by Sax Rohmer
“I am glad,” he said, and his monotonous voice in some queer way sounded different, “that you have this great interest in your life.”
“My only interest,” she replied simply. “I go on for him. Otherwise”—she shook her head—“I should not be here now.”
“Still I don’t understand why you serve this man you call the President.”
“Yet the explanation is very simple. Although the guards are not visible, both entrances to this building are watched night and day. Whenever Robbie goes out with his nurse he is covered until they return. He is never allowed to walk on the streets, but is driven to the garden of a house on Long Island. That is his only playground except the one on the roof outside.”
“I suppose I am dense,” said Mark Hepburn, “but even now I don’t understand!”
“This apartment belongs to the President, although he rarely visits it. Mary Goff is my own servant; she has been in my service since the boy was born. Otherwise—I have no one. For two months Robbie disappeared—”
“He was kidnapped?”
“Yes, he was kidnapped. That was before all this began. Then the President sent for me. I was naturally distracted; I think I should very soon have died. He made me an offer which, I think, any mother would have accepted. I accepted without hesitation. I am allowed to come here, even to bring friends, while I carry out the duties allotted to me. If I failed”—she bit her lip—“I should never see Robbie again.”
“But after all,” Mark Hepburn exclaimed hotly, “there’s a law in the land!”
“You don’t know the President,” Moya replied. “I do. No law could save my boy if he determined to spirit him away. You’ve promised, and you will keep your promise? You won’t attempt to do anything about Robbie without my consent?”
Mark Hepburn watched her silently for a while, and then:
“No,” he replied; “but it’s a very unpleasant situation. I have exposed you to a dreadful danger… You mean”—he hesitated—“that my visit here today will be reported to the President?”
“Certainly; but Robbie is allowed visitors if they are old friends. You seem to know enough of my history to pass for an old friend, I think?”
“Yes,” said Mark Hepburn; “you may regard me as an old friend…”
* * *
In the room where the Memory Man worked patiently upon his strange piece of modeling, a distant bell rang and the amber light went out.
“Give me the latest report,” came the hated, dominating voice, “of the Number in charge of party covering Base 3.”
“A report to hand,” came an immediate reply in those terse, Teutonic tones, “timed 5.15. Police have been further reinforced. Chinese approaching the areas one, two and three have been interrogated. Government agent in charge not yet identified. Several detectives and federal agents have been in Wu King’s Bar since noon. Report ends. From Number 41.”
Following a silent interval, during which, in the darkness, the Memory Man lighted a fresh Egyptian cigarette from the stump of the old one:
“The latest report,” the voice directed, “from the Number covering Eileen Breon.”
“Report to hand timed 4.35. A man, bearded, wearing glasses and a driving coat with a fur collar, age estimated at thirty-five, arrived in her company at the apartment at 3.29. He remained for an hour; covered on leaving. He proceeded on foot to Grand Central. Operatives covering lost his track in the crowd. Report ends. This is from Number 39.”
“Most unsatisfactory. Give me the latest report from the Regal-Athenian.”
“Only one to hand, timed 5.10 p.m. Owing to long non-appearance of Federal Agents Hepburn and Smith, Number suggests—”
“Suggestions are not reports,” the guttural voice said harshly. “What is this man’s number?”
Following a further brief silence:
“Make the connection,” the harsh voice directed. “You are free for four hours.”
Amber light prevailed again. The sculptor, brushing back his mane of white hair with a tragic gesture, adjusted the dictaphone attachment which during his hours of rest took the place of his phenomenal memory. No message came through during the time that he gathered up lovingly the implements of his art, sole solace of the prisoner’s life.
Carrying the half-completed clay model, he crossed to the hidden door, opened it, and descended to that untidy apartment which, with the balcony outside, made up his world. He threw wide the french windows and went out.
A setting sun in a cloudless sky fashioned strange red lights and purple shadows upon unimaginable buildings, streaked the distant waters almost reluctantly with a phantom, carmine brush, and painted New York City in aspects new even to the weary eyes of the man who had looked down upon it so often.
Setting the clay upon the table, he returned and took a photographic printing-frame from its place in the window. Removing the print, he immersed it in a glass tray. As its tones grew deeper, it presented itself as an enlargement of that tiny colored head—the model which eternally he sought to reproduce.
* * *
Mark Hepburn, fully alive to the fact that he had been covered from the moment when he had left the apartment where Moya Adair’s small son lived—a prisoner—experienced an almost savage delight in throwing his pursuers off the track in the great railway station.
He had detected them—they were two—by the time that he descended the steps. He knew that Moya’s happiness, perhaps the life of Robbie, depended upon his maintaining the character of a family friend. Whatever happened, he must not be identified as a federal agent.
Furthermore, at any cost he must combat a growing fear, almost superstitious, of the powers of Dr. Fu-Manchu; even a minor triumph over the agents of that sinister, invisible being would help to banish an inferiority complex which threatened to claim him. He succeeded in throwing off his pursuers, very ordinary underworld toughs, without great difficulty.
A covered lorry was waiting at a spot appointed. In it, he donned blue overalls and presently entered a service door of the Regal-Athenian, a peaked cap pulled down over his eyes and carrying a crate upon his shoulder.
The death of Blondie Hahn, demi-god of the underworld, and of Fly Carlo, notorious cat-burglar, had been swamped as news by the assassination of Harvey Bragg. In the railway station, on every news-stand that he had passed, the name Bragg flashed out at him. The man’s death had created a greater sensation than his life. Thousands had lined up along the route of the funeral train to pay homage to Harvey Bragg, dead.
Mark Hepburn abandoned the problem of how this atrocity fitted into the schemes of that perverted genius who aimed to secure control of the country. He was keyed up to ultimate tension, insanely happy because he had read kindness in the eyes of Moya Adair; guiltily conscious of the fact that perhaps he had not performed his duty to the government, indeed, did not know where it lay. But now, as Fey, stoic-faced, opened the door of the apartment, he found himself to be doubly eager for the great attempt planned by Nayland Smith to trap some, at least, of these remorseless plotters—it might be even the great chief—in their subterranean lair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FU-MANCHU’S WATER-GATE
“Shut off,” snapped Nayland Smith. “Drift on the current.”
The purr of the engine ceased. A million lights looked down through frosty air upon them; lights which from river level seemed to tower up to the vault of the sky. Upon the shores were patches of red light, blue light and green, reflected upon slowly moving water. Restless lights, like fireflies, darted, mingled, and reappeared again upon the bridges. The lights of a ferry boat crossed smoothly astern: lights of every color, static and febrile, fairy lights high up in the sky, elfin lights, jack-o’-lanterns, low down upon the sullen tide. Hugging the shore, the motor launch, silent, drifted in an ebony belt protected from a million remorseless eyes. In the shadows below a city of light they crept onward to their destination.
“I understand”—Nayland Smith’s voice came
through the darkness from the bows—“that a fourth man has been reported?”
“Correct, Chief,” Police Captain Corrigan replied. “He was checked in and reported by flash two minutes ago.”
Staccato, warning blasts of tugs, sustained notes of big ships, complemented that pattern painted by the lights: the ceaseless voice of the city framed it. The wind had dropped to a mere easterly breeze; nevertheless it was an intensely cold night.
“There’s a ladderway,” said Corrigan, “with a trap opening on the dock above.”
“And the property belongs to the South Coast Trade Line?”
“That’s correct.”
The late Harvey Bragg, as Nayland Smith had been at pains to learn, had held a controlling interest in the South Coast Trade Line…
“Here we are,” a voice announced.
“No engine,” Nayland Smith directed. “Ease her in; there’s plenty of hold.”
The lights of Manhattan were lost in that dusky waterway. Sirens spoke harshly, and a ferry returning from the Brooklyn shore threw amber gleams upon the oily water. A tugboat passed very close to them; her passage set the launch dancing. All lights had been doused when that of an electric torch speared the darkness.
A wooden platform became visible. From it a ladder arose and disappeared into shadow above. The tidal water whispered and lapped eerily as they rode the swell created by the backwash of the tugboat.
“Quiet now!” Nayland Smith spoke urgently. “Lift the spar up and get it across the rail. How many men, Corrigan?”
“Forty-two, Chief.”
“I can’t see a soul.”
“Good work by me!”
Nayland Smith rested his hand upon the shoulder of the man in the bows and mounted to the wooden platform. Another tugboat went by as Corrigan joined him. Her starboard light transformed the launch party below into a crew of demons and gleamed evilly on the barrel of a gun which Corrigan carried.
“It was the same two men who brought the fourth passenger?” Smith asked.
“Can’t confirm that until we check up with Eastman, who’s in charge above. But the other three were brought down by a pair of Chinks, and one of the Chinks rang a bell—which I guess I can locate: I was watching through binoculars. How many times he rang—except it was more than once—is another story.”
“I know how many times he rang, Corrigan. Seven times… Find the bell.”
“Got my hand on it!”
The spar, raised upon the shoulders of the launch party, now rested on the rail of the platform. Slowly, quietly it was moved forward. Corrigan snapped his fingers as a signal when it all but touched the door.
“We don’t know which way it opens,” he whispered—“always supposing it does open.”
The spar separated the two men.
“That doesn’t matter. Ring seven times.”
Police Captain Corrigan raised his hand to a sunken bell-push and pressed it seven times. Almost immediately the door opened. Beyond was cavernous darkness.
“Go to it, boys!” Corrigan shouted.
Lustily the spar was plunged through the opening. Nayland Smith and Corrigan shot rays of light into the black gap. Somewhere above a whistle blew. There came a rush of hurrying footsteps upon planking, a subdued uproar of excitement.
“Come on, Corrigan!” snapped Nayland Smith.
Corrigan leaped over the spar and followed his leader into black darkness now partly dispersed by the light of two torches. It was a brick tunnel in which they found themselves, illimitable so far as the power of the lights was concerned. Corrigan paused, turned, and:
“This way, boys!” he shouted.
The patter of feet echoed eerily in that narrow passage. Vaguely, against reflection from the river, the spar could be seen jammed across the doorway. Nayland Smith’s light was already far ahead.
“Wait for me, Chief!” Corrigan yelled urgently.
The officer in charge of the hidden party which secretly had been assembled for many hours appeared, a silhouette against a background of shimmering water, leading his men as Corrigan sprang along the tunnel behind Nayland Smith.
Five paces Corrigan had taken when Nayland Smith turned.
“Wait for the men, Corrigan,” he cried, his snappy instructions echoing weirdly. Corrigan paused, turned, and looked back. A line of figures, ant-like, streamed in from the river opening. Then:
“My God! what’s this?” Corrigan groaned.
Something, something which created a shattering crash, had blotted out the scene. Corrigan turned his light back. Nayland Smith was running to join him.
An iron door, resembling a sluice-gate, had been dropped between them and the river… They were cut off!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SIEGE OF CHINATOWN
The temple of the seven-eyed goddess was illuminated by light which shone out from its surrounding alcoves. Since each of these was draped by a curtain of different color, the effect was very curious. These curtains were slightly drawn aside so that from the point occupied by the seven-eyed idol it would have become apparent that many of the cells were occupied.
There were shadowy movements depicted upon the curtains. At the sound of a gong these movements ceased.
The brazen note was still humming around the vault-like place when Dr. Fu-Manchu came in. He wore his yellow robe, and a mandarin’s cap was set upon his high skull. He took his seat at a table near the pedestal of the carved figure. He glanced at some notes which lay there.
“Greeting,” he said gutturally.
A confused murmur of voices from his hidden audience responded.
“I may speak in English,” he continued, his precise voice giving its exact value to every syllable which he uttered, “for I am informed that this language is common to all of us present tonight. Those of the Seven not here in person are represented by their accredited nominees, approved by the council. But in accordance with our custom whereby only one of the Seven shall know the other six, it has been necessary, owing to the presence of such nominees, to hold this meeting in the manner arranged.”
A murmur which might have been one of assent greeted his words.
“I have succeeded in placing the chief executive we have selected in a position from which no human agency can throw him down. You may take it for granted that he will enjoy the support of the League of Good Americans. The voice of the priest, Patrick Donegal, I have not yet contrived wholly to control… Because of a protective robe which seems to cover him, I regard this priest as the challenge of Rome to our older and deeper philosophy…
“Suitable measures will be taken when the poppy is in flower. There is much more which I have to say, but it must be temporarily postponed, since I have arranged that we shall all hear our chosen executive speak tonight. He is addressing a critical audience in the assembly hall in which Harvey Bragg formerly ruled as king. This is his second public address since Bragg was removed. It will convince you more completely than any words of mine could do of the wisdom of our selection. I beg for silence: you are now listening to a coast-to-coast broadcast.”
So closely had Dr. Fu-Manchu timed his words that the announcer had ceased speaking when radio contact was made.
Tremendous uproar rose to an hysterical peak, and then slowly subsided. Paul Salvaletti began to speak—a speech destined both by virtue of beauty, phrasing, and the perfect oratory of the man to find a permanent place in American forensic literature.
Salvaletti, to be known from that hour as “Silver Tongue,” was, as befitted a selection of Dr. Fu-Manchu, probably one of the four greatest orators in the world. Trained by the Oratorian fathers and then perfected in a famous dramatic academy of Europe, he spoke seven languages with facility, and he had learned the subtle art of mass control as understood by the Eastern adepts in the Tibetan monastery of Rachê Churân. For two years, efficiently but unobtrusively, he had labored in silence as confidential secretary to Harvey Bragg. He had the absolute confidence of the Bragg following. He
had a more intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the League of Good Americans, of the Lotus Transport Corporation, and of the other enterprises which had formed the substantial background of the demagogue, than any man living. He understood human nature, but had the enormous advantage over Bragg of a profound culture. He could speak to the South in the language of the South; he could speak to the world in the language of Cicero.
He began, with perfect art, to deliver this modern version of Mark Anthony’s oration over the body of Caesar…
* * *
“What in hell’s this?’ growled Police Captain Corrigan. “We’re jammed!”
The light of his own torch and that of Nayland Smith’s became concentrated upon the iron door which had fallen behind them. Dimly, very dimly, they could hear the voices of the party outside.
“Hadn’t counted on this,” muttered Nayland Smith. “But we mustn’t get bothered—we must think.”
“Looks to me, Chief,” said the police officer, “as if the seven rings work automatically, and that after an interval this second door comes down—like as not to make sure that a big party isn’t bullying in.”
“Something in that, Corrigan,” Nayland Smith rapped. “Outstanding point is—we are cut off.”
“I know it.”
They stood still, listening. Shouted orders from somebody who had taken charge became dimly audible. Words reached their ears as mere murmurs. The iron door was not only heavy but fitted perfectly in its grooves.
“Can you hear a sound like water, Chief?” Corrigan said in a low voice.
“Yes.”
The ray from Nayland Smith’s torch searched the floor, the walls, as far ahead as it could reach, revealing nothing but an apparently endless brick tunnel.
“I kind of fancy,” Corrigan went on, “that I’ve heard there used to be a brook or a stream hereabouts in the old days, and that it was switched into a sewer. You can hear running water?”
“I can,” said Nayland Smith.