Re-enter Fu-Manchu (17 page)

He took a measuring glass and prepared a draught composed of one part of a greenish liquid, two of amber, and one of red. He emptied this carefully into a larger glass and filled it with distilled water. The contents bubbled slightly, became cloudy and then still. Dr. Fu Manchu began to drink when a faint ring sounded. He turned. A speck of blue light had sprung up in the radio cabinet.

Returning to his chair, he moved a switch and spoke: “What have you to report?”

A woman’s voice answered. “Earlier information of the disaster in Cairo is confirmed, Doctor. The person responsible for it I have been unable to trace, for all have left for Mecca, including the girl Zobeida.”

“The absence of any publicity, of any official reaction is disturbing.”

“But understandable. The President is expected tonight.”

“I am aware of this, and have spread my net; for the hour of danger is earlier. I am staking everything upon my knowledge of the man. He never does the obvious.”

“You judge wisely, Doctor, I have information from a reliable, source that ‘the obvious’ was proposed, but rejected. What you have foreseen will happen.”

“If I could be as sure of one other thing I would trust to Routine Five and cancel all other orders.”

“What is this one other thing, Doctor?” The woman’s voice remained soft but revealed tension.

Dr. Fu Manchu clenched his hands; his features became convulsed, and then calm again.

“His being alone at the crucial moment.”

“If I undertake to arrange this one thing, Doctor, will you give me
carte blanche
to deal with it?”

“You have never yet failed me—not once. And no, one ever failed me twice. It is a gambler’s choice—but I have always been a gambler…”

* * *

Brian had great difficulty getting to sleep that night. The astounding experiment in the penthouse had left him in a state of high excitement. He would seriously have doubted the evidence of his senses if the wonders he had seen hadn’t been confirmed by other witnesses.

Then, at some remote hour, just as he was dozing off at last, the phone in the living room rang and he heard Nayland Smith’s voice. The conversation was a brief one and a moment later Sir Denis burst in.

“That was your father, Merrick. We’re to expect the President at ten o’clock tonight.”

This made sleep even more difficult. He could not stop thinking. For some reason that he could not grasp, he had been dragged into the heart of a top secret that might very well involve the survival of civilization.

Why? he kept asking himself.
Why?

But he could find no answer.

Nature conquered at last, and he forgot his problems. It was after nine o’clock when he woke, and he went into the living room to see if Nayland Smith was there. He found a note on the desk, penciled in block letters, presumably because Sir Denis’ handwriting was almost illegible.

It said, “Don’t go out until I come back. D. N. S.”

Brian took up the phone and asked to be connected with Lola’s apartment.

She answered at once.

“Listen, Lola honey—did you call me last night? I had to go out.”

“No, Brian. I couldn’t make it.”

“How are you fixed for today? I’m not certain about lunch, but—”

“I am. I don’t get any. There’s only one possible spot, maybe an hour, about four o’clock. Will you be free then if I am?”

“I’ll see that I am. I’ll wait in the Paris Bar. We can’t miss each other there.”

When presently he hung up, Brian had become uneasily aware of the fact that Lola was preoccupied, keyed up in a new way. He wondered if Madame Baudin had been overworking her, and he wondered, not for the first time, if Lola was changing, slipping away from him…

When Nayland Smith came in, around noon, he showed such signs of agitation that Brian felt alarmed. The state of his nerves on his clandestine first visit was mild compared with his present condition.

“What happened, Sir Denis?”

Nayland Smith turned aside irritably, crossed to the buffet and mixed himself a stiff drink. He dropped down in a chair, took a long swallow, and then raised haggard eyes.

“The worst that could happen, under the circumstances. Dr. Fu Manchu is here.”

“Here! You mean in New York?”

“Exactly.” He emptied his glass. “In just a few hours the President will leave Washington. I shall find myself up against the master mind—and Fu Manchu will stick at nothing.”

He stood up and refilled his glass.

This was so unlike the abstemious, cool-brained Nayland Smith that Brian had known that he was gripped by a swift and dismal foreboding. Sir Denis was afraid!

The idea chilled him. It was almost unthinkable. But many incidents passed in lightning parade across his mind, incidents that individually had shaken his faith at the time, but that collectively threatened to shatter it.

Suffering had broken this man of iron. It was a tragedy.

“You don’t suggest, Sir Denis, that the President may be in personal danger?”

“Now that Fu Manchu is here, we are all in personal danger. Look, Merrick—I’m going up to see Dr. Hessian. He should know. Go out and get some lunch. When you come back—and don’t hurry—I may be asleep. I had no sleep last night, so don’t disturb me.”

* * *

Lingering over his lunch, feeling miserable and about as useful as a stray dog, Brian tried to muster his wandering ideas, to form some sort of positive picture.

Fu Manchu was in New York. And Nayland Smith had gone to pieces.

These two facts he must accept, for they stood for cause and effect. For the first he had been prepared; for the second he had not. As aide to Sir Denis, he would clearly have to take over his responsibilities if his chief failed.

He lacked almost every essential facility. Sir Denis hadn’t troubled to put him in touch with the FBI agents associated with them. He didn’t know one by sight. He had no more than a nodding acquaintance with Dr. Hessian; and for all that scientist’s undoubted genius, he found his personality strangely repellant.

Brian seriously considered calling his father, laying all the circumstances before that man of wide experience, and abiding by his advice. But an implied betrayal of the trust imposed upon him by Sir Denis ruled this plan out. Yet he had to do something.

It was nearly three o’clock when he went up to the suite. He found a “Do Not Disturb” card outside, but opened the door quietly and went in. A similar card hung on Nayland Smith’s bedroom door. There was a note, in block letters, on the desk. It said:

“Do what you like until seven o’clock, but stay out of the Babylon-Lido until then. Don’t enter on any account. Then wait in the Paris Bar until I page you. This is important. D. N. S.”’

W
hen Brian went into the Paris Bar at four o’clock he found it empty, as he might have expected it to be at that hour. Conscientious by nature, he wasn’t sure that his being there didn’t amount to disobeying Nayland Smith’s order, but, he couldn’t see how standing Lola up could benefit anyone.

He was still studying the problem when Lola came in.

“Lola!” There was no one else in the place, not even a bartender, and he took her in his arms. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

He held her close and gave her a lingering kiss. Then he recovered himself as she drew back and looked up at him with that quizzical smile.

‘So it seems, dear.” But her gray eyes, didn’t register resentment; they invited. So did the tempting lips.

Their second kiss was so like one of mutual passion that Brian’s heart leaped. Lingering doubts were dispelled. Lola did love him.

“Let’s get out of here, dearest.” He spoke hoarsely. “I want to talk to you alone, and we can’t count on having this place to ourselves very long. Queer things are going on.” His arm was around Lola’s waist. “Where can we be alone—if only for half an hour?”

“Well”—Lola hesitated—“I have one of the tiniest rooms in the Babylon-Lido. Madame doesn’t squander money. We could go up there, but—” She glanced up at him.

“I promise to behave.”

Lola’s room was on the eighth floor; its one window commanded an excellent view of a brick wall. The room wasn’t much larger than either of the bathrooms in Sir Denis’ suite, but it was delightfully intimate, and Brian’s mood of depression magically lifted. When Lola offered him a cigarette, he sparked his lighter, glanced at the cigarette, and paused.

“May I have a light?” Lola said sweetly. “They arrived this morning. Your extravagant tastes need watching.” The cigarettes were Azîzas—those he had ordered in Cairo.

“Did you get my letter, Lola?”

“Yes, it was forwarded. Thank you for everything, Brian. And now, what is it you want to talk about? I warned you, dear, I hadn’t much time. On the stroke of five I have to be off.”

“Then I’d better begin. What I want to say is strictly confidential. But I just have to say it to somebody, and there’s nobody else but you I can say it to. I’m worried about Sir Denis.”

“Why, Brian?” Lola drew her brows together in a frown of concentration. “Is he ill?”

“Yes.” Brian nodded. “Mentally ill, I’m afraid. I think he’s losing his nerve.”

“From your account of Sir Denis, I supposed he had no nerves.”

“So did I. But today he seemed to fall apart.”

“Why? Has something happened?”

Brian began to remember that it was his duty to keep his mouth shut. He must put a curb on his confidences. But he believed in Lola’s worldly wisdom, and desperately needed her advice.

He glanced at her. It had occurred to him almost from the moment of their meeting that she kept up her usual air of easy self-possession only by means of a sustained effort. Perhaps his passionate greeting had shaken her. But certainly, although she masked the fact, she was queerly keyed up. She kept glancing at her watch.

“Sir Denis seems to think some new danger has developed,” he told her.

“Danger? To whom?”

“To all of us, I guess.” He began to grope for words. “My father’s expected tonight, and some other important people. If this danger is real, I’m wondering if I should stop them.”

“Surely Sir Denis would have stopped them himself if he couldn’t guarantee their safety.”

“You don’t know,” Brian said, “how completely he’s gone to pieces.”

“Well, surely you could at least discuss it with him, since your father is involved.”

Brian shook his head wearily. “He’s asleep up there. And I have his written order. Look at this.” From his pocket he took out the note he had found on the desk. “They’ll be on their way before seven o’clock.”

Lola read the note, but made no comment. She passed it back and glanced at her wrist watch.

“What would you advise me to do, Lola?”

She stood up. “In the first place, get a move on. I have to go. As for Sir Denis’ order, I’d say do nothing—except obey it to the letter.”

* * *

With a sense of desolation Brian watched Lola’s taxi weave its way into the traffic torrent and finally become lost to view. She had her troubles, too, he knew, although they didn’t involve millions of human destinies, but only the vanity of a few wealthy women who bought their dresses at Michel’s.

He started away at a brisk pace toward Central Park. An hour’s walk in the fresh air might help him to shake off his gloom.

From the moment he entered the Park he hardly noticed where he was going. Evening was drawing on when he found himself passing behind the Metropolitan Museum and pulled up to check the time. He decided to turn back, swung around, and saw that the only other pedestrian in sight, a man walking twenty yards behind him, had done the same.

He thought nothing of this at the moment. Returning along the same path, he saw the man ahead turn to the left, toward an exit on Fifth Avenue. Brian passed on, nervously considering the night’s program, wondering why the mere approach of Dr. Fu Manchu had so shattered Nayland Smith’s courage and what it could be that Sir Denis feared. Did he seriously believe the President’s life to be in danger? And did he doubt his own ability to protect him?

Something prompted Brian to pause and look behind.

The man he had supposed to have left the Park was following him again.

Anger came first, then an unpleasant chill.

His follower might be an agent of Dr. Fu Manchu, or he might be one of the FBI men detailed, according to Sir Denis, to keep him under observation. In any case, it was getting dark, the Park seemed deserted, and Brian went out by the 72nd Street exit and hailed a taxi.

In the main entrance to the Babylon-Lido he looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to seven.

He turned away and walked around the corner. He had noticed a little bar almost directly facing the trade entrance to the hotel and decided that he could pass the time there, over a drink. It was better than walking up and down, he was tired of walking now, and feeling thirsty.

Taking a corner stool just inside the door, he ordered a drink, lighted a cigarette, and settled down to wait for seven o’clock.

For what possible reason had. Nayland Smith banished him from the Babylon-Lido until that hour? It was incomprehensible. Unless, which seemed probable, he was followed by a federal agent wherever he went, why was Sir Denis’ warning never to go out alone apparently forgotten?