by Sax Rohmer
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.”
Brian thought, as they sat down at a corner table, that Sir Denis looked oddly drawn and very tired. “I’d say you’d had one hell of a time,” he told him sympathetically.
“Why? Do I look chewed up?”
“Not at all, Sir Denis! In fact, though I don’t know the details, I consider you’ve made an amazing comeback.”
Nayland Smith smiled. But even now it wasn’t the happy smile that Brian seemed to remember. Undoubtedly he had suffered more than he cared to admit.
“I suppose I look as well as I can expect to look.” He took a long drink. “By the way, Merrick, have you had any news from Luxor?”
Brian told him about the message from Mr. Jansen.
“That’s good.” Nayland Smith glanced at his watch. “Time I was moving. Don’t waste regrets on Zoe, Merrick. She’s a charming girl, but her mother was an Arab. These people are unpredictable, you know. Like snow upon the desert and so forth. Don’t be late in the morning.” He jumped up. “We must be ready to leave at any hour tomorrow.”
Brian stood up too; “But where are we going?”
“New York. Good night, Merrick.”
* * * *
Lyman Bostock turned out to be another friend of Senator Merrick, as Brian discovered when he presented himself at Mr. Bostock’s office at ten o’clock.
“You might be your father as I remember him at Harvard,” Mr. Bostock declared. “I suppose he got you this appointment as aide to Sir Denis Nayland Smith?”
“No, sir, he didn’t. I got it myself — just by accident.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Bostock, with his smooth white hair and fresh complexion and soft Southern voice, had a gentle manner that made Brian wonder what he was doing in such a smoldering volcano as Cairo. “I naturally supposed, as Sir Denis is acting for Washington, by arrangement with London, that your father had proposed you. You will find your duties exciting.”
“I’ve found them exciting already.” Brian laid his passport on the desk.
“This is your new passport.” Mr. Bostock passed it across. “When your present employment ends, you may be asked to return it, in which case your old one will be returned to you. I’m sending it to Washington. And now” — he opened an envelope— “here are Dr. Hessian’s papers.” He looked up. His mild blue eyes twinkled. “Rather irregularly, I confess, he is being admitted to the United States under the quota system. And here is Dr. Hessian’s passport.”
* * * *
When Brian, back in his room, had put the neat little diplomatic passport in an inside pocket and locked the other documents in a suitcase, he went downstairs and out into the garden. He was still lingering there, wondering how soon they were to start for New York, when a boy came up with a radiogram. Brian tore it open and felt his heart give a queer little jump.
It was from Lola Erskine:
“I wonder if you realize you left no address. Only just found out through Thomas Cook where you are. Please reply how long staying in Cairo. Love. Lola.”
Brian felt suddenly on top of the rainbow. What a multiple idiot he had been! Waiting day after day for a word from Lola, and except for telling her that he was flying to Cairo, he had given her no idea where to reach him! But she found a way. He seemed to be looking again into those gray eyes with their hint of hidden laughter, hearing her voice. And he knew, in this moment, that Zoe had been a distraction, no more. He hoped, as Nayland Smith had encouraged him to believe, that Zoe felt the same way about it.
He suddenly decided to make a dash to the Mûski and order five hundred Azîza cigarettes to be sent by air to Lola in London. He knew that she liked Egyptian cigarettes.
Without allowing himself time to change his mind, he went out, jumped in a cab, and told the driver to take him to the shop of Achmed es-Salah in the Khân Khalîl. He had good reason to distrust Achmed, but he s
old excellent cigarettes. This done, he would at least have time to send a radiogram to Lola before he left Cairo.
And so presently he found himself again passing through those crowded, colorful, dusty streets, listening to cries musical and discordant, the vehicle sometimes nearly running over a tiny donkey and always meeting with some sort of obstruction.
Achmed sat smoking in the entrance to his cavernous shop. Brian looked hard into the shadows beyond. But today he found no amber eyes watching him.
“Ah, my gentleman!” Achmed greeted him. “You come for my cigarettes. Is it so?”
“It is so. You can mail some to London?”
“Of course. I send many to England, and also to America.”
Brian ordered five hundred Azîzas to be sent to Lola, writing the address on a little card that Achmed gave him. He paid the price demanded, which he knew was exorbitant, and a small sum for postage; then he hurried away. He had kept the cab waiting.
The driver had gone no more than a few hundred yards when he upset and narrowly avoided running over a very large man riding a very small donkey. The language of the fallen rider, which Brian didn’t understand, was evidently so ornamental, even for an Arab, that a laughing crowd gathered around him. They ignored the driver’s warnings and encouraged the furious victim to further abuse.
A car going in the opposite direction, its Nubian chauffeur tooting remorselessly, forced a way through the outskirts of the audience and passed on. Brian had a glimpse of the solitary passenger.
It was Mr. Ahmad.
These suspicions concerning this man, never far from his mind, awoke again. Was Ahmad going to the shop that he himself had just left? Even so, he might be going only to buy cigarettes. But Brian reviewed the chain of events that linked old Achmed with the girl who had followed him, and joined up with that ragged beggar who had undoubtedly been waiting for him outside the building that accommodated the Azîza Cigarette Company.
He wondered if he should speak to Nayland Smith about it, but hesitated for fear of giving Sir Denis the impression that he was inclined to form wild theories that lacked any basis in proven fact.
A time was to come when he would regain confidence in his instincts. But that time was not yet.
* * * *
The call came just after two o’clock. Brian had dispatched a radiogram to Lola and was crossing the lobby when Nayland Smith burst in.
“Baggage down, Merrick? Got the passports and entry papers? Good. Everything will be settled up here. We’re off!”
Sir Nigel Richardson’s chauffeur was standing outside to dispose of Brian’s luggage in the big Embassy car. Four motorcycle police were lined alongside and a number of spectators had gathered, curious to get a glimpse of the distinguished visitor. They probably expected to see a Hollywood celebrity, and were plainly disappointed when Brian and Sir Denis came out and got into the car.
Brian found another passenger inside, a tall, stooping man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and dark sun glasses, his chin buried in the upturned collar of his light topcoat. As the car swept smoothly away with its escort Nayland Smith said in his jerky fashion, “Merrick, I want you to meet our fellow traveler, Dr. Otto Hessian. This is Mr. Brian Merrick, Junior, Doctor.”
The Doctor nodded slightly.
During the drive out to the airport Dr. Hessian never spoke a word, and rarely moved. Sir Denis, in a low voice, explained the situation to Brian:
“Dr. Hessian has been under medical care since I smuggled him into Cairo. He was in even worse shape than I was. But he went ahead with his work. We had to leave all his apparatus behind, of course. Smashed it. But the man has a majestic brain. Memorized every detail. The whole thing is ready again, in blueprint, for setting up directly we reach New York.”
“That’s a wonderful job, Sir Denis.”
“He’s a wonderful man. Doesn’t know much English, but does know loads of science. We’re not sure if the enemy has traced him here. Hence the precautions. Once we’re airborne our troubles are over. Detailed instructions have been sent ahead in code. Hessian expects to find all the necessary equipment on hand when we get there.”
A surprise awaited Brian when they arrived at the airport.
Sir Nigel Richardson and Captain Arkwright were waiting to see them off… and they were talking to Mr. Ahmad.
Mr. Bostock came up while Dr. Hessian was being presented. He shook hands with the Doctor and made some complimentary remarks in German. Dr. Hessian nodded and hurried aboard the plane. He was clearly a man so completely wrapped up in his own studies that he had neither time nor inclination for the social amenities. Nayland Smith drew Brian aside with Ahmad.
“I thought, Merrick, there might be some last-minute commissions to carry out. Mr. Ahmad is at your service. He will see to it that any correspondence that may arrive for you after we leave will be forwarded to New York.”
“Thanks very much.” Brian found himself forced once more to reconsider his views of Mr. Ahmad. “I don’t expect anything, though. And I can think of nothing else.”
“If you do, Mr. Merrick” — Ahmad gave his glittering smile— “don’t hesitate to notify me, at any time.”
Five minutes later the plane took off on the first leg of its long journey.
CHAPTER NINE
Brian stared from a window of the suite in the Babylon-Lido Hotel that he shared with Nayland Smith. Sir Denis, he knew, had been retained by Washington, and certainly they had done him royally in the matter of accommodations. Their suite was on the top floor, and from where he stood the view stretched south to the Empire State Building and west to the Palisades. There was a penthouse apartment on the roof above them, occupied by Dr. Hessian. One room, he understood, was equipped as a laboratory.
Throughout the journey from Cairo he had never succeeded in getting a single word out of the distinguished physicist, nor had the Doctor once removed his dark glasses in his presence.
Brian had no excuse to complain about his living quarters, and his salary was princely. All the same, he wasn’t happy. From the hour when he had signed on in London for this strange job up to the present moment, he had been called upon to do exactly nothing.
Only that morning he had tackled Nayland Smith on the subject, and Nayland Smith had replied, “Cultivate patience, Merrick. There are long spells of idleness in a soldier’s life, too. But when war starts he has his hands full. We’re in just that position. I might have had desperate need of you in Cairo. As it chanced, I didn’t. We got Hessian away without a hitch. But Dr. Fu Manchu’s forces are here, too — a group of thugs pledged to stop Hessian’s work. How they’ll operate I don’t know. I can’t tell you if I’ll need your brawn or your brain. But I can assure you that you’ll be an essential figure in the picture. This is by far the biggest thing I ever took on, and if it breaks me and Fu Manchu wins, it means the end of all we stand for.”
Before he went out that morning. Sir Denis drew Brian’s attention, to a portable phone in the living room. It was connected with the penthouse above.
“By arrangement with the management, Merrick, the elevator goes no higher than this floor. Visitors to the penthouse must use the stairs. But the door is locked from the inside. You’ll see a typed notice on it: ‘Apply Apartment Twenty-six-ten.’ That’s this apartment. If anyone applies, take particulars and call Dr. Hessian. His secretary will answer. She’s a young lady supplied by the FBI.”
And so Brian realized that whenever Nayland Smith was out, he had to stay in. He was on a kind of sentry duty.
Many hours had passed since then, but no one had applied for permission to visit Dr. Hessian. He had ordered his lunch sent up and written a long letter to Senator Merrick, walked along the corridor, and dropped it in the letter chute.
As he returned, he had an odd impression that the door to-the penthouse stairs had been slightly opened, that someone had looked out and then quickly drawn back. Before going in to the suite, he stood for a moment looking at the mysterious door. He could s
ee a sheet of paper pinned to it, and beyond doubt the door was closed. He concluded that he had been mistaken.
And now he had nothing to do but stare out of a window.
He was watching smoke from a ship steaming up the river when the penthouse phone buzzed. He picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Nayland Smith here,” came the snappy voice. “Any visitors?”
“No.”
“Callers?”
“No one called.”
“Boring for you, Merrick. Relax for a couple of hours. I’ll take over. Cut downstairs and try a champagne cocktail in the Paris Bar. They used to be good when I was here before. Then dine in the Silver Grill. I shall know where to find you if you’re wanted.”
‘Thanks, Sir Denis. I’ll take your advice.”
He looked at his watch, surprised to find how late it was. He spruced up and went downstairs. Although he wasn’t familiar with the Babylon-Lido, he had no difficulty in finding the Paris Bar. It was decorated in Montmartre style, with colored advertisements for French drinks on the walls, and framed Lautrec reproductions. There were red-and-white checked cloths on the little tables, French waiters, and a French bartender.
The bar was already well patronized, but he saw no one he knew. He sat down at a vacant table and ordered a Martini, smiling to himself at Nayland Smith’s recommendation of a champagne cocktail. He supposed he should be grateful to find himself back in his native land, but all the same a voice within kept asking: why New York? Why couldn’t it be London? When his drink came and he had sampled it and lighted a cigarette he began to feel better. He recalled what someone had told him once, that Secret Service routine can be as dull as banking.
This thought consoled him, and he had just ordered a second cocktail when soft hands were pressed over his eyes from behind and a soft voice said, “Guess, Brian! Who is it?”
He grasped the slender hands, twisted in his chair, and found himself looking up into eyes that smiled while they seemed to mock him.
“Lola!” He almost failed to recognize his own voice. “But — but you ought to be in London!”
