by Sax Rohmer
There came a discreet rap on the door.
“Come in,” Lola called, her voice neither soft nor caressing.
She sat upright, slender jewelled fingers clutching the cushions as Marie, her maid, came in;.
“Well?”
Marie pursed her lips, shrugged and nodded vigorously.
“You are sure?”
“Yes, madame. He is there again! And to-night I have found the number of the apartment—it is Number 36.”
Lola swung her slippered feet to the floor and clenching and unclenching her hands began to walk up and down. In the semi-darkness she all but upset a small table upon which a radio was standing. Marie, fearing one of the brainstorms for which Lola was notorious, stood just outside the door, watching fearfully. Of course, Lola argued, Paul’s mysterious absences (which since they had been in Chicago had become so frequent) might be due to orders from the President. But if this were so, why was she not in Paul’s confidence?
It was unlikely, too, for on many occasions before, and again to-night, he had slipped away from his bodyguard and had gone alone to this place. To-night, indeed, it was more than ever strange: the Abbot Donegal was broadcasting, and almost certainly his address would take the form of an attack.
Any man who admired her inspired Lola’s friendship, but Paul Salvaletti had been the only real passion of her life. There were many who thought that she had been Harvey Bragg’s mistress. It was not so; a circumstance for which Harvey Bragg deserved no blame. Given a knowledge of all the facts, his harshest critic must have admitted that Harvey had done his best. Always it had been Paul, right from the first hour of the meeting. She recognized him; had known what he was destined to become. Her other duties, many of them exacting and tedious, which the President compelled her to undertake, she had undertaken gladly with this goal in view.
The intrusion of the woman Adair had terrified her, followed as it had been by her own transfer to nurse’s duties. (which she understood) in Chinatown. She hated the thought of this Titan blonde’s close association with Paul. Mrs. Adair was cultured, too, the widow of a naval officer, a woman of good family . . . . and always the plans of the President were impenetrable.
Abruptly, long varnished nails pressed into her palms; she pulled up in that wildcat walk right in front of the radio.
“What’s the time, Marie?” she demanded harshly.
“It is after eight o’clock, madame.”
“Fool! Why didn’t you tell me!”
Lola dropped down on to one knee; she tuned in the instrument. Nothing occurred but a dim buzzing. She knelt there manipulating the control, but could get no result. She looked up.
“If this thing has gone wrong,” she said viciously, “I’ll murder somebody in this hotel.”
Suddenly came a voice.
“This is a National Broadcast . . . .” Formalities followed, and then: “I must apologize for the delay. It was caused by an accident to the special microphone, but this has been adjusted. You are now about to hear Dom Patrick Donegal, speaking from the Tower of the Holy Thorn.”
Lola Dumas threw herself back upon the settee, curling her slim body up, serpentine, among the cushions. She was striving with all her will to regain composure. The beautiful voice of the priest helped to calm her; she hated it so intensely, for in her heart of hearts Lola knew that the Abbot of Holy Thorn was a finer orator than Paul Salvaletti. Then her attention was arrested:
“A torpedo of unusual design,” the abbot was saying coldly, “fired from an aeroplane, wrecked my study and delayed this broadcast. I am now going to tell you, and I ask you to listen with particular attention, by whom that torpedo was fired into my study.”
With the judgment of a practised speaker he paused for a moment after this sensational statement. Hourly, Lola had expected an attempt to be made to silence the abbot. It had been made—and failed! She began to listen intently. This man, this damnable priest, was going to wreck their fortunes!
When he resumed, Patrick Donegal with that unfailing art in which Cicero had been his master, struck another note:
“There are many of you I know, who, day after weary day, have returned from a tireless and honourable quest of work, to look into the sad eyes of a woman, to try to deafen your ears to that most dreadful of all cries coming from a child’s lips: ‘I am hungry.’ The League of Good Americans, formerly associated with the name of Harvey Bragg, has—I don’t deny the fact—remedied much of this. There are hundreds of thousands, it may be millions, of men, women and children in this country who to-day have won that need of happiness which every human being strives to earn, through the good offices of the league. But I am going to ask you to consider a few figures—figures are more eloquent than words.”
In three minutes or less, the abbot proved (using Nayland Smith’s statistics) that over the period with which he dealt, alone, some twenty million dollars had been expended in the country through various activities of the league which, even admitting the possibility of anonymous donations from wealthy supporters, could not have come out of national funds!
“You may say, and justly so: This is good: it means that unearned wealth is coming into the United States. I ask you to pause—to think . . . Is there such a thing as unearned wealth? Even a heritage carries its responsibilities. What are the responsibilities you are incurring by your acceptance of these mysterious benefits? I will tell you:
“You are being bought with alien money!” the abbot cried, “you are becoming slaves of a cruel master. You are being gagged with gold. The league and all its pretensions is a chimera, a hollow mockery, a travesty of administration. You are selling your country. Your hardships are being exploited in the interests of an alien financial genius who plans to control the United States. And do you know the nationality of that man? He is a Chinaman!”
Lola’s jewelled fingers were twitching nervously upon the cushions, her big eyes were very widely opened. Marie, uninvited, had taken a seat upon a chair just inside the door. This was the most damning attack which anyone had delivered: its horrible consequences outsped the imagination. . . .
“Who is this man who to-night attempted to murder me in my own room? This callous assassin, this ravisher of a nation’s liberty? By the mercy of God my life was spared that I might speak, that I might tell you. He is an international criminal sought by the police of the civilized world; a criminal whose evil deeds dwarf those of any home-grown racketeer. His name will be known to many who listen: it is Dr. Fu Manchu. My friends, Dr. Fu Manchu is in America—Dr. Fu Manchu to-night attempted my assassination—Dr. Fu Manchu is the presiding genius of the League of Good Americans!”
A moment he paused, then:
“This is the invisible President whom you are being bribed to send to the White House!” he said in a low, tense voice, “not in his own person but in the person of his servant, his creature, his slave—Paul Salvaletti! Paul Salvaletti who stands upon the bloody corpse of Harvey Bragg . . . for I am going to tell you something else which you do not know: Harvey Bragg was assassinated to make way for Paul Salvaletti.”
Even in the silence of that room where Lola Dumas crouched among the cushions it was possible to imagine the sensation which from coast to coast those words had created.
“The wedding of the man Salvaletti promises to be an international event, a thing for which distinguished people are assembling. I say it would be an offence for which this country would never be forgiven,” he thundered, “to permit that sacrilegious marriage to take place! I say this for three reasons: first, that Paul Salvaletti is merely the shadow of his Chinese master; second, that Paul Salvaletti is an unfrocked priest; and third, that he is already married.”
Lola Dumas sprang to the floor and stood rigidly upright.
“He married an Italian girl—she was just sixteen— Marianna Savini, in a London registry office on March the 25th, 1929. She accompanied him secretly when he came to the United States; she has been with him ever since—she is with him now. . .
.”
Ill
“It was a good shot,” said Captain Kingswell, “although at such close range that row of lighted windows offered a fine target. But it isn’t the gunner, it’s the pilot I want to meet. The way he dipped to the tower was pretty work.”
“Very pretty,” said Nayland Smith. “As I happened to be inside the tower, I fully appreciated its excellence. You were chasing this plane, I gather?”
Captain Kingswell, one of many army aviators on duty that night, nodded affirmatively.
“I should have caught him! It was the manoeuvre by the tower that tricked me. You see, I hadn’t expected it.”
The big armoured car sped through the night, its headlights whitening roads and hedges.
“It is certain that they were driven down?”
“Lieutenant Olson, who was covering me on the left, reports he forced the ship down near the river somewhere above Tonawanda.”
“Is there any place around there,” Mark Hepburn asked slowly, “where they might have landed?”
“I may as well say,” the pilot replied, smiling, “it’s a section I don’t pretend to be familiar with. Landing at night is always touch and go, even if the territory is familiar. It’s only halfway safe on a proper flying ground. Hullo! There’s Gillingham!”
The headlights picked up a distant figure, arms outstretched, wearing army air uniform. This was an agricultural district where folks were early abed; the country roads were deserted. As the car pulled up the aviator ran to the door:
“What news, Gillingham,” cried Captain Kingswell.
“We’re shorthanded to surround the area where they crashed,” replied Gillingham, a young fresh-faced man, immensely excited; “at least, it’s ten to one they crashed. But I’ve done my best, and search parties are working right down to the river-bank.”
“How far to the river?” jerked Nayland Smith.
“As the crow flies, from this spot a half mile.”
Smith jumped out, followed by Hepburn. A crescent moon swam in a starry sky. Directly above their heads as they stood beside the car outflung branches of two elms, one on either side of the narrow, straight road, met and embraced, to form a deep stripe of shadow.
“This is the frontier?”
“Yes, the opposite bank’s in Canada.”
Through the silence, from somewhere far off, came a sound like that of a ceaseless moan; at times, carried by a light breeze, it rose weirdly on the night, as though long-dead gods of the Red man, returning, lamented the conquest of the white.
Nayland Smith, his eyes bright in the ray of the headlamp, turned to Hepburn questioningly.
“The rapids,” said Mark. “The wind’s that way”
As the breeze died, the mournful sound faded into a sad whisper. . . .
“Hullo!” Smith muttered, “what are those lights moving over there?”
“One of our search parties,” Gilligham replied. “We expect to locate the wreck pretty soon. . . .”
But half an hour had elapsed before the mystery plane was found. It lay at one end of a long, ploughed field: the undercarriage had been damaged, but the screw, wings and fuselage remained intact. Again the work of a clever pilot was made manifest. There was no sign of the occupants.
“This is a Japanese ship,” said Captain Kingswell, on a note of astonishment. “Surely can’t have crossed right to here in the air? Must have been reassembled somewhere. Looks like it carried four of a crew: a pilot, a reserve (maybe he was the gunner) and two others.”
He had climbed up and was now inside.
“Here’s a queer torpedo outfit,” he cried, “with three reserve tubes. This is a fighting ship.” He was prowling around enthusiastically, torch in hand. “We’ll overhaul every inch of it. There may be very interesting evidence.”
“The evidence I’m looking for,” rapped Nayland Smith irritably, “is evidence to show which way the occupants went. But all these footprints”—he flashed his torch upon the ground— “have made it impossible to trace.”
He turned and stared towards where a red glow in the sky marked a distant town. Away to the east, half masked by trees, he could see outbuildings of what he took to be a farm.
“Tracks over here, mister!” came a hail from the northern end of the meadow. “Not made by the search party!”
Nayland Smith, his repressed excitement communicating itself to Hepburn, set out at a run.
The man who had made the discovery was shining a light down upon the ground. He was a small, stout, red-faced man wearing a very narrow brimmed hat with a very high crown.
“Looks like the tracks of three men,” he said: “two walkin’ ahead an’ one followin’ along.”
“Three men,” muttered Nayland Smith; Let me see . . .”
He examined the tracks, and:
“I must congratulate you,” he said, addressing their discoverer. “Your powers of observation are excellent.”
“That’s all right, mister. In these per’lous times a man has to keep his eyes skinned—’specially me; I’m deputy sheriff around here: Jabez Siskin—Sheriff Siskin they call me.”
“Glad to have you with us, Sheriff. My name is Smith— Federal agent.”
Two sets of imprints there were which admittedly seemed to march side by side. The spacing indicated long strides; the depth of the impressions, considerable weight. The third track, although made by a substantial-sized shoe, was lighter;
there was no evidence to show that the one who had made it had crossed the meadow at the same time as the other two.
“Move on!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Follow the tracks but don’t disturb them.”
From point to point the same conditions arose which had led the local officer to assume that the third traveller had been following the other two; that is, his lighter tracks were impressed upon the heavier ones. But never did either of the heavier tracks encroach upon another. Two men had been walking abreast followed by a third; at what interval it was impossible to determine.
Right to a five-barred gate the tracks led, and there Deputy Sheriff Siskin paused, pointing triumphantly.
The gate was open.
Nayland Smith stepped through on to a narrow wheel-rutted lane.
“Where does this lane lead to?” he inquired.
“To Farmer Clutterbuck’s,” Sheriff Siskin replied; “this is all part of his land. The league bought it back for him. The farm lays on the right. The river’s beyond.”
“Come on!”
It was a long, a tedious and a winding way, but at last they stood before the farm. Clutterbuck’s Farm was an example of the work of those days when men built their own homesteads untrammelled by architectural laws, but built them well and truly: a rambling building over which some vine that threatened at any moment to burst into flower climbed lovingly above a porch jutting out from the western front.
Their advent had not been unnoticed. A fiery red head was protruded from an upper window above and to the right of the porch, preceded by the barrel of a shotgun, and:
“What in hell now?” a gruff voice inquired.
“It’s me, Clutterbuck,” Deputy Sheriff Siskin replied, “with Federals here, an’ the army an’ ev’rything!”
When Farmer Clutterbuck opened his front door he appeared in gum boots. He wore a topcoat apparently made of rabbit skin over a woollen nightshirt, and his temper corresponded to his fiery hair. He was a big, bearded, choleric character.
“Listen!” he shouted—”It’s you I’m talkin’ to, Sheriff! I’ve had more’n enough o’ this for one night. Money ain’t ev’rything when a man has to buy a new boat.”
“But listen, Clutterbuck——”
Nayland Smith stepped forward.
“Mr. Clutterbuck,” he said—”I gather that this is your name—we are government officers. We regret disturbing you, but we have our duty to perform.”
“A boat’s a boat, an’ money ain’t ev’rything.”
“So you have already assured us. E
xplain what you mean.”
Farmer Clutterbuck found himself to be strangely subdued by the cold authority of the speaker’s voice.
“Well, it’s this way,” he said. (Two windows above were opened, and two heads peered out.) “I’m a league man, see? This is a league farm. Can’t alter that, can I? An’ I’m roused up to-night when I’m fast asleep—that’s enough to annoy a man, ain’t it? I think the war’s started. Around these parts we all figure on it. I take my gun an’ I look out o’ the window. What do I see? Listen to me, Sheriff—what do I see?”
“Forget the sheriff,” said Nayland Smith irritably; “address you remarks to me. What did you see?”
“Oh, well! all right. I see three men standin’ right here outside—right here where we stand now. One’s old, with white whiskers an’ white hair; another one, some kind of a coloured man, I couldn’t just see prop’ly; but the third one—him that’s lookin’ up” he paused—”well . . .”
“Well?” rapped Nayland Smith.
“He’s very tall, see? As tall as me, I guess; an’ he wears a coat with a fur collar an’ his eyes—listen to this, Sheriff—his eyes ain’t brown, an’ his eyes ain’t blue, an’ they ain’t grey:
they’re green!”
“Quick, man!” Nayland Smith cried. “What happened. What did he want.”
“He wants my motor-boat.”
“Did he get it?”
“Listen, mister! I told you I’m a league man, didn’t I? Well, this is a league official, see? Shows me his badge. He buys the boat. I didn’t have no choice, anyway—but I’d been nuts to say no to the price. Trouble is, now I got no boat; an’ money ain’t ev’rything when a man loses his boat!”
“Fu Manchu knows the game’s up. They had a radio in the plane!” said Smith to Hepburn in a low tone vibrant with excitement.
“Then God help Salvaletti!”
“Amen. We know he has agents in Chicago. But by heaven we must move, Hepburn: the Doctor is making for Canada!”
At roughly about this time, those who had listened to Patrick Donegal and who now were listening to radio topics received a further shock. . . .