The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

Book Details

The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu began as a serial of connected stories in the British paper The Story Teller in October, 1912. In 1913, the serial stories were collected and published in Great Britain as a book entitled The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu. Also in 1913, the Fu-Manchu stories began to be serialized in the United States in Collier’s. Later in 1913, Rohmer slightly rewrote the stories to remove the serialization and turn them into chapters for The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, which was published in the U.S.

Dr. Fu-Manchu was an evil genius and a connoisseur of exotic murder. He disdained the use of guns and knives, favoring exotic poisons, insects, fungi and the use of dacoits, thuggees, and other members of secret societies to effect his will.

After the success of this first Fu-Manchu book, Rohmer followed with The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu in 1916 and The Hand of Dr. Fu-Manchu in 1917. After a fourteen year break from the series, Rohmer returned with ten more Fu-Manchu novels beginning in 1931. Another was published posthumously bringing the total to fourteen Fu-Manchu novels by Sax Rohmer.

There have been a number of films, radio serials, television shows, comic strips, and comic books featuring the evil genius Fu-Manchu.

The first Fu-Manchu appearance on the big screen was in the 1923 British silent film serial The Mystery of Dr. Fu Manchu starring Harry Agar Lyons. After that, he was played by Boris Karloff in The Mask of Fu Manchu (1932) and by Christopher Lee in five films beginning in 1965. In 1980 Peter Sellers was featured in a double role as both Fu Manchu and Nayland Smith in the spoof, The Fiendish Plot of Dr. Fu Manchu.

Arthur Henry Ward (1883-1959) better known as Sax Rohmer, was born in Birmingham, England to a working class family. He got his start in writing as a poet, songwriter, and comedy sketch writer for music hall performers. In 1903, his story “The Mysterious Mummy” was published in Pearson’s Magazine. Gradually Ward turned from writing for the music hall performers to writing short stories and serials for magazines.

Ward reached fame in 1912 with the publication of his Fu-Manchu stories. It was at this time that Ward began using the pseudonym Sax Rohmer.

The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu is a thirty chapter novel. This edition includes The Filmography of Fu-Manchu as an Afterward.  The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu contains 26 illustrations.

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Excerpt: The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

Chapter I

“A  GENTLEMAN to see you, Doctor.”

From across the common a clock sounded the half-hour.

“Ten-thirty!” I said. “A late visitor. Show him up, if you please.”

I pushed my writing aside and tilted the lamp-shade, as footsteps sounded on the landing. The next moment I had jumped to my feet, for a tall, lean man, with his square-cut, clean-shaven face sun-baked to the hue of coffee, entered and extended both hands, with a cry:

“Good old Petrie! Didn’t expect me, I’ll swear!”

“It was Nayland Smith—whom I had thought to be in Burma!

“Smith,” I said, and gripped his hands hard, “this is a delightful surprise! Whatever—however—”

“Excuse me, Petrie!” he broke in. “Don’t put it down to the sun!” And he put out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

I was too surprised to speak.

“No doubt you will think me mad,” he continued, and, dimly, I could see him at the window, peering out into the road, “but before you are many hours older you will know that I have good reason to be cautious. Ah, nothing suspicious! Perhaps I am first this time.” And, stepping back to the writing-table he relighted the lamp.

“Mysterious enough for you?” he laughed, and glanced at my unfinished MS. “A story, eh? From which I gather that the district is beastly healthy—what, Petrie? Well, I can put some material in your way that, if sheer uncanny mystery is a marketable commodity, ought to make you independent of influenza and broken legs and shattered nerves and all the rest.”

I surveyed him doubtfully, but there was nothing in his appearance to justify me in supposing him to suffer from delusions. His eyes were too bright, certainly, and a hardness now had crept over his face. I got out the whisky and siphon, saying:

“You have taken your leave early?”

“I am not on leave,” he replied, and slowly filled his pipe. “I am on duty.”

“On duty!” I exclaimed. “What, are you moved to London or something?”

“I have got a roving commission, Petrie, and it doesn’t rest with me where I am today nor where I shall be tomorrow.”

“There was something ominous in the words, and, putting down my glass, its contents untasted, I faced round and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Out with it!” I said. “What is it all about?”

Smith suddenly stood up and stripped off his coat. Rolling back his left shirt-sleeve he revealed a wicked-looking wound in the fleshy part of the forearm. It was quite healed, but curiously striated for an inch or so around.

“Ever seen one like it?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” I confessed. “It appears to have been deeply cauterized.”

“Right! Very deeply!” he rapped. “A barb steeped in the venom of a hamadryad went in there!”

A shudder I could not repress ran coldly through me at mention of that most deadly of all the reptiles of the East.”

“There’s only one treatment,” he continued, rolling his sleeve down again, “and that’s with a sharp knife, a match, and a broken cartridge. I lay on my back, raving, for three days afterwards, in a forest that stank with malaria, but I should have been lying there now if I had hesitated. Here’s the point. It was not an accident!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it was a deliberate attempt on my life, and I am hard upon the tracks of the man who extracted that venom—patiently, drop by drop—from the poison-glands of the snake, who prepared that arrow, and who caused it to be shot at me.”

“What fiend is this?”

“A fiend who, unless my calculations are at fault is now in London, and who regularly wars with pleasant weapons of that kind. Petrie, I have traveled from Burma not in the interests of the British Government merely, but in the interests of the entire white race, and I honestly believe—though I pray I may be wrong—that its survival depends largely upon the success of my mission.”

To say that I was perplexed conveys no idea of the mental chaos created by these extraordinary statements, for into my humdrum suburban life Nayland Smith had brought fantasy of the wildest. I did not know what to think, what to believe.

“I am wasting precious time!” he rapped decisively, and, draining his glass, he stood up. “I came straight to you, because you are the only man I dare to trust. Except the big chief at headquarters, you are the only person in England, I hope, who knows that Nayland Smith has quitted Burma. I must have someone with me, Petrie, all the time—it’s imperative! Can you put me up here, and spare a few days to the strangest business, I promise you, that ever was recorded in fact or fiction?”

I agreed readily enough, for, unfortunately, my professional duties were not onerous.”

“Good man!” he cried, wringing my hand in his impetuous way. “We start now.”

“What, tonight?”

“Tonight! I had thought of turning in, I must admit. I have not dared to sleep for forty-eight hours, except in fifteen-minute stretches. But there is one move that must be made tonight and immediately. I must warn Sir Crichton Davey.”

“Sir Crichton Davey—of the India—”

“Petrie, he is a doomed man! Unless he follows my instructions without question, without hesitation—before Heaven, nothing can save him! I do not know when the blow will fall, how it will fall, nor from whence, but I know that my first duty is to warn him. Let us walk down to the corner of the common and get a taxi.”

How strangely does the adventurous intrude upon the humdrum; for, when it intrudes at all, more often than not its intrusion is sudden and unlooked for. Today, we may seek for romance and fail to find it: unsought, it lies in wait for us at most prosaic corners of life’s highway.

The drive that night, though it divided the drably commonplace from the wildly bizarre—though it was the bridge between the ordinary and the outré—has left no impression upon my mind. Into the heart of a weird mystery the cab bore me; and in reviewing my memories of those days I wonder that the busy thoroughfares through which we passed did not display before my eyes signs and portents—warnings.

It was not so. I recall nothing of the route and little of import that passed between us (we both were strangely silent, I think) until we were come to our journey’s end. Then:

“What’s this?” muttered my friend hoarsely.

Constables were moving on a little crowd of curious idlers who pressed about the steps of Sir Crichton Davey’s house and sought to peer in at the open door. Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb, Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out and I followed close at his heels.

“What has happened?” he demanded breathlessly of a constable.

The latter glanced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice and bearing commanded respect.

“Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir.”

Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and clutched my shoulder convulsively. Beneath the heavy tan his face had blanched, and his eyes were set in a stare of horror.

“My God!” he whispered. “I am too late!”

Excerpt From: Sax Rohmer. “The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu.”