by Sax Rohmer
Dr. Fu-Manchu was buying the United States with gold!
Once, in Nayland Smith’s presence, he had said:
“Gold! I could drown mankind in gold!”
That secret, to the discovery of which so many alchemists had devoted their lives, was held by the Chinese Doctor. Smith had known for a long time that gigantic operations in gold were being carried on. Indeed, although few had even suspected, it was these secret operations which had created the financial chaos from which every nation of the world suffered to this day.
Tonight the end seemed to him inevitable. There, alone, staring out at the lights of New York, Nayland Smith fought a great fight.
Could he hope to check this superman who fought with weapons not available to others; who had the experience of unimaginable years; who wielded forces which no other man had ever controlled? There was one certain way, and one only: that which Dr. Fu-Manchu himself doubtless would have chosen.
The death of Paul Salvaletti would bring this mighty structure crashing to the earth…
But, even though the fate of the country, perhaps of the Western world, hung in the scales, assassination was not a weapon which Nayland Smith could employ.
There was perhaps another way: the destruction of Dr. Fu-Manchu. That subtle control removed, the gigantic but fragile machine would be lost; a rudderless ship in a hurricane.
A bell rang. Fey came in and crossed to the telephone.
“Lieutenant Johnson, sir.”
Nayland Smith took up the receiver. “Hullo, Johnson.”
“Touch and go again!” came Johnson’s voice on a note of excitement. “Dr. Fu-Manchu was recognized by one of our patrols, but his car developed tremendous speed, and our men couldn’t follow. They called through to the next point. The car was intercepted. It was empty — except for the driver! We’ve got the driver.”
“Anything more?”
“Yes: a report that two men were seen to change cars in Greenwich. Descriptions tally. Second car sighted just over the line. But description now passed on to all patrols. Speaking from Times Building.”
“Stand by. I’ll join you.”
Nayland Smith hung up.
“Fey!” he shouted.
Fey reappeared silently.
“Captain Hepburn is at the second address under the name of Adair in the notebook on the telephone table. We have no number for this address. If I want him you will send a messenger.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I shall keep in touch. I am going out now.”
“As you are, sir?”
“Yes.” Nayland Smith smiled grimly. “My attempted change of residence was a fiasco, and I don’t propose to give further amusement to the enemy by wearing funny disguises.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN. THE GREAT PHYSICIAN
“I have called Dr. Detmold,” said Mark Hepburn, “and have told him to bring—” he hesitated— “the necessary remedies.”
Moya clutched him convulsively. For the first time in their strange friendship he found her in his arms.
“Does that mean—” she was watching him with an expression which he was never to forget— “that—”
“Don’t worry, Moya — my dear. It will be all right. But I’m glad I came.”
“Mark,” she whispered, “I never realized until now how I wanted — someone I could count on.”
Mark Hepburn stroked her hair — as many times he had longed to do.
“You know you can count on me?”
“Yes — I know I can.”
Hepburn tried to conquer the drumming in his ears, which was caused by the acceleration of his heart. When he spoke, his voice was even more toneless than normally.
“I’m not a very wonderful bargain, Moya; but when all these troubles are past — because it isn’t fair to ask you now…”
Moya raised her eyes to his: they were bright with stifled tears. But in them he read that which made further, ineloquent words needless.
All the submerged poetry in his complex character expressed itself in that first ecstatic kiss. It was a passionate sacrament. As he released Moya he knew, deep in his buried self, that he had found his mate.
“Moya, darling.”
Her head rested on his shoulder…
“Mark, dear, messages from this apartment are tapped,” she said. “It’s quite possible that your conversation with Dr. Detmold will be reported elsewhere.”
“It doesn’t matter. If your — employers catch me here, I shall declare myself and put you all under arrest.”
Moya gently freed herself and stepped away as Dr. Burnett joined them.
“In certain respects,” said Burnett, “the patient’s condition, admittedly, is not favourable. My dear Mrs. Adair” — he patted her shoulder— “he is in very good hands. Dr. Detmold is coming?”
“Yes,” Hepburn replied.
“I am sure he will endorse my opinion. The symptoms are not inconsistent with the treatment which I have been following.”
Mark Hepburn entirely agreed. Robbie’s survival of the treatment was due to a splendid constitution.
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” he muttered, “I should like to look at the patient.”
In the silence of the sick room he bent over Robbie. There was agony now in the eyes of Nurse Goff. The boy had had a choking fit in which he had narrowly escaped suffocation. He was terribly exhausted. His fluttery pulse was alarming. Walking on tiptoe, Hepburn crossed to the open window, beckoning Nurse Goff to follow him.
There he held a whispered consultation. Presently the door opened and Dr. Burnett came in with Moya; the reassuring tone of his voice died away as he entered the room. He looked in a startled manner at his patient.
A change for the worse, which must have been apparent even to a layman, had taken place. Dr. Burnett crossed to the bed. There came a sound of three dull blows on the outer door, as if someone had struck it with a clenched hand…
“Dr. Detmold!” Moya whispered brokenly, and ran out.
The two men were bending anxiously over the little sufferer when a suppressed cry from the vestibule, a sound of movement, brought Hepburn upright. He turned at the moment that a tall figure entered the bedroom.
It was that of a man in a long black overcoat having an astrakhan collar, who wore an astrakhan cap of a Russian pattern. Mark Hepburn’s heart seemed to miss a beat — as he found himself transfixed by the glance of the green eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu!
For a moment only he was called upon to sustain it. The situation found him dumbfounded. Dr. Fu-Manchu removing his cap and, throwing it upon a chair, turned to Dr. Burnett.
“Are you attending the patient?”
He spoke in a low voice, sibilant but imperative.
“I am. May I ask who you are, sir?”
Dr. Burnett glanced at a leather case which the speaker had placed upon the floor. Ignoring the inquiry, Dr. Fu-Manchu bent over Robbie for a moment, then stood upright, and turned as Moya came in.
“Why was I not notified earlier?” he demanded harshly.
Moya clutched at her throat; she was fighting back hysteria.
“How could I know, President,” she whispered, “that—”
“True,” Dr. Fu-Manchu nodded. “I have been much preoccupied. Perhaps I am unjust. I should have prohibited the boy’s last visit. I was aware that there was diphtheria in that neighborhood.”
Something in his unmoving regard seemed to steady Moya.
“Your only crime is that you are a woman,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu quietly. “Even to the last you have done your duty by me. I must do mine. I guaranteed your boy’s safety. I have never failed to redeem my word. From small failures great catastrophes grow.”
“And I must protest,” Dr. Burnett interposed, speaking indignantly but in a low voice. “At any moment we are expecting Dr. Detmold.”
“Detmold is a dabbler,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu contemptuously, and crossing to the bed he seated himself in a chair, staring down intently at Ro
bbie. “I have canceled those instructions.”
“This is preposterous,” Burnett exclaimed. “I order you to leave my patient.”
Dr. Fu-Manchu moved a gaunt yellow hand in a fan-like movement over Robbie’s forehead, then, stooping, parted his lips with the second finger and the thumb of his left hand, and bent yet lower.
“When did you administer the antitoxin?” he demanded.
Dr. Burnett clenched his teeth, but did not reply.
“I asked a question.”
The green eyes became suddenly fixed upon Dr. Burnett, and Dr. Burnett replied:
“At eleven o’clock last night.”
“Eight hours too late. The diphtheritic membrane has invaded the larynx.”
“I am dispersing it.”
Moya’s hands closed convulsively upon Mark Hepburn’s arm.
“God help me!” she whispered. “What am I to do?”
Her words had reached the ears of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
“You are to have courage,” he replied, “and to wait in the sitting-room with Mary Goff until I call you. Please go.”
For one moment Moya glanced at Hepburn. Then Nurse Goff, her face haggard with anxiety, put an arm around her and the two women went out. Dr. Fu-Manchu stood up.
“Surgical interference is unavoidable,” he said.
“I disagree!” Burnett in his indignation lost control, raising his voice unduly. “Until I have conferred with Dr. Detmold I forbid you to interfere with the patient in any way. Even if you are qualified to do so — which I doubt — I refuse to permit it.”
Dr. Burnett found himself transfixed by a glance which seemed to penetrate to his subconscious mind. He became aware of an abysmal incompetence which he had successfully concealed even from himself throughout a prosperous career. He had never experienced an identical sensation in the whole of his life.
“Leave us,” said the guttural voice. “Captain Hepburn will assist me.”
As Dr. Burnett, moving like an automaton, went out of the room, the fact crashed in upon Hepburn that Dr. Fu-Manchu had addressed him by his proper name and rank!
And, as if he had read his thoughts:
“My presence here tonight,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu, “is due to your telephone message to Sir Denis Nayland Smith. It was intercepted and relayed to me on my journey. To this I am indebted for avoiding a number of patrols whose positions you described. Be good enough to open the case which you will find upon the carpet at your feet. Disconnect the table lamp and plug in the coil of white flex.”
Automatically, Mark Hepburn obeyed the order. Dr. Fu-Manchu took up a mask to which a lamp was attached.
“We shall operate through the cricoid cartilage,” he said
“But—”
“I must request you to accept my decisions. I could force them upon you but I prefer to appeal to your intelligence.”
He moved his hands again over the boy’s face; and slowly, feverish bright eyes opened, staring upwards.
Something resembling a tortured grin appeared upon Robbie’s lips. “Hello… Yellow Uncle,” came a faint, gasping whisper. “I’s glad…you come…”
He choked, became contorted, but his eyes remained open, fixed upon those other strange eyes which looked down upon him. Gradually the convulsion passed.
“You are sleepy.” Fu-Manchu’s voice was a crooning murmur. The boy’s long lashes began to flicker. “You are sleepy…” His lids drooped. “You are very sleepy…” Robbie’s eyes became quite closed. “You are fast asleep.”
“A general anesthetic?” Hepburn asked hoarsely.
“I never employ anesthetics in surgery,” the guttural voice replied. “They decrease the natural resistance of the patient.”
* * * *
Nayland Smith, seated in the bullet-proof car, a sheaf of forms and other papers upon his knee, looked up at Johnson, who stood outside the open door.
“What are we to make of it, Johnson? An impasse! Here is the mysterious message received by Fey half an hour after I left: a request from Hepburn that under no circumstances should we look for evidence at the apartment he had visited, as someone lay there critically ill. No hint regarding his own movement, but the cryptic statement: ‘Keep in touch with Fey and have no fear about my personal safety. I make myself responsible for Dr. Fu-Manchu!’”
“Fey is sure it was Hepburn who called him,” said Johnson…
“But that was early last night,” snapped Smith; “it is now 3.15 in the morning! And except for the fact that our latest reports enabled us to draw a ring on the map of Manhattan, where are we? Dr. Fu-Manchu is almost certainly inside that ring. But since we cannot possibly barricade the most fashionable area of New York, how are we to find him?”
“It’s a deadlock sure enough,” Johnson agreed. “One thing’s certain: Hepburn hasn’t come out since he went in! A mouse couldn’t have got out of that building. There are lights in the top apartment…”
And even as these words were being spoken, Mark Hepburn, in a darkened room, was watching the greatest menace to social order the world has known since Attila the Hun overran Europe, and wondering if Nayland Smith would respect his request.
He had witnessed a feat of surgery unique in his experience. Those long yellow fingers seemed to hold magic in their tips. Smith’s assurance became superfluous. Dr. Fu-Manchu, the supreme physician, was also the master surgeon. He was, as Hepburn believed (for Nayland Smith’s computation he found himself unable to accept), a man of over seventy years of age. Yet with unfailing touch, exquisite dexterity, he had carried out an operation in a way which Hepburn’s training told him to be wrong. It had proved to be right. Dr. Fu-Manchu had performed a surgical miracle — under hypnosis!
But it had left the little patient in a dangerously weak condition.
The night wore on, and with every hour of anxiety, Moya came nearer and nearer to collapse. Except for the ceaseless, hoarse voice of New York, the sick room was silent.
That strange, supercilious gesture of Fu-Manchu before he began the operation was one Hepburn could never forget; it had a sort of ironic grandeur.
“Call your headquarters,” the Chinese Doctor had directed, “at the Regal Tower. Ensure us against interference. Allay any doubts respecting your own safety: I shall require you here. Conceal the fact that I am present, but accept responsibility for handing me over to the law; I give you — personally — my parole. Instruct the exchange that no calls are to be put through tonight…”
Nurse Goff was on duty again, although it was amazing how the weary woman kept awake. She sat by the open window, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed not upon the deathly face of Robbie, but on the gaunt profile of the man who bent over him. Moya was past tears; she stood just inside the open door, supported by Hepburn.
For five hours Dr. Fu-Manchu had sat beside the bed. Some of the restorative measures which he had adopted were those that any surgeon would have used; others were unfamiliar to Hepburn, who could not even guess what was contained in the phials which he opened. Once, in the first crisis, Fu-Manchu had harshly directed him to charge a hypodermic syringe. Then, bending over the boy and resting his hands upon his head, he had waved him aside. Now, as Hepburn’s training told him, the second, the grand crisis, was approaching.
Moya had not spoken for more than an hour. Her ups were parched, her eyes burning: she quivered as he held her against him.
A new day drew near, and Hepburn, watching saw (and read the portent) beads of moisture appearing upon the high yellow brow of Dr. Fu-Manchu. At four o’clock, that zero hour at which so many frightened souls have crossed the threshold to take their first hesitant steps upon the path beyond, Robbie opened his eyes, tried to grin at the intent face so near to his own, then closed them again.
It came to Mark Hepburn as a conviction that that lonely little spirit had wandered beyond recall even by the greatest physician in the world, who sat motionless at his bedside…
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT. WESTWARD
&
nbsp; Dim gray light was touching the most lofty buildings, so that they seemed to emerge from sleeping New York like phantoms of lost Nineveh; later would come the high-flung spears of sunrise to break golden upon the towers of those temples of Mammon. As Blücher might have remarked, “What a city to loot!”
Nayland Smith rang a bell beside a glazed door with iron scrollwork. Park Avenue is never wholly deserted day or night, but at this hour its fashionable life was at lowest ebb, and every possible precaution had been taken to avoid attracting the attention of belated passers-by. It was necessary to ring the bell more than once before the door was opened.
A sleepy night porter, his hair tousled, confronted them. Nayland Smith stepped forward, but the man, an angry gleam coming into his eyes, barred the way. He was big and powerfully built.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“Top floor,” rapped Nayland Smith. “Don’t argue.”
The man had a glimpse of a gold badge, and over the speaker’s shoulder saw that he was covered by an automatic held by Lieutenant Johnson.
“What’s the fuss?” he growled. “I’m not arguing.”
But actually, although he was only a very small cog in the wheel, he knew that the occupants of the penthouse apartment at the top of the building were closely protected. He had secured his appointment through the League of Good Americans, and he had had orders from the officers of the league, identifiable by their badges, scrupulously to note and report anyone who visited that apartment.
In silence he operated the elevator. At the top:
“Go down again,” Nayland Smith ordered, “and report to the officer in charge in the vestibule.”
As the elevator disappeared he looked about him: they were a party of four. Anxiety for Hepburn’s safety had driven him to make this move. Belatedly he had remembered a letter once received from Orwin Prescott — and in Prescott’s handwriting. It had been written automatically, under hypnotic direction. He remembered that Hepburn quite recently had succumbed to that uncanny control which Dr. Fu-Manchu possessed the power to exercise… Hepburn’s message to Fey might be no more than an emanation from that powerful, evil will!
