The Mask of Fu Manchu

MR

ADEN’S

PROPOSAL

“Leave this to me, Barton,” Nayland Smith said sharply. “If you interfere in any way I won’t be answerable for the consequences.”

Sir Lionel clenched his fists and glared at our visitor; then, crossing, he stood with his back to us, looking out of the window. He was dishevelled, unshaven, wrapped in his dilapidated old dressing gown, and in a mood as dangerous as any I had ever known.

Professional duties had compelled Dr. Petrie to leave, and so there were four of us in the long pleasant room, with its two windows overlooking the garden. I was little better groomed than the chief, for I had been fast asleep five minutes before, thanks to Petrie’s ministrations. But Sir Denis, although his grey suit had seen much wear, looked normally spruce.

I stared with murderous disfavour at a man seated in an armchair over by the writing table.

Heavily built, he wore the ordinary morning dress of a business man, and indeed was of a type which one may meet with in any of the capitals of the world. His face, inclined to be fat, was of a dead white colour. Thick iron-gray hair was cut close to his skull, and he had a jet-black moustache. I hated his dark, restless eyes.

“This is Mr.—er—Aden,” Nayland Smith continued; “and as the business upon which he has come interests you personally, Greville, I thought you should be present.”

Mr. Aden bowed and smiled. My detestation grew by leaps and bounds.

“Mr. Aden is a solicitor practising in Cairo. By the way—” suddenly turning to our visitor—”I believe I met your brother some years ago.”

“That is not possible,” said the Greek; and his oily voice did nothing to redeem his character in my eyes.

“No?” Sir Denis queried rapidly. “Not a Mr. Samarkan, one-time manager of the New Louvre Hotel in London? But surely?”

Mr. Aden visibly started, but endeavoured to conceal the fact with an artificial cough and a swiftly upraised hand.

“You are mistaken. Sir Denis,” he declared suavely, “not possibly in the resemblance, but certainly in the relationship. I never heard of Mr. Samarkand

“Indeed!” snapped Nayland Smith, and turned aside. “Let it pass, then. Briefly, Greville the position is this: Mr.—er— Aden, here in the ordinary way of his professional duties—”

“Damned nonsense!” shouted the chief, stamping one slippered foot upon the floor, but not turning around. “He’s one of the gang and an impudent liar!”

“Barton!” Nayland Smith interrupted angrily, “I have requested you to leave this matter to me. If you insist upon interrupting, I shall order you to do so.”

“Order be damned!”

“I have the necessary authority.”

Some few moments of ominous silence followed, during which Nayland Smith stood staring at the broad back of Sir Lionel. The latter remained silent, and:

“Very well,” Sir Denis went on. “As I was explaining, Greville, Mr.—er—the name persistently escapes me...”

“Adrian Aden,” our visitor prompted smoothly.

“Yes. Mr. Aden has been instructed by one of his clients to approach Barton professionally.”

“The situation is difficult,” Mr. Aden explained, extending a fat white hand. “But what could I do? I act for the great interests in Egypt. I cannot afford to offend.”

“Ah!” shouted the chief, “truth at last! I admit you’re not the man to offend Dr. Fu Manchu.”

“Dr. Fu Manchu?” Mr. Aden murmured. “That name also is unfamiliar to me.”

Nayland Smith glanced in Barton’s direction, snapped his fingers irritably, and:

“The name of your client it is unnecessary to discuss at the moment,” he said. “But I gather your instructions to be these:

A body of religious fanatics has abducted Miss Rima Barton. Your client has learned that she will be returned unharmed if the demands of these religious fanatics are complied with?”

“Ah!” beamed Mr. Aden, “but this is common sense. Sir Denis. How perfectly you understand my position.”

“If you understood it,” growled the chief, “you would know that you might be kicked through the window at any moment.”

“This is the lowest and foulest kind of blackmail,” I broke in savagely. “If you are what you claim to be, a solicitor, you deserve to be struck off the rolls.”

“Really, Greville,” said Nayland Smith, “you are unduly hard upon Mr. Aden. I have no doubt that he has undertaken infinitely more delicate cases.”

Mr. Aden shot a quick glance at the speaker, but either missed the point or professed to do so.

“You speak hastily, Mr. Greville,” he replied. “I act for those who would help you.”

“His clients, you see, Greville,” Nayland Smith continued dryly, “seem to know all that goes on in the Near East. They deeply deplore the outrage which has been committed—I understood you to say so, Mr. Aden.”

“Oh, but completely!”

“And they suggest a means by which Miss Barton’s release may be secured. In fact, the exact terms are mentioned, I believe?”

“But certainly!” but certainly!” the Greek assured him. “They claim, these religious people, that Sir Lionel Barton has stolen property which belongs to them.”

To my intense surprise the chief did not speak, did not move.

“They say also, my clients inform me, that, if this property is returned, the missing lady will also be returned.”

“Quite reasonable,” Sir Denis murmured. “Have you details of the property which they claim has been stolen?”

“I have it here.”

Mr. Aden opened a portfolio lying beside him on the floor and extracted a sheet of paper.

“A sword or scimitar of Damascus steel inlaid with gold, having a curved, double-edged blade and the hilt encrusted with emeralds, rubies, and pearls....”

He slipped on a pair of hom-rimmed spectacles, the better to read, and continued:

“A mask of thin gold finely engraved; and fifteen thin gold plates sixteen inches long by twelve inches wide, bearing the text of the New Koran of El Mokanna.”

He ceased speaking, took off his spectacles, and looked up.

As he did so, Sir Lionel turned. And before Nayland Smith could check him:

“Suppose I admitted that I had these things in my possession,” he said, glaring down upon the white-faced Greek, “what would you do?”

“I should believe you.”

“Thanks. But how much better off would Rima be?”

“Barton,” said Nayland Smith, “absolutely for the last time—will you either shut up or get out!”

The chief plunged his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, glared down at the Greek again, and glared at Sir Denis. Then, walking across to a settee, he threw himself upon it, stamping his feet on the floor.

“We will assume,” Nayland Smith continued, “that the objects you enumerate are actually in Sir Lionel’s possession. What next?”

“I understand that those who have her in charge will give up Miss Barton in exchange for these relics.”

“Under what conditions?”

I was positively boiling over, and hot words leapt to my tongue; but Sir Denis stared me down.

“You will bring those things which I have specified to an appointed place,” Mr. Aden replied, “and there you will meet Miss Rima Barton.”

“Sounds like an ambush,” Nayland Smith snapped.

The Greek shrugged his fat shoulders.

“I should be glad to communicate any other suggestion you might care to make. But first—my instructions on this point are explicit—” he turned with unconcealed nervousness to Sir Lionel: “I must see these items, please,” he held up the sheet of paper, “and notify my clients that all is correct.”

“Don’t speak, Barton,” said Nayland Smith. “The suitcase is under the settee, just by your feet. Haul it out, unstrap it, unlock it, and comply with Mr. Aden’s request.”

The chief’s face grew positively purple as he angrily sustained the fixed stare of Sir Denis.

“Neither Greville nor I can understand your hesitation,” the latter added. “Nothing else counts while Rima is in the hands of—Mr. Aden’s client.”

At those words Sir Lionel’s furious glare was transferred to Mr. Aden, upon whose white forehead I could see beads of perspiration. Then he stooped, hauled forth the heavy suitcase, and unfastened it.

Out from the interior he lifted and laid upon a small table those priceless relics of the Masked Prophet, the possession of which had brought about such disaster and in its consequences driven me to the verge of madness.