Chamrousse, “This is Maitre Foli—Dr. Fu Manchu’s legal adviser.”

Maitre Foli stood up and bowed very formally.

I had recognized him immediately from his photographs published during the progress of a Paris cause celebre in which he had secured the vindication of his client—a distinguished officer accused of espionage. I judged his age to be close to seventy; his yellow face was a map of wrinkles rendered more conspicuous by a small, snow-white moustache and a tiny tuft of beard under the lower lip.

He was buttoned up in a black, caped overcoat from the lapels of which bulged a flowing tie; and a wide-brimmed hat lay on the carpet beside a bulky portfolio. A close-fitting silk skullcap lent him a mediaeval appearance, which was lost when he adjusted large, slightly tinted spectacles in order more closely to observe us.

It was a memorable situation.

“Your reputation is well known to me, Maitre Foli,” said Sir

Denis.

“Indeed, yes,” M. Chamrousse murmured, bowing to the

famous lawyer.

“But the identity of your present client surprises me.”

“Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” Maitre Foli replied in a harsh, strident voice, “I have acted for Dr. Fu Manchu over a period of some forty years.”

“Is that so?” Sir Denis muttered drily.

“You and I do not see eye to eye in the matters which we know about. You have behaved, and behaved honourably, in accordance with your principles, Sir Denis. Dr. Fu Manchu has followed another star. His codes are those of a civilisation different from ours—and older. A day will come, must come, when you will recognise your outlook—as I have recognized mine—to be limited. His manner of warfare appals you—yet I can only regret, Sir Denis, that a man of your great capacity should have been called upon to oppose the inevitable over a period of so many years.”

He stood up.

“Thank you,” said Sir Denis.

“Will you be good enough—” Maitre Foli bowed to the prefet and to Nayland Smith—”to grant me an interview with my client? I desire that this interview should not be interrupted—a desire which I am entitled to express.”

The French official glanced at Sir Denis, who nodded. Maitre Foli took up his bulky portfolio and went out, walking very slowly and much stooped. M. Chamrousse followed him.

I stared at Nayland Smith, who had begun to pace up and down the carpet restlessly.

“This man Foli is going to oppose extradition!” he rapped.

“If he succeeds—and he rarely fails—Fu Manchu will slip through our fingers!”

Presently M. Chamrousse returned, shrugging apologetically.

“Such is the law,” he said, “and the eminence of Maitre Foli offers me no alternative. This Fu Manchu is a political prisoner....”

A messenger entered to announce the arrival of the Chinese consul.

“Do you mind, M. Chamrousse,” said Sir Denis, “if I see this gentleman privately for a few minutes?” “But not at all.”

Sir Denis nodded to the speaker and walked rapidly out of the room. Five to ten minutes elapsed, during which there was little conversation between M. Chamrousse and myself, and then:

“The appearance of the great Foli in this case gives me a heavy sense of responsibility,” M. Chamrousse declared. “I fully understand.”

A further interval of silence; and then, heralded by the sound of a bell and the unlocking of doors, Maitre Foli rejoined us, portfolio under his arm. M. Chamrousse sprang to his feet.

“Gentlemen,” said the famous lawyer, groping for that wide-brimmed hat which he had left upon the floor beside his chair, “I am returning at once in order to get in touch with the Chinese Legation in Paris.”

“The Chinese consul is here, Maitre Foli.” That stooping bur dignified figure turned slowly. “I thank you, M. Chamrousse; but this affair is outside the sphere of minor officialdom.”

M. Chamrousse rang a bell; a clerk appeared, who showed Maitre Foli out of the office. At the door he turned.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I know that you look upon me as your enemy; but your enemy is my client. I am merely acting for him.”

He bowed and went out. The door closed. Perhaps half a minute had elapsed when it was flung open again and Nayland Smith hurried in.

“Was that Maitre Foli who left a moment ago?” he rapped.

“Yes,” M. Chamrousse replied. “He is anxious to get into immediate touch with the Chinese Legation in Paris.”

Sir Denis stood stock still, then:

“Great heavens!” he said in a low voice—and looked at me almost wildly—”it’s not impossible! It’s not impossible——”

“What do you mean. Sir Denis?”

“The Blessing of the Celestial Vision!”

His words were a verbal thunderbolt; his meaning was all too clear.

“Sterling! Good God! Follow me.”

He rushed from the room, along the passage to the cell occupied by Dr. Fu Manchu. A guard was on duty at the door. He opened it in response to Sir Denis’s order. We entered. M. Chamrousse was close behind.

A man was seated where Dr. Fu Manchu had sat; one in figure not unlike whom we had come to seek. But...

“Great heavens!” cried Nayland Smith. “He wasn’t relying on loopholes of the law! He was relying on his genius as an illusionist!”

The man in the yellow robe bowed.

It was Maitre Foli!

“Sir Denis,” he said, in his harsh, strident voice, “I have served my purpose for which I have been retained by Dr. Fu Manchu for a period of more than thirty years. I am honoured; I am happy. I crown a successful career with a glorious deed...”

The light in his eyes—their wild fanaticism—told me the truth. Maitre Foli was a Companion; a victim of those arts which I had so narrowly escaped!

“I shall be committed to a French jail—my sentence may be a long one. I am too old for Devil’s Island; but in any event what does it matter? The Prince is free! The work goes on....”

The End