by Sax Rohmer
Nayland Smith smiled — the smile Brian remembered. “Ho, ho! So that’s how the wind blows! I’m frightened, too. First, I owe my freedom to her. She was responsible for the search of the house in Cairo — and it’s almost certain you gave her the clue. Second, I owe her my life. She learned all about the trap set for me here, briefed me, and was instrumental in getting my double’s instructions mixed up.”
Brian clenched his first. “If Dr. Fu Manchu has found this out, Sir Denis, he must know—”
“That Lola Erskine has double-crossed him? Yes. That’s why I’m frightened.”
They had been standing still in the long passage, talking in hushed voices. Now Nayland Smith snapped, “Come on! We must act.”
He set off at a run. As they passed the elevators, Brian found himself wondering if a girl like Lola could possibly give a damn for such a despicable, distrustful creature as himself.
Nayland Smith pulled the heavy door open.
“Hello! What’s this?”
There was no one there.
“Where’s Sergeant Ruppert?” Brian cried out.
Sir Denis raised his hand. “Ssh! We don’t know who may be listening. But I don’t like it. Come on — and be ready for anything.”
He started up the stairs, walking softly, one hand in a pocket of his tweed jacket. At the top he peered out cautiously along the corridor. It was empty from end to end. He banged his fist into the palm of his left hand.
“I should have known better than to rely on one man in dealing with Fu Manchu!”
“What do you figure happened? He didn’t call out. We’d have heard him.”
“When it happened is what worries me. How long has this stairway been open? Stand by, Merrick. Have your gun handy. If anyone comes near you, cover him and make him stand still, hands up, until I return.”
Nayland Smith darted back down the stairs.
* * * *
“When it happened” was fully twenty minutes earlier.
Apartment 2612 was across the passage and not far from Nayland Smith’s suite. A smartly dressed woman, her beauty hallmarked with the stamp of sophistication that some men, particularly young ones, find irresistible, had just come in. She had not long returned from Idlewild where Fu Manchu had ordered her to go to report the instant of Sir Denis’ arrival. She had means of learning such things, for beauty is a key that opens many doors.
Wearily she tossed an expensive hat onto the bed and sat down in front of her mirror. She opened a cream leather jewel case, unstrapped a conspicuous, diamond-studded wrist watch, and was about to put it away there when a voice spoke — apparently coming from the watch.
“Where are you now?”
She started, stooped forward, and answered, “Back in my room, Doctor.”
“No one obstructed you?”
“No one.”
“You have done well. You were only just in time. But there is more to do. Put the amethyst ring on your finger. It is live. Be careful not to turn the bezel until needed. Remember, the volume is low. Direct contact is necessary. Wear the diamond watch also. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Your freedom is in your hands tonight.”
The woman’s eyes opened wide. They were of the color of the ring that Dr. Fu Manchu had ordered her to wear — amethyst — and, with her auburn hair, gave her an exotic beauty. Her delicate color paled as she spoke:
“You mean — my complete freedom?”
“Your absolute freedom. The task I am giving you shall be your last. So you cannot afford to fail. These are your orders…”
As an immediate result of those orders, Sergeant Mike Ruppert, taking up his station at the foot of the stairs, a post that he expected to find very dull, had just ventured to light a cigarette when he heard light foosteps descending.
He dropped the cigarette and put his foot on it, turned — and saw a vision.
A disturbingly attractive woman was coming down. From her slender foot, her arched instep, to the flaming crown of her wonderful hair, Sergeant Ruppert found no flaw in her beauty.
She smiled and tried to pass him.
Sergeant Ruppert intruded his bulk. “Sorry, lady. No one allowed down this way.”
The smile gave place to a frown. “What do you mean, Sergeant?” She had an enchanting accent. “I live here. You can’t keep a guest a prisoner!”
The Sergeant wasn’t enjoying his job. “Department orders, miss. There’s — er — some inquiry going on. It’ll be all clear soon.”
“Soon! But my friend is waiting.”
“He’ll be glad to wait!” Sergeant Ruppert grinned.
A ghost of a smile stole back to the lovely face. “He is a she, my sergeant! But please let me go. It is bad enough that the elevators are out of order, that I have to walk up and down. But this!”
“That’s right.” The Sergeant was sympathetic. “But it’s not my fault, miss. All I can do is obey orders.”
“It is so stupid!” She pouted. “Never again do I stay at the Babylon-Lido! I shall go up and call the manager. Come with me. You shall hear that I am to be allowed to go out.”
“Sorry, miss. I’d like nothing better, but—”
“I can give you a nice cool drink while I phone.”
Sergeant Ruppert knew nothing about Saint Anthony, but he was going through similar fires. Years of discipline won. Dizzy but unconquered, he told her, “I can’t leave my post, miss.”
“Ah, parbleu!” she sighed. (“French!” the Sergeant decided.) “So I am imprisoned, yes?”
“It’s not as bad as that, lady. I’ll tell you what you do. I don’t think it’s meant for a young lady like you to be inconvenienced. So go back to your apartment and call the manager, like you said. Ask him to speak to the officer in charge, and—”
She turned away impulsively. “It is preposterous! All this trouble! Ah! Mon Dieu!” She stumbled, turned back, clutched Sergeant Ruppert. “I twist my ankle!”
Her slender hands — he noted a great violet ring on one white finger — slipped around his neck. Her touch made him tremble. And this moment of emotion was the last thing he remembered. She had turned the bezel.
He experienced a sensation as though he had been clubbed on the back of his head, and knew no more.
She had carried out her last task — for she couldn’t afford to fail. In a fractional moment she reversed the bezels — a miniature receiver, tuned to pick up the lethal note from the transmitter in the penthouse. But as the big, good-looking policeman pitched forward and fell on his face, tears dimmed her eyes. She raised the jeweled wrist watch. Her hands trembled when she adjusted the cunning radio mechanism.
“It is done!” she whispered.
“Good. Do not return to your apartment. Whatever you leave behind there shall be recovered or replaced. Walk down one more floor, then use the elevator. You have money with you?”
“As you ordered, Doctor.”
“Avoid observation going out. Use a side entrance. Take a taxi to East Eighty-eighth Street and Park Avenue. A man will be standing outside the drugstore on the corner. He will wear a red rose in his buttonhole. Say ‘Si-Fan’ and he will make all arrangements. Your life is your own.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Brian’s vigil at the stairhead proved something of a tax on his nerves.
If the strange and oddly sinister figure who had dominated the meeting in the penthouse was none other than Dr. Fu Manchu, then his uneasy feeling in the presence of the man he had accepted as Otto Hessian called for no further explanation. During the journey from Egypt he had had a strong inclination to avoid him, and, as he now recalled clearly, the bogus Nayland Smith had encouraged him to do so, saying. “He has the brains of a genius but the manners of a gorilla.”
And now the fabulous Dr. Fu Manchu was near, on the defensive, at bay. Already he had spirited away a physically powerful police officer, armed and keenly alert to danger.
In the long, lighted corridor there was unbro
ken silence. Guests occupying the several apartments were probably away for the evening, he assumed — unless (a disturbing thought) there were other apartments as well as that adjoining their own which harbored servants of the Chinese doctor. He saw again, mentally, the two Asiatic assassins dragging away the body of the unfortunate double.
Perhaps they had strangled Sergeant Ruppert!
He changed his position slightly, so that he had his back to a wall, and tried to blot out a ghastly memory of the dead man’s face, and to call up the image of Lola.
What had happened to her? He seemed to have lived through another life since that hour in her room. In fact, during this one day he had experienced the summit and the nadir of human emotions: love, when he held Lola in his arms; horror, and a great fear, when he saw Nayland Smith lying dead on the floor. And fear had come again — fear that he was insane — when another Nayland Smith had appeared. The belief, the conviction, that Lola was nothing more than a decoy of Dr. Fu Manchu’s had brought a sorrow such as he had never known. And now when he knew the truth, she had gone.
A faint sound broke the silence of the corridor.
Brian stood tense, almost holding his breath, listening.
The sound came from the stairway.
He pulled out the big revolver, readied it for action, and slightly turned his head, looking down. Soft footsteps were mounting the stairs. He raised the barrel, sighting it on the bend at which the person coming lip would appear.
No one appeared. But a crisp voice came:
“Don’t shoot, Merrick!”
It was Nayland Smith. A moment later he stood beside Brian.
“Phew!” Brian relaxed. “Glad you spoke.”
“So I see.” Sir Denis commented dryly. “But don’t relax your vigilance. We have the situation in hand, if—”
“If what?”
“If we’re not too late.” Nayland Smith spoke in a low tone. “First, We go to our own apartment. Don’t open your mouth while I try to call the penthouse. Remember, the room has been wired.”
Brian nodded, and they walked along to 2610. Nayland Smith unlocked the door, stood for a moment listening, and then went in. He crossed straight to the penthouse phone, lifted the receiver, held it to his ear a while, and then put it back. He frowned grimly, beckoned to Brian to follow, and went out of the apartment.
“Step as nearly like a cat as you can,” he whispered. “I’m going up to listen at the door. If I hear anything, we won’t go in alone. We’ll have to wait for reinforcements.”
Brian watched while Sir Denis quietly unlocked the door to the penthouse stairs. They stole up.
The stairs opened on a landing, and the door was nearly opposite, as Brian remembered. To their right was the elevator that normally served the penthouse, and, beyond, a second door.
Nayland Smith tiptoed forward, apparently with the intention of pressing his ear to a panel, then paused. Closer contact was unnecessary.
A voice was speaking, muffled by the intervening door, but still audible — a strident, sibilant voice:
“Do you imagine,” it said scornfully, “that your puny interference can check the wheels of the inevitable? The dusk of the West has fallen. The dawn of the East has come.”
Nayland Smith turned, a triumphant grin on his lean face, and pointed to the stairs. Brian followed him down. Sir Denis partly closed the door below.
“You heard him, Merrick — you heard him?” he whispered. “One of his favorite slogans. How often have I listened to it! That’s Dr. Fu Manchu!”
Brian’s heart jumped uncomfortably. “Who is he talking to?”
“I’m afraid to Lola Erskine.”
* * * *
Brian went through hours of torture in the few minutes that it took to muster the party. Harkness had a search warrant, and two of the plain-clothesmen came from Homicide, for there was evidence to show that a murder had been committed on the top floor of the towering wing of the Babylon-Lido.
When duties had been allotted, Harkness and another FBI man joined Brian and Nayland Smith, and all four went up to the penthouse. Harkness and his assistant — his name was Dakin — were to deal with the kitchen entrance; Brian and Sir Denis concentrated on the other door.
They stood for a moment, listening.
Complete silence.
“Get the door open!” Brian gasped, quivering with suspense. “For God’s sake, open it!”
Nayland Smith, very grim-faced, put the key in the lock. But he never turned it.
“No, no!” A stifled scream came from inside. “Don’t open that door! It’s the end of all of us if you do! Break in at the other end. But don’t open that door!”
It was Lola’s voice.
Sir Denis grasped Brian’s arm in a grip that hurt. He withdrew the key.
“I don’t know what this means, Merrick, but we must do as she directs. Come on!” They ran to join Harkness. “In through the kitchen!”
Harkness unlocked the door. The door swung open. Brian tried to hurl himself in. Nayland Smith grabbed him.
“Go easy, Merrick! We can’t be sure.”
An automatic in his hand, Sir Denis stepped warily into a well-equipped kitchenette. Brian followed. There were traces of that peculiar chemical smell which he had noted before, on the night of the demonstration.
They pushed on into what was evidently a dining room. But it didn’t appear to have been used as one. The only window was blacked out with heavy velvet drapes. On the buffet odd pieces of chemical apparatus stood, as well as a number of bottles and phials. There was very little furniture except a narrow table covered with green baize and a large chair. A green-shaded lamp stood on the table — the only light in the room.
Near the lamp was a cabinet the front of which consisted of a small switchboard.
“Some kind of radio control,” Nayland Smith commented.
He was looking at an open door at the other end of the room. And as he looked, there came a stifled cry:
“In here! Hurry!”
Brian, at that wild appeal, pushed past Sir Denis and burst in ahead of the others.
He stopped so suddenly that he was nearly floored by the rush from behind.
The room in which he had witnessed the extraordinary experiment carried out by the man calling himself Dr. Hessian seemed to swim before his eyes. The plan of New York City covered the whole of the top of the long table, but the rows of chairs had been removed. The metal containers that had hung from the ceiling were there no longer. The radio set that produced the “inaudible note” remained in its place on a bureau. A small box, which might have been the one used at the demonstration to represent a specially equipped plane, stood on one end of the table.
Nearby, in a heavy armchair, Lola was seated, white and wild-eyed. Her ankles were lashed to the front legs. Both wrists had been tied to the arms of the chair, but she had managed to free her right hand and to tear off the adhesive tape strapped across her mouth.
It had been done in frantic haste, for her lip was red and swollen.
Brian sprang to her side and began to unfasten her other wrist.
“Smash that thing!” she said, in a shrill, unnatural voice, pointing to the little box. “The sound comes from there! Smash it!”
Brian stood upright and, ignoring Nayland Smith, who had a hand on his shoulder, pulled out the police revolver and fired two shots into the flimsy framework.
There came a loud explosion, a crash of glass, splinters flew, and one bullet ricocheted to be buried in the wall beyond. Then the box burst, into flames.
Dakin acted promptly. Dashing out to the kitchen, he was back in quick time carrying a big pitcher of water. With this he dowsed the flaming fragments on the table. When Brian turned, Lola had fainted.
He carried Lola downstairs, using the kitchen entrance. Dakin came with him to unlock the door of the suite. All the other doors along the corridor were wide open, and sounds indicated that the search parties were at work, apparently without success.
As Brian laid Lola on the big couch, Dakin said, “She’ll soon pull out of it. She has the heart of a lion. If you have any brandy, I think—” he smiled— “I can leave the patient in. your hands. I’ll leave the key, too.”
Dakin retired, closing the outer door. Brian ran to the buffet and was looking for the brandy when he heard Lola’s voice.
“I don’t think I ever fainted in my life before.”
He turned, ran to her. She was sitting up.
“Lola, my dearest!”
“But I do believe a small glass of brandy would do me good.”
Brian ran back, found the brandy, and poured out a liberal shot.
He knelt beside her, his arm around her shoulders as she took the glass. Lola smiled, that fascinating, mocking smile.
“If I drank all this, Brian, I’d faint a second time.”
She took a sip of the brandy, and he drew her to him. “My lips are sticky from that awful tape,” she protested.
Brian held her very close, but kissed her gently. “I nearly went crazy when I heard you were missing.”
Lola took another sip and then set the glass down. “So you’ve found out about me.” She spoke softly. “You know what a little liar I am!”
“I know you have more grit in your little finger than I have in all my hulking carcass!”
“You mean you forgive me for what I had to do?”
“Forgive you!”
She raised her hand to check him. “Brian dear, go back now, and let me lie here for five minutes. I’ll be perfectly all right when I’ve rested — and cleaned the goo off my face. Then I’ll join you.”
“Leave you here alone! And Fu Manchu—”
“Fu Manchu is too far away to harm me.”
“But we heard his voice!”
“I know you did. He intended you to hear it. But he isn’t there. Go up and see for yourself. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
And when Brian, torn between his desire to stay with Lola and a burning curiosity, returned to the penthouse, he found the proper entrance door open. Harkness was bending over the cabinet that looked like a radio set, the back of which had been removed. Nayland Smith was pacing the room and pulling at his ear.
