by Sax Rohmer
These words produced a marked change in the bearing of the Abbot Donegal. They seemed to bring recognition of something he would willingly have forgotten. Again he ran his fingers through his hair, now almost distractedly.
“God help me,” he said in a very low voice, “I don’t know!”
He suddenly stood up; his glance was wild.
“I cannot remember. My mind is a complete blank upon this subject—upon everything relating to it. I think some lesion must have occurred in my brain. Dr. Reilly, although reticent, holds, I believe, the same opinion.”
“Nothing of the kind,” snapped Smith; “but that manuscript has to be found! There’s life or death in it.”
He ceased speaking abruptly and seemed to be listening to the voice of the storm. Then, ignoring the priest, he suddenly sprang across the room and threw the door wide open.
Mr. Richet stood bowing on the threshold.
CHAPTER TWO
A CHINESE HEAD
In an apartment having a curiously pointed ceiling (one might have imagined it to be situated in the crest of a minaret) a strange figure was seated at a long, narrow table. Light, amber light, came through four near-Gothic windows set so high that only a giant could have looked out of them. The man, whose age might have been anything from sixty to seventy—he had a luxurious growth of snow-white hair—was heavily built, wearing a dilapidated woolen dressing-gown; and his long sensitive fingers were nicotine-stained, since he continuously smoked Egyptian cigarettes. An open tin of these stood near his hand, and he lighted one from the stump of another—smoking, smoking, incessantly smoking. Upon the table before him were seven telephones, one or other of them almost always in action. When two purred into life simultaneously, the smoker would place one to his right ear, the other to his left. He never replied to incoming messages, nor did he make notes.
In the brief intervals he pursued what one might have supposed to be his real calling. Upon a large wooden pedestal was set a block of modeling clay, and beside the pedestal lay implements of the modeler’s art. This singular old man, the amazing frontal development of his splendid skull indicating great mathematical powers, worked patiently upon a life-sized head of an imposing but sinister Chinaman.
In one of those rare intervals he was working delicately upon the high, imperious nose of the clay head, when a muffled bell sounded and the amber light disappeared from the four Gothic windows, plunging the room into complete darkness.
For a moment there was no sound; the tip of a burning cigarette glowed in the darkness. Then a voice spoke, an unforgettable voice, by which gutturals were oddly stressed but every word was given its precise syllabic value.
“Have you a later report,” said this voice, “from Base 8?”
The man at the long table replied, speaking with German intonations.
“The man known as Federal Agent 56 arrived at broadcasting station twenty minutes after midnight. Police still searching there. Report just to hand from Number 38 states that this agent, accompanied by Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S. Army Medical Corps, assigned to Detached Officers List, and a party of nine men arrived Tower of the Holy Thorn at twelve thirty-two, relieving federals already on duty. Agent 56 last reported in conference with Abbot Donegal. The whole area closely covered. No further news in this report.”
“The Number responsible for the manuscript?”
“Has not yet reported.”
“The last report from Numbers covering Weaver’s Farm?”
“Received at 11.07. Dr. Orwin Prescott is still in retirement there. No change has been made in his plans regarding the debate at Carnegie Hall. This report from Number 35.”
The muffled bell rang. Amber light appeared again in the windows; and the sculptor returned lovingly to his task of modeling a Chinaman’s head.
CHAPTER THREE
ABOVE THE BLIZZARD
In Dom Patrick Donegal’s study at the top of the Tower of the Holy Thorn, James Richet faced Federal Officer 56. Some of his silky suavity seemed to have, deserted him.
“I quite understand your—unexpected—appearance, Mr. Richet,” said Smith, staring coldly at the secretary. “You have greatly assisted us. Let me check what you have told me. You believe (the abbot unfortunately having no memory of the episode) that certain material for the latter part of his address was provided early on Saturday morning during a private interview in this room between the Father and Dr. Orwin Prescott?”
“I believe so, although I was not actually present.”
There was something furtive in Richet’s manner; a nervous tremor in his voice.
“Dr. Prescott, as a candidate for the Presidency, no doubt had political reasons for not divulging these facts himself.” Smith turned to Abbot Donegal. “It has always been your custom, Father, to prepare your sermons and speeches in this room, the material being looked up by Mr. Richet?”
“That is so.”
“The situation becomes plainer.” He turned to Richet. “I think we may assume,” he went on, “that the latter part of the address, the part which was never delivered, was in Dom Patrick’s own handwriting. You yourself, I understand, typed out the earlier pages.”
“I did. I have shown you a duplicate.”
“Quite,” snapped Smith; “the final paragraph ends with the words ‘torn up by its evil roots, utterly destroyed.’”
“There was no more. The abbot informed me that he intended to finish the notes later. In fact, he did so. For when I accompanied him to the broadcasting station he said that his notes were complete.”
“And after his—seizure?”
“I returned almost immediately to the studio. But the manuscript was not on the desk.”
“Thank you. That is perfectly clear. We need detain you no longer.”
The secretary, whose forehead glistened with nervous perspiration, went out, closing the door silently behind him. Abbot Donegal looked up almost pathetically at Smith.
“I never thought,” said he, “I should live to find myself so helpless. Can you imagine that I remember nothing whatever of Dr. Prescott’s calling upon me? Except for that vague, awful moment when I faced the microphone and realized that my mental powers were deserting me, I have no recollection of anything that happened for some forty-eight hours before! Yet it seems that Prescott was here and that he gave me vital information. What can it have been? Great heavens”—he stood up, agitatedly—“what can it have been? Do you really believe that I am a victim, not of a failure in my health, but of an attempt to suppress this information?”
“Not an attempt, Father,” snapped Smith, “a success! You are lucky to be alive!”
“But who can have done this thing, and how did he do it?”
“The first question I can answer; the second I might answer if I could recover the missing manuscript. Probably it’s destroyed. We have a thousand-to-one chance. We are indebted to a phone call, which fortunately came through direct to you, for knowledge of Dr. Prescott’s whereabouts.”
“Why do you say ‘which fortunately came through’? You surely have no doubts about Richet?”
“How long with you,” snapped Smith.
“Nearly a year.”
“Nationality?”
“American.”
“I mean pedigree.”
“That I cannot tell you.”
“There’s color somewhere. I can’t place its exact shade. But one thing is clear: Dr. Prescott is in great danger. So are you.”
The abbot arrested Smith’s restless promenade, laying a hand upon his shoulder.
“There is only one other candidate in the running for dictatorship, Mr. Smith—Harvey Bragg. Yet I find it hard to believe that he… You are not accusing Harvey Bragg?”
“Harvey Bragg!” Smith laughed shortly. “Popularly known as Bluebeard, I believe? My dear Dom Patrick, Harvey Bragg is a small pawn in a big game.”
“Yet—he may be President, or Dictator.”
Smith turned, staring in his piercing way into
the priest’s eyes.
“He almost certainly will be Dictator!”
Only the mad howling of the blizzard disturbed a silence which fell upon those words—“He almost certainly will be Dictator.”
Then the priest whose burning rhetoric, like that of Peter the Hermit, had roused a nation, found voice; he spoke in very low tones:
“Why do you say he certainly will be Dictator?”
“I said almost certainly. His war-cry ‘America for every man—every man for America’ is flashing like a fiery cross through the country. Do you realize that in office Harvey Bragg has made remarkable promises?”
“He has carried them out! He controls enormous funds.”
“He does! Have you any suspicion, Father, of the source of those funds?”
For one fleeting moment a haunted look came into the abbot’s eyes. A furtive memory had presented itself, only to elude him.
“None,” he replied wearily; “but his following today is greater than mine. Just as a priest and with no personal pretensions, I have tried—God knows I have tried—to keep the people sane and clean. Machinery has made men mad. As machines reach nearer and nearer to the province of miracles, as Science mounts higher and higher—so Man sinks lower and lower. On the day that Machinery reaches up to the stars, Man, spiritually, will have sunk back to the primeval jungle.”
He dropped into his chair.
Smith, resting a lean, nervous hand upon the desk, leaned across it, staring into the speaker’s face.
“Harvey Bragg is a true product of his age,” he said tensely—“and he is backed by one man! I have followed this man from Europe to Asia, from Asia to South America, from South to North. The resources of three European Powers and of the United States have been employed to head that man off. But he is here! In the political disruption of this country he sees his supreme opportunity.”
“His name, Mr. Smith?”
“In your own interests, Father, I suggest it might be better that you don’t know—yet.”
Abbot Donegal challenged the steely eyes, read sincerity there, and nodded.
“I accept your suggestion, Mr. Smith. In the Church we are trained to recognize tacit understandings. You are not a private investigator instructed by the President, nor is Mr. Smith your proper title. But I think we understand one another… And you tell me that this man, whoever he may be, is backing Harvey Bragg?”
“I have only one thing to tell you: Stay up here at the top of your tower until you hear from me!”
“Remain a prisoner?”
Patrick Donegal stood up, suddenly aggressive, truculent.
“A prisoner, yes. I speak, Father, with respect and authority.”
“You may speak, Mr. Smith, with the authority of Congress, of the President in person, but my first duty is to God; my second to the State. I take the eight o’clock Mass in the morning.”
For a moment their glances met and challenged; then:
“There may be times, Father, when you have a duty even higher than this,” said Smith crisply.
“You cannot induce me, my friend, to close my eyes to a plain obligation. I do not doubt your sincerity. I have never met a man more honest or more capable. I cannot doubt my own danger. But in this matter I have made my choice.”
For a moment longer Federal Agent 56 stared at the priest, his lean face very grim. Then, suddenly stooping, he picked up his leather topcoat and his hat from the floor and shot out his hand.
“Good night, Father Abbot,” he snapped. “Don’t ring. I should like to walk down; although that will take some time. Since you refuse my advice, I leave you in good hands.”
“In the hands of God, Mr. Smith, as we all are.”
* * *
Outside on the street, beyond the great bronze door with its figure of the thorn-tortured head, King Blizzard held high revel. Snow was spat into the suffering face when the door was opened, as though powers of evil ruled that night, pouring contumely, contempt, upon the gentle Teacher. Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C., was standing there. He had one glimpse of the olive face of James Richet, who ushered the visitor out, heard his silky “Good night, Mr. Smith”; then the bronze door was closed, and the wind shrieked in mocking laughter around the Tower of the Holy Thorn.
Dimly through the spate of snow watchful men might be seen.
“Listen, Hepburn,” snapped Smith, “get this address: Weaver’s Farm, Winton, Connecticut. Phone that Dr. Orwin Prescott is not to step outside for one moment until I arrive. Arrange that we get there—fast. Have the place protected. Flying hopeless tonight. Special train to Cleveland. Side anything in our way. Have a plane standing by. Advise the pilot to look up emergency landings within easy radius of Weaver’s Farm. If blizzard continues, arrange for special to run through to Buffalo. Advise Buffalo.”
“Leave it to me.”
“Cover the man James Richet. I want hourly reports sent to headquarters. This priest’s life is valuable. See that he’s protected day and night. Have this place covered from now on. Grab anybody—anybody—that comes out tonight.”
“And where are you going, Chief?”
“I am going to glance over Dom Patrick’s home quarters. Meet me at the station…”
CHAPTER FOUR
MRS. ADAIR
Mark Hepburn drove back through a rising blizzard. The powers of his newly accredited chief, known to him simply as “Federal Agent 56,” were peculiarly impressive.
Arrangements—“by order of Federal Agent 56”—had been made without a hitch. These had included sidetracking the Twentieth Century Limited and the dispatch of an army plane from Dayton to meet the special train.
Dimly he realized that issues greater than the fate of the Presidency were involved. This strange, imperious man, with his irritable, snappy manner, did not come under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Department of Justice; he was not even an American citizen. Yet he was highly empowered by the government. In some way the thing was international. Also, Hepburn liked and respected Federal Agent 56.
And the affection of Mark Hepburn was a thing hard to win. Three generations of Quaker ancestors form a stiff background; and not even a poetic strain which Mark had inherited from a half-Celtic mother could enable him to forget it. His only rebellion—a slender volume of verse in university days, “Green Lilies”—he had lived to repent. Medicine had called him (he was by nature a healer); then army work, with its promise of fresh fields; and now, the Secret Service, where in this crisis he knew he could be of use.
For in the bitter campaign to secure control of the country there had been more than one case of poisoning; and toxicology was Mark Hepburn’s special province. Furthermore, his military experience made him valuable.
Around the Tower of the Holy Thorn the blizzard wrapped itself like a shroud. Only the windows at the very top showed any light. The tortured bronze door remained closed.
Stayton stepped forward out of the white mist as Hepburn sprang from his car.
“Anything to report, Stayton? I have only ten minutes.”
“Not a soul has come out, Captain, and there doesn’t seem to be anybody about in the neighborhood.”
“Good enough. You will be relieved at daylight. Make your own arrangements.”
Hepburn moved off into the storm.
Something in the wild howling of the wind, some message reached him perhaps from those lighted windows at the top of the tower, seemed to be prompting his subconscious mind. He had done his job beyond reproach. Nevertheless, all was not well.
One foot on the running board of the car, he paused staring up to where that high light glimmered through snow. He turned back and walked in the direction of the tower. Almost immediately he was challenged by a watchful agent, was recognized, and passed on. He found himself beside a wall of the building remote from the bronze door. Here there was no exit and he went unchallenged. He stood still, staring about him, his fur coat-collar turned up about his ears, the wind frolicking with his untidy wet black hair.
A slight sound came, only just audible above the shrieking of the blizzard, the opening of a window… He crouched close against the wall.
“All clear. Good luck…”
James Richet!
Then someone dropped, falling lightly in the snow almost beside him. The window closed. Hepburn reached out a long, sinewy arm, grabbed and held his captive… and found himself looking down into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen!
His prisoner was a girl, little above medium height, but slender, so that she appeared much taller. She was muffled up in a mink coat as a protection against that fierce wind; a Basque beret was crushed down upon curls which reminded him of polished mahogany. A leather satchel hung from one wrist, and she was so terrified that Hepburn could feel her heart beating as he held her in his bear-like grip.
He realized that he was staring dumbly into these uplifted deep-blue eyes, that he was wondering if he had ever seen such long, curling lashes… when duty, duty—that slogan of Quaker ancestors—called to him sharply. He slightly relaxed his hold, but offered no chance of escape.
“I see,” he said, and his dry, rather toneless voice revealed no emotion whatever. “This is interesting. Who are you and where are you going?”
His tones were coldly remorseless. His arm was like a band of steel. Rebellion died and fear grew in the captive. Now she was trembling. But he was forced to admire her courage, for when she replied she looked at him unflinchingly.
“My name is Adair—Mrs. Adair—and I belong to the staff of the Abbot Donegal. I have been working late, and although I know that there’s some absurd order for no one to leave, I simply must go. It’s ridiculous, and I won’t submit to it. I insist upon being allowed to go home.”
“Where is your home?”
“That can be no possible business of yours!” flared the prisoner, her eyes now flashing furiously. “If you like, call the abbot. He will vouch for what I say.”