Free The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories by Sax Rohmer

flooded to the roof in four minutes.”
    “But suppose I held you here, my prisoner?”
    “You must know there is assistance within reach, if I care to call upon it.”
    “Then—quickly,” he rasped: “Say what you mean, and I will give you my answer.”
    “I mean that I want to come with you! Oh, God! Take me away with you, away from all this—anywhere, anywhere! All I know of the Si-Fan I will tell you. I will bring a flame of passion into your cold, lonely life that will alter the face of the world. Take me with you!”
    “The offer,” came a quivering sibilant voice, “is an attractive one. I should advise you to accept it, Sir Denis.”
    Nayland Smith turned in a flash. Fah Lo Suee’s face blanched to the whiteness of her shoulders.
    The tent-like room appeared to be empty behind him, undisturbed—until one of the green draperies was swept aside, revealing a doorway.
    Dr Fu-Manchu stood in it watching them.
    He wore a long black, fur-lined coat, as if newly arrived from a cold journey. His massive head was uncovered, save for its scanty, neutral-coloured hair. And his features were contorted with a fury almost maniacal.
    Hampered by the gown, Nayland Smith’s attempt to draw his automatic was fumbled.
    “Glance beyond me!”
    It was a sibilant command. Smith obeyed it. From shadows of a stairway at the foot of which Fu-Manchu was standing, two blue-grey barrels glittered.
    Dr Fu-Manchu came in, and began, step by feline step, slowly, to approach the cringing woman. His taloned fingers opened and closed as though itching to clutch her throat. A pair of those stocky Burmese whom he used as bodyguards stepped in behind him. They carried heavy automatics.
    “Little serpent!” he hissed in Chinese. “Bred of an evil mother. Why have I cherished you so long? Again and again you have struck at me, treacherously. Again and again I have relented in my purpose to destroy you.”
    Fah Lo Suee shrank back and back. Relentlessly, he continued to draw nearer. Without removing that deathly glance from her face, he spoke aside:
    “One movement, Nayland Smith, and it will be your last.” He advanced another step towards his daughter. “I know, now, but too late, why you begged to be transferred from Java and sent here upon this mission. To betray me! To ruin my labours! To seek out this man—my deadliest enemy—for whom your sensual infatuation has already cost me so dearly!”
    “It isn’t true!”
    The words came as a whisper, from blanched lips.
    “Be silent. Prepare to die with dignity.”
    As if this sentence of death, for it was no less, had struck some new chord in that complex soul, Fah Lo Suee raised her dark head, and pale, motionless, faced the terrible Doctor.
    “You have seen death by the Wire Jacket, in the Six Gates of Wisdom. Such a death as this you merit.” Fah Lo Suee did not flinch—but Nayland Smith did. “Since you must die tonight, this cannot be. When your body is found, it will be known that in death as in life you belonged to the Si-Fan.”
    From an inner pocket, Dr Fu-Manchu took out a small metal box, opened it and snapped up a blue flame. It emitted a slight hissing sound. Nayland Smith clenched his fists, but the bodyguard had drawn nearer. Two barrels were jammed into his ribs.
    Fu-Manchu delicately extracted a metal seal from the box; grasped Fah Lo Suee with his left arm and pressed the seal to her shoulder. She uttered never a sound. But Smith had a glimpse of clenched white teeth between parted lips.
    A muffled explosion shook the cellar. The lamp went out. Harkness’ raiding party had blasted one of the steel doors.
    Out of utter darkness, Fu-Manchu spoke:
    “Your last triumph, Sir Denis! My careful plans to force the United States government to act with me, and not against me, are shattered. And so, we must part.”
    The presence of the pistol barrels prohibited any action. Nayland Smith stood still. A theory which he had always held that Dr Fu-Manchu could see in the