Sax Rohmer - Fu Manchu 09

by Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

  Brian hesitated, towel in hand. He must be cautious.

  “Yes, it did. Any damage?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. One of those pressure cookers blew up, I’m told.

  But nobody hurt.”

  “Lucky. I wondered what had happened… .”

  He was drinking coffee and glancing over the morning newspapers which the man had brought up when Sir Denis burst in. He was dressed in one of his well-cut and well-worn tweed suits, so that evidently he, too, had been an early riser.

  “Good morning, Merrick. Sorry about last night. Started a lot of rumours. Not good for us. One thing certain. Hessian is a genius compared with whom Einstein was a beginner! I want you with me up there tonight—and you’re going to see a miracle… .”

  When, soon afterwards, Nayland Smith dashed out again, saying that he had an important conference at police headquarters, Brian was left as much in the dark as he had been before Sir Denis dashed in. Mingled with

  the promised excitement of what the night had in store was a growing resentment at being treated like a figure of no consequence where the big issues at stake were concerned.

  Irritably, Brian looked at his watch, and decided that it wasn’t too early to call Lola. He asked to be put through to her apartment. She answered almost at once.

  “Did I wake you, dear?”

  “No, Brian. I’m all ready to go out. A long day ahead at Michel’s, and I was up so late last night. Heaven only knows when I’ll be through. This was the job I was brought here to do. I have to pass all the models who’ll display Michel’s creations at the show!”

  “Poor darling! Any hope for lunch?”

  “Not a shadow. It will be sandwiches and coffee on Fifth Avenue. If I can make it between seven and eight for a quick drink I’ll call you.”

  Brian’s spirits sank to zero. The Washington committee, headed by his father, was due at eight o’clock.

  “I’m afraid I may be tied up by then, Lola. But call all the same. We might fix something later… .”

  It was a seemingly interminable morning. Around one o’clock Sir Denis called to say that Brian could leave the suite for his lunch provided he didn’t leave the building…. “Acting on your advice, I have made other arrangements to safeguard the penthouse. But in case I’m delayed, stand by to receive your father’s party from seven on.”

  Brian lingered over his lunch and then wandered about the huge hotel hoping to find somebody he knew; but, as happens on such occasions, without success. Merely to kill time, he dropped into a lounge in one of the public rooms and ordered coffee.

  A strange-looking man sauntered by. He was young, dark-complexioned and handsome in a sinister way, with large, black and brilliant eyes. Otherwise conventionally dressed in European fashion, he wore a blue turban. He seemed to take an unwholesome interest in the younger women present.

  Just then, the waiter brought Brian’s coffee, and: “Is the character in the blue turban staying here, waiter?” Brian asked.

  The waiter nodded. “Sure he is, sir. They tell me he’s an Indian prince.

  All I know is he has a servant with him that looks like a gorilla. I’ve taken orders to their apartment.”

  Finally, Brian bought a bundle of newspapers and magazines and went upstairs to try to amuse himself until the committee arrived. It was important that he should distract his thoughts from hazy doubts and misgivings that crowded upon him… .

  Almost on the stroke of seven, his father arrived—alone.

  “This is a very wonderful occasion, my boy,” he declared;

  “and you’re entitled to be proud that you’ve been chosen to take part in it. The Secretary for Foreign Affairs is coming, General Jenner, General Dowson of the Air Force, and Admiral Druce, representing the Navy. Last, but not least, Dr. Jurgonsen, the physicist and the President’s personal adviser on development of atomic projects. Where is Sir Denis?

  With Dr. Hessian, I suppose?”

  “I don’t know, Father,” Brian confessed. “But he warned me that he might be detained.”

  Brian Merrick Senior nodded. “A man carrying a heavy load of responsibility on his shoulders.”

  The party assembled in ones and twos, Nayland Smith last except for Dr. Jurgonsen. Sir Denis looked physically exhausted—or so Brian thought. The three Service officers (all of them in mufti) were so typical of their services as to be without individual characteristics. They showed one trait in common; a reserved but unmistakable hostility for each other.

  At three minutes after eight the physicist arrived, a spare grey man in powerful spectacles and a bad temper. He looked around irritably.

  “To the devil with New York taxi drivers,” he remarked. “The one I hired didn’t know the way to the Babylon-Lido!”

  The three officers transferred their mutual hostility to the civilian. But Senator Merrick tried to pour oil on troubled waters, as Nayland Smith said:

  “If you will be good enough to follow me, gentleman, we will now proceed to the demonstration.”

  They filed out and long the corridor to the penthouse door, which proved to be open. Brian’s curiosity rose to fever pitch. This was his first visit to Dr. Hessian’s hideaway. There was another door at the top of the stair which was opened by an expressionless Japanese who wore a white tunic.

  He led them through a lobby crowded with oversized trunks and cases and into what was evidently the main room of the penthouse. Although french windows were opened, so that the light-studded panorama of Manhattan could be seen stretched out below the terrace, the air was heavy with some pungent chemical odour.

  The Japanese, apparently Dr. Hessian’s assistant, closed the door as the last of the party came in.

  “Here, gentlemen, as you see, we shall witness a demonstration of Dr.

  Hessian’s supreme achievement.”

  All eyes became focussed on a long, narrow table in the middle of the room. It was entirely covered by a large-scale plan of Manhattan from the Battery to the Bronx. Roughly midway on the plan a miniature radio mast stood.

  Three large metal balls of some dull metal that looked like lead were

  suspended above the table from the lofty ceiling. Hanging down lower than these was a small box.

  Ten chairs were placed around, four on either side and one at each end.

  “Your places are marked, gentlemen,” the Japanese receptionist told them in perfect English. “Writing materials are provided.”

  They sorted themselves out, and Brian found himself beside Nayland Smith. Senator Merrick had been placed at one end of the long table.

  “Stand by to make notes of anything worth remembering, Merrick,”

  Sir Denis rapped in his staccato fashion.

  He seemed to be highly strung, or so Brian thought. Nor was he the only one. When everybody was seated, only two chairs remained vacant.

  That to the left of Dr. Jurgonsen and that facing Senator Merrick at the other end of the table. A hum of conversation arose, and Brian detected a theme of incredulity running through it.

  “Looks like a new gambling game,” Admiral Druce growled. “Where do we put our chips?”

  But silence fell suddenly when a strange figure appeared in an inner doorway. A tall man, stooping slightly, he, also, wore a white tunic, as well as tinted glasses, a small skull cap, and gloves which appeared to be made of black rubber.

  “Gentlemen,” the Japanese assistant announced in his toneless English: “Dr. Otto Hessian.” Dr. Hessian rested one hand on the back of his chair and nodded. “Allow me, Doctor, to introduce your visitors.”

  And beginning with Senator Merrick, as chairman of the committee, he named them one by one, finishing with “Mr. Brian Merrick Junior.”

  Dr. Hessian nodded to all and then sat down. He put some typed pages before him, so that they partly hid the Bronx.

  “If you please,” he began in a guttural voice and a very marked German accent, “of English I have not enough properly to explain myself.

/>   So these notes I have had translated from German more clear to make it—what I have to say.”

  There was a faint murmur of sympathy. Evidently Dr. Hessian could see quite well through his dark glasses, for he now consulted his notes and went on, speaking better English but with no better accent: “Sound vibrations, like all others of which we have knowledge, move neither straight up nor straight along, but, so—” One black-gloved hand described an arc. “They conform to the shape of the envelope in which the earth is enclosed: our atmosphere. Very well. There are sound vibrations, many of them inaudible to our ears, which can shatter a glass goblet. There are others, fortunately rare under normal conditions, which are even more destructive. Such a vibration I have succeeded in producing.”

  He raised his head, looked around. But although one or two of his audience stirred restlessly, no one spoke.

  “It is not only inaudible, but no receiver yet invented (except mine) can transmit it. So. It is as simple as this. Very well. Above my target area, in this case”—he laid a hand on the plan—”Manhattan, a plane flies at a given elevation. The antenna projecting above this plane carries a special receiver from which this vibration inaudible to human ears is cast upon the atmosphere. The plane, although in fact below the denser sound-belt, is immunized.”

  Another voice broke in. “Dr. Hessian! Your words, so far, leave me more completely mystified than ever. What do you mean by ‘the denser sound-belt’?”

  Dr. Hessian looked up from his notes, and stared at the questioner.

  “It is Dr. Jurgonsen who speaks? I thought this. No doubt you speak also German? Be so good, Doctor, as you question to repeat in German.”

  And then began a heated exchange in that language, which rose to a pitch of violence. At this point Senator Merrick banged his hand on the table.

  “Gentlemen! In the first place, many of the committee don’t know what you’re talking about. In the second place, you are delaying the demonstration which we are here to see.”

  Dr. Hessian nodded and looked down again at his notes.

  “I am far from being satisfied,” Dr. Jurgonsen muttered.

  “The demonstration will explain my words,” Hessian’s guttural voice continued. “My assistant will now lower the objects which you see suspended there.”

  These “objects”, which had excited so much interest, were attached to hooks in the ceiling by slender metallic cords, the ends of which had small rings. These hung down over the table. The Japanese assistant lowered the one suspended above the Battery.

  “Open please the container,” Dr. Hessian directed.

  The halves of the dull metal ball opened on a hinge.

  And the ball contained a large coconut!

  Everybody laughed, except Dr. Jurgonsen. “Preposterous!”

  he choked. But Dr. Hessian, quite unmoved, went on to explain: “This nut, although out of proportion to the scale of the plan, represents an enemy dive bomber which has penetrated the air defences and will presently swoop down upon lower Manhattan to discharge its load of destruction. These containers are immunized against any sound vibration. Close and return, please.”

  The metal ball was reclosed and hoisted back to its place.

  “Each of these has a trigger on the top which releases the contents when a ball is raised to touch the ceiling,” the guttural voice explained.

  “And now, the guided missile which could destroy the whole city.”

  A second metal ball, hanging over mid-town New York, was lowered.

  It was evidently very heavy. The Japanese, leaning over between Admiral Druce and General Rawlins, opened the container. In it, point downward, and carefully held in place by the Japanese, lay what looked like a miniature torpedo.

  “Here is a scale model of the latest guided missile, with an atomic warhead—as it would reach our atmosphere with what I may term its outer garments discarded.”

  Those further removed from the centre of the table stood up and eagerly grouped behind Admiral Druce and General Rawlins for a close view of the model.

  “I completed it in Cairo,” Dr. Hessian told them. “Only externally is it true to type. It weighs nearly eight pounds and has a small charge of high explosive for the purpose of this demonstration. It is so weighted that it will fall nose downward. Close and return, please.”

  Looking puzzled and excited, everybody went back to his place as the metal ball was swung up again to the ceiling. Dr. Jurgonsen shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

  “Exhibits A and B I have shown you,” Dr. Hessian carried on his guttural monotone—due, perhaps to the fact that he was reading his English transcription. “Exhibit C, just above me, represents a sneak raid” (he had difficulty with the words) “on the Bronx.”

  The metal ball nearly above his head was lowered. He opened it himself, and displayed a Service revolver!

  “I shall detach the weapon from its container.” He did so. “Because, in this case, it remains there throughout the experiment. It is set at safety.

  But, before I return it, the revolver will be ready to fire. I shall request General Rawlins to confirm the fact that the cartridges are live.”

  It was passed to that officer, who took out several shells and nodded, replaced them and handed the weapon back to the doctor. He adjusted it and the metal ball was raised to its place.

  “This exhibit is so adjusted,” Dr. Hessian explained, “that whenever the trigger of the receiver is brought in contact with the ceiling the revolver fires a shot at the Bronx. And now, my final exhibit: the small box which you see suspended roughly above the centre of Manhattan. Time prohibited the preparation of a model of an aeroplane resembling the one I have described. Therefore, if you please, imagine that this is such a plane. Its height above the city is out of proportion with the scale. An altitude of three miles would be enough. But I have set it much higher purely in the interest of your safety. I beg, from the moment contact is made—watch for the red light— that you will all remain seated. On no account stand up.”

  Brian experienced a wave of almost uncontrollable excitement. He noted that Nayland Smith’s hands were clenched below the table. Every face he looked at registered high nervous tension.

  The Japanese moved to a small side table and opened a cabinet which stood there.

  “A very ordinary transmitter, gentlemen,” came the guttural tones.

  “Such as any amateur can make. But a mechanism is attached which no one but myself could make. It transmits the lethal note which can throw a protective umbrella over the whole of the New York City! Proceed …”

  Brian held his breath, and looking upward saw a speck of red light glow in the suspended “receiver”. There was no sound.

  “Contact is established,” Dr. Hessian declared. “The enemy approaches.”

  The unemotional Japanese returned to the centre table.

  “Hold out your hands, Senator Merrick,” the new commanding voice ordered. “Prepare to catch the debris of the dive bomber.”

  Brian saw his father’s colour change slightly; but he stretched out his hands, looking up.

  The metal ball opened. The big coconut fell…

  But well above the heads of the seated committee it was shattered to bits!

  Fragments of shell and pulp shot miraculously across space to be piled against the walls!

  An almost hysterical, concerted gasp told of the reactions of the committee.

  “And now, if you please, the guided missile.” Dr. Hessian looked up from his notes. “You will note, Dr. Jurgonsen, that any hollow object it is burst instantly on contact with my sound belt. Had you so indiscreet been as to stand up, imagine what happens to your head!”

  Before Dr. Jurgonsen could think of a suitable reply, the second metal ball was opened.

  The miniature projectile fell swiftly. Several heads were ducked, protective arms raised.

  There was a shattering explosion. Fragments of metal spurted across the room as the shell of the coconut had done. P
laster fell from walls as they became spattered with this shrapnel. But not one particle fell on the table or on the surrounding carpet:

  “The guided missile is dispersed.” Dr. Hessian spoke calmly. “In practice the inaudible sound would be greatly amplified. There would be a thunderstorm far above New York of a violence which no man has ever heard. But nothing more. The protective belt would also be relayed to outlying points. I could throw up a ceiling of sound over the whole of New York City at a cost below that of maintaining a fighter squadron for a

  month. And now, gentlemen, the sneak raid on the Bronx.”

  As Dr. Hessian laid his hand on that section of the plan, the Japanese, standing beside him, head carefully lowered, stretched forward and grasped the suspended ring.

  “Proceed.”

  The ring was jerked sharply. A spurt of flame spat down out of the opening in the container. A dull impact … a cloud of grey matter spread like smoke across the air, and a flattened bullet rebounded nearly to the ceiling in a ricochet and finally came to rest against a gap in the wall made by shrapnel from the “guided missile.”

  Two more shots were fired, with similar results. The spectacle was bewildering, for the effect, looking upward, was as though a sheet of miraculously impenetrable glass extended across the room.

  But there was nothing—nothing visible …

  “Let no one stir,” Dr. Hessian warned. “Cover everything up.”

  The Japanese went out and returned with several large sheets. One he spread over the table. Others were laid on the surrounding carpet.

  “Disconnect.”

  A switch was moved in the near-by cabinet . . . and as if a palpable obstacle had been drawn aside, down showered debris of all the experiments!

  Chapter 13

  At the conclusion of that amazing demonstration in the penthouse, Dr.

  Hessian had excused himself and retired. He had been at work day and night, he explained, ever since his arrival, and was far too weary for debate. He referred members of the committee to his assistant, Dr. Yukio Yono, who was qualified to answer all their questions.