Free The Mask of Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

I mean this Mokanna movement is going to play hell in Persia if it goes on. As you started it—you’re not popular.”
    “Never have been,” growled the chief; “never expect to be.”
    “Not the point,” rapped Smith. “There’s going to be worse to come—when they know.”
    A silence followed which I can remember more vividly than many conversations. Rima squeezed my arm and looked up at me in a troubled way. Sir Denis was not a man to panic. But he had made it perfectly clear that he took a grave view of the situation.
    Sir Lionel had fenced with the local authorities throughout, knowing that they could have no official information regarding the relics—since, outside our own party (and now Captain Woodville and Stratton Jean), nobody but Amir Khan knew we had found them.
    At the cost of one life in our camp and two in their own the enemy had secured the green box... but the green box was empty! I knew now why the chief had been so conscience-stricken by the death of Van Berg; I knew that the relics had never been where we all supposed them to be from the time that we came to Ispahan.
    Van Berg had died defending an empty box...
    Sir Lionel began to laugh in his boisterous fashion.
    “We’ve scored over them. Smith!” he shouted, and shook his clenched fist. They had Van Berg—but we got a pair of the swine tonight! Topping it all—they’ve drawn a blank!”
    His laughter ceased, and that wonderful, lined old face settled down again into the truculent mask which was the front Sir Lionel Barton showed to the world.
    “It’s a poor triumph,” he added, “to pay for the loss of Van Berg.”
    Nayland Smith ceased his promenade at the window and stood with his back to all of us, staring out.
    “I don’t know where you’ve hidden the relics, Barton,” he said slowly, “but I may have to ask you to tell me. One thing I do know. This part of the East is no longer healthy for any of us. The second attempt has failed—but the third…”
    “What are you suggesting?” Sir Lionel growled; “that I give ’em up? Suppose it came to that. Who am I dealing with?”
    Nayland Smith did not turn. But:
    “I believe I can tell you,” he answered quietly.
    “Then tell me! Don’t throw out hints. Speak up, man!”
    At that, Nayland Smith turned and stared at the speaker, remaining silent for some moments. At last:
    “I flew here in a two-seater from Basra,” he replied. “There was no other aircraft available in the neighbourhood. I have already made arrangements, however. Imperial Airways have lent us a taxi. You must realise. Barton, the position is serious.”
    Something in his manner temporarily silenced the chief; until:
    “I do realise it,” he admitted grudgingly. “Some organiser has got hold of this wave of fanaticism which my blowing up of El Mokanna’s tomb started, and he realises—I suppose that’s what you’re driving at?—that production of the actual relics would clinch the matter. Am I right?”
    “You are!” said Nayland Smith. “And I must ask you to consider one or two facts. The drug which was used in the case of Van Berg, and again last night, is, I admit, unfamiliar. But the method of employment is not. You see what I mean?”
    Rima’s grip on my arm tightened; and:
    “Shan,” she said, looking up at me, “it was what happened two years ago in England!”
    The chief’s face was a study. Under tufted eyebrows he was positively glaring at Nayland Smith. The latter continued:
    “Rima begins to realise what I mean. The device for passing from house to house without employing the usual method of descending to the street is also familiar to me. It was experience , and nothing else, that enabled me to deal with the affair of last night.”
    He paused, and I found my mind working feverishly. Then, bringing that odd conversation to a dramatic head, came a husky query from Sir Lionel.
    “Good God! Smith!” he said. “He can’t be behind this?”
    The emphasis on “he”