by Sax Rohmer
Stein’s heavy features registered nothing.
“I don’t know.”
“Talk to him. Find out. I trust nobody. I never employed that moron. Somebody has split us wide open. It isn’t just a leak. Somebody was in the Huston Building last night that had no right to be there. This man was supposed to be in Philadelphia. Who knows he was in Philadelphia? Check him up, Stein. It’s vital.”
“I can try to do. But his talk is so foolish I cannot believe he means it. He walks into my room, just now, and asks if I happen to have an old razor blade.”
“What for?”
“He says, to scrape his pipe bowl.”
Michael Frobisher glared ferociously.
“Ask him to have a drink. Give him plenty. Then talk to him.”
“I can try it.”
“Go and try it.”
Stein stolidly departed on this errand. There were those who could have warned him that it was a useless one.
Upstairs, in his room, Morris Craig had taken from his bag ink, pencils, brushes, and all the other implements of a draftsman’s craft. He had borrowed a large blotting-pad from the library to do service in lieu of a drawing board.
Stella and Camille had gone out into the garden.
The sun was shining.
And over this seemingly peaceful scene there hung a menace, an invisible cloud. The fate of nations was suspended on a hair above their heads. Of all those in Falling Waters that morning, probably Michael Frobisher was the most deeply disturbed. He paced up and down the restricted floor space of his study, black brows drawn together over a deep wrinkle, his eyes haunted.
When Stein came in without knocking Frobisher jumped around like a stag at bay. He collected himself.
“Well—what now?”
Stein, expressionless, offered a card on a salver. He spoke tonelessly.
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith is here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I can tell you, broadly, what happened last night,” said Nayland Smith. “It was an attempt to steal the final plans assumed to be locked in Craig’s safe.”
“I guessed as much,” Michael Frobisher replied.
Under drawn brows, he was studying the restless figure pacing to and fro in his study, fouling the air with fumes from a briar pipe which, apparently, Smith had neglected to clean since the day he bought it. Frobisher secretly resented this appropriation of his own parade ground, but recognized that he was powerless to do anything about it.
“The safe was opened.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Quite!” Smith rapped, glancing aside at Frobisher. “It was the work of an expert. Dr. Fu-Manchu employs none but experts.”
“Dr. Fu-Manchu! Then it wasn’t—”
Smith pulled up right in front of Frobisher, as he sat there behind his desk.
“Well—go on. Whom did you suspect?”
Frobisher twisted a half-smoked cigar between his lips. “Come to think, I don’t know.”
“But you do know that when a project with such vast implications nears maturity, big interests become involved. Agents of several governments are watching every move in your dangerous game. And there’s another agent who represents no government, but who acts for a powerful and well-organized group.”
“Are you talking about Vickers?” Frobisher growled.
“No. Absurd! This isn’t a commercial group. It’s an organization controlled by Dr. Fu-Manchu. In all probability, Dr. Fu-Manchu was in Craig’s office last night.”
“But—”
“The only other possibility is that the attempt was made by a Soviet spy; Have you reason to suspect any member of your staff?”
“I doubt that any Russian has access to the office.”
“Why a Russian?” Nayland Smith asked. “Men of influence and good standing in other countries have worked for Communism. It offers glittering prizes. Why not a citizen of the United States?”
Frobisher watched him covertly. “True enough.”
“Put me clear on one point. Because a false move, now, might be fatal. You have employed no private investigator?”
“No, sir. Don’t trust my affairs to strangers.”
“Where are Craig’s original plans?”
Michael Frobisher glanced up uneasily.
“In my New York bank.”
In this, Michael Frobisher was slightly misinformed. His wife, presenting an order typed on Huston Electric notepaper and apparently signed by her husband, had withdrawn the plans two days before, on her way from an appointment with Professor Hoffmeyer.
“Complete blueprints—where?”
“Right here in the house.”
“Were they in the safe that was opened the other night?”
“No, sir—they were not.”
“Whoever inspected the plant in the laboratory would be a trained observer. Would it, in your opinion, be possible to reconstruct the equipment after such an examination?” Michael Frobisher frowned darkly.
“I want you to know that I’m not a physicist,” he answered. “I’m not even an engineer. I’m a man of business. But in my opinion, no—it wouldn’t. He would have had to dismantle it. Craig and Shaw report it hadn’t been touched. Then, without the transmuter, that plant is plain dynamite.”
Nayland Smith crossed and stared out at the woods beyond the window.
“I understand that this instrument—whatever it may be—is already under construction. Only certain valves are lacking. Craig will probably complete his work today. Mr. Frobisher”—he turned, and his glance was hard—“your estate is a lonely one.”
Frobisher’s uneasiness grew. He stood up.
“You think I shouldn’t have had Craig out here, with that work?”
“I think,” said Smith, “that whilst it would be fairly easy to protect the Huston laboratory, now that we know what we’re up against, this house surrounded by sixty acres, largely woodland, is a colt of a different color. By tonight, there will be inflammable material here. Do you realize that if Fu-Manchu—or the Kremlin—first sets up a full-scale Craig plant, Fu-Manchu—or the Kremlin—will be master of the world?”
“You’re sure, dead sure, that they’re both out to get it?” Frobisher’s voice was more than usually hoarse.
“I have said so. One of the two has a flying start. I want to see your radar alarm system and I want to inspect your armory. I’m returning to New York. Two inquiries should have given results. One leading to the hideout of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the other to the identity of the Soviet agent.”
Camille and Stella Frobisher came in from the garden. “You know,” Stella was saying, “I believe we have discovered something.”
“All we seem to have discovered,” Camille replied, “is that there are strange gaps in your memory, and strange gaps in mine. The trouble in your case seems to have begun after you consulted Professor Hoffmeyer about your nerves.”
“Yes, dear, it did. You see, I had been so worried about Mike. I thought he was working too hard. In his way, dear, he’s rather a treasure. Dr. Pardoe, who is a neighbor of ours, suggested, almost playfully, that I consult the professor.”
“And your nerves improved?”
“Enormously. I began to sleep again. But these queer lapses came on. I told him. He reassured me. I’m not at all certain, dear, that we have discovered anything after all. Your lapses began before you had ever seen him.”
“Yes.” Camille was thinking hard. “The trouble doesn’t seem to be with the professor’s treatment, after all. Quite apart from which, I have no idea if I ever consulted him at all.”
“No, dear—I quite understand.” Stella squeezed her hand, sympathetically. “You have no idea how completely I understand.”
They were crossing the library, together, when there came a sudden, tremendous storm of barking. It swept in upon the peace of Falling Waters, a hurricane of sound.
“Whatever is it?” Camille whispered.
As if in answer to her question, Sa
m entered through open French windows. He had removed his topcoat, his cerise scarf, and his slate-grey hat. He wore the sort of checked suit for which otherwise innocent men have been lynched. He grinned happily at Camille.
“Morning, lady.”
“Good morning, Sam. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Pleasant surprise, eh? Same with me.” The barking continued; became a tornado. “There’s a guy outside says he’s brought some dogs.”
“Oh!” Stella’s face lighted up. “Now we shall be safe! How splendid. Have they sent all the dogs?”
“Sounds to me like they sent all they had.”
“And a kennelman?”
Stella hadn’t the slightest idea who Sam was, but she accepted his striking presence without hesitation.
“Sure. He’s a busy guy, too.”
“I must go and see them at once!” She put her arm around Camille. “Do come with me, dear!”
Camille smiled at Sam.
“I should love to.”
“The guy is down there by the barbed-wire entanglements.” Sam stood in the window, pointing. “You can’t miss him. He’s right beside a truckload of maybe a couple hundred dogs.”
Camille and Stella hurried out, Stella almost dancing with excitement.
Their voices—particularly Stella’s—were still audible even above the barrage of barking, when Nayland Smith and Michael Frobisher came into the library.
“You have a fair assortment of sporting guns and an automatic or two,” Smith was saying. “But you’re low on ammunition.”
“Do you expect a siege?”
“Not exactly. But I expect developments.”
Nayland Smith crossed to the glazed cabinet and stood before it, pulling at the lobe of his ear. Then he tilted his head sideways, listening.
“Dogs,” he rapped. “Why all the dogs?”
Frobisher met his glance almost apologetically.
“It’s Mrs. F.’s idea. I do try to keep all this bother from her, but she seems to have got onto it. She ordered a damned pack of these German police dogs from some place. There’s a collection of kennels down there like a Kaffir village. She’s had men at work for a week fixing barbed wire. Falling Waters is a prison camp!”
“Not a bad idea. I have known dogs to succeed where men and machines failed. But, tell me”—he pointed to the cabinet—“how does this thing work?”
“Well—it’s simple enough in principle. How it works I don’t know. Ground plan of the property. Anyone moving around, when it’s connected up, marks his trail on the scoreboard.”
“I see.”
“I’m having Craig overhaul it, when he has time. If you’ll step into my study again for just a minute, I’ll get the chart on the layout, which will make the thing more clear.”
Nayland Smith glanced at his wrist-watch.
“I can give you just ten minutes, Mr. Frobisher.”
They returned to Frobisher’s study.
Sunshine poured into the empty library. A beautiful Italian casket, silver studded with semi-precious stones, glowed as though lighted by inner fires, or become transparent. The pure lines of the Discus Thrower were sharply emphasized. Barking receded as the pack was removed to the “Kaffir village” erected at Mrs. Frobisher’s command.
Then Michael Frobisher came back. Crossing to the desk, he sat down and unlocked a drawer. He took out a chart in a folder, a chart which indicated points of contact surrounding the house as well as free zones. He pressed a bell button and waited, glancing about him.
Stein came in and Frobisher turned.
“Take this to Sir Denis in the study. Tell him I’ll be right along in two minutes.”
Stein nodded and went out with the folder.
Frobisher dialed a number, and presently:
“Yes—Frobisher,” he said nervously. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith is here… They’re onto us… Looks like all that money has been poured down the sewers… Huston Electric doesn’t have a chance…”
He became silent, listening intently to someone on the other end of the line. His eyes kept darting right and left, furtively. Then:
“Got ’em all here, back of the drawer in this desk,” he said, evidently in reply to a question. “That’s none too easy… Yes, I’ll have it in my hands by tonight, but… All right, give me the times.”
Frobisher pulled an envelope from a rack and picked up a pencil.
“It mayn’t be possible,” he said, writing rapidly. “Remember that… Nayland Smith is only one danger—” He broke off. “Have to hang up. Call you later.”
Stein, standing in the arched opening, was urgently pointing in the direction of the study. Frobisher nodded irritably and passed him on his way to rejoin Nayland Smith.
And, as Stein in turn retired, Sam stepped out from behind that Spanish screen which formed so artistic a background for the big walnut desk.
Without waste of time, he opened the drawer which Frobisher had just closed.
Chewing industriously, he studied the scribbled lines. Apparently they conveyed little or nothing to his mind for he was about to replace the envelope, and no doubt to explore further, when a dull, heavy voice spoke right behind him. “Put up your hands. I have been watching you.”
Stein had re-entered quite silently, and now had Sam covered by an automatic!
Sam dropped the envelope, and slowly raised his hands. “Listen!—happen to have a postage stamp? That’s what I was looking for.”
Stein’s reply was to step closer and run his hands expertly over Sam’s person. Having relieved him of a heavy revolver and a flashlamp he raised his voice to a hoarse shout:
“Mr. Frobisher! Dr. Craig!”
“Listen. Wait a minute—”
There came the sound of a door thrown open. Michael Frobisher and Nayland Smith ran in. Frobisher’s florid coloring changed a half tone.
“What’s this, Stein? What goes on?”
“This man searches your desk, Mr. Frobisher. I catch him doing it.”
As he spoke, he glanced significantly down at the envelope which Sam had dropped. Nayland Smith saw a look of consternation cross Frobisher’s face, as he stooped, snatched it up, and slipped it into his pocket. But there was plenty of thunder in his voice when he spoke.
“I thought so! I thought so right along!”
“Suppose,” rapped Smith, “we get the facts.”
“The facts are plain! This man”—he pointed a quivering finger at Sam—“was going through my private papers! You took that gun off him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he doing armed in my house?” Frobisher roared. “Part of the mystery is solved, anyway—”
A rataplan of footsteps on the stair heralded Morris Craig, in shirt-sleeves, and carrying his reading glasses. He came bounding down.
“Did I hear someone bawling my number?” He pulled up, considered the group, then stared from face to face. “What the devil’s all this?”
Michael Frobisher turned now empurpled features in his direction.
“It’s what I suspected, Craig. I told you I didn’t like the looks of him. There stands the man who broke into the Huston office last night! There stands the man who broke into this house last week. Caught redhanded!”
Sam had dropped his hands, and now, ignoring Stein, he faced his accuser.
“Listen! Wait a minute! I needed a postage stamp. Any harm needing a postage stamp? I just pull a drawer open, just kind of casual, and look in the first thing I see there—”
Craig brushed his forelock back and stared very hard.
“But, I say, Sam—seriously—can you explain this?”
“Sure. I am explaining it!”
Nayland Smith had become silent, but now:
“Does the envelope happen to contain stamps, Mr. Frobisher?” he jerked.
“No, sir.” Michael Frobisher glared at him. “It doesn’t. That inquiry is beside the point. As I understand you represent law and order in this house, I’m sorry—
but will you arrange for the arrest of that man.”
His accusing finger was directed again at Sam.
“I mean to say,” Craig broke in, “I may have missed something. But this certainly seems to me—”
“It’s just plain silly,” said Sam. “People getting so het up.”
Came another rush, of lighter footsteps. Camille and Mrs. Frobisher ran in. They halted, thunderstruck by what they saw.
“Whatever is going on?” Stella demanded.
“Sam!” Camille whispered—and crossing to his side, laid her hand on his shoulder. “What has happened?”
Sam stopped chewing, and patted the encouraging hand. His upraised spectacles were eloquent.
“Thanks for the inquiry,” he said. “I’m in trouble.”
“You are!” Frobisher assured him. “Sir Denis! This is either a common thief or a foreign spy. In either case, I want him jailed.”
Nayland Smith, glancing from Sam to Frobisher, snapped his fingers irritably.
“It is absurd,” said Camille in a quiet voice.
“Listen!” Sam patted her hand again and turned to Smith. “I’m sorry. I took chances. The pot’s on the boil, and I thought maybe Mr. Frobisher, even right now, might be thinking more about Huston Electric than about bigger things. I guess I was wrong. But acted for the best.”
Michael Frobisher made a choking sound, like that of a faulty radiator.
“You see, Mr. Frobisher,” said Nayland Smith, “whatever their faults, your police department is very thorough. James Sampson, an operative of the F.B.I., whom you know as Sam, was placed in the Huston research laboratory by his chief, Raymond Harkness, a long time before I was called in. I regret that this has occurred. But he is working entirely in your interests…”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Luncheon at Falling Waters was not an unqualified success. Both, in the physical and psychical sense, a shadow overhung the feast.
Promise of the morning had not been fulfilled. Young spring shrank away before returning winter; clouds drew a dull curtain over the happy landscape, blotting out gay skies. And with the arrival of Professor Hoffmeyer, a spiritual chill touched at least two of the company.
Camille experienced terror when the stooped figure appeared. His old-fashioned morning coat, his tinted glasses and black gloves, the ebony stick, rang a loud note of alarm within. But the moment he spoke, her terror left her.