by Sax Rohmer
“He’s through the gate,” said Nayland Smith.
The first shadow showed on the chart at a point where a gate in the wire was marked. The second shadow moved swiftly back. A dim blur swept along the track. Baying increased in volume… A shot—a second. And then came a frenzied scream, all the more appalling because muted by distance.
“Merciful God!” Craig whispered. “The dogs have got him!” Nayland Smith already had the french windows open. A sting of damp, cold air pierced the library. There came another, faint scream. Baying merged into a dreadful growling…
“Lights!” Smith cried. “Where’s the man, Stein?”
As Sam switched the lights up, Stein was revealed standing in the arched opening which led to Michael Frobisher’s study. He was fully dressed, and chalky white.
“Here I am, sir.”
A sound of faraway shouting became audible. Stella Frobisher ran out onto the stairhead, a robe thrown over her nightdress.
“Please—oh, please tell me what has happened? That ghastly screaming! And where is Mike?”
She had begun to come down, when Camille appeared behind her. Camille had changed and wore a tweed suit.
“Mrs. Frobisher!” Craig looked up. “Isn’t the chief in his room?”
“No, he isn’t!”
Camille’s arm was around Stella’s shoulders now.
“Don’t go down, Mrs. Frobisher. Let’s go back. I think it would be better if you dressed.”
She spoke calmly. Camille had lived through other crises.
“Miss Navarre!” Nayland Smith called sharply.
“Yes, Sir Denis?”
“Go with Mrs. Frobisher to her room, and both of you stay there with the door locked. Understand?”
Camille hesitated for a moment, then: “Yes, Sir Denis,” she answered. “Please come along, Mrs. Frobisher.”
“But I want to know where Mike is—”
Her voice faded away, as Camille very gently steered her back to her room.
Nayland Smith faced Stein.
“Mr. Frobisher is not in his study?”
“No, sir.”
“How do you know?”
“I do not retire tonight. I am anxious. Just now, I am in there to look.”
“Was the window open?”
Stein’s crushed features became blank.
“Was the window open?” Nayland Smith repeated harshly.
“Yes. I closed it.”
“Come on, Craig! Sampson—follow!”
“Okay, chief.”
Craig and Nayland Smith ran out, Sam behind them.
Stein stood by the opening, and listened. Somewhere out in the misty night, an automatic spat angrily. There was a dim background of barking dogs, shouting men. He turned, in swift decision, and went back through that doorway which led to the kitchen quarters.
He took up the phone there, dialled a number, waited, and then began to speak rapidly—but not in English. He spoke in a language which evidently enlarged his vocabulary. His pallid features twitched as he poured out a torrent of passionate words…
Something hard was jammed into the ribs of his stocky body.
“Drop that phone, Feodor Stenovicz. I have a gun in your back and your family history in my pocket. Too late to tip off Sokolov. He’s in the bag. Put your hands right behind you. No, not up—behind!”
Stein dropped the receiver and put his hands back. There was sweat on his low forehead. Steel cuffs were snapped over his wrists.
“Now that’s settled, we can get together.”
Stein turned—and looked into the barrel of a heavy-calibre revolver which Sam favored. Sam’s grinning face was somewhere behind it, in a red cloud.
“Suppose,” Sam suggested, “we step into your room and sample some more of the boss’s bourbon? What you gave me this morning tasted good.”
They had gone when Camille came running along the corridor to the stairhead. And there was no one in the library.
“Please stay where you are,” she called back. “I will find out.”
A muffled cry came from Stella Frobisher: “Open the door! I can’t stay here!”
Camille raced downstairs, wilfully deaf to a wild beating on wood panels.
“Let me out!”
But Camille ran on to the open windows.
“Morris! Morris! Where are you?”
She stood there clutching the wet frame, peering into chilly darkness. Cries reached her—the vicious yap of a revolver—the barking of dogs.
“Morris!”
She ran out onto the terrace. A long way off she could see moving lights.
Camille had already disappeared when Sam entered the library, having locked Stein in the wine cellar. Switching on his flash, he began hurrying in the direction of that distant melee.
* * *
The library remained empty for some time. With the exception of Stein, all the servants slept out. So that despairing calls of “Unlock the door, Mike! Mike!” won no response. And presently they ceased.
Then, subdued voices and a shuffling of feet on wet gravel heralded the entrance of an ominous cortege. Upon an extemporized stretcher carried by a half-dressed gardener and Kelly, the grizzled kennelman, Michael Frobisher was brought in. Sam came first, to hold the windows wide and to allow of its entrance. Nayland Smith followed. There were other men outside, but they remained there.
“Get a doctor,” Smith directed. “He’s in a bad way.”
They lifted Frobisher onto the settee. He still wore his dinner clothes, but they were torn to tatters. His face and his hands were bloody, his complexion was greyish-purple. He groaned and opened his eyes when they laid him down. But he seemed to be no more than semi-conscious, and almost immediately relapsed.
Kelly went out again, with the empty stretcher. A murmur of voices met him.
“I know Dr. Pardoe’s number,” said the gardener, a youthful veteran whose frightened blond hair had never lain down since the Normandy landing. “Shall I call him?”
His voice quavered.
“Yes,” rapped Smith. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
As the man hurried away to the phone in the back premises:
“Nothing on him?” Sam asked.
“Not a thing! Yet he was alone with the dogs, God help him! I believe he was running for his life. Perhaps from that monstrosity I had a glimpse of when I first arrived.”
“That’s when he lost the plans!” said Sam excitedly. “He must have broken away from—whatever it was, and tried to cross the track. Lord knows what was after him, but I guess he was crazy with fright. Anyway, he figured the dogs were locked up—”
“When, in fact, they were right on top of him! Failing Kelly’s arrival, I could have done nothing. Rouse somebody up. Get hot water, lint, iodine. Rush.”
As Sam ran to obey, Raymond Harkness stepped in through the open window. He wore a blue rainproof, a striped muffler, and a brown hat. He was peeling off a pair of light suede gloves. He looked like an accountant who had called to advise winding up the company.
“It’s not clear to me, Sir Denis, just what happened out there tonight—I mean what happened to Frobisher.”
“You can see what happened to him!” said Smith drily.
“Yes—but how? Sokolov was waiting to meet him, but he never got there—”
“Somebody else met him first!”
“Sokolov’s thugs made the mistake of opening fire on our party.” Harkness put his gloves in his pockets. “Otherwise, I’m not sure we should have had anything on Sokolov.”
The wounded man groaned, momentarily opened his eyes, clenched his injured hands. He had heard the sound of someone beating on a door, heard Stella’s moaning cry:
“Let me out! Mike!”
“Don’t…” Frobisher whispered, “allow her… to see me.”
As if galvanized, Nayland Smith turned, exchanged a glance with Harkness, and went racing upstairs.
“Mrs. Frobisher!” he called. “Mrs. Frobisher—wh
ere are you?”
“I’m here!” came pitifully.
Smith found the locked door. The key was in the lock! He turned it, and threw the door open.
Stella Frobisher, on the verge of nervous collapse, crouched on a chair, just inside.
“Mrs. Frobisher! What does this mean?”
“She—Camille—locked me in! Oh, for heaven’s sake, tell me: What has happened?”
“Hang on to yourself, Mrs. Frobisher. It’s bad, but might be worse. Please stay where you are for a few minutes longer. Then I am going to ask you to lend us a hand. Will you promise? It’s for the good of everybody.”
“Oh, must I? If you say so, I suppose—”
“Just for another five minutes.”
Smith ran out again, and down to the library. His face was drawn, haggard. In the battle to save Frobisher from the dogs, with the added distraction of a fracas between F.B.I. men and Sokolov’s bodyguard at the lower gate, he had lost sight of Craig! Camille he had never seen, had never suspected that she would leave Mrs. Frobisher’s room. Standing at the foot of the stair:
“Harkness,” he said. “Send out a general alert. Dr. Fu-Manchu not only has the plans. He has Camille Navarre and the inventor, also…”
* * *
The police car raced towards New York, casting a sword of light far ahead. Against its white glare, the driver and a man beside him, his outline distorted by the radio headpiece, were silhouettes which reminded Nayland Smith of figures of two Egyptian effigies. The glass partition cut them off completely from those in the rear. It was a special control car, normally sacred to the deputy commissioner…
“We know many things when it’s too late,” Nayland Smith answered. “I knew, when I got back tonight, that Michael Frobisher was an agent of the Soviet, knew the Kremlin had backed those experiments. I knew Sokolov was waiting for him.”
His crisp voice trailed off into silence.
Visibility in the rear was poor. So dense had the fog become, created by Smith’s pipe, that Harkness experienced a certain difficulty in breathing. Motorcycle patrolmen passed and re-passed, examining occupants of all vehicles on the road.
“That broken-down truck wasn’t reported earlier,” Harkness went on, “because it stood so far away from any gate to Falling Waters. What’s more, it hadn’t been there long.”
“But the path through the woods has been there since Indian times,” Smith rapped. “And the truck was drawn up right at the point where it reaches a highway. How did your team come to overlook such an approach?”
“I don’t know,” Harkness admitted. “It seems Frobisher didn’t think it likely to be used, either. It doesn’t figure in the alarm plan.”
“But it figured in Fu-Manchu’s plan! We don’t know—and we’re never likely to know—the strength of the party operating from that truck. But those who actually approached the house stuck closely to neutral zones! His visit today—a piece of dazzling audacity—wasn’t wasted.”
Traffic was sparse at that hour. Points far ahead had been notified. Even now, hope was not lost that the truck might be intercepted. Both men were thinking about this. Nayland Smith first put doubt into words.
“A side road, Harkness,” he said suddenly. “Another car waiting. Huan Tsung is the doctor’s chief of staff—or used to be, formerly. He’s a first-class tactician. One of the finest soldiers of the old regime.”
“I wish we could pin something on him.”
“I doubt if you ever will. He has courage and cunning second only to those of his distinguished chief.”
“There’s that impudent young liar who sits in the shop, too. And I have reports of a pretty girl of similar type who’s been seen around there.”
“Probably Huan Tsung’s children.”
“His children!” Even the gently spoken Harkness was surprised into vehemence. “But—how old is he?”
“Nearing eighty-five, I should judge. But the fecundity of a Chinese aristocrat is proverbial… Hullo! What’s this?”
The radio operator had buzzed to come through.
“Yes?” said Harkness.
“Headquarters, sir. I think it may be important.”
“What is it?” Nayland Smith asked rapidly.
“Well, sir, it comes from a point on the East River. A young officer from a ship tied up there seems to have been saying good night to a girl, by some deserted building. They heard tapping from inside a metal pipe on the wall, right where they stood. He spotted it was Morse—”
“Yes, yes—the message?”
“The message—it’s just reached headquarters—says: ‘J.J. Regan here. Call police…’ There’s a party setting out right now—”
“Regan? Regan? Recall them!” snapped Smith. “Quickly!”
Startled, the man gave the order, and then looked back. “Well, sir?”
“The place to be covered, but by men who know their job. Anyone who comes out to be kept in view. Anyone going in to be allowed to do so. No suspicion must be aroused.”
The second order was given.
“Anything more?”
“No.” Nayland Smith was staring right ahead along the beam of light. “I am trying to imagine, Harkness, how many times the poor devil may have tapped out that message.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Camille’s impressions of the sortie from the house were brief, but terrifying.
That tragedy, swift, mysterious, had swept down on Falling Waters; she had known even before she ran from her room to prevent Stella Frobisher going downstairs. The arrival of Nayland Smith had struck a note of urgency absent before. Up to this moment, she had counted her confession to Morris the supreme ordeal which she must brave that night.
But, when she returned upstairs (and she knew Sir Denis had seen her), apprehension grew. She had dressed quickly. She realized that something was going to happen. Just what, she didn’t know.
Then she heard someone running across the rose garden which her window overlooked. She laid down the cigarette she was smoking, went and looked out. She saw nothing. But it was a dark night. She wondered if it would be wise to report the occurrence. But before decision was reached had come that awful cry—shots—the baying of dogs.
Stella Frobisher, evidently wide awake, had come out of her room. Camille had heard her hurrying along the corridor, had run out after her…
It had been difficult, inducing Stella to return. Camille had succeeded, at last.
But to remain locked in, whilst Morris was exposed to some mysterious but very real peril—this was a trial to which Camille was unable to submit. It was alien to all her instincts.
She felt mean for locking Stella into her own apartment, but common sense told her that Mrs. Frobisher could be only a nuisance in an emergency.
Then had come that stumbling rush in cold, clammy darkness toward the spot where, instinctively, she knew Morris to be—in danger. Whilst still a long way off, she had seen that horrifying mix-up of dogs and men. Morris was there.
Almost unconsciously she had cried his name: “Morris! Morris!”
By means of what miracle Morris heard her voice above the tumult Camille would never know—unless her heart told her; for a second disturbance had broken out not far away: shots, shouting.
But he did.
He turned. Camille saw someone else, probably the kennel man, joining in the melee. Perhaps she was outlined against lights from the house; but Morris saw her, began to run towards her. He seemed to be shouting. His behavior was wild.
Something—it felt like a damp, evil-smelling towel—was dropped suddenly over her head.
And now?
Now she lay on a heap of coarse canvas piled up in a corner of what seemed to be a large, and was unmistakably a dilapidated, warehouse: difficult to assess its extent for the reason that the only light was that of a storm-lamp which stood on the roughly paved floor close to where Camille lay.
Another piece of this evidently abundant sacking had been draped over one side of
the lantern so that no light at all reached a great part of the place. There was a smell of dampness and decay with an overtone which might have been tea. It was very still, except that at the moment when she became conscious of her surroundings, Camille thought she had heard the deep warning note of a steamer’s whistle.
The impression was correct. The S.S. Campus Rex had just pulled out from a neighboring berth, bound for the River Plate. Her third officer was wishing he knew the result of his message to the police and wishing he could have spent one more night with his girl friend…
A scuffling sound brought Camille to her feet at a bound.
There were rats around her in the darkness!
She had physical courage such as, perhaps, few women possess. But the presence of rats had always set her heart beating faster. They terrified her.
Swaying slightly, she became aware of a nausea not due merely to fright. There was an unpleasant taste on her palate.
A sickly sweet odor lingered, too, in her disordered hair. Of course, she might have expected it. The towel, or whatever had been thrown over her head, must have been saturated with an anaesthetic.
She stood quite still for a moment, trying to conquer her weakness. The scuffling sound had ceased. In fact, she could detect no sound whatever, so that it might have been some extra sense which prompted her to turn swiftly.
Half in the light from the storm-lamp and half in shadow, a tall man stood watching her.
Camille stifled a cry almost uttered, and was silent.
The man who stood there wore a long, loose coat with a deep astrakhan collar. A round cap, of Russian type, and of the same close black fur, was on his head. His arms were folded, but the fingers of his left hand remained visible. They were yellow, slender fingers, prolonged by pointed fingernails meticulously manicured.
His features, lean, ascetic, and unmistakably Chinese, were wholly dominated by his eyes. In the lantern light they gleamed like green jade.
“Your sense of hearing is acute,” he said, his harsh voice subdued. “I thought I moved quite noiselessly.”
And, as he spoke, Camille knew that this was the man who had haunted her dreams.
“Who are you?” She spoke huskily. “What am I doing here?”