by Sax Rohmer
The heavy fur coat draped carefully across his arm:
“A cup of tea, madam?” he suggested.
“English tea,” snapped Nayland Smith.
“Thank you,” said Miss Lakin, smiling faintly; “you tempt me. Yes, I think I should enjoy a cup of tea.”
Nayland Smith stood before the mantelpiece, hands behind him. He had that sort of crisp, wavy hair, silvery now at the sides, which always looks in order; he was cleanly shaven, and his dark-skinned face offered no evidence of the fact that he had had only six hours’ sleep in the past forty-eight. He wore a very old tweed suit, and what looked like a striped shirt with an attached collar, but which closer scrutiny would have revealed to be a pyjama jacket. As Fey went out:
“Miss Lakin,” he continued, and his manner was that of a man feverishly anxious, “you have brought me the letter to which you referred?”
Sarah Lakin took an envelope out of her handbag and handed it to Nayland Smith, watching him with her steady, grave eyes. He took it, glanced at the hand-written address, then crossed to the writing-table.
“I have also,” she said, “a note of the place at which we were to communicate with the very unpleasant person who called upon me yesterday.”
Nayland Smith turned; his expression was grim.
“I fear,” he said rapidly, “that we cannot hope for much help from that quarter.” He turned again to the littered table. “Here are three letters written by Orwin Prescott at Weaver’s Farm immediately prior to his disappearance. You know why I detained them and what I have discovered?”
Miss Lakin nodded.
“Copies have been sent to the persons to whom the letters were addressed, but I should judge, although I am not a specialist in the subject, that this is in Dr. Prescott’s hand-writing?”
“I can assure you that it is, Sir Denis. Intellectually my cousin and I are too closely akin for any deception to be possible. That letter was written by Orwin. Please read it.”
A subdued clatter of teacups became audible from the kitchenette to which Fey had retired, as Nayland Smith extracted the letter from the envelope. Sarah Lakin watched Sir Denis intently. He fascinated her. Brief though her acquaintance with him had been, her own fine nature had recognized and welcomed the keen, indomitable spirit of this man, who in an emergency personal and national, had thrown the weight of his trained powers into the scale.
He studied the letter silently, reading it once, twice. He then read it aloud:
“dear sarah,
This is to relieve your anxiety. By this time you will know that I am the victim of a plot; but I have compromised with the enemy, pax in hello, and I congratulate you and those associated with you upon the manner in which you have succeeded in restraining the newspapers from reference to the subject of my temporary disappearance. I have instructed Norbert, who will communicate with you. The experience has been unpleasant and even now I am not wholly my own master. Please conduct yourself as though you were ignorant of this misadventure, but have no fears respecting my appearance at Carnegie Hall. I shall be there. I dislike seeming to mystify, but it would be to my best interests if you make no attempt to communicate with me until the night of the debate. It is unnecessary that I should tell you to have courage.
Always affectionately yours,
orwin.”
“No date,” Nayland Smith commented. “No address. A sheet torn from a common type of writing-block. The envelope, also, is of a very ordinary kind, bearing a New York postmark. H’m . . . !”
He dropped letter and envelope upon the desk and, taking up a tobacco pouch, began to load his pipe. Fey entered with a tea tray which he placed upon a small table before Miss Lakin.
“Cream or milk?”
“Milk, and one piece of sugar, thank you.”
Except for a certain haggardness visible on the face of Nayland Smith and the strangeness of his attire in one obviously trained to conform to social custom, there was little in the atmosphere of this room high above the turmoil of New York to suggest that remorseless warfare raged about the pair who faced one another across the tea-table.
“I am entirely at a loss what to do, Sir Denis.”
As Fey withdrew, the deep voice of Miss Lakin broke the silence; her steady eyes were fixed upon Nayland Smith. He lighted his pipe, paused, looked down at her, and:
“A very foul briar is unusual at tea-time,” he snapped, and dropped his pipe in an ash tray. “Please forgive me. I am up against the greatest and perhaps the last problem of my life.”
“Sir Denis . . .” Miss Lakin bent forward, took up the charred pipe from the tray and extended it towards him. “Surely you know that I understand. I have lived in a wider world than Connecticut, and I want your advice badly. Please concentrate upon the problem in your own way. What should I do? What do you advise me to do?”
Nayland Smith stared hard at those grave eyes of the speaker; then, pipe in hand, began to walk up and down the room, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. They were forty floors above the streets of New York, and yet the ceaseless bombila-tion of those amazing thoroughfares reached them through such windows as were open: the hooting of lorry horns, the roar often thousand engines, the boom of a distant train rumbling along the rails, the warning siren of a tug-boat on East River. The city was around them, throbbing, living, an entity, a demi-god, claiming them—and as it seemed in this hour, demanding their destruction.
“Is the phrasing characteristic of your cousin’s style?” Nayland Smith demanded.
“Yes, broadly”
“I understand. It struck me as somewhat pedantic.”
“He has a very scholarly manner, Sir Denis, but as a rule it is not so marked in his intimate letters.” “Ah. . . . Who is Norbert?” “Maurice Norbert is Orwin’s private secretary.” “I see. May I take it, Miss Lakin, that in this fight for domination of the United States your cousin did not actually aim at the Presidency?”
“He did not even desire it, Sir Denis. He is what our newspapers term a hundred-per-cent American, but in the best sense of the phrase. He hoped to break the back of Harvey Bragg’s campaign. His aims were identical with those of the Abbot Donegal. His disappearance from the scene at this time would be fatal.”
“I agree! But it seems that he is not going to disappear.” “Then do you believe that what he says is true?” “I am disposed to believe it, Miss Lakin. My advice is to conform strictly to the letter and spirit of his request.” Miss Lakin was watching him intently, then:
“I am afraid I don’t agree with you, Sir Denis,” she said. “Why?” He turned and faced her.
“That Orwin was kidnapped we know. Thank God he is alive! Surely he was forced to write this letter by the kidnapers. They are playing for time. Surely you can see that they are playing for time!”
Chapter 14
THE SCARLET BRIDES
In a small, book-lined room, high above New York City, dimly lighted and pervaded by a faint smell of incense, Dr. Fu Manchu, wearing a yellow robe but with no cap crowning his massive skull, sat behind a large lacquered table, his eyes closed. From a little incense burner on one comer of this table a faint spiral of smoke arose-some might have ascribed this to a streak of effeminacy in an otherwise great man, but one who knew the potency of burning perfumes as understood in the ancient Orient would have placed a different construction upon the circumstances. The Delphic Oracle was so inspired; incense cunningly prepared, such as the khyfi of the ancient Egyptians, can exalt the subconscious mind. A voice was speaking as though someone stood in the room, although except for the presence of the majestic Chinaman it was empty.
Dr. Fu Manchu pressed a button, the voice ceased, and there was silence in the incense-laden place. For two, three, five minutes the Chinaman sat motionless, his lean, long-fingered hands resting upon the table before him, his eyes closed.
“I am here, Master,” said a feeble voice speaking in Chinese.
“Listed carefully,” Dr. Fu Manchu replied in the same language. “It is urgent H
ow many of our Scarlet Brides from New Zealand have you in reserve?”
“Fifteen, Master. I sacrificed five in the case of the man James Richet, fearing that some might not survive the cold.”
“It is reported that Danger Number One—I hear you hiss, my friend—invariably sleeps with his windows open. Sacrifice ten more of our little friends. See that he does not sleep alone to-night.”
“My lord, I have no one who could undertake the work. If I had Alt Khan or Quong Wah, or any one of our old servants. But I have none. What can I do in this uncivilized land to which my lord has exiled me?”
Several moments of silence followed. The long ivory hands with their incredible nails, beautiful even in their cruelty, rested motionless upon the table, then:
“Await orders,” said the imperious, guttural voice.
Another button was depressed and there was silence. The pencil of smoke rising from the incense burner was growing more and more faint. Dr. Fu Manchu opened his eyes, staring straight before him; his eyes were green as emeralds, glittering gems reflecting an inexorable will. His right hand moved to a small switchboard. He inserted a plug, and presently a spot of red light indicted that he was connected.
“Is that’A’New York?”
“Kern Adier here.”
“You know to whom you are speaking?”
“Yes. What can I do for you, President?”
The voice was unctuous but nervous.
“We have not yet met,” the imperious tone continued, “but I assume, otherwise I should not have appointed you, that you can command the services of the New York underworld?”
There was a perceptible pause before Kern Alder replied.
“If you would tell me, President, exactly what you want, I should be better able to answer.”
“I want the man called Peter Carlo. Find him for me. I will then give you further instructions.”
Another pause . . .
“I can find him, President.” The nervous voice replied “but only through Blondie Hahn.”
“I distrust this man Hahn. You have recommended him, but I have not yet accepted him. I have my reasons. However, speak to him now. You know my wishes. Report to me when they can be carried out.”
The red light continued to glow; one yellow finger pressed a small switch with the result that the office of Kern Adier, Attorney, and one of the biggest survivors of the underworld clean-up, seemed to become acoustically translated to the study of Dr. Fu Manchu. Adier could be heard urgently calling a number; and presently he got it.
“Hello, Kern,” came a coarse voice; “want the boss, I guess. Hold on; I’ll get him.” There was an interval during which dim sounds of dance music penetrated to the incense-laden room, then: “Hello, Kern,” came in a deep bass; “what’s new with you?”
“Listen, Blondie. I’m telling you something. If you want a quiet life you have to fall into line. I mean it. It’ll be good for your health to go to work again. Either you come in right now or you stay right out. I want something done to-night—you have got to do it.”
“Listen to me, Kern. You’ve spilled a mouthful. But what you don’t seem to know is this: you’ve been washed up—and you figure you’re still afloat. You’re stone dead but you won’t lie down. Come clean and I’ll talk to you. I’m standing all ready on my two big feet. I don’t need your protection.”
“I want ‘Fly’ Carlo, and I’m prepared to pay for him. He has to get busy to-night. President’s orders——”
“President nothing! But listen—you can have Carlo, when I hold the pay roll. That’s my terms now and always. What’s the figure? Carlo will cost the President (like hell he’s the President!) all of two thousand dollars. He can only get him through me. I’m his sole agent and my rake-off is my own pid-gin.”
“Your terms are ridiculous, Blondie. Talk sense.”
“I’m talking sense all right. And I’ve got something very particular to say to you.” The deep, gruff voice was menacing “Somebody got busy among my records last night while I was at a party. If I thought it was you, I’d steal you away from your girl friends, little man. Next time you wrote a love letter it’d be with a quill from an angel’s wing.”
At which moment Kern Adier’s line became suddenly disconnected.
“Hello there!” Hahn bawled. “You cut me off! What in hell——”
His protests were silenced. A guttural voice came across the wires:
“You have been put through to me—the President. . . . Paul Erckmann Hahn—I believe this is your name?—you possess a certain brute force which attracts me. You are crude; but you might possibly be used.”
“Used?” Hahn’s voice sounded stifled. “Listen——”
“When I speak, it is you who must listen. The person ‘who got busy among your records,’ as you term it, was one of my own agents—in no way connected with Kern Adier. I learned much that I had wished to know about you, Mr. Hahn . . .”
“Is that so?” came a bull-like bellow. “Then listen, pet!— You’re a Chink if I ever heard one. That tells me plenty. I’ve been checking up on you. The ‘G’ men are right on your tail, yellow baby. Centre Street has got your fingerprints, and Hoover knows your toenails by sight. You’re using an old hide-out in Chinatown, and there’s a blue-eyed boy from Britain on the trail. You’re in up to the ears, President. You’ll need me badly to save your scalp. Adier can’t do it. He’s out of print. Come up to date and talk terms.”
Long ivory fingers remained quite motionless upon the table. Dr. Fu Manchu’s eyes were closed.
“Your remarks impress me,” he said softly, sibilantly. “I feel that you are indispensable to my plans. By all means let us talk terms. The matter is urgent. . . .”
Mark Hepburn tried, and tried in vain, to sleep. The image of a woman haunted him. He had checked her up as far as possible. He thought that he had her record fairly complete.
She was the widow of a United States naval officer. Her husband had been killed in the Philippines three years before. There was one child of the marriage—a boy. In fact, the credentials with which she had come to Abbot Donegal were authentic in every way. A thousand times, day and night, he had found himself in an imaginary world sweeter than reality—looking into those deep blue eyes. He found it impossible to believe that this woman would stoop to anything criminal. He would not entertain the idea despite damning facts against her.
He wanted to hear evidence for the defence, and he was fully prepared to take it seriously. In all his investigations he hoped yet feared to come across her. He wondered if at last he had fallen in love—and with a worthless woman. Her flight on that night from the Tower of the Holy Thorn, the fact that she had been endeavouring to smuggle away the incriminating manuscript which explained the collapse of Abbot Donegal; these things required explanation. Yet the official record of Moya Eileen Adair, as far as he had traced it, indicated that she was a young gentlewoman of unblemished character.
She came from County Wicklow in Ireland; her father, Commander Breon, was still serving with the British navy. She had met her late husband during the visit of an American fleet to Bermuda, where she had been staying with relatives. He was of Irish descent; he, too, was a man of the sea, and they had been married before the American fleet sailed. All this Mark Hepburn had learned in the space of a few days, employing those wonderful resources at his disposal Now, tossing wearily on his bed, he challenged himself. Had he been justified in instructing more than twenty agents, in expending nearly a thousand dollars in radio and cable messages, to secure this information?
The fate of the country was kept spinning in the air by those who juggled with lives. Sane men prayed that the Constitution should stand foursquare; others believed that its remodelling as preached by Dr. Prescott would form the foundations of a new Utopia. Others, more mad, saw in the dictatorship of Harvey Bragg a Golden Age for all. . . . And the Abbot of Holy Thorn held a choir of seven million voices in check awaiting the baton of his rhetoric.
&
nbsp; Bribery and corruption gnawed rat-like into the very foundations of the State; murder, insolent, stalked the city streets. . . And he, Mark Hepburn, expended his energies tracing the history of one woman. As he lay tossing upon his pillow the whole-hearted enthusiasm of Sir Denis Nayland Smith became a reproach.
Then suddenly, he sprang upright in bed, repeater in hand.
The door of his room had been opened very quietly. . . .
“Hands up!” he rasped. “Quick!”
“Not so loud, Hepburn, not so loud.”
It was Nayland Smith.
“Sir Denis!”
Smith was crossing the room in his direction.
“I don’t want to arouse Fey,” the incisive but guarded tones continued. “He has had a trying day. But it’s our job, Hepburn. Don’t make any noise; just slip along with me to my room. . . . Bring the gun.”
In silence, pyjama-clad, barefooted, Hepburn went along the corridor, turning right just before reaching the vestibule. In the room occupied by Nayland Smith the atmosphere was perceptibly cooler. The windows were wide open; heavy curtains were drawn widely apart; a prospect of a million lights gleamed far below; the muted roar of New York’s ceaseless traffic rose like rumbling of distant thunder.
“Close the door.”
Mark Hepburn closed the door behind him as he entered.
‘You will notice,” Nayland Smith continued, “that I have not been smoking for some time, although I have been wide awake. I was afraid of the glow from my pipe.”
“Why?”
“For this reason, Hepburn. Our brilliant enemy has become a slave to routine. It is now almost a habit with him to test his death-agents upon someone else, and if the result is satisfactory to try them on me . . .”
“I’m not too clear about what you mean——”
“I mean that unless I am greatly mistaken, I am about to be subjected to an attempt upon my life by Dr. Fu Manchu!”
“What! But you are forty storeys up from the street!”
“We shall see. You may remember that I deduced the arrival of certain weapons in the Doctor’s armoury from circumstances connected with the death of Richet. . .”