Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (read aloud TXT) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (read aloud TXT) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
Dr. Gray, a neighboring practitioner, appeared in the doorway at the moment that I spoke the words.
“It’s all right, Petrie,” he said, reassuringly; “I think we took it in time. I have thoroughly cauterized the wounds, and granted that no complication sets in, he’ll be on his feet again in a week or two.”
I suppose I was in a condition closely bordering upon the hysterical. At any rate, my behavior was extraordinary. I raised both my hands above my head.
“Thank God!” I cried at the top of my voice, “thank God!—thank God!”
“Thank Him, indeed,” responded the musical voice of Aziz. He spoke with all the passionate devoutness of the true Moslem.
Everything, even Karamaneh was forgotten, and I started for the door as though my life depended upon my speed. With one foot upon the landing, I turned, looked back, and met the glance of Inspector Weymouth.
“What have you done with—the body?” I asked.
“We haven’t been able to get to it. That end of the vault collapsed two minutes after we hauled you out!”
As I write, now, of those strange days, already they seem remote and unreal. But, where other and more dreadful memories already are grown misty, the memory of that evening in my rooms remains clear-cut and intimate. It marked a crisis in my life.
During the days that immediately followed, whilst Smith was slowly recovering from his hurts, I made my plans deliberately; I prepared to cut myself off from old associations—prepared to exile myself, gladly; how gladly I cannot hope to express in mere cold words.
That my friend approved of my projects, I cannot truthfully state, but his disapproval at least was not openly expressed. To Karamaneh I said nothing of my plans, but her complete reliance in my powers to protect her, now, from all harm, was at once pathetic and exquisite.
Since, always, I have sought in these chronicles to confine myself to the facts directly relating to the malignant activity of Dr. Fu-Manchu, I shall abstain from burdening you with details of my private affairs. As an instrument of the Chinese doctor, it has sometimes been my duty to write of the beautiful Eastern girl; I cannot suppose that my readers have any further curiosity respecting her from the moment that Fate freed her from that awful servitude. Therefore, when I shall have dealt with the episodes which marked our voyage to Egypt—I had opened negotiations in regard to a practice in Cairo—I may honorably lay down my pen.
These episodes opened, dramatically, upon the second night of the voyage from Marseilles.
CHAPTER XXXI. “MY SHADOW LIES UPON YOU”
I suppose I did not awake very readily. Following the nervous vigilance of the past six months, my tired nerves, in the enjoyment of this relaxation, were rapidly recuperating. I no longer feared to awake to find a knife at my throat, no longer dreaded the darkness as a foe.
So that the voice may have been calling (indeed, had been calling) for some time, and of this I had been hazily conscious before finally I awoke. Then, ere the new sense of security came to reassure me, the old sense of impending harm set my heart leaping nervously. There is always a certain physical panic attendant upon such awakening in the still of night, especially in novel surroundings. Now, I sat up abruptly, clutching at the rail of my berth and listening.
There was a soft thudding on my cabin door, and a voice, low and urgent, was crying my name.
Through the open porthole the moonlight streamed into my room, and save for a remote and soothing throb, inseparable from the progress of a great steamship, nothing else disturbed the stillness; I might have floated lonely upon the bosom of the Mediterranean. But there was the drumming on the door again, and the urgent appeal:
“Dr. Petrie! Dr. Petrie!”
I threw off the bedclothes and stepped on to the floor of the cabin, fumbling hastily for my slippers. A fear that something was amiss, that some aftermath, some wraith of the dread Chinaman, was yet to come to disturb our premature peace, began to haunt me. I threw open the door.
Upon the gleaming deck, blackly outlined against a wondrous sky, stood a man who wore a blue greatcoat over his pyjamas, and whose unstockinged feet were thrust into red slippers. It was Platts, the Marconi operator.
“I’m awfully sorry to disturb you, Dr. Petrie,” he said, “and I was even less anxious to arouse your neighbor; but somebody seems to be trying to get a message, presumably urgent, through to you.”
“To me!” I cried.
“I cannot make it out,” admitted Platts, running his fingers through disheveled hair, “but I thought it better to arouse you. Will you come up?”
I turned without a word, slipped into my dressing-gown, and with Platts passed aft along the deserted deck. The sea was as calm as a great lake. Ahead, on the port bow, an angry flambeau burned redly beneath the peaceful vault of the heavens. Platts nodded absently in the direction of the weird flames.
“Stromboli,” he said; “we shall be nearly through the Straits by breakfast-time.”
We mounted the narrow stair to the Marconi deck. At the table sat Platts’ assistant with the Marconi attachment upon his head—an apparatus which always set me thinking of the electric chair.
“Have you got it?” demanded my companion as we entered the room.
“It’s still coming through,” replied the other without moving, “but in the same jerky fashion. Every time I get it, it seems to have gone back to the beginning—just Dr. Petrie—Dr. Petrie.”
He began to listen again for the elusive message. I turned to Platts.
“Where is it being sent from?” I asked.
Platts shook his head.
“That’s the mystery,” he declared. “Look!”—and he pointed to the table; “according to the Marconi chart, there’s a Messagerie boat due west between us and Marseilles, and the homeward-bound P. & O. which we passed this morning must be getting on that way also, by now. The Isis is somewhere ahead, but I’ve spoken to all these, and the message comes from none of them.”
“Then it may come from Messina.”
“It doesn’t come from Messina,” replied the man at the table, beginning to write rapidly.
Platts stepped forward and bent over the message which the other was writing.
“Here it is!” he cried, excitedly; “we’re getting it.”
Stepping in turn to the table, I leaned over between the two and read these words as the operator wrote them down:
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