The Trail of Fu-Manchu
Sax Rohmer
“Insidious fun from out of the past. Evil as always, Fu-Manchu reviles as well as thrills us.”
Joe R. Lansdale, recipient of the Horror Writers Association Lifetime Achievement Award
“Without Fu-Manchu we wouldn’t have Dr. No, Doctor Doom or Dr. Evil. Sax Rohmer created the first truly great evil mastermind. Devious, inventive, complex, and fascinating. These novels inspired a century of great thrillers!”
Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Assassin’s Code and Patient Zero
“The true king of the pulp mystery is Sax Rohmer—and the shining ruby in his crown is without a doubt his Fu-Manchu stories.”
James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Colony
“Fu-Manchu remains the definitive diabolical mastermind of the 20th Century. Though the arch-villain is ‘the Yellow Peril incarnate,’ Rohmer shows an interest in other cultures and allows his protagonist a complex set of motivations and a code of honor which often make him seem a better man than his Western antagonists. At their best, these books are very superior pulp fiction... at their worst, they’re still gruesomely readable.”
Kim Newman, award-winning author of Anno Dracula
“Sax Rohmer is one of the great thriller writers of all time! Rohmer created in Fu-Manchu the model for the super-villains of James Bond, and his hero Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie are worthy stand-ins for Holmes and Watson... though Fu-Manchu makes Professor Moriarty seem an under-achiever.”
Max Allan Collins, New York Times bestselling author of The Road to Perdition
“I grew up reading Sax Rohmer’s Fu-Manchu novels, in cheap paperback editions with appropriately lurid covers. They completely entranced me with their vision of a world constantly simmering with intrigue and wildly overheated ambitions. Even without all the exotic detail supplied by Rohmer’s imagination, I knew full well that world wasn’t the same as the one I lived in... For that alone, I’m grateful for all the hours I spent chasing around with Nayland Smith and his stalwart associates, though really my heart was always on their intimidating opponent’s side.”
K. W. Jeter, acclaimed author of Infernal Devices
“A sterling example of the classic adventure story, full of excitement and intrigue. Fu-Manchu is up there with Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan, and Zorro—or more precisely with Professor Moriarty, Captain Nemo, Darth Vader, and Lex Luthor—in the imaginations of generations of readers and moviegoers.”
Charles Ardai, award-winning novelist and founder of Hard Case Crime
“I love Fu-Manchu, the way you can only love the really GREAT villains. Though I read these books years ago he is still with me, living somewhere deep down in my guts, between Professor Moriarty and Dracula, plotting some wonderfully hideous revenge against an unsuspecting mankind.”
Mike Mignola, creator of Hellboy
“Fu-Manchu is one of the great villains in pop culture history, insidious and brilliant. Discover him if you dare!”
Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling co-author of Baltimore: The Plague Ships
“Exquisitely detailed... [Sax Rohmer] is a colorful storyteller. It was quite easy to be reading away and suddenly realize that I’d been reading for an hour or more without even noticing. It’s like being taken back to the cold and fog of London streets.”
Entertainment Affairs
“Acknowledged classics of pulp fiction... the bottom line is Fu-Manchu, despite all the huffing and puffing about sinister Oriental wiles and so on, always comes off as the coolest, baddest dude on the block.”
Comic Book Resources
“Undeniably entertaining and fun to read... It’s pure pulp entertainment—awesome, and hilarious and wrong. Read it.”
Shadowlocked
“The perfect read to get your adrenalin going and root for the good guys to conquer a menace that is almost supremely evil. This is a wild ride read and I recommend it highly.”
Vic’s Media Room
THE COMPLETE FU-MANCHU SERIES
BY SAX ROHMER
Available now from Titan Books:
THE MYSTERY OF DR. FU-MANCHU
THE RETURN OF DR. FU-MANCHU
THE HAND OF DR. FU-MANCHU
DAUGHTER OF FU-MANCHU
THE MASK OF FU-MANCHU
THE BRIDE OF FU-MANCHU
Coming soon from Titan Books:
PRESIDENT FU-MANCHU
THE DRUMS OF FU-MANCHU
THE ISLAND OF FU-MANCHU
THE SHADOW OF FU-MANCHU
RE-ENTER FU-MANCHU
EMPEROR FU-MANCHU
THE WRATH OF FU-MANCHU
THE TRAIL OF
DR. FU-MANCHU
SAX ROHMER
TITAN BOOKS
THE TRAIL OF FU-MANCHU
Print edition ISBN: 9780857686091
E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686756
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First published as a novel in the UK by William Collins & Co. Ltd, 1934
First published as a novel in the US by Doubleday, Doran, 1934
First Titan Books edition: September 2013
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Copyright © 2013 The Authors Guild and the Society of Authors
Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com
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Frontispiece illustration by John Richard Flanagan, first appearing in Collier’s Weekly, April 28 1934. Special thanks to Dr. Lawrence Knapp for the illustrations as they appeared on “The Page of Fu-Manchu,” http://www.njedge.net/~knapp/FuFrames.htm
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Contents
Chapter One: The Great Fog
Chapter Two: The Porcelain Venus
Chapter Three: Sterling’s Story
Chapter Four: Pietro Ambroso’s Studio
Chapter Five: P.C. Ireland is Uneasy
Chapter Six: Dr. Norton’s Patient
Chapter Seven: Lash Marks
Chapter Eight: Fog in High Places
Chapter Nine: The Tomb of The Demurases
Chapter Ten: The Mark of Kali
Chapter Eleven: Sam Pak of Limehouse
Chapter Twelve: London River
Chapter Thirteen: A Tongue of Fire
Chapter Fourteen: At Sam Pak’s
Chapter Fifteen: A Lighted Window
Chapter Sixteen: A Burning Ghat
Chapter Seventeen: The Game Flies West
Chapter Eighteen: “I Belong to China”
Chapter Nineteen: Rowan
House
Chapter Twenty: Gold
Chapter Twenty-One: Gallaho and Sterling Set Out
Chapter Twenty-Two: Gallaho Runs
Chapter Twenty-Three: Fleurette
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Lacquer Room
Chapter Twenty-Five: Curari
Chapter Twenty-Six: Dr. Fu-Manchu
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Pit and the Furnace
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Tunnel Below Water
Chapter Twenty-Nine: At the Blue Anchor
Chapter Thirty: The Hunchback
Chapter Thirty-One: The Si-Fan
Chapter Thirty-Two: Iron Doors
Chapter Thirty-Three: Daughter of the Manchus
Chapter Thirty-Four: More Iron Doors
Chapter Thirty-Five: The Furnace
Chapter Thirty-Six: Dim Roaring
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Chinese Justice
Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Blue Light
Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Lotus Gate
Chapter Forty: A Fight to the Death
Chapter Forty-One: The Last Bus
Chapter Forty-Two: Nayland Smith Refuses
Chapter Forty-Three: Catastrophe
Chapter Forty-Four: At Scotland Yard
Chapter Forty-Five: The Match Seller
Chapter Forty-Six: Gallaho Explores
Chapter Forty-Seven: The Waterspout
Chapter Forty-Eight: Gallaho Brings Up the Rear
Chapter Forty-Nine: Waiting
Chapter Fifty: The Night Watchman
Chapter Fifty-One: Night Watchman’s Story
Chapter Fifty-Two: “I am Calling You”
Chapter Fifty-Three: Powers of Dr. Fu-Manchu
Chapter Fifty-Four: Gallaho Explores Further
Chapter Fifty-Five: Mimosa
Chapter Fifty-Six: Ibrahim
Chapter Fifty-Seven: A Call for Petrie
Chapter Fifty-Eight: John Ki
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Limehouse
Chapter Sixty: Dr. Petrie’s Patient
Chapter Sixty-One: The Crosslands’ Flat
Chapter Sixty-Two: Companion Crossland
About the Author
Appreciating Doctor Fu-Manchu
“I suggest that the beautiful figure which Preston saw was not constructed at Sèvres, but was Fleuette in that trance which only Fu-Manchu is able to induce.”
CHAPTER ONE
THE GREAT FOG
“Who’s there?”
P.C. Ireland raised his red lantern, staring with smarting eyes through moving wreaths of yellow mist. Visibility was nil. This was the great fog of 1934—the worst in memory.
No one replied—there was no sound.
The constable shook himself, and setting the lantern down at his feet, flapped his arms in an endeavor to restore circulation. This chilliness was not wholly physical. Something funny was going on—something he didn’t like. He stood quite still again, listening.
Three times he had heard that sound resembling nothing so much as the hard breathing of some animal, quite close to him in the fog—some furtive thing that crept by stealthily... And now, he heard it again.
“Who’s there?” he challenged, snatching up the red lamp.
None answered. The sound ceased—if it had ever existed.
Traffic had been brought to a standstill some hours before; pedestrians there were none. King Fog held the city of London in bondage. The silence was appalling. P.C. Ireland felt as though he was enveloped in a wet blanket from head to feet.
“I’ll go and have another look,” he muttered.
He began to grope his way up a short, semicircular drive to the door of a house. He had no idea what danger threatened Professor Ambroso, but he knew that he would be in for a bad time from the inspector if anyone entered or left the professor’s house unchallenged...
His foot struck the bottom of the three steps which led up to the door. Ireland mounted slowly; but not until his red lamp was almost touching the woodwork, could he detect the fact that the door was closed. He stood there awhile listening, but could hear nothing. He groped his way back to his post at the gate.
The police phone box was not fifty yards away; he would have welcomed any excuse to call up the station; to establish contact with another human being—to be where there was some light other than the dim red glow of his lantern, which, sometimes when he set it down, resembled, seen through the moving clouds of mist, the baleful eye of a monster glaring up at him.
He regained the gate and put the lantern down. He wondered when, if ever, he would be relieved. Discipline was all very well, but on occasions like this damned fog, when men who ought to have been in bed were turned out, a quiet smoke was the next best thing to a drink.
He groped under his oilskin cape for the packet, took out a cigarette and lighted it. He felt for the coping beside the gate and sat down. The fog appeared to be getting denser. Then in a flash he was on his feet again.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
Stooping, he snatched up the red lantern and began to grope his way towards the other end of the semicircular drive.
“I can see you!” he cried, slightly reassured by the sound of his own voice—“Don’t try any funny business with me!”
He bumped into the half-open gate, and pulled up, listening. Silence. He had retained his cigarette, and now he replaced it between his lips. It was the blasted fog, of course, that was getting on his nerves. He was beginning to imagine things. It wouldn’t do at all. But he sincerely wished that Waterlow would come along to relieve him, knowing in his heart of hearts that Waterlow hadn’t one chance in a thousand of finding the point.
“Stick there till you’re relieved,” had been the inspector’s order.
“All-night job for me,” Ireland murmured, sadly.
What was the matter with this old bloke, Ambroso? He leaned against the gate and reflected. It was something about a valuable statue that somebody wanted to pinch, or something. Ireland found it difficult to imagine why anyone should want to steal a statue. The silence was profound—uncanny. To one used to the bombilation of London, even in the suburbs, it seemed unnatural. He had more than half smoked his cigarette when—there it was again!
Heavy breathing and a vague shuffling sound.
Ireland dropped his cigarette and snatched up his lantern. He made a surprising spring in the direction of the sound.
“Come here, damn you!” he shouted. “What the hell’s the game?”
And this time he had a glimpse of—something!
It rather shook him. It might have been a crouching man, or it might have been an animal. It was very dim, just touched by the outer glow of his lantern. But Ireland was no weakling. He made another surprising leap, one powerful hand outstretched. The queer shape sprang aside and was lost again in the fog.
“What the hell is it?” Ireland muttered.
Aware again of that unaccountable chill, he peered around him, holding the lantern up. He had lost his bearings. Where the devil was the house? He made a rapid calculation, turned about and began to walk slowly forward. He walked for some time in this manner, till his outstretched hand touched a railing. He had crossed to the verge of the Common.
He was on the wrong side of the road.
His back to the railings, he set out again. He estimated that he was half-way across, when:
“Help!” came a thin, muffled scream—the voice of a woman. “For God’s sake help me!”
The cry came from right ahead. P.C. Ireland moved more rapidly, grinding his teeth together. He had not been wrong—there was something funny going on. It might be murder. And, his heart beating fast, and all his training urging “hurry—hurry!” he could only crawl along. By sheer good luck he bumped into the half-open gate of the semicircular drive.
Evidently that cry had come from the house.
He moved forward more confidently—he was familiar with the route. Presently, a dim light glowed through the wet blanket of the fog. The door was open.
&
nbsp; Ireland stumbled up the steps and found himself in a large lobby, brightly lighted. Fog streamed in behind him like the fetid breath of some monstrous dragon. There were pictures and statuettes; thick carpet on the floor; rugs and a wide staircase leading upwards. It was very warm. A coal fire had burned low in an open grate on one side of the lobby.
“Hello there!” he shouted. “I’m a police officer. Who called?”
There was no answer.
“Hi!” Ireland yelled at the top of his voice. “Is there anyone at home?”
He stood still, listening. A piece of coal dropped from the fire onto the tiled hearth. Ireland started. The house was silent—as silent as the fog-bound streets outside, and great waves of clammy mist were pouring in at the open door.
The constable put down his red lantern on a little coffee table, and began to look about him apprehensively. Then he walked to the foot of the stairs and trumpeted through cupped hands:
“Is there anyone there?”
Silence.
He was uncertain of his duty. Furthermore, this brightly lighted but apparently empty house was even more perturbing than the silence of the Common. A telephone stood on a ledge, not a yard from the coffee table. Ireland took up the instrument.
A momentary pause, during which he kept glancing apprehensively about him, and then:
“Wandsworth police station—urgent!” he said. “Police calling.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE PORCELAIN VENUS
That phenomenal fog which over a great part of Europe heralded and ushered in the New Year, was responsible for many things that were strange and many that were horrible. Amongst the latter the wreck of the Paris-Strasbourg express and the tragic crash of an Imperial Airways liner. The triumphant fog demon was responsible, also, for the present predicament of P.C. Ireland.
A big car belonging to the Flying Squad of Scotland Yard, and provided with special fog lights, stood outside Wandsworth police station. And in the divisional-inspector’s office a conversation was taking place which, could P.C. Ireland have heard it, would have made that intelligent officer realize the importance of his solitary vigil.
