Sax Rohmer - Fu Manchu 09

by Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

  “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 9

  Brian stared from a window of the suite in the Babylon-Lido Hotel which 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 accommodation. Their suite was on the top floor, and from where he stood the view stretched right out to the Statue of Liberty.

  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 that distinguished but silent physicist; nor had the doctor once removed the 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, had been left entirely to his own devices!

  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, in Manhattan!”

  “What!”

  “They are here—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 stair. But the door is locked from the inside. You’ll see a typed notice on it which says: ‘Apply No. 420 B.’

  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

  F.B.I.”

  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 from Room Service and written a long letter to Senator Merrick, walked along a corridor and dropped it in the letter chute.

  As he returned, he had an odd impression that the door to the penthouse stair 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 see 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 to stare out of a window.

  He was watching smoke from a distant steamer, hull-down on the skyline, when the penthouse phone buzzed. This was so unexpected that it startled him. He took it up.

  “Hullo!”

  “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 the afternoon had passed, 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 equipped in Montmartre style, with coloured advertisements for French drinks on the walls, and framed Lautrec reproductions. There were red and white check 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 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 which smiled while they seemed to mock him.

  “Lola!” He almost failed to recognize his own voice, “Lola! But—but —you ought to be in London!”

  Lola freed her hands, came around and sat down in the chair facing him. “You mean I shouldn’t be in New York?”

  “My dear!” Brian partly recovered from the glad shock, wondered about the way his heart was thumping. “Your being here is the answer to a prayer. It’s impossible but true.”

  “Did you get my radiogram?”

  “I did. But did you get my reply?”

  Lola shook her head. A waiter was standing beside her. Brian ordered two champagne cocktails. As the waiter moved away: “How could I?” Lola asked him. “I had to leave London an hour after I sent my message to you in Cairo. Madame had booked me for a flight leaving the same afternoon. I told you, Brian, we should meet again before long.”

  Brian’s eyes devoured her. Lola, as always, was perfectly dressed, with that deceptive simplicity which only much money can buy. He was so overpowered by her appeal—her sudden presence—that he became almost tongue-tied.

  “It will be sent on?”

  “Of course. Everything that comes will be airmailed to me here.”

  “You are staying here—in the Babylon-Lido?”

  “I am! Madame believes in Michel representatives being seen in smart places.”

  “Lola—it’s a miracle!”

  Lola, watching him, smiled that odd smile which at once irritated and infatuated him. “There are men even today, Brian, who can perform miracles.”

  Her words were puzzling; but as the waiter brought the cocktails, he forgot them, clinked glasses, and was glad to be alive.

  “You didn’t know I was here, Lola?”

  “How could I? I saw you as I came in.”

  “Are you free for dinner?”

  “Of course, Brian dear, I only just arrived… .”

  *

  Dr. Fu Manchu sat in a small room which apparently had no windows.

  A single bright light shone down on to a large-scale plan pinned to a board, so that sometimes a shadow of his head or hand would appear on the plan as he bent forward to study it. The room was profoundly silent.

  The plan represented a number of suites of apartments, some adjoining one another, but roughly half of them separated from the others by a wide corridor. An elevator door and a descending stair were marked opening off a square landing;

  an ascending stair appeared at the other end of the corridor.

  It was a plan of the top floor of a wing of the Babylon-Lido.

  Of the three suites shown on the east side of the corridor that in the centre was marked 420B. 420A was on the north of it and 420C on the south. There were four smaller apartments on the west side, numbered from 421 to 424.

 
; Dr. Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff from a silver box, then turned his shadowed face towards a cabinet which stood near. He pressed a switch.

  “Connect 420A.”

  An interval, and then a man’s voice speaking English with a pronounced accent: “Four-twentyA.”

  “You are unpacked and established?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Your transmitter is well concealed?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You may not be wanted tonight, but remain in the hotel.”

  A faint click and the order: “Connect 420C.”

  There was an almost instant answer in such bad English as to be nearly unintelligible.

  “Speak in your own language. You are ready?”

  The reply came in a Burmese dialect: “I am ready, Master.”

  “Remain where you are until further orders.”

  The four apartments on the west side were connected one after another; orders given and accepted in a variety of tongues. Dr. Fu Manchu was a phenomenal linguist. At last he was satisfied, leaning back in his chair and hissing softly between his teeth.

  Suite 420B, occupied by Sir Denis Nayland Smith, was entirely surrounded by agents of Fu Manchu!

  *

  While Brian, having booked a table, waited for Lola to join him in the Silver Grill, his reflections took an odd turn. There was a queer similarity between this meeting with Lola in New York and his meeting with Zoe in Cairo. They might have been planned by a producer too lazy to alter the

  routine. Brian laughed silently, and wondered why so grotesque an idea had occurred to him as he saw Lola coming.

  She had changed into an unpretentious but charming dinner dress. It might have—and had—been designed expressly to set off her particular type of beauty. She looked radiant and attracted the tribute of many frowns from the women present.

  When they had ordered their dinner, and Lola had selected the right Bordeaux to go with it:

  “I’m simply dying to hear what you’re doing in Manhattan, Brian,” she declared. “I thought your mysterious affairs were connected with the East, not the West.”

  “So did I,” Brian admitted, then stopped.

  How much was he entitled to tell Lola? She knew some of the facts, already, but only as little as he had known, himself, up to the time of his leaving London.

  “New York was the last place in which I expected to find myself.” Lola delicately nibbled an olive. “You were the last person I expected to meet.”

  Brian went through the pangs of an inward struggle. He longed to confide in somebody. He was made that way. And if he couldn’t trust Lola, in whom could he put his trust? After all, she knew already that he was employed by Nayland Smith, and even if he told her all he knew of Sir Denis’s plans it didn’t add up to much. For he recognized, with a return of his sense of frustration, that he had been kept in the dark all along. He imposed only one condition upon himself: he must say nothing about either Hessian or Dr. Fu Manchu.

  “If I could make you understand, Lola, how mad I was to learn that we were coming to New York when where I wanted to be was London you’d know how I longed to be with you again. To find you right here made me think I had Aladdin’s lamp in my pocket and didn’t know it!”

  “I was just as delighted to see you, Brian. Your last letter— the one you left for me—made me rather sad. Perhaps you were just mad at having to leave so suddenly. But it was a very chilly letter, Brian!”

  Brian’s sense of guilt dried up speech for a moment. Then he forced a grin, reached across and squeezed Lola’s hand.

  “I’m no good at writing that kind of letter,” he told her, lamely. “I can say what I want to say, but I can’t write it!”

  “You can’t!” she agreed; but the grey eyes were dancing with mischief.

  “Maybe it’s just as well. You might be prosecuted for libel! But tell me all about what you’re doing, Brian. Is Sir Denis all you expected him to be?

  Does he match up to your memories of him?”

  “Well——” He frowned thoughtfully “He looks older. That’s to be expected, I guess. And of course he’s been through hell since I saw him in Washington. I have a hunch he’s lost some of his pep. But I’ll tell you he

  can still get things done. He’s great alright.”

  A waiter came to serve the first course, and when he had gone: “What did you do in Cairo?” Lola wanted to know. “Any perilous adventures? I mean—male or female?”

  “Nothing much.” Brian spoke hastily. “Except that I was tailed everywhere I went.”

  “Tailed? By whom? What for?”

  “Because they knew I was with Nayland Smith, I suppose.”

  Lola buttered a roll. “Who are they, Brian? I don’t understand.”

  “Well . . . from all I can make out, Lola, it’s a Communist plot Sir Denis is up against.”

  “How exciting! What’s the plot?”

  “Even if I knew—and I don’t—I couldn’t tell you, Lola.”

  “It must be something to do with this country, Brian. Is Sir Denis with you?”

  “Sure. He’s right here, in the Babylon-Lido.”

  “But Brian, dear, you must know what for. Is he looking for somebody?”

  Brian realized that he was on perilously thin ice. Secret agents were expected to keep their secrets from everybody.

  “Let me make one thing plain, Lola. I’m not in on the master plan. I get my orders from the chief and ask no questions. All I know is that it’s something very big… .”

  During the rest of dinner they talked about London and the happy days they had spent there. Every minute Brian knew more and more how much Lola meant to him. She was in a category widely different from that of the alluring Arab girl, Zoe. He had always known it, but tonight his last doubt left him… . He was sincerely in love with Lola.

  A page appeared at his elbow. “Mr. Brian Merrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wanted on the phone.”

  He excused himself and went to a box at the end of the grill-room.

  Even before he heard the voice he knew that this delightful interlude with Lola had come to an end.

  “Thought I’d find you there, Merrick,” Sir Denis snapped. “Don’t bolt your dinner, but come up when you finish.”

  Lola knew before he spoke. “Wanted by the chief?”

  She smiled—that slightly one-sided smile which made him want to kiss her, because it was part invitation and part mockery.

  “You’ve guessed it, dear. But he was good enough to tell me not to hurry.”

  “In the case of Madame Baudin—that’s Mrs. Michel—this would mean twenty minutes. But never mind. There’s all my packing to do, and we

  have lots of time ahead… .”

  *

  Brian found Nayland Smith pacing up and down their large living-room. The air was foggy with tobacco smoke. He turned as Brian came in; spoke without taking his pipe out of his mouth.

  “News for you, Merrick. Your father’s coming tomorrow.” “That’s fine! I mailed a letter to him only this afternoon.” “The Senator is bringing some brass-hat from the Air Service. But they’ll both be disappointed if they expect to see Dr. Hessian. He declines to receive any visitors until his model is ready for a demonstration.”

  “Why is the Air Service interested?” Brian wanted to know. “Because Hessian claims that his invention will put ‘em out of business!”

  “What! That doesn’t make sense, Sir Denis.” “Think not?” Nayland Smith shot a quick glance at him. “You’re going to be surprised.” “What is it? A guided missile?”

  “No. Something to make guided missiles a waste of time. I’m not a physicist, Merrick, so I can’t explain the thing. But it means immunity from every from of air attack—including H bombs!”

  “Good Lord! But can he really do it?” Nayland Smith stared at Brian with a grim smile. “Why do you suppose I risked my neck to get him here?” It was a sound argument in its way; and, “I begin
to see,” Brian admitted, “some reason for all the precaution.” “Particularly now that Dr.

  Fu Manchu has traced him!” “I still don’t understand where Dr. Fu Manchu comes in.” “Then I’ll explain. I was retained by the United States government to get Hessian out of the hands of the Communists, to enable him to use his phenomenal brain for the side he belongs to. Dr. Fu Manchu has been retained by the Communists to see that he doesn’t do it!”

  Brian was reduced to stupefied silence for a moment. He remembered saying to Lola, “All I know is that it’s something very big.” How big he hadn’t dreamed! Nayland Smith went on pacing about like a caged animal.

  “Can you tell me one thing more, Sir Denis?” Brian ventured. “If you’re sure that agents of Dr. Fu Manchu are actually in New York, why don’t you have them arrested?”

  Sir Denis turned, fixed him with a penetrating stare.

  “Have you any idea, Merrick, how long I tried to trap Fu Manchu himself during the time I knew, as all Scotland Yard knew, that he was in London? Six years! And he’s still free! As for his unidentified agents, New York is an even tougher problem than London.” He knocked ashes from his pipe into a tray. “Dr. Fu Manchu is president of an organization

  known as the Si-Fan. It has members throughout the East, Near and Far.

  It has agents in every city in Europe and every city in the United States.

  Its power is second only to that of Communism if not equal.”

  He began to stuff some sort of coarse-cut mixture into the hot bowl of his pipe. Brian said nothing.

  “Its greatest strength, Merrick, is in its secrecy. Few people have even heard of the Si-Fan. As a result, there’s never been any concerted action against it. If they can’t have Hessian’s invention themselves, the Reds don’t intend to let anyone else have it. Heaven knows what they’ll try. But it’s our job to guard Hessian until he passes his plans over to the United States. …”

  Chapter 10

  In Egypt, not long afterwards, on a night when there was no moon in Cairo, something happened designed to have an important bearing upon affairs in New York.