The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu by Sax Rohmer (ebook reader below 3000 .TXT) 📕

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“It will be surrounded by police,” interrupted Smith grimly.

 

“As you please,” said Fu-Manchu. “Make your arrangements.

In that ebony case upon the table are the instruments for the cure.

Arrange for me to visit him where and when you will—”

 

“I distrust you utterly. It is some trick,” jerked Smith.

 

Dr. Fu-Manchu rose slowly and drew himself up to his great height.

His manacled hands could not rob him of the uncanny dignity which was his.

He raised them above his head with a tragic gesture and fixed his piercing

gaze upon Nayland Smith.

 

“The God of Cathay hear me,” he said, with a deep, guttural note

in his voice—“I swear—”

 

The most awful visitor who ever threatened the peace of England, the end

of the visit of Fu-Manchu was characteristic—terrible—inexplicable.

 

Strange to relate, I did not doubt that this weird

being had conceived some kind of admiration or respect

for the man to whom he had wrought so terrible an injury.

He was capable of such sentiments, for he entertained some

similar one in regard to myself.

 

A cottage farther down the village street than Weymouth’s was vacant, and in

the early dawn of that morning became the scene of outre happenings.

Poor Weymouth, still in a comatose condition, we removed there (Smith having

secured the key from the astonished agent). I suppose so strange a specialist

never visited a patient before—certainly not under such conditions.

 

For into the cottage, which had been entirely surrounded by a ring

of police, Dr. Fu-Manchu was admitted from the closed car in which,

his work of healing complete, he was to be borne to prison—to death!

 

Law and justice were suspended by my royally empowered friend that the enemy

of the white race might heal one of those who had hunted him down!

 

No curious audience was present, for sunrise was not yet come;

no concourse of excited students followed the hand of the Master;

but within that surrounded cottage was performed one of those

miracles of science which in other circumstances had made the fame

of Dr. Fu-Manchu to live forever.

 

Inspector Weymouth, dazed, disheveled, clutching his head

as a man who has passed through the Valley of the Shadow—

but sane—sane!—walked out into the porch!

 

He looked towards us—his eyes wild, but not with the fearsome

wildness of insanity.

 

“Mr. Smith!” he cried—and staggered down the path—“Dr. Petrie! What—”

 

There came a deafening explosion. From EVERY visible window

of the deserted cottage flames burst forth!

 

“QUICK!” Smith’s voice rose almost to a scream—“into the house!”

 

He raced up the path, past Inspector Weymouth, who stood

swaying there like a drunken man. I was close upon his heels.

Behind me came the police.

 

The door was impassable! Already, it vomited a deathly heat,

borne upon stifling fumes like those of the mouth of the Pit.

We burst a window. The room within was a furnace!

 

“My God!” cried someone. “This is supernatural!”

 

“Listen!” cried another. “Listen!”

 

The crowd which a fire can conjure up at any hour of day

or night, out of the void of nowhere, was gathering already.

But upon all descended a pall of silence.

 

From the heat of the holocaust a voice proclaimed itself—a voice raised,

not in anguish but in TRIUMPH! It chanted barbarically—and was still.

 

The abnormal flames rose higher—leaping forth from every window.

 

“The alarm!” said Smith hoarsely. “Call up the brigade!”

 

I come to the close of my chronicle, and feel that I betray a trust—

the trust of my reader. For having limned in the colors at my

command the fiendish Chinese doctor, I am unable to conclude my task

as I should desire, unable, with any consciousness of finality,

to write Finis to the end of my narrative.

 

It seems to me sometimes that my pen is but temporarily idle—that I

have but dealt with a single phase of a movement having a hundred phases.

One sequel I hope for, and against all the promptings of logic and

Western bias. If my hope shall be realized I cannot, at this time,

pretend to state.

 

The future, ‘mid its many secrets, holds this precious one from me.

 

I ask you then, to absolve me from the charge of ill completing my work;

for any curiosity with which this narrative may leave the reader burdened

is shared by the writer.

 

With intent, I have rushed you from the chambers of Professor

Jenner Monde to that closing episode at the deserted cottage;

I have made the pace hot in order to impart to these last

pages of my account something of the breathless scurry which

characterized those happenings.

 

My canvas may seem sketchy: it is my impression of the reality.

No hard details remain in my mind of the dealings of that night.

Fu-Manchu arrested—Fu-Manchu, manacled, entering the cottage on his

mission of healing; Weymouth, miraculously rendered sane, coming forth;

the place in flames.

 

And then?

 

To a shell the cottage burned, with an incredible rapidity

which pointed to some hidden agency; to a shell about ashes

which held NO TRACE OF HUMAN BONES!

 

It has been asked of me: Was there no possibility of

Fu-Manchu’s having eluded us in the ensuing confusion?

Was there no loophole of escape?

 

I reply, that so far as I was able to judge, a rat could scarce

have quitted the building undetected. Yet that Fu-Manchu had,

in some incomprehensible manner and by some mysterious agency,

produced those abnormal flames, I cannot doubt.

Did he voluntarily ignite his own funeral pyre?

 

As I write, there lies before me a soiled and creased sheet of vellum.

It bears some lines traced in a cramped, peculiar, and all but

illegible hand. This fragment was found by Inspector Weymouth

(to this day a man mentally sound) in a pocket of his ragged garments.

 

When it was written I leave you to judge. How it came to be where Weymouth

found it calls for no explanation:

 

“To Mr. Commissioner NAYLAND SMITH and Dr. PETRIE—

 

“Greeting! I am recalled home by One who may not be denied.

In much that I came to do I have failed. Much that I

have done I would undo; some little I have undone.

Out of fire I came—the smoldering fire of a thing one day

to be a consuming flame; in fire I go. Seek not my ashes.

I am the lord of the fires! Farewell.

 

“FU-MANCHU.”

 

Who has been with me in my several meetings with the man

who penned that message I leave to adjudge if it be the letter

of a madman bent upon self-destruction by strange means,

or the gibe of a preternaturally clever scientist and the most

elusive being ever born of the land of mystery—China.

 

For the present, I can aid you no more in the forming of your verdict.

A day may come though I pray it do not—when I shall be able to throw

new light upon much that is dark in this matter. That day, so far as I

can judge, could only dawn in the event of the Chinaman’s survival;

therefore I pray that the veil be never lifted.

 

But, as I have said, there is another sequel to this story

which I can contemplate with a different countenance.

How, then, shall I conclude this very unsatisfactory account?

 

Shall I tell you, finally, of my parting with lovely, dark-eyed Karamaneh,

on board the liner which was to bear her to Egypt?

 

No, let me, instead, conclude with the words of Nayland Smith:

 

“I sail for Burma in a fortnight, Petrie. I have leave to break my

journey at the Ditch. How would a run up the Nile fit your programme?

Bit early for the season, but you might find something to amuse you!

 

End of Project Gutenberg Etext The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu by Sax Rohmer