by Sax Rohmer
“That table by the wall,” he rapped, pointing.
“I am so sorry, Sir Denis. That table is reserved.”
“Reserve another, and say you made a mistake.”
A ten-dollar bill went far to clinch the matter. There was some running about by waiters, whispering and side glances, to which Nayland Smith paid no attention. As he and Craig sat down:
“You note,” he explained tersely, “I can see the entrance from here. Adjoining table occupied. People harmless . . .”
Whilst Morris Craig attacked a honeydew melon, Smith covertly watched him. and then:
“Highly attractive girl, that secretary of yours,” he jerked casually.
Craig looked up.
“Quite agree. Highly competent, too.”
“Remarkable hair.”
“Ah, you noticed it! Pity she hides it like that.”
“Hides her eyes, too,” said Smith drily.
But Craig did not reply. He had been tempted to do so, and then had changed his mind. Instead he studied a wine list which a waiter had just handed to him. As he ordered a bottle of Chateau Margaux, he was thinking, “Has Camille gone out? Where has she gone? Is she doing herself well?” Yes, Camille had remarkable hair, and her eyes— For some obscure reason he found himself wondering who could have coughed in the office just before he left, and wondering, too, in view of the fact that, failing Sam, it was quite unaccountable, why he had dismissed the incident so lightly.
“The devil of it is, Craig,” Nayland Smith was saying, “that Fu Manchu, who has come dangerously near to upsetting the order of things more than once, is no common criminal.”
“Evidently”
“He doesn’t work for personal gain. He’s a sort of cranky idealist. I said tonight that I prayed you might never meet him. The prayer was a sincere one. The force which Dr. Fu Manchu can project is as dangerous, in its way, as that which you have trapped in your laboratory. Five minutes in his company would convince you that you stood in the presence of a phenomenal character.”
“I’m prepared to believe you. But I don’t understand how such a modern Cesare Borgia can wander around New York and escape the police!”
Nayland Smith leaned across the table and fixed his steady gaze on Craig.
“Dr. Fu Manchu,” he said deliberately, “will never be arrested by any ordinary policeman. In my opinion, the plant on top of the Huston Building should be smashed to smithereens.” His speech became rapid, rattling. “It’s scientific lunatics like you who make life perilous. Agents of three governments are watching you. I may manage the agents—but I won’t make myself responsible for Dr. Fu Manchu.”
* * *
Could Morris Craig have seen the face of the Chinese doctor at that moment, he might better have appreciated Nayland Smith’s warning.
In his silk-lined apartment in Pell Street, old Huan Tsung was contemplating the crystal as a Tibetan devotee contemplates the Grand Lama. Mirrored within it was that wonderful face, dominated by the blazing green eyes.
“I am served,” came sibilantly in Chinese, “by fools and knaves. We, of the Seven, are pledged to save the world from destruction by imbeciles. It seems that we are children, and blind ourselves.”
Huan Tsung did not speak. The cold voice continued.
“We betray our presence, our purpose, and our methods, to the common man-hunters. Had this purpose been achieved, we should have been justified. We need so short a time. Interference, now, can be fatal. But the method employed was clumsy. This victim of your blundering must not die.”
“Compassion, Excellency, is an attribute of the weak.”
The compelling eyes remained fixed upon him.
“Rejoice, then, that I entertain it for you. Otherwise you would have joined your revered ancestors tonight. I am moved by expediency—which is an attribute of the wise. In the death of a police officer the seed of retribution is sown. I must remain here until my work is done. If he dies, I shall be troubled. If he survives, the affair becomes less serious. In one hour from now he will be dead—unless we act. I am preparing the antidote. It is for you to find means to administer it . . . Take instant steps.”
The light in the crystal faded.
As a result of this conversation, just as Craig had begun on the sweet, Nayland Smith was called to the phone.
He was not away long. But when he came back, his face wore a curious expression. In part, it was an expression of relief—in part, of something else. As he sat down:
“A miracle has been performed in Manhattan,” he said.
Craig stared. “What do you mean?”
“What! Professor Lowe has won, after all?”
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“No. Professor Lowe was beaten. But some obscure practitioner, instructed by Moreno’s father, insisted upon seeing the patient. As the case was desperate, and the unknown doctor—who had practised in the tropics—claimed to recognize the symptoms, he was given permission to go ahead. Moreno would have died, anyway.”
“But he didn’t?”
“On the contrary. He recovered consciousness shortly after the injection which this obscure doctor administered. He is already off the danger list.”
“This was a brilliant bird. Smith! He doesn’t deserve to be obscure.”
Nayland Smith tugged reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
“He must remain so. The physician whose name he gave is absent in Philadelphia. Officer Moreno’s father was not even aware of his son’s illness.”
Huan Tsung had taken instant steps. But Craig laid his spoon down in bewilderment.
“Then—I mean to say—if he was an impostor—what the devil’s it all about?”
“Perfectly simple. For some deep reason we can’t hope to fathom, Dr. Fu Manchu has decided that Moreno must live. I fear he has also decided that I must die. Granting equal efficiency, what are my chances?”
Chapter V
Sam was free until nine forty-five. He studied the menus displayed outside a number of restaurants suitable for one of limited resources, before making a selection. His needs were simple, it seemed, and having finished his dinner, he moved along to a bar, mounted a stool, and ordered himself a bourbon.
Seated there, in his short leather jacket, a cap with a very long peak pushed to the back of his bullet head, he surveyed the scene through his spectacles whilst lighting a cigarette.
“You’re with the Huston Electric, aren’t you?” said someone almost at his elbow.
Sam turned. A personable young man, of Latin appearance, had mounted the next stool and was smiling at him amiably. Sam stared.
“What about it?” he inquired.
“Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d seen you there.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Newspaper story. I’m a reporter.”
“Is that so?”
Sam eyed the reporter from head to heels, without favor.
“Sure. Laurillard’s my name—Jed Laurillard. And I’m always out for a good story.”
“Well, well,” said Sam.
“Push that back and have the other half. Just going to order one myself.”
“That’s fine. My name’s Sam.”
“Sam what?”
“Sam.”
“I mean, what’s your other name?”
“Tim.’
“Your name is Sam Jim?”
“You got it the wrong way around. Jim Sam.”
“I never heard of it before. How do you spell it?”
“S-a-m. I got an uncle the same name.”
For the decimal of a second, Laurillard’s jaw hardened. Then the hard line relaxed. He slapped Sam on the back and laughed, signalling the barman.
“You’re wasting your time,” he declared. “You ought to be in show business.”
Sam grinned, but made no reply. The second bourbon went the way of the first, apparently meeting with even less obstruction.
“This new thing Huston is bringing
out,” Laurillard went on. “Breaking into the news next week, isn’t it?”
Sam held up his empty glass and appeared to be using it as a lense through which to count the bottles in the bar.
“Is it?” he said.
“You ought to know.” Laurillard signalled the barman again. “If I could get the exact date it would be worth money to me.”
“Would it? How much?”
“Well”—speculatively, he watched Sam considering his third drink—”enough to make it worth, say, fifty bucks to you.”
Sam looked at Laurillard over the top of his spectacles and finished his drink. He made no other reply. Laurillard caught the barman’s eye and glanced aside at Sam’s glass. It was refilled.
For some time after the fourth, the barman, who was busy, lost count.
“You know what I’m talking about?” Laurillard presently inquired. “This new lighting system?”
“Sure.”
“Some English scientist working on it.”
“Sure.”
“Well, when the story breaks it’s going to be big. Science news is a dollar a word these days. Hurt nobody if I got it first. You’re a live guy. I spotted you first time I was up there. Never miss one. It’s my business—see?”
Sam emptied his glass and nodded.
“Suppose you made a few inquiries. No harm in that. I could meet you here tomorrow. Any time you say.”
“What you wanna know, exac—xactly?” Sam inquired.
His glance had become oblique. Laurillard signalled the barman and leaned forward confidentially.
“Get this.” He lowered his voice. “I want to know when the job will be finished. That gives me a lead. It’s easy enough.”
A full glass was set before Sam.
“Goo’ luck,” he said, raising it.
“Same to you. What time tomorrow, here?”
“Same to you—mean, same time.”
“Good enough. I must rush. Hard life, reporting.”
Laurillard rushed. Outside, he looked in through the window and saw Sam raising the drink to his lips, sympathetically watched by the barman. What happened after that he didn’t see. He was hurrying to the spot where his car was parked.
He had some distance to go, but less than twenty minutes later the doorbell jangled in that Chinatown shop where a good looking young Oriental labored tirelessly with India ink and brush. He laid his brush aside and looked up.
“Mr. Huan Tsung?” said Laurillard.
“Mr. Huan Tsung not in. You call before?”
Laurillard seemed to be consulting his memory, but, after a momentary pause, he replied.
“Yes.”
“How many time?”
“Seven.”
“Give me the message.”
Laurillard leaned confidentially forward.
“The man from Huston Electric is taken care of. He’s too drunk to go far. What’s better, I’ve sounded him—and I think he’ll play. That’s why I came to see you.”
“I think,” was the cold reply, “that you are a fool.” The young Oriental spoke now in perfect English. “You have exceeded your instructions. You are new to the work. You will never grow old in it.”
“But—”
“I have no more to say. I will put in your report.” He scribbled a few lines in pencil, took up his brush, and went on writing.
Laurillard’s jaw hardened, and he clenched his gloved hands. “Good-bye,” said the industrious scribe. Laurillard went out.
In his report concerning Sam he had stated, quite honestly, what he believed to be true. But evidently he was mistaken.
Not three minutes had elapsed before the doorbell jangled again. A man came lurching in who walked as if on a moving deck. He wore a short leather jacket and a cap with a long peak. His eyes, seen through spectacles, were challenging. He chewed as he talked, using the gum as a sort of mute.
“Say—have you got a pipe-cleaner?” he inquired.
The young Oriental, without laying his brush down, slightly raised his eyes.
“Nohab.”
“What’s the use of a joint like this that don’t carry pipe-cleaners?” Sam demanded. He looked all around, truculently. “Happen to have a bit of string?”
“No string.”
Sam chewed and glared down awhile at the glossy black head bent over the writing. Then, with a parting grunt, Sam went out.
The young Chinese student scribbled another note in pencil.
* * *
Camille sat quite still in her room for so long after Craig had gone that she lost all count of time.
He had not quite shut the door, and dimly she had become aware that he was calling Regan. She heard the sound of voices when Regan came out of the laboratory; then heard the laboratory door closed.
After which, silence fell.
The work she had come here to do grew harder every day, every hour. There were times when she rebelled inwardly against the obligations which bound her. There were other times when she fought against her heart. There was no time when her mind was otherwise than in a state of tumult.
It could not go on. But where did her plain duty lie?
The silence of the place oppressed her. Often, alone here at night—as she was, sometimes—she had experienced something almost like terror. True, always Shaw or Regan would be on duty in the laboratory, but a locked iron door set them apart. This terror was not quite a physical thing. Camille was fully alive to the fact that spies watched Morris’s work. But it wasn’t any attempt from this quarter which dismayed her.
A deeper terror lay somewhere in the subconscious, a long way down.
Who was Dr. Fu Manchu?
She had heard that strange name spoken, for the first time, by Morris. He had been talking to Nayland Smith. Then—she had received a warning from another source.
But, transcending this shadowy menace, fearful as the unknown always must be, loomed something else—greater.
That part of Camille which was French, and therefore realist, challenged the wisdom of latter-day science, asked if greater and greater speed, more and more destructive power, were leading men to more and greater happiness. Her doubts were not new. They had come between her and the lecturers at the Sorbonne. She had confided them to a worthy priest of her acquaintance. But he, poor man, had been unable to give her guidance in this particular spiritual problem.
If God were a reality—and Camille, whilst not a communicant, was a Christian in her bones—surely such experiments as men of science were making today must anger Him?
In what degree did they differ from those which had called down a divine wrath on the Tower of Babel?
To what new catastrophe would this so-called Science lead the world? Morris Craig’s enthusiasm for research she understood. It was this same eager curiosity which had driven her through the tedium of a science training. But did he appreciate that the world might be poisoned by the fruits of his creative genius?
Often it had come to her, in lonely, reflective moments, that the wonderful, weird thing which Morris had created might be a cause of laughter in Hell . . .
What was that?
Camille thought she had heard the sound of a harsh, barking cough.
Before her cool brain had entirely assumed command, before the subconscious, troubled self could be conquered, she was out of her room and staring all around an empty office.
Of course, it was empty.
Regan, she knew, stood watch in the laboratory. The plant ran day and night, and a record was kept of the alternations (so far inexplicable) of that cosmic force which had been tapped by the genius of Morris Craig. But no sound could penetrate from the laboratory.
She opened the office door and called:
“Sam!”
There was no reply. She remembered, now, hearing Morris instructing the handyman to go somewhere with him.
A great urge for human sympathy, for any kind of contact, overcame her. She glanced at the switchboard. She would call Regan. H
e was a cynical English northcountryman who had admired her predecessor, Miss Lewis, and who resented the newcomer. But he was better than nobody.
Then she thought of her phone call, which had been interrupted earlier in the evening. A swift recognition of what it had meant, of what it would mean to make the same call again, swept her into sudden desolation.
What was she going to do? Her plan, her design for life, had not worked out. Something had gone awry.
She must face facts. Morris Craig had crossed her path. She could not serve two masters. Which was it to be? Once again—where did her duty lie?
Listening tensely, her brain a battlefield of warring emotions, Camille turned and went back to her room. Seated at her desk, she dialled a number, and went on listening, not to a distant ring but to the silence beyond her open door. She waited anxiously, for she had come to a decision. But for a long time there was no reply.
The silent office outside was empty. So that there was no one to see a figure, a dark silhouette against the sky, against those unwatching eyes which still remained alive in one distant tower dominating the Huston Building. It was a hulking, clumsy figure, not unlike that of a great ape. It passed along the parapet outside the office windows . . .
“Yes?” Camille had got through. “Nine-nine here.”
She had swung around in her chair, so that she no longer faced the open door.
“If you please.”
She waited again.
Silently the door had been fully opened. The huge figure stood there. It was that of a man of formidably powerful physique. His monstrous shoulders, long arms, and large hands had something unnatural in their contours, as had his every movement, his behavior. He wore blue overalls. His swarthy features might have reminded a surgeon of a near successful grafting operation.
“Yes,” Camille said urgently. “Can I see you, tonight—at once?” The intruder took one silent step forward. Camille saw him. She dropped the receiver, sprang up, and retreated, her hands outstretched to fend off horror. She gasped. To scream was impossible.
“My God!” (Unknown to herself, she whispered the words in French.) “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I—want”—it was a mechanical, toneless, grating voice—”you.”