CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As I followed that slim, languorous figure, mentally I put myself in the witness box. And this was the question to which I demanded an answer:
Am I alive or dead?
On the whole, I was disposed now to believe that I was alive. Therefore, I put this second question:
Am I sane?
To which query I could find no answer.
If the occurrences of the last few hours were real, then I had stepped into a world presumably under the aegis of Dr. Fu-Manchu, and presumably in China, where natural laws were flouted; their place taken by laws created by the Chinese physician.
At the foot of the stairs, Fah Lo Suee turned sharply left and opened one of the sliding doors which seemed to be common in the establishment. She beckoned me to follow, and I found myself in a carpeted, warmly lighted corridor. She bent across me to reclose the door.
“You must forget all that is past and all that is puzzling you,” she whispered urgently, speaking close to my ear. “My father knows that you and the little Rose-petal are acquainted. Don’t speak—listen. He will question you, and you will have to answer. When you go to Yamamata’s room, do not fear the injection. But all that you are told will happen when you have received the Blessing of the Celestial Vision, see that you carry out... Pretend—it is your only chance. Pretend! I will see you again as soon as possible. Now follow me.”
These strange words she had spoken with extraordinary rapidity, as she had bent over me, apparently fumbling with the button which controlled the door.
And now, with that slow, lithe, cat-like walk in which again I recognized her father, she moved ahead, leading me. My brain was working with feverish rapidity.
The little Rose-petal!
This must be the Chinese name of Fleurette. Our association, I gathered, did not meet with the approval of Dr. Fu-Manchu. And what was the Blessing of the Celestial Vision? This I had yet to learn.
At the end of the corridor I saw a small green lamp burning before an arched opening. Here, Fah Lo Suee paused, signalling me to be silent.
“Remember,” she whispered.
The green light in the little lamp flickered, and a heavy door of panelled mahogany slid aside noiselessly.
“Go in,” said Fah Lo Suee.
I obeyed. The door closed behind me, and a whiff of air laden with fumes of opium told me that I was in that queer study which, presumably, was the sanctum of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
One glance was enough. He was seated at the big table, his awful but majestic face resting upon one upraised palm. The long nails of his fingers touched his lips. His brilliant eyes fixed me so that I experienced almost a physical shock as I met their gaze.
“Sit down,” he directed.
I discovered that a Chinese stool was set close beside me. I sat down.
Dr. Fu-Manchu continued to watch me. I tried to turn my eyes aside, but failed. The steel-grey eyes of Sir Denis Nayland Smith were hard to evade, but I had never experienced such a thralldom as that cast upon me by the long, narrow, green eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
All my life I had doubted the reality of hypnotism. Sir Denis’s assurance that Fah Lo Suee had nearly succeeded in hypnotizing me at the hospital had not fully registered; I had questioned it. But now, in that small, opiated room, the reality of the art was thrust upon me.
This man’s eyes held a power potent as any drug. When he spoke, his voice reached me through a sort of mist, against which something deep within—my spirit, I suppose—was fighting madly.
“I have learned that you are acquainted with the little flower whose destiny is set upon the peak of a high mountain. Of this, I shall ask you more later. She is nature’s rarest jewel: a perfect woman... You have, unwittingly as I believe, thrust yourself into the cogs of the most delicate machine ever set in motion.”
I closed my eyes. It was a definite physical effort, but I achieved it.
“Now, when you are about to devote your services to the triumph of the Si-Fan, consider the state of the world. The imprint of my hand is upon the nations. Mussolini so far has eluded me; but President Hoover, who stood in my path, makes way for Franklin Roosevelt. Mustapha Pasha is a regrettable nuisance, but my organization in Anatolia neutralizes his influence. Von Hindenburg! The old marshal is a granite monument buried in weeds...!”
Persistently I kept my eyes closed. This dangerous madman was thinking aloud, communicating his insane ideas to a member of the outer world, and at the same time pronouncing my doom—as I realized: for the silence of the father confessor is taken for granted.
“Rumania, the oboe of the Balkan orchestra... I have tried to forget King Carol—but negligible quantities can upset the nicest equation by refusing to disappear. A man ruled by women is always dangerous—unless his women are under my orders... Women are the lever for which Archimedes was searching, but they are a lever which a word can bend. You may have heard, Alan Sterling, that I have failed in my projects. But consider my partial successes. I have disturbed the currencies of the world...”
That strange, guttural voice died away, and I ventured to open my eyes and to look at Dr. Fu-Manchu.
He had lighted a little spirit lamp which formed one of the items upon the littered table, and above the flame, on the end of a needle, he was twirling a bead of opium. He glanced up at me through half-closed eyes.
“Something upon which science has not improved,” he said softly. “Yes, I could hasten the crisis which I have brought about, if I wished to do so.”
He dropped the bead into the jade bowl of a pipe which lay in a tray beside him.
“Here is a small brochure,” he went on, and took a book from a table rack, thrusting it in my direction. “Apologia Alchymiae—a restatement of alchemy. It is the work of a London physician—Mr. Watson Councell, whose recent death I regret, since otherwise I should have solicited his services. There are five hundred copies of this small handbook in circulation. Singular to reflect, Alan Sterling, that no one has attempted the primitive method of manufacturing synthetic gold, as practised by the alchemists and clearly indicated in these few pages. For fable is at least as true as fact. Gold...” He placed the stem of the pipe between his yellow teeth... “I could drown the human race in gold!”
“But Russia is starving, and the United States undernourished. The world is a cheese, consuming itself. Even China—my China...” He fell silent—and I watched him until he replaced the little pipe in its tray and struck a gong which stood near to his left hand.
A pair of Chinamen, identical in appearance, and wearing identical white robes, entered behind me—I suddenly found one at either elbow. Their faces resembled masks carved in old ivory and mellowed by the smoke of incense.
Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke a few rapid words in Chinese—then:
“Companion Yamamata will see you,” he said, his voice now very drowsy, and that queer film creeping over his brilliant eyes; “he will admit you to the Blessing of the Celestial Vision, by which time I shall be ready to discuss with you certain points in regard to the future and to instruct you in your immediate duties.”
One of the Chinese servants touched me upon the shoulder and pointed to the open doorway. I turned and walked out.