by Sax Rohmer
Koenig switched his lamp off. He paused for a moment to get accustomed to the darkness, then went up the three steps and beat upon the door with clenched fists.
“Regan!” he shouted. “Regan . . . Regan! . . .”
He ran down and threw himself onto the couch beside which M’goyna waited.
Followed an interval of several seconds—ten—twenty—thirty.
Then came a faint sound. The steel door was opened. Green light poured out, such a light as divers see below the surface of the ocean;
rays giving no true illumination. The office became vibrant with unseen force.
Regan stood at the top of the steps, peering down.
“Dr. Craig! Are you there?”
He began to descend, picking his way.
And, as his foot touched the bottom step M’goyna hurled himself upon him, snarling like a wild animal.
“My God!”
The words were choked out of Regan. They faded into a gurgle, into nothing.
“Not too much! Remember’.”
M’goyna grunted. One huge hand clasping Regan’s throat, he lifted him with his free arm and carried him, like a bundle, up the steps.
Koenig followed.
The door remained open. Green light permeated the office filled with pulsations of invisible power. Then Koenig reappeared.
“You understand—he must answer calls. If Dr. Craig, or anyone else, comes in . . . you have your orders.”
He closed the door behind him, so that silence, falling again, became a thing notable, almost audible. He stood still for a moment, taking his bearings, then crossed and switched up the desk lamp.
Noiselessly he went out.
The elevator descended.
Chapter XII
“Wake!”
Camille opened her eyes, rose from her knees, and although her limbs felt heavy, cramped, sprang upright. She stared wildly at Dr. Fu Manchu, lifting one hand to her disarranged hair.
“What—what am I doing here?”
“You are kneeling to me as if I were the Buddha.”
A wave of true terror swept over her. Almost, for the first time, she lost control.
“You . . . Oh, my God! What happened to me?”
She retreated from the tall, yellow-robed figure, back and back until her calves came in contact with the divan. Dr. Fu Manchu watched her.
“Compose yourself. Your chastity is safe with me. I wished to see you without your disguise.”
“There was—someone else here—a dreadful man . . .”
“M’goyna? You were conscious of his presence? That is informative. I regret that I cannot give you an opportunity to examine M’goyna. As a fellow scientist, you would be interested. M’goyna carried my first invitation to you, although I thought you had forgotten.”
“I had forgotten,” Camille whispered. She was trembling.
“He can climb like an ape. He climbed from the fire ladders along the coping of the Huston Building in order to present my compliments. You spoke of ‘a dreadful man.’ But M’goyna is not a man. In Haiti he would be called a zombie. He illustrates the possibilities of vivisection. His frame is that of a Turkish criminal executed for strangling women. I recovered the body before rigor mortis had set in.”
“You are trying to frighten me. Why?”
“Truth never frightened the scientific mind. M’goyna was created in my Cairo laboratory. I supplied him with an elementary brain—a trifle superior to that of a seal. Little more than a receiving set for my orders. He remains imperfect, however. I have been unable to rid my semi-human of that curious cough. Some day I must try again.”
And, as the cold, supercilious voice continued, Camille began to regain her composure; for Dr. Fu Manchu had been unable wholly to conceal a note of triumph. He was a dangerous genius, probably a madman, but he was not immune from every human frailty . . . He was proud of his own fantastic achievements.
She dropped down onto the settee as he crossed, moving with that lithe, feline tread, and resumed his place behind the black table. When he spoke again he seemed to be thinking aloud . . .
“There are only a certain number of nature’s secrets which man is permitted to learn. A number sufficient for his own destruction.”
A high, wailing sound came from somewhere beyond the room. It rose, and fell, rose, and fell—and died away. But for Camille it was almost the last straw.
Clasping her hands, she sprang up, threatened now by hysteria.
“My God! What was it?”
Dr. Fu Manchu rested his chin on interlaced fingers.
“It was Bast—my pet cheetah. She thinks I have forgotten her supper. These hunting cats are so voracious.”
“I don’t believe you . . . It sounded like . . .”
“My dear Miss Navarre, I resent the implication. Sir Denis Nayland Smith would assure you that lying is not one of my vices.”
Delicately he took a pinch of snuff from a silver box. Camille sat down again, struggling to recover her lost poise. She forced herself to meet his fixed regard.
“What is it you want? Why do you look at me like that?”
“I am admiring your beautiful courage. To destroy that which is beautiful is an evil thing.” He stood up. “You wish for the peace of the world. You have said so. You fear cruelty. You flinched when you heard the cry of a cheetah. You have known cruelty— for there is no cruelty like the cruelty of war. If your wish was sincere, only I can hope to bring it true. Will you work with me, or against me?”
“How can I believe—”
“In Dr. Fu Manchu? In an international criminal? No—perhaps it is asking too much, in the time at my disposal—and the very minutes grow precious.” He opened his eyes widely. “Stand up, Camille Navarre. What is your real name?”
And Camille became swept again at command of the master hypnotist into that grey and dreadful half-world where there was no one but Dr. Fu Manchu.
“Camille Mirabeau,” she answered mechanically—and stood up. “Navarre was the name by which I was known to the Maquis.”
The green eyes were very close to hers.
“Why were you employed by Britain?”
“Because of my success in smuggling Air Force personnel out of the German zone. And because I speak several languages and have had science training.”
“Were you ever married?”
“No.”
“How many lovers have you had?”
“One.”
“How long did this affair last?”
“For three months. Until he was killed by the Gestapo.”
“Have you ceased to regret?”
“Yes.”
“Does Morris Craig attract you?”
“Yes.”
“He will be your next lover. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“You will make him take you away from the Huston Building not later than half past nine. He must not return to his office tonight. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Does he find you attractive?”
“Yes.”
The insistent voice was beating on her brain like a hammer. But she was powerless to check its beats, powerless to resist its promptings; compelled to answer—truthfully. Her brain, her heart, lay on Dr. Fu Manchu’s merciless dissecting table.
“Has he expressed admiration?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“He has asked me not to wear glasses, and not to brush my hair back as I do.”
“And you love him?”
Camille’s proud spirit rose strong in revolt. She remained silent.
“You love him?”
It was useless. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Tonight you will seduce him with your hair. The rest I shall leave to Morris Craig. I will give you your instructions before you leave. Sleep . . .”
There came an agonized interval, in which Camille lay helpless in invisible chains, and then the Voice again.
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“I have forgotten all that happened since I left my office in the Huston Building. Repeat.”
“I have forgotten all that happened since I left my office in the Huston Building.”
“When I return I shall remember only what I have to do at nine-fifteen—nine-fifteen by the office clock.”
“When I return I shall remember only what I have to do at nine-fifteen, by the office clock.”
“At nine-thirty Dr. Fu Manchu will call me: repeat the time.”
“Nine-thirty.”
“The fate of the world rests in my hands.”
Camille raised her arms, clutched her head. She moaned . . . “Oh! . . . I . . . cannot bear this—”
“Repeat my words.”
“The fate . . . of the world . . . rests . . . in . . . my hands . . .”
Chapter XIII
Morris Craig came back, “under convoy” from Nayland Smith’s “quiet restaurant.” Standing before the private door:
“Your restaurant was certainly quiet,” he said. “But the check was a loud, sad cry. Come up if you like. Smith. But I have a demon night ahead of me. I must be through by tomorrow. Thanks for a truly edible dinner. Most acceptable to my British constitution. The wine was an answer to this pagan’s prayer.”
Nayland Smith gave him a long, steely-hard look.
“Have I succeeded in making it quite clear to you, Craig, that the danger is now, tonight, and for the next twenty-four hours?”
“Septically clear. Already I have symptoms of indigestion. But if I work on into the grey dawn I’m going to get the job finished, because I am bidden to spend the week-end with the big chief in the caves and jungles of Connecticut.”
Nayland Smith, a lean figure in a well-worn tweed suit, for he had left his topcoat in the car, hesitated for a moment; then he grasped Craig firmly by the arm.
“I won’t make myself a nuisance,” he said. “But I want to see you right back on the job before I leave you. The fact is—I have a queer, uneasy feeling tonight. We must neglect no precaution.”
And so they went up to the office together, and found it just as they had left it. Craig hung up hat and coat, grinning at Smith, who was lighting his pipe.
“Don’t mind me. Carry on as if you were in your own abode. I’ll carry on as if I were in mine.”
He crossed to unlock the safe, when:
“Wait a minute,” came sharply. “I’m going to make myself a nuisance after all.”
Craig turned. “How come?”
“The duplicate key is in my topcoat! You will have to let me out.”
“Blessings and peace,” murmured Craig. “But I promise not to go beyond the street door. There will thus be no excuse for my being escorted upstairs again. Before we start, better let Regan know I’m back.”
He called the laboratory, and waited.
“H’m. Silence. He surely can’t have gone to sleep . . . Try again.”
And now came Regan’s voice, oddly strained.
“Laboratory . . . Regan here.”
“That’s all right, Regan. Just wanted to say I’m back. Everything in order?”
“Yes . . . everything.”
Craig glanced at Nayland Smith
“Sounded very cross, didn’t he?”
“Don’t wonder. Is he expected to work all night too?
“No. Shaw relieves him at twelve o’clock.”
“Come on, then. I won’t detain you any longer.”
They went out.
That faint sound made by the elevator had just died away, when there came the muffled thud of two shots . . . The laboratory door was flung open—and Regan hurled himself down the steps. He held an automatic in his hand, as he raced towards the lobby.
“Dr. Craig! . . . Help! . . . Dr. Craig’.”
Making a series of bounds incredible in a creature ordinarily so slow and clumsy of movement, M’goyna followed. His teeth were exposed like the fangs of a wild animal. He uttered a snarl of rage.
Regan twisted around and fired again.
Instant upon the crack of his shot, M’goyna dashed the weapon from Regan’s grasp and swept him into a bear hug. Power of speech was crushed out of his body. He gave one gasping, despairing cry, and was silent. M’goyna lifted him onto a huge shoulder and carried him back up the steps.
Only a groan came from the laboratory when the semiman ran down again to recover Regan’s pistol.
He coughed as he reclosed the steel door . . .
The office remained empty for another two minutes. Then Craig returned, swinging his keys on their chain. He went straight to the safe, paused—and stood sniffing. He had detected a faint but unaccountable smell. He glanced all about him, until suddenly the boyish smile replaced a puzzled frown.
“Smith’s pipe!” he muttered.
Dismissing the matter lightly, as he always brushed aside—or tried to brush aside—anything which interfered with the job in hand, he had soon unlocked the safe and set up his materials. He was so deeply absorbed in his work that when Camille came in, he failed to notice even her presence.
She stood in the open doorway for a moment, staring vaguely about the office. Then she looked down at her handbag, and finally up at the clock above the desk. But not until she began to cross to her own room did Craig know she was there.
He spun around in a flash.
“Shades of evenin’! Don’t play bogey man with me. My nerves are not what they were in my misspent youth.”
Camille did not smile. She glanced at him and then, again, at the clock. She was not wearing her black-rimmed glasses, but her hair was tightly pinned back as usual. Craig wondered if something had disturbed her.
“I—I am sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. How’s Professor What’s-his-name? Full of beans and ballyhoo?”
“I—really don’t know.”
She moved away in the direction of her open door. Her manner was so strange that he could no longer ignore it. Insomnia, he knew, could play havoc with the nervous system. And Camille was behaving like one walking in her sleep. But when he spoke he retained the light note.
“What’s the prescription—Palm Beach, or a round trip in the Queen Elizabeth?”
Camille paused, but didn’t look back.
“I’m afraid—I have forgotten,” she replied.
She went into her room.
Craig scratched his chin, looking at her closed door. Certainly something was quite wrong. Could he have offended her? Was she laboring under a sense of grievance? Or was she really ill?
He took out a crushed packet of cigarettes from his hip pocket, smoothed one into roughly cylindrical form and lighted it; all the while staring at that closed door.
Very slowly, resuming his glasses, he returned to his work. But an image of Camille, wide-eyed, distrait, persistently intruded. He recalled that she had been in such a mood once before, and that he had made her go home. On the former occasion, too, she had been out but gave no account of where she had gone.
Something resembling a physical chill crept around his heart.
There was a man in her life. And he must have let her down . . .
Craig picked up a scribbling block and wrote a note in pencil. He was surprised, and angry, to find how shaky his hand had become. He must know the truth. But he would give her time. With a little tact, perhaps Camille could be induced to tell him.
He had never kissed her fingers, much less her lips, yet the thought of her in another man’s arms drove him mad. He remembered that he had recently considered her place in the scheme of things, and had decided to dismiss such considerations until his work was completed.
Now he was almost afraid to press the button which would call her.
But he did.
He was back at his drawing board when he heard her come in. She moved so quietly that he sensed, rather than knew, when she stood behind him. He tore off the top sheet and held it over his shoulder.
“Just type this out for me, d’yo
u mind? It’s a note for Regan. He can’t read my writing.”
“Of course. Dr. Craig.”
Her soft voice soothed him, as always. How he loved it! He had just a peep of her delicate fingers as she took the page.
Then she was gone again.
Craig crushed out his cigarette in an ash-tray and sat staring at the complicated formula pinned to his drawing board. Of course, it probably meant something—something very important. It might even mean, as Nayland Smith seemed to think, a new era in the troubled history of man.
But why should he care what it meant if he must loose Camille?
He could hear her machine tapping . . .
Very soon, her door opened, and Camille came out. She carried a typed page and duplicates. The pencilled note was clipped to them. Craig didn’t look up when she laid them beside the drawing board, and Camille turned to go. At the same moment, she glanced up at the clock.
Nine-fifteen . . .
Could Morris Craig have seen, he would have witnessed an eerie thing.
Camille’s vacant expression became effaced; instantly, magically. She clenched her hands, fixing her eyes upward, upon the clock. For a moment she stood so, as if transfixed, as if listening intently. She symbolized vital awareness.
She relaxed, and, looking down, rested her left hand on the desk beside Craig. She spoke slowly.
“I am sorry—if I have made any mistakes. Please tell me if this is correct.”
Craig, who was not wearing his glasses, glanced over the typed page. He was trying desperately to think of some excuse to detain her.
“There was one word,” the musical voice continued.
Camille raised her hands, and deliberately released her hair so that it swept down, a fiery, a molten torrent, brushing Craig’s cheek as he pretended to read the message.
“Oh! Forgive me!”
She was bending over him when Craig twisted about and looked up into her eyes. Meeting his glance, she straightened and began to rearrange her hair.
He stood up.
“No—don’t! Don’t bother to do that.”
He spoke breathlessly.
Camille, hands still lifted, paused, watching him. They were very close.
“But—”
“Your hair is—so wonderful.” He clasped her wrists to restrain her. “It’s a crime to hide it.”
