Re-enter Fu-Manchu (10 page)

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.

D
r. 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 has 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.

“No later than forty-eight hours from now, Matsukata, we must be on our way. You are ready?”

“I am ready.”

“And your last patient?”

“Is ready also.”

“You are satisfied?”

“He is sleeping. But Excellency might wish to see him.”

Fu Manchu slightly shook his head. “It is unnecessary. He must make the journey. Your papers are in order and your accommodations secured. You should rejoin me not later than twenty-four hours after I arrive.”

Matsukata bowed again. The marmoset sprang across the desk and whistled at him angrily.

Brian spent a wretched day. He remained extremely uneasy about Zoe. Whatever the urgency, he couldn’t understand why she had gone without telling him where he could get in touch with her. He had found out from the hotel management that she had left all her luggage behind and all her expensive dresses.

It was late in the afternoon when a boy handed him a telegram. It was signed “J. Jansen.” The message was brief, merely stating that Zoe had hurried back to Luxor with him and that there was hope after all for her aunt’s recovery. She sent her love to Brian and Sir Denis.

Brian gave a great sigh of relief. He had built up a pyramid of doubts based upon her disappearance. These included the theory that Mr. Ahmad was a traitor in Sir Denis’ camp; that Sir Denis was losing his grip and didn’t recognize friend from enemy. The telegram shattered these delusions, lifting a dreadful load from his mind.

During the remainder of the afternoon he wrote a long letter to Zoe, addressed in care of J. Jansen. When he went down to dinner Sir Denis had not yet appeared.

He was about to go out onto the terrace for coffee when he saw Nayland Smith hurrying in his direction, accompanied by another man, quite unmistakably English. Both wore evening dress.

“Ah, there you are, Merrick,” Sir Denis snapped. “Want you to meet Sir Nigel Richardson from the Embassy.”

“How do you do, Mr. Merrick?” Sir Nigel shook hands cordially. “Devil of a game you fellows have taken on. Sir Denis has been telling me all about it.”

Brian felt quite confused. “Will you join me for coffee?”

“Came to fetch you,” Sir Nigel explained. “You’re coming back to the Embassy for your coffee and so forth. Business to be done! Lots of work. Very little time.”

Brian found an Embassy car waiting outside, and a few minutes later found himself in Sir Nigel Richardson’s study. Coffee was passed around, and an assortment of liqueurs. A young attaché, Captain Arkwright, joined the party and made notes from time to time. He was earnest, efficient, and highly excited.

“Please give my regards to your father, Mr. Merrick.” Sir Nigel raised his glass to Brian. “He was with the American Legation in Madrid some years ago, when I also was posted to Spain. We were much younger then.” He smiled, glanced at Nayland Smith. “You were a policeman in Burma in those days, Denis.”

“That’s where I first crossed the path of Dr. Fu Manchu.” Sir Denis stood up and began to move about restlessly, filling his pipe, which he rarely forgot to bring along, as Brian Recalled. “And he’s a bigger menace today than he was then.”

Sir Nigel Richardson frowned thoughtfully, drawing together, his heavy eyebrows, black in contrast with his silvered hair.

“Your sudden appearance has set me thinking, Denis. Rumors of this man’s doings, nothing further, have come my way in spots as far apart as Teheran and Paris. What should you guess his age to have been the first time you saw him?”

“I should have taken him for seventy—well preserved, but about seventy.”

Sir Nigel stared, watching Nayland Smith light his pipe. “Then, for heaven’s sake, if he’s really still alive—”

“I know,” Smith snapped. “He’s over a hundred. I have believed for a long time that he has mastered the secret of prolonging life. He’s a scientific genius. But unless he’s also a Chinese edition of the Wandering Jew, I’ll finish him one day.”

“He has certainly proved hard to finish,” Sir Nigel commented dryly.

And as Nayland Smith grinned in rather a grim way, Brian noted a faint mark like a wrinkle appear on the bridge of his nose, and realized for the first time that the plaster had been removed.

“If I fail to get him this time, Nigel, it’ll be because he’s finished
me
! And now, to the job. As you know, my passport, as well as everything else I had with me, is lost.”

“A new diplomatic passport is ready, Denis.” Sir Nigel glanced at the attaché. “You have it there, Arkwright?”

“Here, sir.” The passport was laid on a coffee table.

“Transport?” Sir Denis asked.

“A plane manned by Royal Air Force personnel will be at your disposal.”

“And Mr. Merrick?”

“I have made an appointment for him to meet Mr. Lyman Bostock, my United States opposite number, at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Take your own passport along, Mr. Merrick. It will be exchanged for one giving you diplomatic privilege.”

Brian’s head began to swim. He didn’t know if this was due to Sir Nigel’s old Napoleon brandy or to the miraculous speed with which Nayland Smith got things done.

“And the third passenger?”

Sir Nigel lighted another cigar. “That matter I had to pass to Bostock. He has promised me that a passport with a suitable visa will be issued by the United States Consulate and ready for Mr. Merrick to pick up in the morning when he calls for his own.”

When the Embassy car took them back, Nayland Smith got out at the hotel entrance and dismissed the chauffeur.

“To take that official chariot through the Mûski tonight, Merrick, would be calculated to start a riot. The bar’s still open. I’m thirsty. Let’s have a drink and then I’ll get a cab.”