The Wrath of Fu Manchu

The Mind of Fu Manchu

She woke in completely incomprehensible surroundings. There was a vague smell of what she thought might be incense, a strange heaviness of all her limbs. "Where am I? Who am I?" — were questions which danced mockingly across her brain. Then came helpless fear, fear of the silence, the void around her. Had she been abducted? An accident? Was she suffering from amnesia? She lost control, wanted to cry out — but couldn't utter a sound, And then, to crown growing panic, she became conscious of a presence. Softly came a voice, a sibilant, commanding voice: "You are quite safe. Miss Merton. There is no danger."

That voice! It's strange tones magically awakened her memory. She knew herself. She was Pat Merton. She knew the voice and where she had heard it before. Clearly, as though a veil had been raised, she remembered the crowded room in the Mayflower Hotel. A reception for Bruce Garfield and some of his colleagues was being held there. But his old friend Nayland Smith was arriving from Hong Kong and had wired him to meet his plane on a matter of vital importance, and so Bruce had phoned, asking her to rush over to the hotel and apologise for his unavoidable delay.

Bruce's colleagues assembled at the reception knew Pat and introduced her to some of the dignitaries in the throng. One of them was a Swiss scientist whose name she now failed to remember. But she recalled that he wore tinted glasses. Feeling rather uncomfortable as his voice droned on she had decided to leave, and then — this memory was crystal clear — the Swiss gentleman had removed his glasses, and a stare of long, narrow emerald-green eyes was fixed upon her. Apart from a hazy impression that he saw her from the hotel to a cab or car, the rest was a blank. But this was his voice. And then almost silently a tall figure appeared beside her.

Pat's inclination, as she looked up, was to scream. But a sense of horror, or, rather, of supernatural dread, reduced her to passive submission. This was the man she had met at the hotel, but he had changed. As the Swiss scientist, he must have worn a wig, for now his massive skull was only sparsely covered by hair. It was a wonderful face, the face of a genius, but of a genius inspired by hell.

He spoke softly, watching her, and his words soothed her terror strangely.

"I regret that you were overcome by the heat of the room at the Mayflower, Miss Merton. I took the liberty of bringing you here and restoring you." His eyes seemed to grow larger, to absorb her in their green depth; but she recovered in time to hear the words, "My car is at your service."

The cool night breeze outside refreshed her as a courteous chauffeur in smart uniform made her comfortable in a limousine.

Numbly, she began to study her surroundings. The chauffeur had navigated several narrow, sordid streets. From one dark alleyway she had seen Chinese faces peering out in the gleam of the headlights. Over the low roofs there was a glow of night labour; she heard the hoarse minor note of a steamer's whistle. This was the East End dock area, of which she knew nothing.

Now they were speeding along a wide, straight thoroughfare, almost deserted, toward a part of the city with which she was acquainted. She had a glimpse of the Mansion House. There was Ludgate Hill… They were in the Strand… Charing Cross… Piccadilly.

The car pulled up. The chauffeur opened the door. Pat stepped out and found herself at the entrance to the Mayflower Hotel.

"Two o'clock!" Pat said in astonishment, when the night-doorman told her the time.

"Yes, miss." He looked at her in an odd way. "You are staying here?"

"No, I'm not. Will you please call a taxi?" Bruce will be frantic. She must get to him.

Pat opened her handbag, momentarily wondering if her money was still there. Everything was in order. She tipped the doorman and gave the taxi driver the address of Bruce's flat in Knightsbridge. As there were frequent occasions when she had to go there while Bruce was working, she had a key.

Bruce occupied a mews flat which Pat had helped to furnish and decorate. When the taxi pulled up, she saw that the windows were lighted; there were sounds of excited conversation coming through an open window. She hesitated for a moment, rang the bell.

The voices ceased. Then came footsteps on the short stair.

The door opened.

"Pat! Pat, darling! Thank God you're safe." Pat went into Bruce's arms.

She was so emotionally exhausted that he had almost to carry her up to the living room. The first person she saw,a tall lean man with sunburned skin, — white streaks on dark hair above his temples, and grey eyes, she knew and welcomed: Sir Denis Nayland Smith, former Scotland Yard Commissioner and one of Bruce's oldest friends. The very man she had hoped would be there.

"A nice fright you have given us, young lady," he rapped in his crisp fashion. "Four divisions of the Metropolitan Police are combing London for you. This is Inspector Haredale of Scotland Yard" — indicating the third man — "who has been directing the search."

The inspector was so typical a police officer — fresh-coloured, frank blue eyes and a grey toothbrush moustache — that Pat could have guessed his profession. When the excitement of her unheralded, dramatic appearance had calmed down, Nayland Smith spoke.

"Before you attempt to explain your disappearance, let me bring you up to date about what has happened since you vanished from the Mayflower Hotel. Garfield found nothing remarkable in your leaving after giving his message of apology. After the reception, I went to my flat in Whitehall Court and Garfield came here. He made an unpleasant discovery."

He paused to relight his pipe which had gone out. Brace crossed to Pat's chair and sat on the arm, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Don't let what has happened bother you. Pat. You're in no way responsible."

But Pat, looking from face to face, sensed that whatever had happened during those lost hours was intimately tied in with Bruce's flat.

"A report of a paper read by Garfield before a group of scientists a week ago," Nayland Smith went on, "had reached me in Hong Kong. It outlined his revolutionary theory of travel in outer space without rocket propulsion. He spoke of a scale model on which he was still working — and I knew he was in deadly danger."

"Why?" Pat whispered.

"Because I knew that Dr Fu Manchu was in London. Scientists all over the world have been disappearing. What they had in common was that each one was working in the problem of anti-gravity." He sighed. "You don't know Dr Fu Manchu, Pat—"

"Oh, but I do!" Pat burst out. "He's horrible. I don't think he's quite human—"

Nayland Smith checked her words with upraised hand and boyish smile which' belied his greying hair. "I have often thought the same. Pat. You see, Dr Fu Manchu claims to have solved the puzzle of anti-gravity, though we still don't know whether that is true. I knew he would Want to see Garfield's model. And so I flew home at the earliest possible moment. But I was too late."

"What do you mean. Sir Denis, you were too late?"

"He means," Bruce told her gently, "that while he and I were at the reception, this flat was burgled. I discovered it on my return from the Mayflower and called you at once. There was no reply. Ten minutes' enquiry convinced me that you had disappeared from the moment you left the hotel with some unidentified man."

"I have identified him," Nayland Smith rapped. "Dr Fu Manchu. Pat, the scale model of Garfield's interplanetary vehicle has been stolen. Only he and you knew where it was hidden. And you alone may be able to give us a clue leading to Fu Manchu's London base."

Pat had got no further than her misty recollections of leav ing the hotel when Nayland Smith broke in: "You hadn't been gone an hour before your description was known to most of the Metropolitan police."

Pat looked up at Bruce and went ahead with her story. Her awakening in the silent room, the smell of incense, the complete inertia of brain and body, seemed to convey some message to Nayland Smith, for she saw him nod significantly to Bruce.

"As I thought, Garfield," he said. "And now Pat, please be very detailed about your return from this place — if you can. Do you remember anything at all?"

Pat described the midnight drive, the narrow streets, the Asiatic faces, the wide, deserted thoroughfare, the steamer whistles… ' "The picture is clear. You agree. Inspector?"

"Entirely, Sir Denis. When your signal from Hong Kong reached us last week saying that Dr Fu Manchu had left for London, I got busy. Every known or suspected hideaway of Dr Fu Manchu was combed quietly. The only report that seemed at all warm came from K Division, Limehouse, as I have already told you. I have drawn a ring around a small area down there. I think the place where Miss Merton found herself tonight is inside that ring."

"Then let's not waste a moment," Nayland Smith said, getting to his feet. "We may be too late. Inspector, but we'll have a go at capturing Fu Manchu. He has an inordinately high opinion of his hypnotic powers and may think himself quite safe. But my guess is that Pat came out of her trance sooner than he intended."

As they drove toward Limehouse in a police car, Nayland Smith explained the rest of the story to Pat. "Dr Fu Manchu had learned that you had a key to this flat, that you knew where the model was. hidden. The door in the panelling which only you and Bruce know how to open is closed. But the model has gone. To be sure the plans are locked up in the War Qf-fice, but to a man of Fu Manchu's genius, the model would be enough. He brought you here from the Mayflower under hypnosis. You opened the panel and were taken to some hideaway where he could examine the model at leisure."

"I'll never forgive myself," Pat said sadly.

"Nonsense," Bruce said quickly. "There was nothing you could do about it… "

Their police car raced on through the dark, still streets. Pat remembered the route, began to recognise certain landmarks. A man standing on the corner of a narrow street flashed a light three times as the car approached. "We're inside the cordon," Inspector Haredale reported.

And suddenly, "I remember that alleyway!" Pat exclaimed.

"Pull in on the right here," Haredale directed the driver. "This is where the hard work begins."

The car swung into a dead-end alley and, as they all got out, a man half hidden in its shadows saluted the inspector.

"Any movement, Elkin?"

"Not a thing, sir. If there was anybody in there, he's in there now."

A riverside warehouse, boarded up and marked for demolition, was suspected to be secretly used by Dr Fu Manchu as a temporary base. One of K Division's detectives had found a way into it from a neighbouring building.

"We're in for some climbing. Pat," Nayland Smith warned grimly. "We need you or I wouldn't drag you along. Lead the way. Inspector."

The way was through a building which had an exit on the blind alley. Pat found herself climbing a narrow stair, guided by the beam of a flashlight held by Inspector Haredale. The climb continued until they came to the seventh and final landing. Pat saw an iron ladder leading to a trap in the roof.

"I'll go first, miss," the local detective told her. "It's a darkish night, but I don't want to show a light."

He went up, opened the trap, and stretched his hand down. Pat mounted, Bruce following, Nayland Smith and Haredale bringing up the rear. They stood in a narrow gutter, a sloping slate roof on one side and a sheer drop to the street on the other. An iron ladder to the top of a higher building adjoining led to a flat roof. A few yards away, in fleeting moonlight, Pat saw an oblong skylight.

"I must ask for silence now, sir," Inspector Haredale said. **EIkin, our guide, has managed to open a section of this skylight."

Elkin hauled a rope-ladder from its hiding place, raised part of the skylight, hooked the ladder to the frame and climbed down. From below he flashed a light. "I'm holding the ladder fast," he whispered. "Would you come next, Mr Garfield, and hang on to Miss Merton?"

The ladder was successfully negotiated, and the members of the party found themselves in a stuffy loft impregnated with stifling exotic odours. The warehouse had belonged to a firm of spice importers.

Stairs led down to a series of galleries surrounding a lofty, echoing place where even their cautious footsteps sounded like the tramp of a platoon.

"No use going tiptoe," snapped Nayland Smith. "If there's anyone here, he knows we're here, too. The room you were in was on the ground floor. Pat. So let's get a move on. A little more light. Sergeant."

They descended from gallery to gallery until they reached the bottom. Then they stood still, listening. There was no sound. The place had the odour of a perfume bazaar.

"It was your mention of incense, miss," Inspector Haredale told Pat, "that convinced me you had been here. Now, Elkin, what's the lay of the land?"

"There's an inner office, and a main office beyond which opens right on to the street."

"Stand by for anything," Nayland Smith directed. "If we're lucky, Fu Manchu will be in there. If the door is locked, we'll break it down."

The door was not locked. As it swung open, they saw a lighted room.

"Stay with Pat for a moment, Garfield," Nayland Smith said tersely. "I want to make sure what's ahead."

He stepped in, followed by Haredale and Elkin. There was no one in the room. But as Pat strained forward to peer in, she saw a long couch illuminated by a tall pedestal lamp which shed a peculiar green light. "This is the room I was in!" she cried out.

She and Bruce joined Nayland Smith and, "Good God!" Bruce spoke almost in a whisper. "Can it be true?"

On a table beside the couch a curious object lay gleaming in the rays of the lamp. It was composed of some silver-like metal moulded in the form of two saucers, one inverted above the other and upheld by four squat columns apparently of vulcanite.

"My model!" Bruce shouted, and sprang forward.

"One moment, sir!" Inspector Haredale grasped his arm. "It may be booby-trapped. Elkin, make sure there's no wiring under the table."

As the detective dropped to his knees and began searching, Nayland Smith stepped to the door of the main office. It was locked.

"No wires, sir," Elkin reported. "All clear."

And almost before he had got to his feet Bruce had snatched up the model and was examining it.

"Bruce!" Pat spoke breathless. "Has it been tampered with?"

"I assure you. Miss Merton, it has not!" a sibilant, mocking voice replied.

"Fu Manchu!" Nayland Smith snapped. "He's in the next room. Come on, Haredale. We have him!" He fired three revolver shots in quick order. It was the signal for the raid.

There came a quiet laugh. "Ah, there you are. Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Before you start the raiding party, I have a few words to say. I assume that you are there, Mr Garfield? I could not resist the temptation of telling you myself that you have far to go in the field of gravity. After inspecting your model, I saw no harm in sharing a few facts. So I laid a trail, with the assistance of your charming friend, Miss Merton, which I felt sure you could easily follow."

Bruce, feeling like a man in a dream, said, "Very good of you!"

The wail of police whistles sounded, the roar of a racing engine, the screech as brakes were jammed on in the near-by street.

"Your model, Mr Garfield, is elementary," the strangely sinister voice went on. "But I was interested to examine it. You have advanced only a short way in the science of anti-gravity. But you are on the right route. Listen." The sibilant voice droned on as Dr Fu Manchu became more explicit. Bruce listened, fascinated and rapidly made notes. Finally the voice concluded with this astonishing revelation.

"You may recall the sensation once created by the appearance of socalled flying saucers? Some of these — but not all — were test flights of my anti-gravity machine, which I have since perfected. The others, I assume, were from distant planets."

The door of the outer office was being battered down. A voice shouted, "Inspector Haredale! Are you there?"

"You may call off your raiders," the calm voice continued. "As I know you have already realised — I am not in the other office. I am fifty miles away. When you opened the door of the room in which you stand, you connected me with an amplifying device on a short-wave receiver, which, if you are patient, you may find in the main office. I installed it some time ago to enable me to give orders to subordinates assembled there."

A crash announced the collapse of the street door. Men could be heard running down the stairs from the entrance on the roof. Pat was trembling. There were tears in her voice when she turned to Bruce, who was holding the model. "Bruce, darling, is it true? Have you failed?"

Bruce put the model down, hugged Pat — and laughed. "This is the first model I ever made, and I should have hated to lose it. I suppose I feel about it the way a sculptor feels about a rough clay study for a statue. But it doesn't tell Fu Manchu a thing. What's more, his boastfulness has made him tell me more than I think he meant to. But no one — not even you Pat — knows how far I have gone since that first model. Dr Fu Manchu isn't the only man who has solved the riddle of gravity. The other saucers he mentioned don't come from outer space. And so he's in for a surprise. One of the greatest firms in the world has financed, and is now flighttesting, my own anti-gravity machine. That is the real secret of the flying saucers!"