The Island of Fu Manchu

“But Professor Richner—”

“Is dead, you mean? My dear, Kerrigan, every soul on the Headquarters Staff (I refer to the officers) is legally dead! I am legally dead: we are all dead. But in those rare cases I have mentioned. Companion Richner has prescribed and one of the doctor’s medical staff has dealt with, the case. A painless injection and the patient returns to the world with a blind spot in his memory. He can tell his friends nothing: he remembers nothing. Do you see?”

I saw. Ardatha had had such a “painless injection.”

“When, as it were, normally one goes on leave—well, it is merely necessary to avoid old haunts and, if caught up, to stick to the new identity, profess ignorance and say ‘Sorry you must be mistaken’.”

“But even when you elect to stay under these conditions, there must be pulls to your old life?”

We were walking along a path which evidently led back to the main quadrangle, and Allington grabbed my arm in his impulsive way.

“In my own case, as no doubt it would be in yours, the pull was a girl. I was crazy about her. All the same, I consented to see Richner and I submitted to the injection he prescribed.”

“What occurred?”

“Well—it was a good deal like recovering from a tropical fever I saw Joan—she is one of the many Joans—in correct perspective. I realized, for the first time, that she had most irritating mannerisms, and that although her figure was good, her complexion was dreadful! It became clear to me, Kerrigan, that there are millions of pretty women in the world and that a Com” panion of the Si-Fan has a wide field of choice.”

I was silent for a while. My feelings about Squadron Leader Allington underwent a swift change.

I understood—and that first moment of understanding was a shattering moment. It became evident to me why Marriot Doughty, Horton and Allington—men, in their normal lives, honourable, above reproach—now embraced the ideals of the Si-Fan wholeheartedly, unquestioningly. They were truly zombies; slaves of a master physician. Better death than the “painless injection!”

Perhaps Nayland Smith was already dead—perhaps I was alone in this head office of Hell!

CHAPTER XXXV

ARDATHA REMEMBERS

Allington left me in my new quarters: the number on my door was 13, and I disliked the omen. I had seen so many things which transcended what hitherto I had regarded as natural laws that I was bewildered. There was a well-stocked buffet in the small sitting-room and I was about to take a drink when I paused, glass in hand.

The power of the Si-Fan was appalling; I was afraid to think about it. Men of genius laboured in the workshops, in the laboratories; men, some of them, whose names figure in every work of reference. “The conscripts,” as Allington termed them, had been poisoned, buried for dead, and then secretly exhumed. Their lives had been prolonged by means of some process known only to Dr. Fu Manchu. Allington had introduced me to Professor Richner. At the time of his death, in 1923, he had been seventy-two. He looked like an old man, but not like one nearing ninety!

Four days—I had been here for four days.

I set the glass down. Even as I did so, I knew that I flattered myself; for Dr. Fu Manchu would not go to so much trouble about a mere journalist. A comer in brains? I had seen but a small part of what this meant, but already I was appalled. The fate, not only of the United States but of the world, hung in the balance. I turned swiftly. Someone had opened my door.

Dr. Marriot Doughty came in.

You’re very jumpy, Kerrigan,” he said, professionally. “I was anxious to see how you had taken your first tour of headquarters.If you are going to have a whisky and soda may I join you? It’s an allowance, you know, and not deducted from pay!”

Reassured, I served out two drinks.

“You know,” said the physician, “I have got to get your bloodstream clean. Yours is one of those cases that put me on my mettle. You consulted Partlake in London, you told me. Between ourselves, Partlake is an old fool. I’ll have you fit inside a month.”

“What does it matter!”

“Oh! feeling like that about it? Well, well—I passed through that phase myself. When I “died* it was Partlake who signed my death certificate! I was conscious all the time, Kerrigan!”

“Good God!”

“They did me well and consigned me to the family vault in a Roman Catholic cemetery: we are a Catholic family, as you know. I knew that I was a case of catalepsy; I knew that Partlake had failed to make the proper tests. I wondered how long the agony would last.”

“How long did it last?”

“I was exhumed the same night! I believe the watchman had been drugged. The fellows who hauled me out were Asiatics: they belong to a special guild and do no other work. My coffin was replaced and the tomb re-sealed. A smart job. They hoisted me over a wall into a waiting car, and I was rushed to a house in Cadogan Square. A very competent Japanese surgeon gave an injection—and I was a living man again!”

“But,” I said breathlessly, “after that—what happened?”

John Marriot Doughty finished his whisky and soda and stood up.

“No time to tell you, now. I have been sent to take you to a second interview with the Doctor.”

“Why? Does this mean that I have to make a decision—at once?”

“My dear Kerrigan, only the Doctor knows that.” Once more I walked along a tiled, palm-bordered path across the big quadrangle; once more Marriot Doughty rang a bell. This time, for it was a different door Hassan the Nubian opened, I was conducted straight to the room of Dr. Fu Manchu.

He sat behind the big desk, and through half-closed eyes watched me.

“Be seated, Mr. Kerrigan.”

I was fighting for self mastery. Some great ordeal pended: I knew that its outcome meant compromise—or extinction.

“You have had an opportunity to glance over some of the work being done here. I would not hurry you. Clearly, you apprehend that my design is to force a decision. Mr. Kerrigan, you must correct your perspective. You are not of sufficient value to the Si-Fan to justify your extravagant egoism. I could bind you to me now, if I wished; I- could kill you by merely depressing a switch. Search your memory.”

That hard guttural voice was mastering me, as always it had mastered me.

“What do you wish me to remember?”

“Two things. The first, that I have never broken my word; the second, that I promised to restore Ardatha to complete freedom.”

And as he spoke a sort of violet haze seemed to obstruct my vision—a haze which resembled in colour Ardatha’s eyes. I saw the pit yawning before me, the trap set for my feet. I knew that when I chose the path—death, or service toDr. Fu Manchu—I should make no free choice. He pressed a button. A door opened, silently. Ardatha came in.

* * *

“The part played by Ardatha in my organization,” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “is an important one. She is the successor to some of the most beautiful women who have decorated the world. I employ beauty, Mr. Kerrigan, as a swordsman employs a rapier. Now, she has gone the way of her predecessors. I accept the fact because you have twice succeeded in transmuting the base metal of feminine caprice into the gold of love.”

Ardatha stood motionless, watching me. In the subdued light of Fu Manchu’s study she looked like a lovely phantom; her eyes seemed to hold some message which I could not read. Dr. Fu Manchu opened his jade snuff-box.

“I said”—he spoke softly—”that I would restore her: there is, as you know, a blind spot in her memory, which I shall presently correct.” He raised a pinch of snuff; Ardatha did not move. “You have had an opportunity of meeting members of my staff, of glancing over some of the results which we have achieved. There has been, for the second time within ten years, an attempt, and an attempt from the same quarter, to disturb my authority. Ardatha was one of the enemy’s prizes. I recovered her.”

He took up a sycamore box from the desk and opened it.

“This attempt shall be the last.”

His long nails scratched unpleasantly on the surface. He took out a small telescopic rod attached to a metal base, and set it on the desk before him. From a projecting arm at the top of the rod an object which resembled a large black diamond hung suspended upon what seemed to be two strands of silk.

“A form of lignite—known to commerce as jet; a remarkably fine specimen from an ancient British barrow of the Bronze Age.”

Fu Manchu turned the fragment of mineral between his long fingers until the suspended strands were knotted. His gaze became fixed upon me.

“You have my word,” he said softly, “that I design no harm to Ardatha. I merely propose to correct that blind spot in her memory to which I have referred.”

He turned to Ardatha, who stood less than two paces from the ebony chair in which he was seated.

“Come forward!” She obeyed, moving like an automaton. “Bend down, and watch closely.”

He released the piece of cut jet and it began to spin.

“Tell me what you see. Speak!”

“A spot of bright light,” Ardatha whispered.“It grows larger . . . it is a gleaming mirror . . . a picture is forming in it.”

“Describe the picture.”

“It is of myself. I am going into a hut on a river bank: I am seeking for something . . . Ah! a man is hiding there! He stands between me and the door—”

“Who is the man?”

“It is too misty to see.”

Ardatha was describing our second meeting!It had taken place in an eel-fisher’s hut on a Norfolk river.

“Go on.”

“I talk with him.” There was a subtle change in the tone of her voice which hastened my heart beats. “I trick him . . . . I escape.”

“Do you wish to escape?”

“No—I wish to stay.”

“Follow this man and tell me his name.”

And as I watched Ardatha bending over the spinning lignite, the light of the globular lamp striking sparks from her hair, she described every one of our meetings, in London, in Venice, in Paris. The jet became stationary, but she went on without a pause, her voice that of one speaking in a trance. At last: “Name this man,”Dr. Fu Manchu said softly.

“It is Bart—Bart Kerrigan!”

“Do you love him?”

An instant’s pause, and then: “Yes,” she whispered.

But she remained there, bending forward even when Fu Manchu raised his eyes—brilliant green in concentration—and addressed me.

“A device which we owe to the Arabs. It stimulates the subconscious mind.” He clapped his hands sharply. “Return Ardatha. Is this the man you desire?”

Ardatha stood upright, sighed, and looked about her as one suddenly awakened; then, as her gaze rested on me, she grew so suddenly pale that I thought she was about to collapse. But, as I watched her hungrily, a wave of crimson swept to her pale cheeks and a glory came into her eyes which was heaven.

“Bart!” she sobbed. “Oh, my darling, where have you been?”

Momentarily, that sinister figure in the ebony chair seemed to have ceased to exist for her. She ran to me with a joyous cry and threw herself into my arms.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE VORTLAND LAMP

“You observe,” saidDr. Fu Manchu, “that residence here is not without its attractions.”

Ardatha he had sent away in charge of Hassan, whom he had summoned. As I last glimpsed her, those beautiful eyes were radiant. His sibilant tones brought me down to realities. Love can raise some natures to great heights. I faced him more fearlessly than I had supposed ever to be possible.

“I owe you my gratitude. But what do you ask in return?”

He began to toy with the jade snuff-box.

“I am not a hunter, Mr. Kerrigan. It lies in my power to do with you as I please. Let us suppose that I give you leave to go.”

“It would not be real freedom. Ardatha is bound to you by a tie she cannot break—and live.”

“So? In what I may, perhaps, term your second romance, she confided this to you? Here I perceive, is some deep affinity. You must certainly marry. The progeny of such a union could not fail to be interesting.”

His voice remained low, sibilant. Was he mocking me?

“That member of my staff responsible,” he went on, “treated Ardatha psychologically. The injection to which she submitted was harmless; the antidote is a mild stimulant. Localized amnesia I induced by hypnosis; I have removed it. There is no finer example of physical fitness in the world than that afforded by Ardatha.”

An emotional wave swept me. Ardatha was not doomedto the living-death! Then came the aftermath—a vision of those long months of slavery, horror, fear, which she had endured.

“Your methods are those of hell!” I blazed. “Yes, I have met members of your staff’, men who once were good men, honest men. Now, they are zombies, automata, their sense of proportion destroyed—”

“A simple operation, Mr. Kerrigan. The drug used—a discovery of my own—is known as 973.”

But I went on, fist clenched, speaking at the top of my voice: “They live in a dream world, labouring day and night to achieve some damnable ambition of yours!”

Dr. Fu Manchu stood up, and I prepared for the worst.

“Must my ambitions necessarily be damnable?” he asked, in that low, even tone. ‘In order that any radical change be brought about, it is inevitable that thousands shall suffer. Where is the ethical difference between poisoning an enemy in his sleep and bombing his house by night? You have not angered me. I admire your spirit, although it is so correctly English; as correct as the attitude of your Foreign Office which compelled you to alter your account of certain facts in my previous encounter with Sir Denis Nayland Smith—”

This touched me professionally: it was true.

“In order that his identity might be hidden, they demanded that you should describe the funeral of ‘Rudolph Adion’. Actually, he was at his usual post at the time. Nevertheless, you have not only disturbed a molar which has served me for a period of years longer than you might credit, but also defied me in my own fortress. Come, I have plans for you.”

He pressed a bell, a door opened, and one of those short, thick-set Burmans of whom I had had experience in the past, entered. He wore a sort of blue uniform: his yellow face was expressionless.

“Follow,” Fu Manchu commanded in English.

The Burman saluted and stood aside.Dr. Fu Manchu, with an imperious gesture of the hand to me, walked along that passage where earlier I had set out with Allington. Fu Manchu led, however, in a different direction, walking quite silently in thick-soled slippers. I discovered that he was fully an inch taller than myself, but the difference might have—been due to the padded slippers: his catlike tread was deceptively swift.

Opening a door set in the wall of a large building which possessed no windows: “Here you change your shoes,” he said.

I saw a row of what looked like goloshes ranged along a shelf, but on inspection they proved to have unusually thick soles. I unlaced and discarded my shoes,, and as the Burman knelt to assist me, I was transported in spirit to an Eastern mosque.

A metal door being opened, I found myself in a vast laboratory. The floor was covered with some substance which might have been rubber; the walls and ceiling were apparently opaque glass. Numerous pieces of mechanism, some in motion, were set about the place; and suspended from the centre of the ceiling was a copper globe some twelve feet in diameter.On one wall was a huge switchboard. There were glass-topped benches supporting chemical appliances of a kind I had never seen—vessels of all sorts containing brightly coloured fluids. There was a perceptible, although not an audible, throbbing. Some powerful plant was working. But there was no one on duty.

“My private laboratory, Mr. Kerrigan. As your knowledge of Science is slight, I will not burden you with details concerning the Ferris Globe—which, nevertheless, has revolutionized all earlier systems of lighting. Sir John Ferris is with us. This is a Stendl radio transmitter—no larger than a typewriter. A receiver, as you are aware, could be contained in this snuff-box and operated without electrical power.”

He tapped the jade snuff-box which he carried. I glanced at him, striving to retain the fighting spirit; but my challenge faltered before those glittering green eyes.

“My purpose in bringing you here,” he continued in the manner of a professor addressing a class, “was to relieve your mind regarding certain recent occurrences. Follow.”

I obeyed, and the Burmese bodyguard was a pace behind me.

“This—is the Vortland infra-azure lamp.”

And standing on a long, narrow, glass-topped table, I saw Just such a lamp as that which I had seen in the Thames-side workshop!

“Johann Vortland died before he completed the lamp—a martyr to Science. Sir William Crooks was pursuing almost parallel inquiries. I acquired all his material and began a series of experiments which I carried out uninterruptedly for three years. You may recall that I was at work on this subject in London. Many other martyrs (I narrowly escaped canonization myself) went the way of the inventor. Vortland, the physicist, had triumphed: I, the chemist, failed. The lamp did its appointed work, but he who used it either died or suffered serious injury. You may remember some characteristic specimens I had collected, and the unusual appearance of the late Dr. Ostler.”

An added sibilance on the last four words chilled me uncomfortably.

“Hassan, the Nubian who came to me with Ardatha, in many respects advanced my inquiries. Exposure to the lamp had no deleterious effects. He was born blind. But complete leucodermia supervened. From coal black he became snow white. The texture and glands of the skin remained normal. There was no organic reaction. From this point I began to make headway.”

My blood seemed to be turning cold. This monster, this Satanic genius, spoke of human suffering as a bacteriologist Speaks of germs.

“If,” he continued, “during any of my visits to the Regal Athenian in New York, a trained observer had been present, he could not well have failed to notice a small, lucent object, no larger than a grain of mustard seed, moving at a uniform height above the floor.”

As he spoke he was enveloping his gaunt body in just such a green garment as that which he had worn in the room beside the Thames. Gloves and a mask were added. He presented a terrifying appearance. Muffled, his strident tones came through the mask.

“I will now ignite the infra-azure lamp.” He bent and touched a switch. Again that strange amethyst light appeared.

“You will observe that above the lamp there is a smaller lamp, and above that a third, smaller still. I shall now ignite the smaller lamp.”

He did so . . . and the larger one disappeared! “Finally, the third—” The entire apparatus vanished!

“Look closely,” the imperious voice directed. “The top of the third lamp remains faintly visible, you see it?”

“Yes—I see it.”

“The reflector is adjusted in a particular manner: the lamp can be attached to the headdress—in this way.”

Raising the lamp, he fitted it to the top of me mask . . . and disappeared!

My heart leapt madly. This man was not a scientist; he was a wizard.

“I have not become transparent,” his voice said out of space; “the effect is on the vision of the beholder. Movement is constrained of course. I was clumsy when I came to recover Peko in Colon. Observe.”

A green-gloved hand appeared—and disappeared. This it was that Barton had seen in Colon—that I had seen on Mome la Selle!

“One must remain wholly within focus. By the use of this lamp I obtained a view of Christophers chart during that meeting in New York—and took appropriate steps . . . . ”

I found myself in half light surrounded by glass cases the fronts of which were flush with the wall. These cases had interior illumination as in an aquarium.

“A good collection,” saidDr. Fu Manchu, “was destroyed in France some years ago but in certain respects this is better.”

He paused before one of the glass windows. The case had a thick floor of moist sand and over it ran some kind of spiny weed. Silent, he stood there looking in. The Burman remained a pace away. I looked also—and presently I saw one of the inhabitants. It was a monstrous centipede, a thing incredibly swift in its movements; and its colour was brilliant red.

“Owing to a number of mysterious deaths along a certain caravan route in Burma,” the harsh voice explained, “I personally visited the neighbourhood. It was then that Police Commissioner Nayland Smith (now Sir Denis) first crossed my path. The incidence was particularly marked in the zayats, or rest houses, along this route. It was near one of them that I found my first specimen. These were the creatures responsible.”

He moved on.

I knew, as I followed the high-shouldered figure, and his yellow guard followed me, that I was in the company of a scientist greater than any whose fame fills whole pages of encyclopedias. He had the intellect of a Shakespeare and the soul of Satan. When he paused again I grew physically sick. He scratched with his long nails upon the front of a case littered with birds’ feathers and fragments of limbs and claws.

From a sort of clay nest there sprang out the most gigantic black spider I had ever seen: Indeed, I had not supposed such a spider to exist. Its hairy legs were as thick as a man’s finger; its body was at large as an orange. I could see the eyes of this horror—watching me.

“The Soldier Spider, found in Sumatra. He instantly attacks any intruder; and his bite is fatal in thirty-five seconds. There is a female in the nest. I have succeeded in isolating the neurotoxin which distinguishes this insect’s venom: it is new to science.”

He turned from the glass cases and walked to a low wall which surrounded a pit in the centre of the place. In obedience to a guttural command, the Burman switched on a group of suspended lights. I became aware of a miasmatic smell, and I looked down into a miniature swamp. The interior walls were smoothly polished. I saw unfamiliar aquatic plants and a surface of green slime.

“Particularly note the fem-like grass growing on the margins. Some of this was introduced among the roses which decorated Colonel Kennard Wood’s apartment at the Prado in New York. Hoemadipsa zeylanica has an affinity for this grass, from which it is not readily distinguishable. Before feeding, this creature resembles a fragment of string or a bristle from a brush. These examples actually come from a swampy area south of Port au Prince and are much larger, more active and voracious than any I have examined.”

He gave an abrupt order. From a sort of cupboard the Burman took out the body of a newly-slain kid and attached it to the hook of a tackle fitted over the pit. He lowered the kid to a point some six feet above the scum and marginal plants, when it began to spin slowly.

“Hoemadipsa works in the dark,” mutteredDr. Fu Manchu. All the lights went out. “Listen!”

Scarcely had he hissed the word when I heard again that evil thing—The Snapping Fingers!

“Now watch, and you will see them.”

Lights sprang up; and I saw a strange, a revolting sight.One has seen caterpillars arch their bodies in moving forward; now, I saw a number of pale, slender things some two inches in length arching their threadlike bodies all over the suspended carcase. But in this case the movement served a different purpose. One by one they sprang back to the long feather grass, each spring creating a sound almost exactly like that of snapping fingers!

“They shun light. Even when feeding, they drop off if light disturbs the feast. The largest land-leech known to me, Mr. Kerrigan. When sated, they can, nevertheless, compress themselves in such a way that they can pass through very narrow apertures—such as between the slats of a shutter . . . .”

He proceeded to details so nauseating that once more I became fighting mad and turned on him, fists clenched. I met a glance from full-opened green eyes which checked me like a blow.

“Anticipating a further display of Celtic berserker, ordered a guard to attend me.One more attempted assault, and I shall order him to throw you into the pit, and to extinguish the lights.”

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE SUBTERRANEAN HARBOUR

I looked along a stone passage, or tunnel, which was patently illuminated: I mean that the effect was of a badly-lighted arcade. An insidious acceptance of fatality, of the hopelessness of this fight, was beginning to prevail. Smith had told me many things about the power behind Dr. Fu Manchu, of the resources of the Si-Fan; but I had not properly appreciated his words. Here, in this veritable town concealed behind the sisal factory, I grasped some part of their significance.

“You may wonder—indeed, you are wondering—why I take you so closely into my confidence,” said Dr. Fu Manchu. “This will be made clear, later. No doubt you have appreciated the fact that my daughter, known as Korean!, a second time, under certain influence, has presumed to challenge me. Her part, as the Queen Mamaloi, she has successfully played for nearly two years, and has enslaved the Voodoo elements of the Republic. She has, naturally, access to the higher secrets of the creed and therefore control of its devotees. Follow.”

But I had followed no more than three paces, when I paused.

The luminous patches which I have mentioned were due to the presence of a series of crystal coffins (I cannot otherwise describe them) each having a shaded light directed upon it. In these, bolt upright, their glassy eyes staring dreadfully before them, I saw men and women—some of whom I remembered to have seen “smelt out” by the Sword Bearer at the Voodoo temple!

“Follow,” Fu Manchu rasped.

I had been standing astounded before the figure of the handsome Negro who had passed Smith and myself on the mountain road. Unashamed, in statuesque nakedness he glared out at me from his glass sarcophagus.

“They are all—dead.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Kerrigan, they are all alive.”

Before one sarcophagus containing the rigid form of a mulatto, a young man with a fine head and intellectual brow, Dr. Fu Manchu raised his claw-like hands and shook them frienziedly before the glass. He poured out a torrent of vituperation in the Haitian dialect, his voice rising shrilly, demoniacally, as once I had heard it raised before. These outbursts from one normally more imperturbable than any man I had known, inclined me to believe that Smith was right. Smith had maintained for many years that in the case of the Chinese Doctor genius had overstepped the narrow borderland—that Fu Manchu was insane.

He laughed and turned away. It was an appalling exhibition.

“Do not suppose, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said, “that I waste my words. They can see—they can hear.”

“What!” I exclaimed.

“They cannot move an eyelid. That mongrel, and the man Lou Cabot, who was conveniently stabbed by his mistress in Colon, were prime movers in the conspiracy against me. The woman you know as Koreani—my daughter—seduced him from his vows: he was a man who would sell his soul for a woman. It was she who conceived the idea that by seizing your charming friend, Ardatha, the offensive of Sir Denis Nayland Smith might be checked. I suffered her intrigues against me right up to the meeting at Morne la Selle. And there I gathered to me all the pitiful conspirators. Here is the chief criminal.”

And, in the last of the glass coffins, or the last one illuminated, I saw Koreani!

She stood exactly as I remembered her standing before the door of the Voodoo temple, her arms beside her, her hands clenched; those brilliant eyes, which were so strangely like the eyes of Fu Manchu, staring straight before her: an ivory goddess. Beginning almost in a whisper Fu Manchu addressed her. He spoke in Chinese, and as he spoke, his voice rose stage by stage, until again it reached that pitch of wild frenzy; his long fingers twitched, closing upon the air as if he would have strangled this perfect outcome of his union with an unknown mother. Then he turned away.

In obedience to a short command, the Burman pressed a button in the wall at the end of the vault-like corridor. A door opened and I saw an elevator.

“Follow!”

I followed Dr. Fu Manchu; the yellow man entered last, closed the gates, and the elevator began to descend. This proximity to Fu Manchu was almost unendurable. He spoke again softly, unemotionally: “The entrance discovered and used by Christophe, the black king, is unknown. According to an ancient chart in the possession of your inquisitive friend. Sir Lionel Barton, it was masked by the erection of a chapel on a hillside some miles away. My inquiries there did not enable me to find it, but as a precautionary measure, I destroyed me chapel.” The lift continued to drop. “My own entrance—a volcanic fissure in the ravine below the brow of the Citadel—was discovered by accident. This fissure I have effectively blocked, and the shaft by which we are now descending strikes it at a point a hundred and fifty feet east of the original entrance. From thence a sort of path exists down the wall of the cavern itself. It is a tedious journey. I avoided it when I had this lift installed by Mr. Perrywell, one of Vickers’ senior engineers, who is with us. It is the second deepest in the world.”

When, after an awe-inspiring descent, the elevator stopped, the door opened and I stepped out, a new amazement claimed me.

I was in a stone-faced corridor brightly lighted; many doors were visible right and left. There were thousands of such corridors in the office buildings of New York.

“We are now,” came the cold voice of Dr. Fu Manchu, “only thirty feet above sea level, and you are one of that privileged few who have entered the interior of a volcano.”

* * *

In the company of Mr. Perrywell, late of Vickers, a prosaic Manchester man whose presence enhanced the fantastic character of my surroundings, I set out.We walked down a flight of steps, he opened a door and I found myself to be in broad daylight!

I stood on a long, wide quay where coloured gangs were at work unpacking crates and loading the contents, which I thought were machine parts, on to trucks. The still water had a strange black appearance; it resembled ink; and ten or twelve small vessels were dotted about its surface. I supposed myself to be in a small land-locked harbour, for from where I stood I could see right to the other side, formed by a sheer wall of towering black rock.

The fact dawned upon me that whether I looked to right or left it was the same, and that when I looked upward I could see no sky, only a sort of mist out of which glowed the light of a brazen sun, or so one might at first have assumed. A moment’s consideration convinced me of my error. The sun should not be directly above, nor, looking harder, was this the sun!

I turned in bewilderment to my guide. He was lighting a cigar and smiling with quiet amusement.

“In heaven’s name where amI, and where does the light come from?”

“You are in the interior of a volcano, Mr. Kerrigan. The light comes from a Ferris Globe. The Doctor may have shown you the one in the laboratory.”

“Yes, he did. But this is not artificial light—this is sunlight.”

Perrywell nodded, staring at the glowing end of his cigar thoughtfully for a moment.

“I suppose in a way, it is,” he conceded. “Speaking unscientifically, the Ferns Globe absorbs energy from the sun and redistributes it as required. It’s a revolutionary system, of course, and in use nowhere in the world but here. Yes—” he saw me staring upward—”it’s very deceptive. You see at one point the roof is higher than the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral; and now”—he grasped my arm and turned me about, pointing—”do you notice a red buoy floating out there, roughly halfway across?”

I looked, and out on the surface of this vast subterranean lake presently picked up the object to which he referred.

“That marks the deepest spot. We haven’t been able to plumb it, yet.”

“What!”

“It’s true, Mr. Kerrigan. That’s put there for navigational purposes. The sea off this coast is very deep, you know. So what occurred in some past age was this: the sea broke in—we use the opening it made as our water-gate—and, quite simply, put out the volcano.”

“But such a thing—”

“Would make a lot of steam? I agree that it would. It was the steam that made this huge cavern, and that buoy marks the very centre of what used to be the crater.”

I said nothing; I could think of nothing to say.

“he potentialities of such a base as this it would be difficult to exaggerate. The use that has been made of it under the driving genius of the Doctor surprises even those who work on the spot. In addition to the private lift by which no doubt you came down, I completed here, less than two years ago, the deepest hoist in the world, or the deepest known to me. There is no difficulty about shipping stuff to the works and no questions are asked. It’s brought down here in sections if necessary. As you see, labour is cheap.”

I looked at the coloured gangs working.

“Surely, where so many men are employed, secrecy is impossible?”

“Not at all, Mr. Kerrigan—just a question of organization. You won’t find happier coolies anywhere, as you can see for yourself. Once these fellows are brought below-ground they stay below.”

“What do you mean? Like pit ponies?”

“That is, until we are done with them. Then they are shipped across to Tortuga, with plenty of money and a blank spot in the memory.”

I wanted to say to him, I wanted to shout at him: “You, too, have a blank spot in your memory! You, too, are living in a delusion! Your fine intellect is enslaved to a madman who one day will destroy the world, unless some miracle intervenes!” But, looking at this comfortably stout person as he puffed away at his cigar, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, I remained silent, for words would have been of no avail.

“Only the heads of departments come up and down,” he added. “Those who load the hoist at the top have no idea where it goes to. Oh! organization can accomplish miracles, Mr. Kerrigan.”

“I agree with you,” I replied, and spoke with sincerity.

“he working staff of the sisal corporation have nothing to do with the Si-Fan, you see; they are just ordinary labourers who have no idea that there is a below-ground. If one becomes inquisitive—well, we bring him down here and let him see for himself! And now, my instructions are to introduce you toDr. Heron.”

“Is he—”

“What Allington calls a conscript?” laughed Perrywell. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. He used to be chief technician to the German navy. His success attracted the Doctor’s attention. I can assure you that, in the twelve years that he has been employed here and elsewhere, he has evolved something which nullifies the power of every navy afloat.”

We walked along the busy dock bathed in synthetic sunshine, beside the unknown depths of what must have been one of the largest volcanoes in the world. I talked to a talented and worthy engineer whose brains had been commandeered by Dr. Fu Manchu. In Europe, battles greater than any known in history were being waged, whilst here, in this community of accumulated genius, a superman quietly planned, in his own words, “to tip the scale.”

What exactly did he mean and in what direction did he propose to tip it?

We entered a small, neat office, where an elderly German whose high, bald forehead was almost as striking as that of Fu Manchu himself, stood up to greet us. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles; a short, bristling, grey moustache lent him some resemblance to pictures I had seen of the former Kaiser. Unlike Perrywell who, most grotesquely as I thought, wore a Harris tweed suit and displayed a thick gold watch chain across his ample waistcoat.Dr. Heron wore blue overalls.

“Companion Heron—this is Mr. Bart Kerrigan.”

“I am pleased here to see you, Mr. Kerrigan. Always I am pleased when an opportunity comes my playthings to show off. So rare are opportunities, and always the artist for recognition craves. Eh? Is it not so?”

“I’m coming too,” said Perrywell.“It’s a long time since I was on board a Shark.”

Here, in this strange world, England and Germany were not at war.

“Always I am pleased to show you. Companion Perrywell,” the German replied, “although I know the subject to be beyond your understanding quite.”

He winked at me with heavy Teutonic humour, then led the way down a stair at the back of his office. I found myself on an iron platform which projected out to the open conning-tower of one of those odd craft which I had sighted on the surface of the lake. From the moment that I climbed down the ladder to the interior I plunged into the heart of a dream; for what I saw and what I heard did not seem sanely to add up. I had expected heavy petrol fumes, but of such there was no trace.

“But of course not!” said Dr. Heron.- “Why, if you please? Because we use no petrol.”

“Then what is the motive power?”

“Ah!” he sighed, and shook his head. “A lot I may brag, Mr. Kerrigan, a national characteristic this may be; but always we come back to the genius of Sven Ericksen. Power is generated in the Ericksen room, which takes the place of the engine room in any other submersible craft. I will show you and shall also explain, for at least the credit to me is for this adaptation to under-water vessels.”

We went along a tiny alley-way—there was no more than room for Perrywell to pass—and into a room which certainly could not have accommodated more than two men. There were fixed revolving chairs or stools before a glittering switchboard, upon which were levers, dials, lamps and indicators of a more complicated character than anything I had ever seen.

“A protective headdress is worn,” Dr. Heron explained, “by the Ericksen operators; otherwise exposure to the waves created would shorten life speedily. Now, here is the main control. If I am ordered by the officer in the turret to proceed, this lever I depress. It creates before the bows of my ship a new chemical condition.”

“Call it steam,” suggested Perrywell.

“ery well. Instantaneously it reduces a large number of cubic feet of water to vapour.”

“I should expect a tremendous explosion,” I said.

“You get one—you get one!” said Dr. Heron. “But what do I do with this tremendous explosion! I use it as the tremendous explosion is used in the Diesel engine. Through the Heron tube”—he turned to Perrywell: “these at least, my own invention are—I transfer that power from the bows to the stem. Here it becomes motive, and because as it is created I withdraw it, what happens?”

I shook my head blankly.

“I have before me a continuously renewing partial vacuum. I have behind me a driving power that even without the vacuum would give me great velocity. By means of these two together I have an underwater speed. Air. Kerrigan, which no submarine engineer has ever to dream of dared.”

I suppose I bore a puzzled expression, for: “Sounds like mumbo-jumbo,” said Perrywell. “But of this I can assure you—these things really go”

“But what power do you use to empty your tanks?”

“Ballast tanks? No ballast tanks I carry.”

“No ballast tanks?”

“I am weighted so that I sink like a thousand tons of lead. I sink deep, deep, many fathoms deep. But three Swainsten dials, one forward, one amidships, one aft, I operate from here—see.”

He indicated sections of the switchboard which seemed to be insulated from the others.

“This, forward, to lift my bows—gently or suddenly as I move the indicator. This, aft, my stern the same. This, the centre control, and I rise up, up, on an even keel.”

“Where are the torpedo tubes?”

Perrywell laughed gruffly.

“The Doctor’s ships come out of Alice in Wonderland,” he said; “they carry no torpedoes.”

“No torpedoes? Then of what use are they in war?”

Again the German shook his head enviously.

“Again, it is Ericksen. I have no periscope, but I have a complete view of the sea for miles around which reaches me from a float or several floats and is thrown upon the control screen in the conning tower. It is possible that the Doctor has shown you the improved television which we have?”

“He has not demonstrated it to me,” I replied, “but some time ago in London I came in contact with it.”

“Good, good—the same thing, or an adaptation of my own. These floats or buoys, of which I shall presently show you several models, are operated from the firing-turret. They remain in contact by means of a cable operating over a drum of a material so light and yet so strong—a preparation of the Doctor’s—that half a mile of such cable weighs only twelve pounds; yet the float can be towed back upon it.”

“But what are the objects of these floats?”

“They are motor-driven and radio-steered. Each carries an Ericksen projector.”

“Ericksen again,” murmured Perrywell.

“True—too true. The range of such a projector is limited. Someday, no doubt, it will be increased: the Doctor is carrying out experiments; but at present it is limited. When the float is in range of its target, the operator—we carry no gunnery officers—directs the wave—”

He paused, drew a deep breath, and extended his palms.

‘There is no substance, Mr. Kerrigan, no form of armour plating, however thick, which is not destroyed by it as if through a paper bag one push one’s finger. From here, our base, we control every movement the United States could make. A fleet of one hundred Sharks—we have more than one hundred—could destroy the whole shipping of the Caribbean in a week.”

‘“What is your speed?” I asked.

“It increases as I dive. At twenty fathoms it is forty knots.”

“What!”

“On the surface as you see me now, it is only fifteen. But I have no occasion on the surface to remain. My motive power, my armament, I draw from the elements through which I pass. I require only material provisions for my crew; and I carry six.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

“I GIVE YOU ONE HOUR”

“Although you belong to a wiser and more imaginative race,” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “as I have already observed you are curiously English in your outlook. The German hordes overrun Europe. But other governments of the world, including the Government of the United States, continue to treat with them as with equals. I use the methods of those German hordes, but more subtly and more effectively. Quality rather than quantity distinguished the master. Yet, because I hold no diplomatic portfolio,I, Fu Manchu, am a criminal.”

He drew himself up to his great height, a grotesque figure in that prosaic office deep in the heart of an extinct volcano. I anticipated an outburst. But as he stood, those glistening eyes grew filmed, introspective. He dropped down again into the chair from which he had risen, and reflectively took a pinch of snuff.

“Yes, you possess a good, but not a first-rate intelligence,” he went on, musingly, his voice now low. “You have trained powers of observation. You possess that Celtic fire which, transmuted, sometimes produces genius. You are a man who honours his word; I recognize one when I meet him, since I honour my own. I could take other steps, but I trust my judgement. The world is in the balance. I hold in my hand that decimal of a gramme which shall determine which way the scale tips. I am going to send you as my nuncio to Sir Denis Nayland Smith and the American authorities. Neither he nor Washington has communicated with me.”.

Only one thought entered my mind at that moment: Smith has escaped—Smith was free! Thank God for this knowledge! Smith was free!

“You will say that my services are at the disposal of the Allied governments and of the Government of the United States. You will tell him what you know of my facilities; and you will make it your business to bring him back with you entrusted by his own Government, by that of the United States, or by both, with plenipotentiary powers to negotiate—not with a criminal, but with one who holds the destiny of the world in his hands. I have said that I am prepared to accept your word; but Sir Denis, being bound by no such obligation, might forcibly detain you.

Therefore, I shall take steps to limit the time of your absence. You will have seventy-two hours in which to return. It is a painless operation: I shall operate personally. You may decline this commission if you wish. It is now six o’clock. I give you one hour. Report to me here at seven.”

Faced by this ghastly prospect, every hissing syllable of Fu Manchu’s ultimatum repeating itself over and over again in my brain, I wandered along the busy quays of that subterranean dockyard. No one paid the slightest attention to my presence. I walked straight ahead—aimlessly—hopelessly—thinking. For me it was the end: I should never see Ardatha again; for that Nayland Smith should compromise with Dr. Fu Manchu was a thing unthinkable. Yet, whatever became of me, heaven be thanked. Smith was free! The fight went on!

And now, as I wandered along past the groups of workers, some of whom glanced at me—but none with any evidence of curiosity—an explanation presented itself. In my shabby drill suit, my skin reduced by the hot sun to a dusky brown, I was indistinguishable from many of the labourers: they mistook me for one of the “below-ground” staff!

This theory to explain their indifference to the presence of a stranger was strengthened a moment later. At the head of some steps against which a boat was tied up, a man dressed almost as I was dressed sat splicing a length of rope. There was no one within twenty yards of the spot, and for this reason I particularly noticed him. His bowed shoulders were turned to me as he bent over his task. I had almost passed him when he spoke: “Don’t stop—don’t look back. Walk straight ahead.”

The speaker was Nayland Smith!

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHRISTOPHER’S PATH

“Smith!” I gasped, “this is a miracle!”

“No. Sound organization and top marks go to Barton. This way, and mind you don’t stumble.”

A coil of rope slung over his shoulder. Smith had slouched along in my wake until, leaving dockside activity behind, I had found myself on the farther shore, pursuing a path overhung by frowning rocks. Then, suddenly, he had caught me up and thrust me into a narrow cavity.

One backward glance I threw across the waters of the inky lake, glittering in synthetic sunshine. I could see gangs at work on the quays. One of the Sharks was submerging: it disappeared with the speed of a moorhen. Ring after ring of gleaming black water spread out from the spot where it bad been.

Then, as I stumbled along behind Smith in impenetrable darkness, he turned, grasped my hand and pulled me up and round a bend into a small cave. Several electric lamps were set on the rocky floor, casting their light upon a group of armed and uniformed men. It was a party of United States Marines!

They had their carbines at the ready.

“Made a capture, sir?” growled the petty officer who was evidently in charge.

“Yes!” snapped Smith, “the one I went for: Mr. Kerrigan.”

A sort of gruff murmur greeted his announcement.

“And now,” Smith continued rapidly, “we have to work fast. Stand easy, you fellows. Come over here, Kerrigan—thank God you are here! And tell me all you can in the fewest possible words.”

Madly excited as I was, frantically keyed up by this unforeseen solution of a problem which had threatened my faith, my principles, my soul, I strove hard to comply. I told him of the infra-azure lamp; described The Snapping Fingers: I named some of those brilliant men who laboured here to bring the world under the domination of Dr. Fu Manchu.

“He has agents everywhere. Smith!” I cried.

“I know that.”

“Six of his submarines could destroy a battle fleet. His planes, armed with Ericksen projectors, can manoeuvre like hawks. Whatever happens to Europe and the rest of the world, it is certain that at the present moment he holds the fate of the United States Navy in his hands.”

“At this stage of history, that means the rest of the world/9 said Smith gravely. He turned. “Stand by here, sergeant,” he directed. “Post your men one in touch with another along the passage. When a search party comes—and it can’t fail to be long, now—all fall back to the ladder, haul it up and leave no sign.”

“All clear, sir.”

In single file we walked up a narrow passage in which there were many bends, and at each of the bends a man dropped out, until at the point where passage seemed to end in a great jagged, natural chamber in the rock, I saw a rope ladder hanging from a ledge high above.

“This was Christophers road to the great cavern,” said Smith. “Just above this point, as we explored, it seemed that we had come to the end. You see, there have been earth tremors during the past century, and in places the way is blocked.” He raised his head. “All ready above there?” he hailed. “All ready, sir,” came a distant reply.

“We brought climbing tackle, and fortunately the kind of men who know how to use it. Hang on to the ladder there. Up you go, Kerrigan.”

There were two more Marines on duty at the head of the ladder. As one helped me to scramble up: “Welcome, Mr. Kerrigan!” he said; “I guess you are lucky to be alive!”

“I think so, too!”

I was in a much wider passage, which, however, was obviously natural; and when Smith had joined me and had given directions to the men, we began to climb up a steep ascent, he carrying an electric lamp,

“Smith,” I said, “at all costs we must rescue Ardatha!”

“Leave Ardatha to me,” he replied shortly. “Her safety is assured. We have a long way to go, Kerrigan, and so we must step out.”

We stepped out, along that mounting, winding rock corridor, the floor of which was icy smooth in places where in some earth agony of long ago streams of lava had flowed down, or, perhaps, steam had spurted up from the great cavern below which had been the crater. The air was foul as that inside a pyramid; colonies of bats clung to the roof in places and sometimes came sweeping down to the light.

Smith, rapped out a staccato, abbreviated account as we climbed: “In distraction caused by your striking at Voice ¯ cursed you at the time but seems to have come out for the best—I dived down into shadow. Invisible Fu Manchu had not had time to indicate me to smeller-out with big sword. Blow had staggered him, and, for reasons understood now, he became partially visible for a moment. Effect on those poor devils—glimpse of ghostly green figure—something I can’t describe. One long wail went up and all fell flat on their faces.”

At a bend in the passage we passed another armed Marine, who saluted.

“All clear. Stand by,” said Smith.

“But what did you do?”

“About you could do nothing. Two masked thugs picked you up as you fell; carried you into the temple. Sticking to shadow of stockade, got back to the gate. Two masks on duty there, but I flashed the master amulet in the moonlight. Never questioned me: just saluted. I made along the path through trees to the rest-house and big clearing, at which it had been arranged for three planes to alight. Got through unchallenged. Saw a sight I shall never forget. Minor ceremony being performed, with drums, feathered witch doctor, and number of Voodoo priestesses, dancing until they fell in convulsions. Everyone dancing; drums beating; scores of panting bodies on the ground; shrieks, half-animal cries . . .

“The rest-house was deserted. I stood there watching the orgy. Often glanced at my watch; wondered if you were dead or alive, counting the minutes, seconds. Then, on the dot of appointed time, came drone of the engines. The scene changed magically. As the fighters circled overhead and then glided down to that perfect landing-ground, every soul scattered to cover! Most of those who had seemed to be insensible staggered to their feet—joined in the rout; others dragged away. Drums ceased, the witch doctor alone continued frenzied dancing. He did not seem to come to his senses until the first plane grounded right beside him.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Entire crowd took to the woods. Barton was in the second plane. We posted guards and set out helter-skelter for the stockade. Kerrigan—there wasn’t a soul in the place!”

At this point in our upward climb we passed another Marine.

“Impossible to give you any idea activity of next few days. Haitian police like a pack of wolves. Suspects rounded up; hundreds of people questioned. But Voodoo is a very powerful force, Kerrigan. Air reconnaissance showed no suspicious movements. Naval units inspected every mile of shore. Marines landed at likely spots. Inquiries extended from coast to coast, beyond Dominican border. Had reasoned that secret base must be masked by some big industrial enterprise. San Damien Sisal Corporation seemed to fill bill. Called personally upon Mr. Horton, the manager. Except for certain strangeness of manner which I was disposed to ascribe to drug habit—”

“The man is a Zombie” I interrupted. “He is nearly ninety years old!”

“Ah! this I did not know; his manner quite disarming. Most courteous: good enough to conduct me over the hemp refinery. Even offered to drive me out to largest plantation. This offer I declined. In short, Kerrigan—defeated.”

I pulled up. The atmosphere of the tunnel was telling upon me, for I had passed through an exacting time.

“Have we much farther to go. Smith?Or is this passage unending?”

“No; ends on other side of a ravine immediately facing ruined chapel.”

“Not in the chapel?”

“No. Fu Manchu made a slip. Having inspected original chart, he learned that Barton had tricked him; site of opening faked. Had very little time though to search for it. Therefore blew up chapel?”

“With what result?”

“one at all.One thing he had not seen—most important thing of all.”

“Why had he not seen it, since he had seen the chart?”

“Because it was written on the back It read, roughly, ‘The altar faces the entrance, which is on opposite hillside, marked by granite cross set among trees!’”

“Astounding bit of luck!”

“Plus Barton’s genius for secrecy. Went to work like galley slaves. Had to work under cover. Posted hidden sentries all round area. Providence with us. Explosion had left altar practically intact; gave us our bearings . . . Granite cross long since vanished. Took Barton two days to find tiny cave, no more than crevice in rock—but only way down to great cavern known to Christophe!”

“The other entrance, that from the sisal works, was discovered by accident some years ago . . .”

I saw a peep of daylight, and a voice hailed us. It was a loud, unmistakable voice—the voice of Sir Lionel Barton!

“All’s well. Barton!” cried Smith. “I have a surprise for you.”

Two armed men were guarding the entrance, which indeed was no more than eighteen inches wide and which opened on to a ledge some ten feet below the crest of a jagged and jungle-choked ravine.

As I stepped out behind Smith: “My God!” cried Barton. “Kerrigan! Heaven be praised!”

He shook my hand so hard that my fingers became limp, and then, pointing west: “Look at that,” he said. “We have just time to get back to camp. There’s a hell of a storm brewing.”

And as we set out I looked into the west and saw that the sky was becoming veiled by a sort of purple haze.

The camp was an army tent with a smaller one set up behind it near a grove of trees. I observed a quantity of kit, a number of rifles; and here another Marine was on duty. Barton was so happy to see me that he kept throwing his arm around my shoulders and giving me bear-like hugs.

I suppose the boom of his great voice reached her from afar; for, as we approached, the flap of the smaller tent opened—and Ardatha ran out!

CHAPTER XL

THE SAN DAMIEN SISAL CORPORATION

When I had in some measure recovered from a shock of joy which I confess left me trembling, when I had fully appreciated the fact that this was the real Ardatha, the Ardatha who had so mysteriously disappeared in Paris, and not her shadow whom I had met again in London, I had time for wonder and time for questions.

“But how did it happen?” I asked breathlessly. “Even now I find it hard to believe.”

“It happened, Bart dear, because even the genius of the Doctor nods—sometimes. You remember that he gave me over to the charge of Hassan. Hassan has served my family ever since I can remember, except that he was black, then, and not white. He came with me when I Joined the Si-Fan, but when I left to come to you, in Paris—you remember—”

“Remember? I remember every hour we spent together, every minute.”

“Well—” there was a haunting inflection in the way she pronounced the word, “he becomes like all the others, except for one thing: he can never refuse to obey any order which I may give him.”

“I think I understand.”

“The work which I have done in the past for them has been away from their headquarters, you see. Those here in Haiti, where I have been only once before, who do not know me, know Hassan. I ordered him to come with me to the gate, and no one stopped us. I ordered him to get into one of the staff cars, of which there are always five or six waiting there, and to sit beside me, like a groom. He obeyed. I drove away. The Doctor had made a mistake. You see, I was myself again, and I knew I meant to go to the consul at Cap Haitien, but on the way—”

“On the way,” snapped a familiar voice, and I saw that Smith had joined us, “pardon my interruption ¯Ardatha met myself and a party of Marines going to join Barton.”

“And, oh! how glad I was to see you—how glad!”

“As a result of this meeting,” Smith added, “certain steps were taken in regard to the activities of the San Damien Sisal Corporation. But Ardatha I rarely let out of my sight again.”

So utterly happy was I in our reunion that ominous claps of thunder, a growing darkness, that present danger to the United States which I knew to lurk in the Caribbean, were forgotten. Smith brought me sharply to my senses.

“At last,” he said, “we have the game in our hands, if we play our cards carefully. The great brains which support Dr. Fu Manchu, the machinery which his genius and that of his dupes has brought into being, all are here. I have failed before, but this time I do not mean to fail. In the next twenty-four hours either we win our long battle or hand what is left of the civilized world over to Dr. Fu Manchu.”

Darkness increased: thunder growled ominously over the mountains . . .

* * *

“There’s the signal. Barton! Since you are determined—good luck. But you’re in for a rough passage.”

Smith, Barton and I stood on a jetty at Cap Haitien. The night was completely black, except when bursts of tropical lightning created an eerie, blinding illumination. A signal had been arranged; and a moment before, we had seen a rocket burst against the inky curtain of the storm. A naval cutter was dancing deliriously at our feet.

“I worked out the bearings and I’m going to check them with the officer in charge,” said Barton. “If Christophers chart is wrong in this respect, why, then we fail! Cheerio!”

He went to the head of the ladder, waited until the cutter rose within two feet of the Jetty and jumped. In more respects than one Sir Lionel Barton was a remarkable man. I strained forward and saw him scrambling forward to the bows. As the cutter pulled out: “Barton has earned his reputation,” said Nayland Smith. “He fears neither men nor gods. If I know anything about him, he will stop at least one of Dr. Fu Manchu’s rat holes tonight.”

An old freighter of three thousand tons sunk well below her load-line with a cargo of concrete blocks, was lying off there in the storm, escorted by a United States destroyer. In the interval which had elapsed since I had been swallowed up by the organization of the Si-Fan, Smith and Barton had worked like beavers. The freighter was destined to be scuttled at the spot indicated in the ancient chart as the submarine entrance to Christophe’s Cavern. Inquiries from local fishermen had revealed that a shelf of rock, or submerged ridge, jutted out there. This ledge must be the lintel of Fu Manchu’s underwater-gate.

An American skipper who knew the Haitian coast was in command, and the destroyer was standing by to take off the officers and crew. It would be necessary practically to pile up the ship on the gaunt rocks below which the opening lay—on such a night as this, with a heavy sea running, a feat of seamanship merely to think about which turned me cold.

I stood there beside Smith, watching. The thunder was so shattering when it came that it seemed to rock the quay, the lightning so vivid in its tropical brilliance as to be blinding. In those awesome flashes I could see both ships lying close off shore; I could see the cutter breasting a white-capped swell as she made for the freighter, riding lumpishly, overladen as she was. How clearly I remember that night, that occasion: for it was the prelude to what I believed and prayed would be the end of Dr. Fu Manchu and all his works.

We waited there through blaze after blaze of lightning, until we saw the cutter brought alongside the freighter. By this time a tremendous sea was running, and I trembled for Barton, a heavy man and by no means a young one. I had visions of a Jumping ladder, of the smaller craft shattered like an eggshell.

Then, during a moment of utter blackness, thunder booming hellishly among the mountains, a second rocket split the night.

“Thank God!” whispered Smith. He stood close beside me. “He’s mad, but he bears a charmed life. He’s on board.” It was the agreed signal. “Now—to our job.”

Through that satanic night we set out for the San Damien works. It was a wild drive, a ride of the Valkyries. Sometimes, as we climbed, white-hot flashes revealed forest valleys below the mountain road which we traversed; sometimes, in complete darkness which followed, the mountain seemed to shiver; our headlights resembled flickering candles. Our lives and more than our lives were in the hands of the driver, but as he had been allotted to us by the American authorities as the one man for the job, I resigned myself.

“I have it in my bones,” said Nayland Smith during a momentary lull, “that tonight we shall finally defeatDr. Fu Manchu. The very elements seem to be enraged.”

But I was silent. I had, in a sense, come closer to Dr. Fu Manchu than Nayland Smith had ever had an opportunity to do. Something of the almost supernatural dread with which the Chinese scientist had inspired me was gone. He was not an evil spirit; he was a physical phenomenon, and his strength resided in the fact that he had perfected a method for enslaving the genius of the world and bending it to his will. At last I understood that Dr. Fu Manchu was something which human ingenuity might hope to outwit. But his armament was formidable.

Of that drive up to the lip of the valley which once had been the crater of a great volcano, I retain strange memories. But memorable above all was that moment when, coming round a hairpin bend on the edge of a sheer precipice, the black curtain of the storm was rent by dazzling light, and there, away beyond a forest-choked valley, an eerie but a wonderful spectacle, I saw for the second time the mighty bulk of The Citadel, upstanding stark, an ogre’s castle, against the blaze.

Indeed, a jagged dagger of lightning seemed to strike directly down upon its towering battlements. Almost I expected to see them crumble. Darkness fell and there came a crash of thunder so deafening that it might well have echoed the collapse of Christophers vast fortress into the depths.

At long last we turned inland from the road skirting the precipice and plunged into a sort of cutting. I heaved a sigh of relief.

“There are two sides to this road,” said Smith. “I confess I prefer it.”

We were now, in fact, very near to our destination; but since I had never seen the outside of the place but only the extensive buildings which surrounded the quadrangle, I was surprised by its modest character. A wide sanded drive opened to the right of the road, and across it was a board on which might be read: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” The drive was bordered by tropical shrubbery and palm trees. Some fifty yards along I saw a bungalow which presumably served the purpose of a gate lodge. Smith checked the driver, and we pulled up just beyond.

“There are three possibilities,” he said. “One, that we shall find the place deserted except for legitimate employees of the Corporation, against whom it would be difficult to bring a case. In (his event, the presence of the zoological exhibits and of the experimental laboratory might plausibly be accounted for: hemp cultivation after all is conducted today on scientific lines. The glass coffins you describe might be less easy to explain.

“And the second possibility is—some trap may have been laid for us. I doubt, assuming that the Doctor and his associates have gone below-ground, if it would be possible under any circumstances to obtain access from this point. However, you see, my instructions have been well carried out.”

In a dazzling blaze of lightning he looked round.

“I warrant you can find no evidence of the fact, Kerrigan, (hat a considerable party of Federal agents, supported by two companies of Haitian infantry with machine guns, is covering the area.”

“There is certainly no sign of their presence. But why did they not challenge the car?”

“They have orders to challenge nothing going in, but anything or anybody coming out. Now, let us have a report.”

He flashed a pocket torch, in-out, in-out.

From a darker gulley in the bank of the road. Just above th& sanded drive, two men appeared; one was in the uniform of the Haitian army, his companion wore mufti. As they came up, Smith acknowledged the officer’s salute and turning to the other: “Anything to report, Finlay?” he asked.

“Not a thing, chief—except that Major Lemage, here, has got his men under cover, and my boys all know their jobs. What’s the programme?”

“Are there any lights showing?”

“Sure. There’s one right in the gate-office. Night porter, I guess.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Haven’t seen any.”

“Then we will stick to our original plan. Come on, Kerrigan.”

As we walked past the car and up the sanded drive Finlay dropped back, following at some ten paces.

“What was the third possibility you had in mind. Smith?” I asked.

“That Fu Manchu evidently regards himself as a potential world power. He may still be here. He may attempt to brazen the thing out. Your absence will have puzzled him, but there are numbers of burrows in all volcanic rocks such as those which compose the Cavern, so it seems highly unlikely that he will be able to find out what occurred. But the absence of Ardatha and Hassan is susceptible of only one construction: a major mistake—and Fu Manchu rarely makes major mistakes. However, we must move with care. You say that the lift is at the end of a sort of tunnel in which are the glass coffins?”

“Yes, a cellar built, I believe, in the foundations of the laboratory.”

“Which you can identify?”

“I think so.”

The bungalow, when we reached it, was so like a thousand and one inquiry offices at entrances to works, that again, as had occurred many times before, the idea seemed fabulous that anything sinister lurked behind a facade so commonplace. Lightning blazed, and cast ebony shadows of palm trunks bordering the drive, shadows like solid bars, across to the spot where we stood. There was a brass plate on the door, inscribed: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” A light shone from a window.

Smith pressed the bell, and a sort of tingling excitement possessed me as I stood there waiting to see who would open the door. We had not long to wait.

A Haitian, his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a lanky fellow smoking a corncob pipe, looked at us with sleepy eyes. In the office I saw a cane armchair from which he had evidently just risen, a newspaper on the floor beside it. There was a large keyboard resembling that of a hotel hall porter. At the moment that I observed this the man’s expression changed.

“What do you want?” he asked sharply. “You do not belong here.”

“I want to see the manager,” snapped Smith. “It is urgent.”

“The manager is in bed/’

“Someone must be on duty.”

“That is so ~ I am on duty.”

“Then go and wake the manager, and be sharp about it. I represent the Haitian Government, and I must see Mr. Horton at once. Go and rouse him.”

Smith’s authoritative manner was effective.

“I have to stay here,” the man replied, “but I can call him.”

He went inside and took up a telephone which I could not see; but then I heard him speaking rapidly in Haitian. Then came a tinkle as he replaced the receiver. He returned.

“Someone is coming to take you to the manager,” he reported.

Apparently regarding the incident as closed, he went in and shut the door.

I stared, at Smith.

“One of the Corporation staff,” he said in a low voice. “I doubt if he knows anything. However—wait and see.”

We had not waited long before a coloured boy appeared from somewhere.

“You two gentlemen want to see Mr. Horton?”

“We do,” said Smith.

“Come this way.”

As we moved off behind the boy I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Finlay raise his hand and turn, then flash a light in the darkness behind him. We were being closely covered.

The boy led along the back of those quarters in which for a time I had occupied an apartment. I saw no lights anywhere. Just beyond, and fronting on the big quadrangle, was a detached bungalow. Some of the windows were lighted and a door was open. The coloured boy rapped upon the door, and James Ridgwell Horton came out, holding reading glasses in his hand and having a book under his arm. The storm seemed to be moving into the east, but dense cloudbanks obscured the moon and the night was vibrant with electric energy. He peered at us in a bewildered way.

“You want to see me?”

At which moment the reflection of distant lightning showed us up clearly.

“We do,” said Smith.

“Why, Mr. Kerrigan! Sir Denis Nayland Smith!” Horton exclaimed, and fell back a step. “Mr. Kerrigan!”

“May we come in?” asked Smith quietly. “Certainly. This is . . . most unexpected.” We went into a room furnished with tropical simplicity; the night was appallingly hot, and Horton had evidently been lying in a rest chair, reading. In the rack was an iced drink from which two straws protruded. I noticed with curiosity that illumination was by an ordinary standard lamp. Horton stared rather helplessly from face to face .

“Does this mean—?” he began.

“It means,” said Smith rapidly, “as the presence of Kerrigan must indicate, that the game’s up. Do exactly as I tell you, and you will come to no great harm. Try to trick me, and the worst will happen.”

Horton made an effort to recover himself.

“In the first place, sir, I cannot imagine—”

“Imagination is unnecessary. Facts speak for themselves. I am here on the behalf of the Government of the United States.”

“Oh!” murmured Horton.

“I am accompanied by a number of Federal officers. The entire premises are surrounded by armed troops. This, for your information.”

“Yes, I see,” murmured Horton; and I saw him clench his hands. “In spite of this—and I speak purely in your own interest—I fear that steps will be taken against you of a character which you may not anticipate. I strongly urge you—”

“It is my business to take risks,” snapped Smith. “You may regard yourself as under arrest, Mr. Horton. And now, be good enough to lead the way to Dr. Fu Manchu.”

A moment Horton hesitated, then stretched his hand out to a telephone.

“No, no!” said Smith, and grasped his arm. “I wish to see him—not to find him gone.”

“I cannot answer for the consequences. I fear they will be grave—for you.”

“Be good enough to lead the way.”

I was now riding a high tide of excitement; and when, walking dejectedly between us, Horton crossed the quadrangle in the direction of that large building without windows which I remembered so well, which I should never forget, I confess that I tingled with apprehension. There was no one in sight anywhere, but glancing back again I saw that a number of armed men had entered from the drive and were spreading out right and left so as to command every building in the quadrangle. Two who carried sub-machine guns were covering our movements.

Before the door of that lobby in which I had changed into rubber shoes, Horton paused.

“If you will wait for a moment,” he said, “I will inquire if the Doctor is here.”

“No, no!” rapped Smith. “We are coming with you.”

Horton selected a key from a number on a chain and opened the door. We went into the lobby—and there were the rows of rubber shoes.

“You must change into these,” he said mechanically.

I nodded to Smith and we all went through that strange ritual.

“Open this other door,” said Smith.

The men armed with sub-machine guns were already inside.

“I have no key of this door; I can only ring for admittance.”

“Ring,” said Smith. “I have warned you.”

Horton pressed a button beside the massive metal door, and my excitement grew so tense that my teeth were clenched. For perhaps five seconds we waited. Smith turned to the G-men.

“When this door opens, see that it stays open,” he ordered. “Pull those rubber things over your shoes. I don’t know what for—but do it.”

The door opened. I became aware of that throbbing sound which I had noted before, and there, before me, wearing his white surgical Jacket, wasDr. Marriot Doughty!

“Kerrigan!” he exclaimed: “Kerrigan!”

His naturally sallow face grew deathly white. The short van-dyke beard seemed to bristle.

“My name is Nayland Smith,” said my friend. “I am here to see Dr. Fu Manchu. Stand aside if you please.”

Entering, out of darkness broken only by gleams of lightning, into that vast and strange laboratory was very startling. One came from night into day. Whereas, when I had seen it before, the place had been but dimly illuminated, now, the Ferris Globe shone as though it were molten and the effect was as that of daylight. Standing behind one of the glass-topped benches at the other end of the laboratory—a bench upon which some experiment seemed to be in progress—and still wearing a long white jacket and black skull-cap as I remembered him, was Dr. Fu Manchu!

“There’s your man!” said Smith, aside.

“Hands up!” rasped one of our bodyguard. Both raised their machine-guns. We all moved forward.

At the moment that we did so I saw one of those long slender hands touch a switch, so that to the peculiar throbbing which I have already mentioned was added a new kind of vibration. Otherwise, no perceptible change took place. Standing there, tall, square-shouldered, challengingly. Dr. Fu Manchu watched us.

“At last,” cried Smith on a note of sudden excitement; “at last I hold the winning card!”

Dr. Fu Manchu continued to watch but did not speak. ‘The entire works are surrounded,” Smith went on. “Every exit covered, high and low, except the air. And you have missed your chance there.”

The green eyes became comtemplative. In that unnatural daylight I could see every change of expression upon the evily majestic face. Fu Manchu nodded his great head thoughtfully.

“You have acted with your accustomed promptness and efficiency,” he replied; but his voice, though even, was pitched on a high strident note. “Exactly what steps you have seen fit to take it is not my purpose to inquire. But I was expecting you, and you are welcome.”

There was something chilling in those words. “I was expecting you”—something which increased the effect which the presence of this man always had upon me. If he spoke the truth—why had he remained?

“Indeed?” said Smith, and I noted a change in his tone.

Although I never took my eyes from Dr. Fu Manchu, I was aware of the fact that other men were crowding in from the lobby.

“Order those men to cross the red line on the floor behind you,” Fu Manchu said harshly.

And at the very moment that he spoke I knew the worst. I turned and cried shrilly: “Stand where you are there, for your lives! Don’t cross the line. Smith!” I clutched his arm. “Do you understand what this means?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. The fire had gone from his grey eyes. “I understand.”

“An Ericksen screen,” that guttural voice continued, and now I detected a note of mockery, “has been thrown across the room some fifteen feet in front of me, and another behind you at the point marked by the red line on the floor. You are prisoners, gentlemen, in a cell from which no human power can rescue you, unless / choose to do so.”

“We’ll see about that,” growled Finlay, who had evidently just come into the lobby. “I don’t like the looks of you and I’m taking no chances.”

Followed three sharp, ear-splitting explosions. ButDr. Fu Manchu never stirred.

“Merciful heaven!” said Finlay hoarsely. “God help us! What is he—a man or a spirit?”

“Both, my friend,” the guttural voice assured him: “as you are.”

The effect of this seemingly supernatural demonstration upon the two men beside me was amazing. Plainly I saw them blanch, and for the first time they lowered their guns, peering into each other’s eyes. Then one turned to me, and: “What is if, mister?” he asked. “What is it? You seem to know.”

“Yes, I know, but I can’t possibly explain.”

“In your absence. Sir Denis,” Dr. Fu Manchu went on, ‘“Which I regretted, I chose Mr. Kerrigan as your deputy and gave him an opportunity of glancing over some of my resources. His unaccountable disappearance threatened to derange my plans. But his return in your company suggest to me that he may have acquainted you with these particulars.”

“He has,” Smith replied, tonelessly.

“In that case you are aware that as the result of many years of labour I am at last in a position to dictate to any and every government in the world. The hordes now overrunning Europe could not deter me for a week from any objective I might decide to seize. Their vaunted air force, or, if you prefer it, that of the Allies, I could destroy as readily as I could destroy a wasp’s nest. The methods pursued by the Nazis are a clumsy imitation of my own. I too have my Fifth Column, and it is composed exclusively of men who understand their business. Those, for I am not infallible, who seek to betray me are disposed of.”

He took up the jade snuff-box and delicately raised a pinch of snuff to his nostrils. He was not looking at us now but seemed to be thinking aloud.

“There is a peril threatening the United States which, although it might be defeated, would nevertheless create a maximim of disorder and shake the national unity. I charge you. Sir Denis, to dismiss from your mind your picture of myself as a common criminal. I am no more a criminal than was Napoleon, no more a criminal than Caesar.”

His voice was rising, quivering, and now his eyes were widely open. He was an imposing but an evil figure.

“Transmit the order to the agents and to the troops who have entered these premises to return to their posts outside, until further instructions reach them. Washington has sent you here and I wish you to put before Washington a proposal which I have drawn up, which I shall place in your hands whenever you ask me to do so. Knowing something of your prejudices, of your misconceptions, of your ignorance, I give you time to adjust your outlook. I can grant you one hour. Sir Denis. Word has reached me of a shipwreck which threatens to block my sea-gate. I shall go down to investigate the matter. When I return, no doubt you will have made up your mind. I leave Companion Doughty in your company. As it would be unwise to remove the Ericksen screen at present, you would be well advised to remain nearer the centre of the laboratory. Proximity to the screen is dangerous.”

CHAPTER XLI

AN ELECTRICAL DISTURBANCE

“Barton has done it!”

Smith spoke in a hoarse whisper. The two men of our bodyguard sat on a long bench, mopping their perspiring foreheads and glancing about them with profound apprehension. Dr. Marriot Doughty was seated on the other side of the room, and Finlay alone remained in the lobby beyond the red line. Smith had ordered the others to withdraw. The heat in the windowless laboratory was indescribable, and that “consciousness of cerebral pressure” created by Ericksen waves was all that I could endure.

“Yes, Barton has succeeded; but we are trapped.”

Although no reflection of lightning penetrated, apparently the great storm had not passed but had gathered again overhead. A crash of thunder came which rattled the glass instruments in their racks: the sound of it boomed and rolled and echoed weirdly above and about us. Marriot Doughty stood up and approached.

“If you will permit me to prescribe,” he said, “there are several masks of a kind we wear during Ericksen experiments. I can reach them without leaving the free zone.”

He crossed to a tall cabinet, opened a drawer and took out a number of headpieces resembling those used by radio operators.

“Can we trust him?” whispered Smith.

“Yes. He is thinking primarily of himself, I believe.”

Marriot Doughty distributed the headpieces.

“There are six,” he said, “but I fear that the gentleman in the lobby will have to go without one. The lobby, however, is partially insulated.”

We adjusted the thing; and that unendurable sense of inward pressure was immediately relieved.

“Anything like an hour’s exposure,” the physician explained, “might result in cerebral haemorrhage.”

Smith turned to him. With the headpiece framing his lean features, he suddenly reminded me of Horus, the hawk god.

“Dr. Doughty,” he said, “knowing nothing of the circumstances I am not entitled to question your principles; but may I ask some questions?”

“Certainly, and I shall be prepared to answer them.”

“Is there any means of disconnecting the Ericksen apparatus?”

“From our point of view, none. The controls are out of reach.”

“Is there any exit from this room other than that beyond the lobby or that at the other end used by Fu Manchu?”

“None.”

Smith nodded grimly and attempted to pull at the lobe of his ear, but part of the headpiece foiled him. Marriot Doughty seemed to hesitate, and then: “There is one feature of our present situation,” he said, “which contains elements of great danger.”

‘What is that?” asked Smith.

“Expressed simply, it is a certain affinity which exists between Ericksen waves and lightning. You cannot have failed to notice that the electric storm, which had passed to the east, is now concentrated directly above us.One of the Doctor’s own precepts—which he would seem to have overlooked . . . . ”

The sentence was never finished.

A veil of blinding light—I cannot otherwise describe it—descended between me and the farther end of the laboratory. The rubber-covered floor heaved like the deck of a ship; fragments of masonry fell all about! The Ferris Globe crashed from the roof into a cavity which suddenly yawned in the centre of the long room. The whole of one glass wall fell in!

Somewhere, a loud voice was shouting: “This way! This way! All the floor’s going!”

I remember joining in a panic rush. Who ran beside me I cannot say—nor where we ran. The earth heaved beneath my feet; the night was torn by spears of lightning which seemed to strike down directly upon us. Through a hell beyond my powers to depict I ran—and ran—and ran . . . .

* * *

“That’s better. Mr. Kerrigan!”

I stared up into the speaker’s face, a sunbrowned, bearded face, not comprehending. Then, aware of an unpleasant nausea, I looked about me. I was in bed; the speaker was a doctor. A dreadful suspicion came—and I sat up.

“Where amI?”

“You are in my house in Cap Haitien. My name isDr. Ralph——”

“You are not—”

“I am a United States citizen, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said cheerily. “But there is no English physician here, so Mr. Finlay ran you in to me.”

I dropped back, with a long sigh of relief.

“Smith—”

“Sir Denis Nayland Smith is here. His recovery was a quicker business than yours.”

“His recovery?” I sat up again. “What happened to us? Was I struck by something?”

“No, no—fumes. The earth tremor which partially destroyed the San Damien Sisal Works released fumes to which you both succumbed. What were you doing there last night with so large a body of men is none of my business. But, you see”—he tapped me on the chest—”there had been passive congestion in the left lung, and you were more seriously affected than the others. However”—he stood up—”you will be all right now, and I know you would wish to see your friend.”

Dr. Ralph went out; and a moment later Nayland Smith came in.

“Thank God we’re alive Kerrigan!” he said. “We lose the triumph, but we were the instruments of retribution!”

“Smith! What happened? What hellish thing happened?”

He began to walk up and down the small room.

“So far as I can make out—I have been over there all this morning—lightning struck the laboratory and was conducted (possibly down the lift cable) into the great cavern! At any rate, a new gorge has appeared, a gorge of extraordinary depth. It has swallowed up part of the sisal works and the whole of one plantation: in fact, the side of a mountain has moved!”

“Good God!”

“The first blast split the laboratory in half. That was when Doughty went—”

“Then he—”

“Fell into the pit which yawned not five feet from where you were standing! I hauled you back and we all ran out through the gap in the wall. We were half way across the quadrangle when the second blast—which seemed to come from underground—threw us off our feet. The fumes were appalling; but we all managed to struggle on for another hundred yards or so. I don’t remember much more.”

“Good God!” I said again. “Can you picture what happened below-ground!”

“Yes!” he snapped. “I can . . , and Fu Manchu was below-ground!”

“What news of Barton?”

“Did the job. But they had to put out to sea and make for Port au Prince. All’s well with Barton; and I think, Kerrigan, my long fight is won. Now—I am going to send your nurse to see you.” Before I could utter any word of protest, he went out, but left the door open.

Ardatha came in . . .

The End