The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (icecream ebook reader TXT) 📕

Nayland Smith returned from the telephone. Nearly twenty-four hours had elapsed since the awful death of Burke.

“No news, Petrie,” he said, shortly. “It must have crept into some inaccessible hole to die.”

I glanced up from my notes. Smith settled into the white cane armchair, and began to surround himself with clouds of aromatic smoke. I took up a half-sheet of foolscap covered with penciled writing in my friend’s cramped characters, and transcribed the following, in order to complete my account of the latest Fu-Manchu outrage:

“The Amharun, a Semitic tribe allied to the Falashas, who have been settled for many generations in the southern province of Shoa (Abyssinia) have been regarded as unclean and outcast, apparently since the days of Menelek—son of Suleyman and the Queen of Sheba—from whom they claim descent. Apart from their custom of eating meat cut from living beasts, they are accursed because of their alleged association with the Cynocephalus hamadryas (Sacred Baboon). I, myself, was taken to a hut on the banks of the Hawash and shown a creature... whose predominant trait was an unreasoning malignity toward... and a ferocious tenderness for the society of its furry brethren. Its powers of scent were fully equal to those of a bloodhound, whilst its abnormally long forearms possessed incredible strength... a Cynocephalyte such as this, contracts phthisis even in the more northern provinces of Abyssinia...”

“You have not explained to me, Smith,” I said, having completed this note, “how you got in touch with Fu-Manchu; how you learnt that he was not dead, as we had supposed, but living—active.”

Nayland Smith stood up and fixed his steely eyes upon me with an indefinable expression in them. Then:

“No,” he replied; “I haven’t. Do you wish to know?”

“Certainly,” I said with surprise; “is there any reason why I should not?”

“There is no real reason,” said Smith; “or”—staring at me very hard—“I hope there is no real reason.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well”—he grabbed up his pipe from the table and began furiously to load it—“I blundered upon the truth one day in Rangoon. I was walking out of a house which I occupied there for a time, and as I swung around the corner into the main street, I ran into—literally ran into...”

Again he hesitated oddly; then closed up his pouch and tossed it into the cane chair. He struck a match.

“I ran into Karamaneh,” he continued abruptly, and began to puff away at his pipe, filling the air with clouds of tobacco smoke.

I caught my breath. This was the reason why he had kept me so long in ignorance of the story. He knew of my hopeless, uncrushable sentiments toward the gloriously beautiful but utterly hypocritical and evil Eastern girl who was perhaps the most dangerous of all Dr. Fu-Manchu’s servants; for the power of her loveliness was magical, as I knew to my cost.

“What did you do?” I asked quietly, my fingers drumming upon the table.

“Naturally enough,” continued Smith, “with a cry of recognition I held out both my hands to her, gladly. I welcomed her as a dear friend regained; I thought of the joy with which you would learn that I had found the missing one; I thought how you would be in Rangoon just as quickly as the fastest steamer could get you there...”

“Well?”

“Karamaneh started back and treated me to a glance of absolute animosity. No recognition was there, and no friendliness—only a sort of scornful anger.”

He shrugged his shoulders and began to walk up and down the room.

“I do not know what you would have done in the circumstances, Petrie, but I—”

“Yes?”

“I dealt with the situation rather promptly, I think. I simply picked her up without another word, right there in the public street, and raced back into the house, with her kicking and fighting like a little demon! She did not shriek or do anything of that kind, but fought silently like a vicious wild animal. Oh! I had some scars, I assure you; but I carried her up into my office, which fortunately was empty at the time, plumped her down in a chair, and stood looking at her.”

“Go on,” I said rather hollowly; “what next?”

“She glared at me with those wonderful eyes, an expression of implacable hatred in them! Remembering all that we had done for her; remembering our former friendship; above all, remembering you—this look of hers almost made me shiver. She was dressed very smartly in European fashion, and the whole thing had been so sudden that as I stood looking at her I half expected to wake up presently and find it all a day-dream. But it was real—as real as her enmity. I felt the need for reflection, and having vainly endeavored to draw her into conversation, and elicited no other answer than this glare of hatred—I left her there, going out and locking the door behind me.”

“Very high-handed?”

“A commissioner has certain privileges, Petrie, and any action I might choose to take was not likely to be questioned. There was only one window to the office, and it was fully twenty feet above the level; it overlooked a narrow street off the main thoroughfare (I think I have explained that the house stood on a corner) so I did not fear her escaping. I had an important engagement which I had been on my way to fulfil when the encounter took place, and now, with a word to my native servant—who chanced to be downstairs—I hurried off.”

Smith’s pipe had gone out as usual, and he proceeded to relight it, whilst, with my eyes lowered, I continued to drum upon the table.

“This boy took her some tea later in the afternoon,” he continued, “and apparently found her in a more placid frame of mind. I returned immediately after dusk, and he reported that when last he had looked in, about half an hour earlier, she