The Mask of Fu Manchu

RIMA AND I

Down in the little garden of the house I had a few moments alone with Rima. At some time this garden had been a charming, secluded spot. Indeed, except for a latticed window above, it was overlooked from only one point: the gallery of the minaret. But neglect had played havoc with the place.

The orange trees flourished—indeed, were in full blossom— and a perfect cloak of bougainvillea overhung the balcony below the latticed window. But the flower borders were thickets of weeds and a stone cistern in which a little fountain had long ceased to play was coated with slime and no more than a breeding place for mosquitoes.

“I don’t know what it is about Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” said Rima. “But I have never experienced such a sense of relief in my life as when I came into that room to-day and found him there.”

“I know,” I replied, squeezing her reassuringly: “it’s the sterling quality of the man. All the same, darling, I shan’t feel happy until we’re clear of Ispahan.”

“Nor shall I, Shan. If only uncle weren’t so infernally mysterious. What on earth are we staying on here for?”

“I know no more than you do, Rima. What was the object of this afternoon’s expedition? I’m quite in the dark about it!”

“I’m nearly as bad,” she confessed. “But at least I can tell you where we went. We went to Solomon Ishak. You know— the funny old jeweller?”

“Solomon Ishak is one of the greatest mysteries of Ispahan. But I understand he gets hold of some very rare antique pieces. Probably the chief is negotiating a deal.”

“I don’t think so. I had to take along the negatives of about forty photographs, and uncle left me wandering about that indescribable, stuffy shop for more than an hour while he remained locked in an inner room with old Solomon.”

“And what became of the photographs?”

“He had them with him but brought them out at the end of the interview. They are back here now.”

“That may explain the mystery,” I said reflectively. “The photographs were of the relics of the Prophet, I take it?”

Rima nodded.

“The workmanship on the hilt of the sword has defied even the chief’s knowledge,” I added. “He probably wanted Solomon Ishak’s opinion but didn’t care to risk taking the sword itself.”

Rima slipped a slender bare arm about my neck and snuggled her head down against my shoulder.

“Oh, Shan!” she whispered. “I have never felt so homesick in my life.”

I stooped and kissed her curly hair, squeezing her very tightly; then:

“Rima, darling,” I whispered, my lips very close to one half-hidden ear, “when we get to some place a little nearer civilisation, will you come and see the consul with me?”

She made no reply but hid her face more closely against me.

“If the chief still insists on a spectacular wedding, that can come later. But...”

Rima suddenly raised her face, looking up at me.

“Next time you ask me, I’m going to say. Yes, Shan. But please don’t ask me again until we’re out of Ispahan.”

“Why?” I asked blankly. “Is there any special reason for this?”

“No,” she replied, kissed me on the chin, and nestled down against me again. “But I’ve promised. And if you are good you’ll be satisfied.”

I stooped and nearly smothered her with kisses. I suppose my early training was to blame, and I didn’t know, or even seek to find out, Rima’s views upon the subject. As for the chief, I had known for a long time past that he was thoroughly enjoying the situation.

Had Rima and I openly become lovers, I am convinced he wouldn’t have turned a hair. He was a wonderful old pagan, and his profound disrespect for ritual in any form had led to some awkward moments—awkward, that is, for me, but apparently enjoyed by Sir Lionel.

And at the moment that these thoughts were crossing my mind his great voice came from the window above:

“Break away. there!” he roared. “There’s more serious work afoot than making love to my staff photographer!”

I jumped up—my blood was tingling—and turned angrily. But in the very act I met Rima’s upcast glance. My mood changed. She was convulsed with laughter; and:

“The old ruffian!” she whispered.

“Come hither, my puritan friend,” Sir Lionel continued. “Two cavaliers would have speech with thee!”