by Sax Rohmer
He dismissed the old beggar, then sat down again and forced what he feared might be a parody of his usual happy grin.
“There is someone there. Who is it?” He saw how pale she had become—
“Nobody to worry about, dear. Just a dirty old beggar. I dropped him an English shilling and told him to go take a long walk.”
“He was listening,” she whispered. “He heard me.”
“I don’t believe he understands a word of English.”
“But I heard you say, ‘Let me have a look at you.’ Did he look?”
“He just knew I was mad at him and looked up. It doesn’t mean he knows English.”
Zoe’s amber eyes blazed. “He was listening. You know he was listening!”
Brian tried to think clearly. “Suppose he was, Zoe. And suppose he does know English. What have you to worry about?”
She turned her head aside, so that the brim of her hat shadowed her face. “I cannot explain to you, Brian. What was told to me was told in confidence. For your sake I speak. If it is found out it could be terrible. But you can do nothing about it. Just do as I ask. Do not stay here one hour longer than you can help.”
“I don’t know where you got hold of the idea that I’m in danger, but isn’t it possible you’re getting all worked up over nothing?”
She turned, and her eyes challenged him. “It is not over nothing! Could it be for nothing that I beg you to go away when I want you to stay with me? How can you think this?”
Brian realized at last that Zoe was in a state of tremendous nervous tension. His well-meant but perhaps clumsy attempt to soothe her fears had only increased this. He must change his tactics. The situation was utterly fantastic, but he knew that the danger was real enough.
“I guess you’d like to get back.” He spoke uneasily. “I’ll try to contact Sir Denis.”
“It will be no use,” Zoe whispered. “But—yes, let me go, Brian.”
There was such black despair in her voice that he felt chilled. A cloud seemed to darken the Egyptian sunshine. He stood up, walked around the table, and rested his hands on Zoe’s bowed shoulders.
“Don’t let it get you down, Zoe. I’ll go in and order a car right away to take us back to Cairo.”
She reached up and held both his hands. “Not to Cairo, Brian. To Port Said, where we can find a ship. Do this and I will come with you. Leave your things at the hotel. It will be better—for you and for me. I am not mad. I know what I say. Do it—do it, Brian!”
“But Zoe, dear, tonight—”
“Tonight is too late. It is now or never. Oh, it is hopeless!” She thrust his hands away. “I can never make you understand! Go, then. I will wait here.”
His brain whirling like a carrousel, Brian went into the hotel and arranged for a car. He could no longer delude himself. The ragged old ruffian he had found seated in the road was a spy, and he had been there to listen to their conversation. Zoe knew it, and her panic was clear enough evidence of the menace overhanging them.
He toyed longingly with the temptation to accept her warning. She had become more than ever desirable. She was beautiful, and a delightful companion, responding to all his moods. And in all they did together she was graceful and accomplished.
But it was morally unthinkable that he should break his contract with Sir Denis—particularly now, when Nayland Smith needed him.
He walked slowly back to the garden and along to their table. But Zoe wasn’t there.
Brian felt his heart jump and then seem to stop for a moment. He sat down, looking at the empty chair. And by degrees he recovered himself. He, too, was giving way to panic. No doubt she had merely gone into the hotel to prepare herself for the drive.
This theory kept him quiet for five, ten, fifteen minutes. Then he decided that it was wrong.
He went in to make inquiries. But no one had seen her. He went back to the deserted table.
A boy walked down the path, and Brian jumped up.
“Your car is waiting, sir.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dr. Fu Manchu, seated on a divan in the saloon of the old house near the mosque of El Ashraf, gazed straight before him like a man in a trance. A sickly smell of opium hung in the still air. The long, hypnotic eyes were narrowed. Sometimes a film seemed to pass across them and then was gone, leaving them brilliantly green.
He roused himself and struck a small gong that stood on a table beside him. Immediately a stocky Burmese with a caste mark on his forehead came in and bowed deeply. Fu Manchu spoke to him in his own language:
“Is Zobeida here?”
“She is here, Master.”
“Send her in to me.”
The man went out, and almost immediately Zoe came in. She was dressed as she had been dressed at Mena House, except that she no longer wore her hat. Although pale, she was quite composed. It was the composure of resignation.
Without attempting to meet the glance that Fu Manchu fixed upon her, she dropped to her knees and lowered her head. There was a long silence in the saloon. Then Fu Manchu commanded harshly in Arabic, “Look up. Speak!”
Zoe looked up. “I have nothing to say, Master.” She lowered her head again.
“To me, you mean, little serpent! But Abdul al-Taleb reports that you had much to say to Mr. Brian Merrick. Be so good as to tell me with what object you tried deliberately to disturb my plans.”
“I was sorry for him.”
Dr. Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff from a little silver box, but never once ceased to watch the kneeling girl.
“There is no room for these moods of compassion in those who work for the Si-Fan. I bought you in an Arabian slave market. I bought you for your beauty. A beautiful woman is a valuable weapon. But the blade must be true. You were trained to take your place in any walk of society. You have all the necessary accomplishments. Neither time nor money was spared in perfecting you for my purpose. Yet, like another I trained and trusted, you betrayed me.”
Zoe raised her hands to her face.
“Whispered words,” the remorseless voice went on, “a man’s caresses, and those years of patient training became wasted years in as many minutes. Yet, Zobeida, this was not by any means the first assignment given you. Always before you have done well. Tell me, Zobeida, are you afflicted by the delusion miscalled love?”
He gave to “love” so scornful an intonation that Zoe shrank even lower. She was trembling now. Her answer was a whisper.
“This one is so young, and without experience, Master. He is not like those others.”
Dr. Fu Manchu considered her silently for a moment “Had you spoken the unforgiveable words ‘I love him,’ I should have sent for whips. It would have meant that you were of no future use, and therefore lash marks on your smooth skin would no longer have concerned me. But—you have betrayed the plans of the Si-Fan.”
Zoe looked up. “I have not! He knows nothing of your plans, for even had I wanted to, I could have told him nothing. He knows that I think he is in danger, that he should go away.”
“With you, unless I misunderstood Abdûl, who was listening.”
Zoe dropped her head again. “I would not have gone farther than Port Said. I would not have dared. I merely thought that if I said this, he might be tempted to listen to me.”
“Your desire: to guide this attractive young man into the straight and narrow path is most touching. Fortunately, I was able to take instant steps to check further confidences.” Fu Manchu spoke softly. “Go to your room. You will not be returning to the hotel.”
* * *
A faint hope that Zoe, piqued by his refusal to take her strange advice, might have found an empty cab at Mena House and returned alone to Cairo was disappointed when he got back to his hotel. She had not come in.
Brian went up to his room and paced about like a madman.
He had not dreamed. He had seen a vision. Could it be that the rest of it was true? Had Nayland Smith fallen into a trap?
Whichever way he looked he
could see nothing but darkness. He smoked several cigarettes, had several drinks. In desperation, he called Mr. Ahmad’s number. There was no reply.
He was wondering what to do next when his phone rang. He grabbed it.
“Oh, Brian dear!” It was Zoe! “I cannot tell you how unhappy I am. My uncle found out from the hotel porter where we had gone and came out by car to Mena House to get me. There was not one moment to lose. My poor Aunt Isobel is dying and has asked for me. So we rushed for the train. I am at the station now… The train is just coming in! I must run.” He heard the sound of a kiss. “Good-by, Brian.”
“But, Zoe—”
She had gone.
* * *
Mr. Ahmad called early in the morning. He found Brian on the terrace, looking wretched, toying with biscuits and cheese and a cup of coffee—apparently his breakfast. Mr. Ahmad sat down in a cane chair.
“You are not feeling so well, Mr. Merrick?”
“Thank you. I feel fine.”
“You looked, or so I thought, unhappy. Yes?”
Brian stared hard at Mr. Ahmad. Mr. Ahmad forced a smile of sympathy.
“Shall I tell you something?” Brian asked. “I’m sick to death of all this mystery business. I’m told there’s a serious danger threatening the Western world. I’m told that I’m a marked man. Queer things happen. And I’m left alone to think it all out. What kind of game is this? I can never get in touch with you, and Sir Denis orders me not to try to contact him!”
Ahmad shrugged. “Forgive me if I fail to follow you. I cannot know what took place between Sir Denis and yourself. I was not there. If your personal expenses have embarrassed you, I think I can promise that something can be arranged.”
“It’s not a question of money.”
“Then of what?”
“Of self-respect, I guess. I find out I have a spy on my tail. I’d like to report it, but there’s no one to report to. I’m supposed to be on this thing, but I’m left sitting outside.”
Even as he spoke so bitterly he was well aware that the real cause of his bitterness was the strange disappearance of Zoe. Her words, when she had called him, had sounded false, unreal. Either she had been playing a double-game all along, and had now gone off with some unknown man she really loved, or she had been abducted, had been forced to speak to him in order to put him off the scent.
He asked abruptly, “Could you deliver a message from me to Sir Denis?”
“But certainly. With pleasure.” But Mr. Ahmad spoke in a curiously uneasy way.
“If you can see him, why not I?”
Mr. Ahmad now looked unmistakably embarrassed. Brian could see that he was trying hard to think up an answer to that one. At last he said. “I can only obey Sir Denis’ orders, Mr. Merrick. Surely you know that he thinks it important, until his plans are complete, that no connection between you should be suspected.”
“Yes, I know that. But unless my hotel phone is tapped, why can’t I call him?”
Mr. Ahmad leaned forward, his expression very earnest. “Has Sir Denis told you where he is?”
“Yes. I knew, anyway. I didn’t tell you at the time, because I thought maybe he didn’t want me to know yet.”
Ahmad forced a smile. “It was discreet, for I myself was in ignorance of his presence in Cairo at that time. But now that, you know, Mr. Merrick, I ask you: is it likely that such a household would have a telephone?”
Brian snapped, “I never heard of a doctor who didn’t.”
“But the Seyyîd Mohammed no longer practices medicine. He does not accept patients now, except in an emergency such as this, and as a special mark of friendship.”
Brian said, “Yes, that’s true. I’d forgotten. Well, if I write a note, will you see that Sir Denis gets it?” He stubbed out his cigarette in an ash tray.
“Most certainly. May I offer you one of mine?” Ahmad held out a gold case. “They are different from yours. Unusual. But you may like them.”
“Thanks.”
Brian took one. It was an Azîza. He accepted the offer of Mr. Ahmad’s lighter and went in to write his note. But he sat at the desk a long time, pen in hand, before beginning to write. Was it another coincidence that the girl in the Loofah office had advised him to inquire for Mr. Ahmad at the Azîza Cigarette Company? And was it a still further coincidence that a spy whom he had mistaken for Zoe had followed him from the shop of the merchant in the Mûski who claimed to be the sole Cairo agent for the sale of those cigarettes?
He sighed, looked once more at the name of the cigarette, and puffed at it deeply. He began to write. Above all things he mustn’t let his imagination run away with him again.
When he was finished he went back to the terrace and handed the note to Mr. Ahmad.
“I shall see that this is placed in Sir Denis’ hands not later than noon,” Ahmad promised.
“Fine. Now how about a drink?”
“Many thanks, but it is much too early for me. What I really came to tell you is that Sir Denis expects to be ready to start tomorrow or the next day.”
“Start for where?” Brian wanted to know.
“This I cannot tell you, because I have not been told myself.”
“I see. Well, I’m ready at any time.”
“Good. And now I must go. My time is not my own.”
* * *
Brian had a poor appetite for lunch, and was already finished when he was called to the phone. When he said, “Hello,” a voice snapped, “Is that Brian Merrick?”
“Yes, Sir Denis.”
“Didn’t recognize you for a moment. What’s up? Something gone wrong?”
“Not exactly. That is, nothing that concerns you personally. But Zoe Montero left in a tremendous hurry yesterday. Called me from the railroad station, or so she said, and seemed very agitated. Told me her aunt in Luxor was dying. I’m rather worried, Sir Denis. I have a hunch something queer may be going on. A man I’m almost sure was a spy was eavesdropping on us while we were having lunch at Mena House. Could you give me her uncle’s address and phone number?”
“I hope your hunch is wrong, Merrick. Don’t want that poor kid dragged into our troubles. Situation’s rather complicated. Friend of the Sherîf Mohammed happened to be leaving for Luxor the day I got in. Asked him to let Zoe’s uncle know I was in Cairo. Safe man, Merrick; name of Jansen, Swedish artist. Jansen wired me Zoe was here.”
“But what’s his phone number?”
“That’s the snag, Merrick. Doubt if he has one. Runs a sort of art shop near the Palace Hotel. Never knew the address. Does reproductions of murals from the old temples, statuettes of gods, and so on. Sir Lionel Barton employed him when he was excavating a tomb up there.”
“Well, how am I to contact him? Would a radiogram to the Palace Hotel find him?”
“It might, Merrick—in time. I can suggest nothing better. I’ll be sorry if anything happens to Isobel Jansen. I know Jansen is devoted to her. By the way, stand by tomorrow. I’m breaking cover. Look out for me.”
Nayland Smith hung up. Brian rather resented the light dismissal of his concern for Zoe, but reflected that Sir Denis had affairs more serious on his mind than the erratic movements of a girl he evidently thought of as a child. He wrote out a careful message addressed to Mr. Jansen, artist (he didn’t know his first name), at the Luxor Palace, and gave it to the operator for transmission.
But, try as he would to fight it off, a mood of black depression swept down upon him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dr. Fu Manchu sat behind his desk, his disconcerting eyes focused upon Mr. Ahmad.
“You have instructed our agent at Luxor?”
“In detail, Excellency. The situation is under control.”
“Good. Return to your duties.” He resumed his reading of a closely written manuscript.
Ahmad had not long gone out by one door when the Sherîf Mohammed came in at another. “A messenger from China has just arrived, Excellency.”
Dr. Fu Manchu glanced up. “What ha
s he to report?”
“There have been serious disturbances in three provinces. The Communist authorities have been compelled to send military reinforcements to—”
Fu Manchu suddenly stood up. His eyes blazed as though fires burned behind their greenness. “What folly is this? Are our Si-Fan directives no longer obeyed? My orders were clear: accept whatever conditions are imposed upon you, however harsh. Lull the enemy into a state of false security. Wait! Wait for my word! Then—but not until then—strike, all my millions together. And at last China, our China, will lie like a choice pearl in my hand!” Fu Manchu spoke as a man inspired—or possessed.
The Sherîf Mohammed lowered his head. “It is true, Excellency. But agents of our enemy are sent among them to stir up rebellion, as an excuse for massacre. Here in Egypt also I have great difficulty in preventing premature action.”
Dr. Fu Manchu clenched his long, slender hands and sat down again. From some spot high above his head, Peko, his pet marmoset, sprang down onto his shoulder, giving his curious cry, which sounded like a short whistle. Fu Manchu reached up and stroked the little creature.
“Ah, Peko! You come to soothe me, my tiny friend.”
“No doubt,” Mohammed murmured, “Excellency will wish to send further orders back to General Huan Tsung-chao?”
Fu Manchu nodded. “Let the messenger wait. The fate of all the world hangs now upon a silk thread. Communism is not ready for war, and has nothing to gain by it. Washington fails to see how one step in the wrong direction may force the hazard. I have been selected to prevent this catastrophe, since I alone could hope to carry out the plan. Upon my success everything depends. Be good enough, my friend, to ask Dr. Matsukata to come in.”
The Sherîf Mohammed salaamed and went out, leaving Dr. Fu Manchu playfully teasing the marmoset, which sometimes tried to bite him, whistling with fury, and sometimes snuggled up against his silk robe affectionately.
Matsukata came in and bowed ceremoniously.