The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (english novels for students .txt) 📕
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The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, first published in the UK as The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu, is the first novel to introduce the inimitable Fu-Manchu, famous not just for his moustache, but for being a nigh-unstoppable criminal mastermind and part of the “Yellow Peril.” This novel is a collection of previously-published short stories, slightly re-written by Rohmer to form a cohesive whole.
The narrator, Dr. Petrie, is a sort of Watson to Nayland Smith’s Holmes; but Smith resembles more of a James Bond than a Sherlock Holmes as the two barrel through action scenes and near-death scenarios planned by Fu-Manchu, a master scientist, chemist, and poisoner.
This novel was one of the first to popularize the trope of the “mysterious Chinaman,” an element that later became so clichéd that Ronald Knox, the famous detective story writer, declared that “no Chinaman must figure” in good detective stories.
The casual racism evident in the characters and events is a symptom of the xenophobic climate in the UK at the time, which was precipitated by many things—the Opium Wars, the Boxer Rebellion, Chinese immigration, and other fears. Despite that racism, the plot remains fast-paced and engaging, and is lent a modern air by Fu-Manchu’s role as an early prototype for a Bond supervillain.
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- Author: Sax Rohmer
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The breeze was growing higher, and pungent odor-waves from the damp shrubbery, bearing, too, the oppressive sweetness of the creeping plant, swept constantly through the open window. Inspector Weymouth carefully relighted his cigar.
“I’m with you this far, Mr. Smith,” he said. “Strozza, knowing Sir Lionel to be absent, locked himself in here to rifle the mummy case, for Croxted, entering by way of the window, found the key on the inside. Strozza didn’t know that the Chinaman was hidden in the conservatory—”
“And Kwee did not dare to show himself, because he too was there for some mysterious reason of his own,” interrupted Smith.
“Having got the lid off, something—somebody—”
“Suppose we say the mummy?”
Weymouth laughed uneasily.
“Well, sir, something that vanished from a locked room without opening the door or the window killed Strozza.”
“And something which, having killed Strozza, next killed the Chinaman, apparently without troubling to open the door behind which he lay concealed,” Smith continued. “For once in a way, Inspector, Dr. Fu-Manchu has employed an ally which even his giant will was incapable entirely to subjugate. What blind force—what terrific agent of death—had he confined in that sarcophagus!”
“You think this is the work of Fu-Manchu?” I said. “If you are correct, his power indeed is more than human.”
Something in my voice, I suppose, brought Smith right about. He surveyed me curiously.
“Can you doubt it? The presence of a concealed Chinaman surely is sufficient. Kwee, I feel assured, was one of the murder group, though probably he had only recently entered that mysterious service. He is unarmed, or I should feel disposed to think that his part was to assassinate Sir Lionel whilst, unsuspecting the presence of a hidden enemy, he was at work here. Strozza’s opening the sarcophagus clearly spoiled the scheme.”
“And led to the death—”
“Of a servant of Fu-Manchu. Yes. I am at a loss to account for that.”
“Do you think that the sarcophagus entered into the scheme, Smith?”
My friend looked at me in evident perplexity.
“You mean that its arrival at the time when a creature of the Doctor—Kwee—was concealed here, may have been a coincidence?”
I nodded; and Smith bent over the sarcophagus, curiously examining the garish paintings with which it was decorated inside and out. It lay sideways upon the floor, and seizing it by its edge, he turned it over.
“Heavy,” he muttered; “but Strozza must have capsized it as he fell. He would not have laid it on its side to remove the lid. Hallo!”
He bent farther forward, catching at a piece of twine, and out of the mummy case pulled a rubber stopper or “cork.”
“This was stuck in a hole level with the floor of the thing,” he said. “Ugh! it has a disgusting smell.”
I took it from his hands, and was about to examine it, when a loud voice sounded outside in the hall. The door was thrown open, and a big man, who, despite the warmth of the weather, wore a fur-lined overcoat, rushed impetuously into the room.
“Sir Lionel!” cried Smith eagerly. “I warned you! And see, you have had a very narrow escape.”
Sir Lionel Barton glanced at what lay upon the floor, then from Smith to myself, and from me to Inspector Weymouth. He dropped into one of the few chairs unstacked with books.
“Mr. Smith,” he said, with emotion, “what does this mean? Tell me—quickly.”
In brief terms Smith detailed the happenings of the night—or so much as he knew of them. Sir Lionel Barton listened, sitting quite still the while—an unusual repose in a man of such evidently tremendous nervous activity.
“He came for the jewels,” he said slowly, when Smith was finished; and his eyes turned to the body of the dead Italian. “I was wrong to submit him to the temptation. God knows what Kwee was doing in hiding. Perhaps he had come to murder me, as you surmise, Mr. Smith, though I find it hard to believe. But—I don’t think this is the handiwork of your Chinese doctor.” He fixed his gaze upon the sarcophagus.
Smith stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean, Sir Lionel?”
The famous traveler continued to look towards the sarcophagus with something in his blue eyes that might have been dread.
“I received a wire from Professor Rembold tonight,” he continued. “You were correct in supposing that no one but Strozza knew of my absence. I dressed hurriedly and met the professor at the Traveler’s. He knew that I was to read a paper next week upon”—again he looked toward the mummy case—“the tomb of Mekara; and he knew that the sarcophagus had been brought, untouched, to England. He begged me not to open it.”
Nayland Smith was studying the speaker’s face.
“What reason did he give for so extraordinary a request?” he asked.
Sir Lionel Barton hesitated.
“One,” he replied at last, “which amused me—at the time. I must inform you that Mekara—whose tomb my agent had discovered during my absence in Tibet, and to enter which I broke my return journey to Alexandria—was a high priest and first prophet of Amen—under the Pharaoh of the Exodus; in short, one of the magicians who contested in magic arts with Moses. I thought the discovery unique, until Professor Rembold furnished me with some curious particulars respecting the death of M. Page le Roi, the French Egyptologist—particulars new to me.”
We listened in growing surprise, scarcely knowing to what this tended.
“M. le Roi,” continued Barton, “discovered, but kept secret, the tomb of Amenti—another of this particular brotherhood. It appears that he opened the mummy case on the spot—these
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