by Sax Rohmer
Again he was interrupted by loud applause. . . .
“The man we’re all looking for is the man who does things. Very well. Seconds out! The fight starts! On my right:
Donegal—Prescott. On my left: Harvey Bragg! America for every man and every man for America!”
Cheers and a deafening clapping of hands rewarded the speaker. Harvey Bragg stood, arms upraised forensically, dominating that gathering excited by his crude oratory. At which moment, even as Sascha lights flashed and cameras clicked:
“A lady to see you, Mr. Bragg,” came a discreet whisper.
Harvey Bragg lowered his arms, reluctantly relinquishing that heroic pose, and glanced aside. His confidential secretary, Salvaletti, stood at his elbow. There was an interchange of glances. Reporters surged around them.
“Urgent?” Harvey Bragg whispered.
“Number 12.”
Bragg started, but recovered himself.
“Easy-looking?”
“A beauty.”
“Excuse me, folks!” Bragg cried, his tremendous voice audible above the excitement, “I’ll be right back in two minutes.”
Of those who actually overheard this whispered conversation, Lola Dumas was one. She bit her lip, turned, and crossed to a senator from the South who was no friend of Harvey Bragg’s. The other was the new reporter. He followed Lola Dumas and presently engaged her in conversation.
More wine was uncorked. Newspaper men always welcomed an assignment to the Dumas’ apartment. . . .
Rather more than five minutes had elapsed when Harvey Bragg came back. He was holding the hand of a very pretty young woman whose smart frock did justice to a perfect figure, and whose little French hat displayed mahogany curls to their best advantage.
“Folks!” he roared. “I want you all to know my new secretary.” His roving glances sought and found Lola Dumas: he smiled wickedly. “What this little girl doesn’t know about the political situation not even Harvey Bragg can tell her. . . .”
Although one calling might not have suspected the fact, the whole of the Regal Tower, most expensive and fashionable part of the Regal-Athenian Hotel, was held by police officers and federal agents. Those visitors who applied for accommodation in this section of the hotel were informed that it was full; those who had been in occupation had very courteously been moved elsewhere on the plea of urgent alterations.
From porters at the door in the courtyard to the clerks in the reception desk, the liftman and the bell-boys, there was no man whose uniform did not disguise a detective.
Elaborate precautions had been taken to ensure the privacy of incoming and outgoing telephone calls. No general headquarters ever had been more closely guarded. Armageddon was being waged, but few appreciated the fact. In the past Wellington had crushed Bonaparte’s ambition to control Europe, but the great Corsican fought at Waterloo with a blunted sword. Foch and his powerful allies had thrown back Marshal von Hindenburg and the finest military machine in history since the retreat from Moscow broke the Grand Army of Napoleon. But now Nayland Smith, backed by the govern ment of the United States, fought, not for the salvage of the Constitution, not for the peace of the country, but for the future of the world. And the opposing forces were commanded by a mad genius. . . .
Dressed in an old tweed suit, pipe clenched between his teeth, he paced up and down the sitting-room. His powers were all that a field-marshal could have demanded. His chief of staff, Mark Hepburn, was one such as he would have selected. But. . . .
Someone had unlocked the door of the apartment.
Fey appeared in the vestibule as if by magic, his right hand in his coat pocket. Nayland Smith stepped smartly to the left, taking up a position from which he could see the entrance. A tall, pale, bearded man came in, wearing a caped coat and a wide-brimmed black hat. . . .
“Hepburn!” cried Smith, and hurried forward to meet him. “Thank heavens you’re back safe. What news?”
Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C., a parody of his normal self, smiled wryly. His pallor, his greying temples, were artificial, but the beard and moustache were carefully tended natural products, although at the moment chemically improved. The character he was assuming was one which he might be called upon to maintain for a considerable time, in accordance with plan.
“Just left the Bragg reception at the Dumas apartment,” he said, removing his glasses and staring rather haggardly at Nayland Smith. “There isn’t much to report except that Bragg’s confidential secretary, Salvaletti, is pretty obviously the link with Fu Manchu.”
“Then Bragg is doubly covered,” said Nayland Smith grimly. “Lola Dumas is almost certainly one of Dr. Fu Manchu’s agents.”
“Yes.” Mark Hepburn dropped wearily into an armchair. “But there’s some friction in that quarter. A woman was announced just before I left, and Bragg went out to interview her. I managed to pick up some scraps of the conversation between Salvaletti and Bragg, but from the way Lola Dumas watched Bragg, I gathered that their relations were becoming strained.”
“Describe Salvaletti,” said Nayland Smith succinctly.
Mark Hepburn half closed his eyes. Smith watched him. There was something odd in Hepburn’s manner.
“Above medium height, pale, stooping. Light-blue eyes, dark, lank hair, a soft voice and a sickly smile.”
“Seen him before?”
“Never! He’s a new one on me.”
“Probably indigenous to the American underworld,” Smith murmured; “therefore I should not know him. You are sure it was a woman who was announced?”
“Positive. Harvey Bragg brought her into the room and displayed her to the company as his new secretary. It’s about this woman I want to talk to you. I want your advice. I don’t know what to do. It was Mrs. Adair. . . . who escaped, thanks to my negligence, from the Tower of the Holy Thorn. . . .”
Chapter 17
THE ABBOT’S MOVE
In the gothic dome where most of the life of the Memory Man was passed, lights were extinguished. A red spark marking the tip of a burning Egyptian cigarette glowed in the darkness.
There was a short silence, and then:
“Report,” directed the familiar, hated voice, “from Numbers covering Nayland Smith.”
“Three have been received since I relayed. Shall I repeat them in detail or summarize their contents?”
“Summarize.”
“There is no certain evidence that he has left his base during the last twelve hours. A report from Number 44 suggests that he may have visited the police mortuary. This report is unconfirmed. Two Numbers and eight operatives, with two Z-cars, covering Centre Street. Federal Agent Hepburn not reporting to have moved out from the Regal Tower. This is a summary of the three reports.”
Darkness still prevailed.
“The latest report regarding Abbot Donegal.”
“Received thirty minutes after that last relayed. A man answering to the abbot’s description reported as hiring a car at Elmira. Believed to have arrived there from the West by American Airlines. Posing as Englishman. Wears single eyeglass and carries golfing kit. . . .”
In the tower study, so oddly corresponding in point of elevation with Nayland Smith’s headquarters, but which bore an atmosphere of stale incense whereas the apartment high above the Regal-Athenian Hotel was laden with fumes of broad-cut smoking mixture, Dr. Fu Manchu sat behind the lacquer table. There was no one else in the room.
The life of one who aspires to empire—though thousands may await his commands—is a wan and lonely life. Solitude is the mother of inspiration. The Chinaman, these reports from the Memory Man received, sat in his high, carven chair, eyes closed. He was speaking as though to one standing near him. On the little polished switchboard two spots of light glowed; green, and amber.
“Dispatch a party in a Z-car,” he directed, his voice unemotional but the gutturals very marked. “Explore all farms, roadhouses and hotels along the route which I have indicated. Abbot Donegal is reported as travelling incognito. He
may be posing as an English tourist. If found, he is not to be molested, but he must be detained. Instruct the Number in charge to send in reports from point to point. This is a personal order from the President.”
A slender yellow hand with long, pointed nails reached out. The two lights disappeared. Dr. Fu Manchu opened his eyes:
their greeness was dimmed. He raised the lid of a silver box which stood upon the table and from it took a small, exquisitely made opium-smoking outfit. He lighted the tiny lamp and inserted a gold bodkin into a container holding the black gum which is bom of the white poppy. He had not slept for forty-eight hours. . . .
Almost at the same moment, in a room at the top of the Regal Tower, Mark Hepbum spoke on the telephone. He had had all calls put through to his own room in order that Nayland Smith might not be disturbed; for, at last, Smith was sleeping.
“This Englishman who left Airlines at Elmira,” he said in his dry, monotonous voice, “sounds to me like the man we’re looking for. The fact that he wears plus fours and a monocle doesn’t count, nor the fact that he is travelling with a golf bag. I have learned that Abbot Donegal used a single eye-glass before he took to spectacles. He could probably get along with it quite well except for reading. Also, he’s a golfer. The English accent means nothing. Abbot Donegal is a trained orator. Check up on all roadhouses and hotels along possible routes which he might follow if, as you suspect, he left by road from Elmira. Take a radio car so we keep track of you. Report from point to point. If he is definitely identified take no action until you have my instructions. We have contrived to silence the newspapers about his disappearance. But he is probably coming to New York to take Prescott’s place at Carnegie Hall—ifPrescott fails to arrive. This would ruin our plans. . . . All right—good-bye.”
He hung up the receiver.
In the vestibule of a small country hotel two men sat over their coffee before a crackling log fire. Outside, a storm raged. The howling of the wind could be heard in the chimney, and whenever the main door was opened a veil of sleet might be seen in the light shining out from inside. It was a wild night.
The men seated before the fire were an odd couple. One, of slight but wiry build, clean-shaven and fresh coloured, lean-faced, his hair greying, wore a tweed suit with plus fours, thick woollen stockings and brown brogues. A monocle glittered in the firelight as he bent to refill his pipe. His companion, a clergyman equally lean of feature, watched him, blinking his eyes in the way of one shortsighted. A close observer might have noted a physical but not a spiritual resemblance.
“I mean to say,” said the man with the monocle, stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his briar, “it’s a bad time to see America. I agree; but I couldn’t help myself, if you see what I mean. It had to be now or never sort of thing. People have been awfully nice——” he paused to strike a match—”I am the silly ass; nobody else to blame. Thanks to you, I know it would be stupid to push on to-night.”
“I am told,” said the priest, his gentle voice a contrast to that of the other speaker, “that Colonel Challoner lives some twenty miles from here. For my own part I have no choice.”
“What!” The man with the monocle, in the act of lighting his pipe, paused, looking up. “You’re pushing on?”
“Duty demands.”
“Oh, I see, sir. A sick call, I take it?”
The clergyman watched him silently for a few moments.
“A sick call—yes. . . .”
The outer door opened, admitting a blast of icy air. Three men came in, the last to enter closing the door behind him. They were useful-looking men, thick set and hard.
“In luck at last!” one of them exclaimed.
All three were watching the man with the monocle. One, who was evidently the leader of the party, square-jawed and truculent, raised his hand as if to silence the others, and stepped forward. As he did so the proprietor of the hotel appeared through an inner doorway. The man paused, glanced at him.
“Find some Scotch,” he ordered—”real Scotch. Not here— inside, some place. Me and these boys have business to talk over.”
The proprietor, a taciturn New Englander, nodded and disappeared. The speaker, not removing his hat, stood staring down at the man with the eye-glass. His companions were looking in the same direction. The focus of attention, pipe between his teeth, gazed at the three in blank astonishment.
“Don’t want to intrude——” the leader gave a cursory nod to the clergyman—”real sorry to interrupt; but I must ask you——” he placed a compelling hand on the shoulder of the wearer of the monocle—”to step inside for just a minute. Got a couple o’ questions.”
“What the deuce d’you mean?”
“I’m a government agent, and I’m on urgent business. Just a couple o’questions.”
“I never heard such balderdash in my life.” The other declared. He turned to the clergyman. “Did you?”
“It will probably save trouble in the long run if you assist the officer.”
“Right-oh. I’m obliged for the tip. Very funny and odd. But still. . . .”
Pipe firmly clenched between his teeth, he walked out followed by the leader of the party, the other two members of which bought up the rear. They found themselves in a small back hall from which arose a stair communicating with upper floors. On a table stood a bottle of whisky, glasses and a pitcher of ice water.
“No need to go farther,” said the agent; “we’re all set here.” He stared hard at the man in plus fours. “Listen, Abbot: why the fancy dress?”
“What d’you mean, Abbot?” was the angry reply. “My name’s not Abbot, and if it were you’d have a damned cheek to address me in that way!”
“Cut the funny lines. They ain’t funny. I’m here on business. What’s the name that goes with the eye-window?”
“I’m tempted,” said the man addressed, speaking with a cold anger which his amiably vacant manner would not have led one to anticipate, “to tell you to go to hell.” He focussed an icy stare in turn upon each of the three grim faces. “You’ve stepped off with the wrong foot, my friends.”
He plunged to an inside pocket. Instantly three steel barrels covered him. He ignored them, handing a British passport to the leader of the party. There was a minute of ominous silence, during which the man scrutinized the passport and the photograph, comparing the latter with its subject. At last:
“Boys!”—he turned to his satellites—”we’re up the wrong gum tree. We’ve got hold of Captain the Honourable George Fosdyke-Fosdyke of the Grenadier Guards! Schultz, jump to the phone. Notify Base and ask for President’s instructions. . .”
Some ten minutes later the Honourable George Fosdyke-Fosdyke found himself in sole possession of the little vestibule. The three federal officers had gone. He had had a glimpse through the driving sleet of a powerful car drawn up before the door. The amiable clergyman had gone. He was alone, mystified, irritated.
“Well, I’m damned!” he said.
At which moment, and while through the howling of the storm the purr of the departing car might still be heard, came the roar of a second even more powerful engine. Again the door was thrown open, and two men came in. Fosdyke-Fosdyke turned and faced them.
“O.K. this time, Chief!” said one, exhibiting a row of glittering teeth.
The other nodded and stepped forward.
“Good evening, Dom Patrick Donegal,” he said, and pulled inside a dripping leather overcoat to exhibit a gold badge. “A nice run you’ve given us!”
“Here! I say!” exclaimed Fosdyke-Fosdyke. “This damn joke is getting stale!”
And in a dilapidated but roadworthy Ford the amiable priest was driving furiously through the storm in the direction of New York: the Abbot of Holy Thorn was one stage further on his self-imposed journey.
Chapter 18
MRS. ADAIR REAPPEARS
Moya Adair stepped out of the elevator, crossed the marble lobby of the luxurious apartment house and came out on to Park Avenue. She was muffled
up in her mink coat, the little Basque beret which she wore in rough weather crushed tightly upon mahogany-red curls. A high, fiercely cold wind had temporarily driven the clouds away, and a frosty moon looked down from a glittering sky. Moya inhaled delightedly the ice-cold air from the Avenue. It was clean and wholesome in contrast to the smoke-laden atmosphere of the Dumas’ apartment.
Her new assignment terrified her. For some reason known only to the President, that awful Chinaman who dominated her life, she had been chosen to supplant Lola Dumas. And she feared the enmity of Lola Dumas second only to that of the President. It was the yellow streak, more marked in her than in her father, which made her terrible; Moya, who had met her several times, had often thought of Lola as a beautiful, evil priestess of Voodoo—a dabbler in strange rites.
She began to walk briskly in the direction of a nearby hotel where, as Miss Eileen Breon, accommodation had been provided for her by the organization to which unwillingly she belonged. She felt as though she had escaped from an ever-present danger.
Harvey Bragg, potential Dictator of America, had accepted her appearance in the spirit in which sultans had formerly welcomed the present of a Circassian slave girl. And she had nowhere to turn for help—unless to the President. Oddly enough, she trusted that majestic but evil man.
The newspapers, in which politics occupied so much space, were nevertheless giving prominence to the mysterious death of James Richet. In her heart of hearts Moya Adair believed that James Richet had been executed by the President’s orders. The power of the sinister Chinaman ws terrifying; yet although he held a life dearer than her own in his hands, Moya’s service was not wholly one of fear. He had never called upon her to do anything which her philosophy told her to be despicable. Sometimes in her dreams she thought that he was Satan, fallen son of the morning, but in her very soul she knew that his word was inviolable; that execrable though his deeds appeared to Western eyes, paradoxically he might be trusted to give measure for measure.
