by Sax Rohmer
Orwin Prescott, bewildered, even now not understanding that he had wiped himself off the political map, that he was committed to fatal statements that he could never recall, dropped down into an armchair in Nayland Smith’s office, closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands.
Sarah Lakin crossed and sat beside him. Senator Lockly had disappeared. Nayland Smith glanced at Mark Hepburn, and they went out together. In the corridor:
“Where is Abbot Donegal?” said Nayland Smith.
“In care of Lieutenant Johnson,” Hepburn answered drily. “Johnson won’t make a second mistake. Abbot Donegal stays until he has your permission to leave.”
“Orwin Prescott was either drugged or hypnotized, or both,” rapped Nayland Smith. “It’s the most damnably cunning thing Fu Manchu has ever done. With one stroke tonight, he has put the game into Harvey Bragg’s hands.”
“I know.” Mark Hepburn ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. “It was pathetic to listen to, and impossible to watch. Abbot Donegal was just quivering. Sir Denis! This man is a magician! I begin to despair.”
Nayland Smith suddenly grabbed his arm as they walked along the corridor.
“Don’t despair,” he snapped, “yet! There’s more to come.”
They had begun to descend to the floor below when Harvey Bragg, flushed with triumph, already tasting the sweets of dictatorship, the cheers of that vast gathering echoing in his ears, came out into a small lobby packed with privileged visitors and newspapermen.
His bodyguard, as tough a bunch as any man had ever collected in the United States, followed him in. Paul Salvaletti walked beside him.
“Folks!” Bragg cried, “I know just how you feel.” He struck his favourite pose, arms raised. “You’re all breathing the air of a new and better America. . . . That’s just how I feel! Another obstacle to national happiness is swept away. Folks! There’s no plan but my plan. At last we are getting near to the first ideal form of government America has ever known.”
“Which any country has ever known,” said Salvaletti, his clear, musical voice audible above the uproar. “American, Africa, Europe—or Asia.”
As he spoke the word Asia, Herman Grosset, hitherto flushed with excitement, suddenly became deathly pale. His eyes glared, foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. With that lightning movement which no man of the bodyguard could equal, he snatched an automatic from his pocket, sprang forward and shot Harvey Bragg twice through the heart. . . .
There was a moment of dazed silence; a sound resembling a moan. Then the faithful bodyguard, one second too late, almost literally made a sieve with their bullets of Herman Grosset.
He died before the man he had assassinated. Riddled with lead, he crashed to the floor of the lobby as Harvey Bragg collapsed in the arms of Salvaletti.
“Herman! My God! Herman!” were Bragg’s dying words.
Chapter 22
MOYAADAIR’S SECRET
“I am uncertain, Hepburn,” rapped Nayland Smith, pacing up and down the sitting-room. “I cannot read sense into the crossword puzzle.”
“Nor can I,” said Mark Hepburn.
Smith stared out at the never familiar prospect. The day was crystal clear; the distant Statue of Liberty visible in sharp detail. Some strange quality in the crisp atmosphere seemed to have drawn it inland, so that it appeared like a miniature of itself. Towering buildings had crept nearer: a wide section of New York City seemed to be looking in at the window.
“That Orwin Prescott should suffer a nervous collapse and entirely lose his memory was something for which I was not unprepared. His deplorable exhibition at Carnegie Hall was the result of some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion, a form of attack of which Dr. Fu Manchu is a master.”
Mark Hepburn lighted a cigarette.
“There was a time,” he said slowly, “when I thought that the powers which you attributed to this man must be exaggerated. I think now that all you said was an understatement. Sir Denis! He’s more than the greatest physician in the world—he’s a magician.”
“Cut the ‘Sir Denis,’“ came crisply; “I was born plain Smith. It’s time you remembered it.”
Mark Hepburn smiled—a rare event in those days: it was the self-conscious smile of a nervous schoolboy—life had never changed it.
“I am glad to hear you say that,” he declared awkwardly— “Smith, because I’m proud to know that we are friends. Maybe that sounds silly, but I mean it.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I can understand,” Hepburn went on, “after what you have told me, that it might be possible—although it’s quite outside my own medical experience—to drug a man in some way and impose certain instructions upon him to be carried out later. I mean I can believe that this is what happened to Orwin Prescott. It’s a tough story, but your experience can provide parallels. Mine can’t. We are dealing with a man who seems to be a century ahead of modem knowledge.”
“Dismiss Prescott,” said Nayland Smith curtly; “he’s out of the political arena. But he’s in good hands now, and I hope to heaven he recovers from whatever ordeal he has passed through. I am disappointed about the escape of the man Norbert. That was bad staff work, Hepburn, for which I take my full share of responsibility.”
“We’ll get him yet,” said Hepburn harshly, “if we comb every state for him. His getaway had been cunningly planned. I have checked it all up. Nobody is to blame. This thing goes back a year or more. Dr. Fu Manchu must have been working, through agents, long before he arrived in person.”
“I know it,” rapped Nayland Smith; “I have known it for some time past. But what I don’t know and cannot work out is this: Where does the death of Harvey Bragg fit into the Doctor’s plans?”
He fixed a penetrating stare upon Hepburn and almost automatically began to load his pipe. . . .
“The man Herman Gorsset was a drunken ruffian; his only redeeming virtue seems to have been his attachment to his half-brother. He was a killer, as your records show. Such a man is like an Alsatian dog—his savagery may be turned upon his master. I wonder . . .” He dropped his pouch back into the pocket of his dressing-gown and lighted a match. . . . “I wonder? . . .”
“So do I,” said Mark Hepburn monotonously; “I have been wondering ever since it happened. That this damnable Chinaman was running Harvey Bragg is a fact beyond doubt. It isn’t conceivable that Bragg’s death should form any part of his plan. If he wanted to turn a blustering demagogue into a hero, he has succeeded. Why”—he paused . . . “Smith! He lay in state right here in New York City! Now his embalmed body is being taken back to his home town. He’s a bigger man dead than alive. Fifty per cent of uninformed American opinion today thinks that the greatest statesman since Lincoln has been snatched away in the hour of need.”
“That’s true.” Nayland Smith blew a puff of smoke into the air. “As I said a while ago, I cannot read sense into the crossword puzzle. I am tempted to believe that the Doctor’s plans have been thwarted.”
He began to walk up and down again restlessly.
“Salvaletti’s broadcast oration,” said Hepburn monotonously, “was quite in the classic manner. In fact it was brilliant, although I don’t see its purpose. It has made Harvey Bragg a national martyr.”
“Salvaletti is going South by special train,” jerked Nayland Smith, “with the embalmed body. There will be emotional scenes at every stop. Have we details regarding this man?”
“They should be to hand any moment now. All we know, so far, is that he’s of Italian origin, was trained for the priesthood, left Italy at the age of twenty-three, and became a United States citizen five years ago. He’s been with Bragg since early 1934.”
“I listened to him, Hepburn. Utterly out of sympathy as I am with the subject of his eloquence, I must confess that I never heard a more moving speech.”
“No—it was wonderful. But now—er—Smith, I am worried about this projected expedition of yours.”
Nayland Smith paused in his promenade
and stared, pipe gripped between his teeth, at Mark Hepburn.
“No more worried than I am regarding yours, Hepburn. You know what Kipling says about a rag and bone and a hank of hair . . .”
“That’s hardly fair, Smith. I quite frankly admitted to you that I’m interested in Mrs. Adair. There’s something very strange about a woman like that being in the camp of Dr. Fu Manchu.”
Nayland Smith paused in front of him, reached out and grasped his shoulder.
“Don’t think I’m cynical, Hepburn,” he said—”we have all been through the fires—but, be very careful!”
“I just want time to size her up. I think she’s better than she seems. I admit I’m soft where she’s concerned, but maybe she’s straight after all. Give her a chance. We don’t know everything.”
“I leave her to you, Hepburn. All I say is: be careful. I’d gamble half of the little I possess to see into the mind of Dr. Fu Manchu at this moment! Is he as baffled as I am?”
He resumed his promenade.
“However . . . we have a heavy day before us. Learn all you can from the woman. I am devoting the whole of my attention to Fu Manchu’s Chinatown base.”
“I am beginning to think,” said Hepburn, with his almost painful honesty, “that this Chinatown base is a myth.”
“Don’t be too sure,” rapped Nayland Smith. “Certainly I saw the late secretary of the Abbot Donegal disappear into a turning not far from Wu King’s Bar. Significant, to say the least. I have spent hours, in various disguises, exploring that area and right to the water fronts on either side of it.”
“I worry myself silly whenever you delay at——”
“My own Chinatown base?” Nayland Smith suggested.
He burst out laughing—and his laughter seemed to lift a load of care from his spirits. . . .
“You should congratulate me, Hepburn. In the character of a hard-drinking deck-hand sacked by the Cunard and trying to dodge the immigration authorities until I find a berth, I have made a marked success with my landlady, Mrs. Mulrooney of Orchard Street! I have every vice from hashish to rum, and I begin to suspect she loves me!”
“What about the rag and bone and a hank of hair?” Hepburn asked impishly.
Nayland Smith stared for a moment, and then laughed even more heartily.
“A hit to you,” he admitted; “but frankly, I feel that my inquiries are not futile. The Richet clue admittedly has led nowhere; but my East River investigations are beginning to bear fruit.”
He ceased laughing. His lean brown face grew suddenly grim.
“Think of the recovery by the river police of the body of the man Blondie Hahn.”
“Well?”
“All the facts suggested to me that he did not die on the water front or even very near to it. I maybe wrong, Hepburn . . . but I think I have found Dr. Fu Manchu’s water-gate!”
“What!”
“We shall see. The arrival in New York this morning of the Chinese general, Li Wu Chang, has greatly intrigued me. I have always suspected Li Wu Chang of being one of the Seven.”
“Who are the Seven?”
“Nayland Smith snapped his fingers.
“Impossible to go into that now. I have much to do to-day if our plans are to run smoothly to-night. Your post is in Chinatown. We both have plenty to employ us in the interval. Should I miss you, the latest details will be on the desk”—he pointed—”and Fey will be here in constant touch. . . .”
Mark Hepburn, from his seat overlooking the pond in Central Park, watched the path from the Scholar’s Gate. Presently he saw Moya Adair approaching.
It was a perfect winter’s day; the air was like wine, visibility was remarkable. Because his heart leapt his dour training reproached him. He had abandoned the cape, property of an eccentric artist friend, and now his bearded chin stuck out from an upturned fur collar.
On the woman’s side this meeting was a move in a fight for freedom. But Mark Hepburn, starkly honest, knew that on his side it was a lover’s meeting. It was unfair to Nayland Smith that this important investigation, which might lead to control of a bridge to the enemy’s stronghold, should have been left in his hands. Moreover, it was torture to himself. . .
He loved the ease of her walk, the high carriage of her head. There was pedigree in every graceful line. Her existence in this gang ofsuperthugs, who now apparently controlled the whole of the American underworld, was a mystery which baulked his imagination.
She smiled as he stood up to meet her. He allowed the mad idea that they were avowed lovers—that he had a right to take her in his arms and kiss her—to dazzle his brain for one delirious moment. Actually, he said:
“You are very punctual, Mrs. Adair.”
She sat down beside him. Her composure, real or assumed, was baffling. There was a short silence, an uneasy one on Mark Hepburn’s side; then:
“I suppose,” he said, “the death of Harvey Bragg means a change of plan?”
Moya shook her head.
“For me, no,” she replied. “I am continuing my work at Park Avenue. The League of Good Americans is to go on, and Paul Salvaletti has taken charge.”
She spoke impersonally, a little wearily.
“But you must regret the death of Harvey Bragg?”
“As a Christian, I do, for I cannot think that he was fit to die. As a man”—she paused for a moment, staring up at the cold, blue sky—”if he had lived, I don’t know what I should have done. You see”—she turned to Hepburn—”I had no choice: I had to go to him. But my life there was hell.”
Mark Hepburn looked away. He was afraid of her eyes. Nayland Smith’s injunction, “Be very careful,” seemed to ring in his ears.
“Why did you have to go to him?” he asked.
“Well—although I know how hard this must be for you to understand—Harvey Bragg, although he never knew it, was little more than a cog in a wheel. I am another cog in the same wheel.” She smiled, but not happily. “He never really controlled the League of Good Americans, nor the many other organizations of which he was the nominal head.”
“Then who does control them?” he questioned harshly.
“When I say that I don’t know, I am literally speaking the truth. But there’s someone far bigger than Harvey Bragg working behind the scenes. Please believe that I dare not tell you any more now.”
Hepburn clenched his fists, plunged deep in the pockets of his topcoat.
“Was Harvey Bragg’s murder in accordance with the”—he hesitated—”revolutions of this wheel?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that it is not to be allowed to interfere with the carrying on of the objects of the league.”
“What are these objects?”
Moya Adair paused for a moment.
“I think, but I am not sure, to introduce a new form of government into the United States. Truly”—she stood up—”it is impossible for me to tell you any more. Mr. Purcell, you made a bargain with me, and our time is very short. When you understand more about my position you will see how hard it is to answer some of your questions.”
Mark Hepburn stood up also, and nodded. His middle name (his mother’s) was Purcell, and as Purcell he had introduced himself to Mrs. Adair.
“Which way do we go?”
“This way,” said Moya, and side by side they walked in the direction of the Sherman equestrian statue. Hepburn was silent, sometimes glancing aside at his equally silent companion. She made no attempt to break this silence until they had passed the end of the bridle path, when:
“Shall we want a taxi?” Hepburn asked.
“Yes, but not a Lotus.”
“Why?”
They came out through Scholar’s Gate.
“I have my reasons. Look! This one will do.”
As the taxi moved off to a Park Avenue address of which he made a careful mental note:
“I understand,” said Hepburn drily, “that Harvey Bragg was a director of the Lotus Transport Corporation?”
“He
was.”
The immensity of the scheme was beginning to dawn upon him. Vehicles belonging to the Lotus Corporation, of one kind or another, ranged practically over the States. All employees belonged to the League of Good Americans: so much he knew. Assuming that they could be used, if necessary, as spies, what a network lay here at command of the master mind! As the countless possibilities presented themselves he turned and stared at Moya Adair. She was watching him earnestly.
“When we arrive at the apartment to which we are going,” she said, “I shall have to ask you to play the part of an old friend. Do you mind?”
Mark Hepburn clenched his teeth. Moya’s gloved hand rested listlessly upon the seat beside him. He grasped and held it for a moment.
“I sincerely wish I were,” he replied.
She smiled; and he thought that her smile, although passionless, was almost affectionate.
“Thank you. I mean, we must address each other by our Christian names. So you have my permission to call me Moya. What am I to call you?”
Suddenly that alluring coquetry which had delighted and then repelled him at the Tower of the Holy Thorn made her eyes dance. A little dimple appeared at the left comer other mouth.
“Mark.”
“Thank you,” said Moya. “I think very soon you will find yourself christened ‘Uncle’ Mark.”
in
Dr. Fu Manchu pressed a button on his table, and in a domed room where the Memory Man, as a result of many hours of patient toil, had nearly completed another of those majestic clay heads, the making of which alone relieved the tedium of his life, the amber light went out.
“Give me the latest report,” came a curt, guttural order, “from the Number in charge of Mott Street patrol.”
“To hand at 3.10 p.m. Report as follows: Strength of government agents and police in this area doubled since noon. Access to entrances one and two impossible. A government agent, heavily guarded and so far unidentified, in charge. Indications point to a raid pending. This report from Number 41.”
Amber light prevailed again in the Gothic room, and the sculptor, Egyptian cigarette in mouth, proceeded to accentuate the gibbous brow of his subject.
