The Opium Fiends of the East End (7): Fu Manchu
Fu Manchu. Needless to say, it wasn't his real name, nor even a proper Chinese one. It was merely an enigmatic word, a name born from Western prejudices. Yet to anyone in the East End or London who knew even a sliver of the underworld, this name was anything but ridiculous.
They said he'd come to England right after the Opium Wars, but even the Londoners, let alone the Chinese in the East End, knew nothing of his origins. In truth, it would be more accurate to say that no one knew except Fu Manchu himself. That mystery was a tool to inspire awe in others—and Moriarty himself employed the same tactic.
When facing an unknown adversary, especially the head of a vast organization that effectively controlled an enormous den of crime, grotesque rumors were bound to follow. Such things were necessary to stay above the masses. Moriarty was always mindful of it himself, for once a leader lost their charisma, it was over. The moment people realized their superior was no longer some alien entity but merely human—someone they could topple with enough power and effort—rebels would sharpen their knives from all sides to slay the king.
Even when Moriarty joked around with trusted lieutenants like Porlock, they never crossed the line, knowing full well he could cut them down like severing a rope. In Fu Manchu's case, who had built his organization in the East End before Moriarty was even born, there was the added illusion of an exotic unknown from the East.
Ignoramuses often chattered that Fu Manchu dwelled in a grand palace on East End soil, right in the heart of it like China's Forbidden City, where he researched sinister Eastern sorcery and plotted London's—and the West's—downfall. Nonsense, of course. They conveniently forgot that Fu Manchu was just a foreigner who could be crushed by the authorities at any time. No, their feeble minds probably never grasped that far. Moriarty sneered inwardly.
Sadly, among those fools who bought into the rumors was Porlock, whom Moriarty valued for his competence. The poor dimwit looked faintly disappointed to learn that Fu Manchu awaited them not in some fantastical Chinese fortress, but in an ordinary English manor. Spotting the professor's gaze, he quickly shrugged it off and straightened up in denial, but he couldn't fool Moriarty.
Aware of this, Porlock vented his frustration by prodding the wolf-girl, bound like a prisoner and trailing behind them, to hurry up. She answered with a lupine howl. But Moriarty noticed a change in the girl's demeanor. Upon entering Fu Manchu's manor, she—who had been thrashing like a wild beast freshly caged, still too feral to grasp her situation—suddenly grew docile. He could tell she was a little frightened. It irked him slightly, but it was a problem he could tame in time.
The escorts leading Moriarty's group to Fu Manchu were a motley crew: Englishmen, Chinese, Indians, and others, reflecting the immigrant melting pot of the East End. The manor was, naturally, opulent. A mishmash of Chinese and English styles might call it rootless, but no one could deny its extravagance. One could even exaggerate and call it fit for a Chinese emperor.
Moriarty recalled reading in the papers last year about the final suppression of those Taiping rebels or whatever they were—a bizarre cultish Christian uprising in China. Compared to that impoverished emperor, Fu Manchu's wealth wouldn't pale much.
Above all, what struck Moriarty's senses first was the opium scent. The dens that had once sickened the Qing Dynasty had been transplanted by Chinese immigrants to Europe's pleasure districts, including Britain, amassing considerable fortunes. The East End's king was no exception.
Opium dens drew all sorts. There were the squalid ones teeming with penniless paupers, half-crime dens in their own right. But there were also upscale social clubs where pretentious London gentlemen sought fleeting thrills and exotic ambiance. In that sense, though Moriarty and Fu Manchu had no formal alliance, they were already tacit business partners.
As he'd told Porlock, smoking opium didn't preclude enjoying Mariani wine or other dream-inducing elixirs, so his company's client list included several East End dens. Crime consultant M occasionally received "aid" from Fu Manchu as well. The old man was infamous as a sorcerer, but equally renowned for handling poisons from the East. Most could be sourced or mixed in Europe, but he proved useful now and then.
The East End was thus a territory worth claiming. Just a month ago, when Fu Manchu's eldest son had consulted him as a client, Moriarty had planned a slow approach. But that changed upon facing the aged Chinese king.
"Dr. Moriarty, thank you for accepting my invitation. Call me Dr. Fu Manchu."
"The honor is mine, Dr. Fu Manchu. Ah, but I'm no doctor—appointed without a degree. Just 'Professor' will do."
The reception room welcoming the guests held Fu Manchu and several others. Familiar faces included his eldest son, who stood with a dissatisfied expression after seeking Moriarty out. Beside him were a half-blood woman and younger men—Moriarty deduced they were the old king's children.
Fu Manchu matched the imagined image of a malevolent Chinese sorcerer perfectly. More precisely, he deliberately cultivated that image. Long, thin beard, traditional queue hairstyle, elongated nails. But a close look at the old man's nails revealed discoloration and residue from chemicals.
He was smaller than expected—especially next to the tall Moriarty. Most striking was his face: eyes still burning with life's will, but shadowed underneath, complexion wan.
The rumors of his decline are true. Not yet fatal, but a weakening king was good news. Vulnerabilities bred traitors. And if his client's intel was accurate, things would get even more entertaining.
"My apologies, Professor Moriarty. Shall we dine first? That said... I hear the wolf cub from my turf offended you."
"It's fine; I rather enjoyed it. Might I bring this one along as well?"
A brief silence. Fu Manchu's eyes narrowed in surprise at the unexpected request.
"If you wish, I can punish her now. If she sours your appetite, I can have my men drag her off for beheading or whatever before the meal. Is that necessary?"
"Couldn't we settle her fate after our important business?"
"Very well."
At the exchange between Moriarty and Fu Manchu, the girl's ears twitched. Moriarty didn't miss it. Fortunately, Fu Manchu soon lost interest in the child, ordering the meal. A simple repast with the Chinese began.
Idle chatter ensued—mostly formal probing, meaningless pleasantries.
"I hope the food suits you."
"Most of it's English, isn't it? Look at Porlock here; he's devouring it, so I'm quite satisfied."
At the professor's remark, Porlock stealthily set down his fork, but no one paid him mind. Unlike the others, Fu Manchu barely ate. Seeming aware he couldn't hide his illness, he'd excused himself and reclined to smoke an opium pipe. Thankfully not fully intoxicated, the conversation with the East End's ruler continued.
"Frankly, I was surprised to meet you, Professor. Far younger than I imagined. Impressive that someone so young unified the West End."
"Still a long road ahead."
"Which is why an alliance could propel us further. What do you think?"
"Aren't we already trading—doing business—tacitly, Dr. Fu Manchu?"
"You know that's not what I mean, clever as you are."
"Isn't cooperation between equals? My apologies if 'cooperation' means something else in Chinese."
Another silence.
"...No rush for an answer, of course. We must act as gentlemen—this is England, after all. Unlike how you English forced opium on my country and waged war, we shall be civilized."
"Glad to hear it. And for the record, I'm Irish, Dr. Fu Manchu."
He felt no such identity, no attachment to any homeland, but it was a card to play when needed. Porlock, gauging the mood, cracked his knuckles in preparation but caught the professor's eye and reluctantly picked up his fork, poking at the rice grains left on his plate.
"My error. Still, consider it a positive overture."
"Sudden proposals need time. And one thing... if you'll pardon the rudeness, I'm still young, aren't I?"
"...Go on. What are you getting at?"
"Should we collaborate, Dr. Fu Manchu, I'd need to deal with your successor too. So... which one here is it? Your heir?"
The old Chinese fell silent. No immediate reply, just awkward tension. Realizing his slip, he spat coldly:
"That's none of your concern yet."
"My apologies; not decided, then. As atonement, how about a wager?"
"A wager?"
"Simple card game—it's England, after all. If you win, Dr. Fu Manchu, I'll accept any alliance here and now."
"...And if I lose, what do you take?"
"Give me this little one."
Moriarty smiled, resting a hand atop the silent girl's head beside him.