The Shadow of Fu Manchu f-11

by Sax Rohmer

  “Here we are, Regan!” he called in his breezy way. “Get to hell out of it,man!”

  There was no reply. Everything seemed to be in order. But where was Regan?

  Then, pinned to the logbook lying on a glass-topped table, Shaw saw a sheet of ruled paper. He crossed and bent over it.

  A message, written shakily in Regan’s hand, appeared there. It said:

  Mr. Shaw—

  Had a slight accident. Compelled to go for medical treatment. Don’t be alarmed. Will report at 4 a.m. for duty.

  J. J. Regan

  “Slight accident?” Shaw muttered.

  He looked keenly about him. What could have happened? There was nothing wrong with any of the experimental plant. He quickly satisfied himself on that score. So unlike Regan not to have timed the message. He wondered how long he had been gone. The last entry in the log (almost illegible) was timed eleven-fifteen.

  He was hanging his coat up when he noticed the bloodstains.

  They were very few—specks on white woodwork. But, stooping, he came to the conclusion that others had been wiped from the tiled floor below.

  Regan, then, must have cut himself in some way, been unable to staunch the bleeding, and gone to find a surgeon. Shaw decided that he had better notify Dr. Craig. The laboratory phone was an extension from the secretary’s office. He reopened the door, went down the steps, and dialled from Camille’s room.

  There was no answer to his call.

  Shaw growled, but accepted the fact philosophically. He would repeat the call later. He went back to his working-bench in the laboratory and was soon absorbed in adjusting an intricate piece of mechanism in course of construction there. He walked in an atmosphere vibrant with a force new to science. His large hands were delicate as those of a violinist . . .

  He called Craig’s number again at one o’clock, but there was no reply. He tried Regan’s, with a similar result. Perhaps the injury was more serious than Regan had supposed. He might have been detained for hospital treatment.

  Shaw tried both numbers again at two and then at three o’clock. No answers.

  He began to feel seriously worried about Regan; nor could he entirely understand the absence of Craig. He knew how determined Craig had been to complete the valve detail that night, he knew he was spending the week-end away; and he felt sure that Morris Craig wasn’t the man to waste precious hours in night spots.

  In this, Shaw misjudged Craig—for once. At almost exactly three o’clock, that is, whilst Shaw was vainly calling his number, Morris Craig leaned on a small table, feasting his eyes on Camille, who sat facing him.

  “Say you are happy,” he whispered.

  That she was happy, that this new wonderland was real and not a mirage, seemed to him, at the moment, the only thing that mattered— the one possible excuse for his otherwise inexcusable behavior.

  Camille smiled, and then lowered her eyes. She knew that she had been dancing—dancing for hours, it seemed to her. Even now, a band played softly, somewhere on the other side of a discreetly dim floor. Yes—she was happy. She was in love with Morris, and they were together. But how could she surrender herself to all that such an evening should mean, when she had no idea how she came to be there?

  She knew that she had set out to keep an appointment made for her by Mrs. Frobisher. Had she kept it? Apart from a vague recollection of talking to Morris in the office—of some sudden terror—the rest of the night remained a blank up to the moment when she had found herself here, in his arms, dancing . . .

  “Yes—I am happy, Morris, very happy. But I think I must go home now.”

  It was nearly half past three when they left.

  In the little lobby of her apartment house, between swing doors and the house door, Craig held her so long that she thought he would never let her go. Every time she went to put her key in the lock, he pulled her back and held her again. At last:

  “I shall be here for you at nine in the morning,7 he said.

  “All right. Good night, Morris.”

  She opened the door, and was gone. He watched her, through glass panels, as she hurried upstairs. Then he went out, crossed the street, and waited to see a light spring up in her room. When one did, he still waited—and waited.

  At last she came to the window, pulled a drape aside, and waved him good night.

  He had dismissed the taxi. He wanted to walk, to be alone with this night, to relive every hour of the wonder that had come into his life with Camille’s first kiss.

  When, at Central Park West, he decided to walk across the Park, two tired and bored detectives who had been keeping the pair in sight ever since they had left the night club, exhaled selfpitying sighs . . .

  Chapter XV

  At ten past four, Martin Shaw dialled Regan’s number. No reply. Then he tried Craig’s. No reply. Following a momentary hesitation, he called police headquarters.

  He had no more than begun to explain what had happened when he heard the clang of the elevator door as someone slammed it shut. Laying the phone down on Camille’s desk, he ran out into Craig’s office. He arrived just as Nayland Smith burst in.

  “Sir Denis! What’s this?”

  Nayland Smith was darting urgent glances right and left.

  “Where’s Regan?” he rapped.

  “Hasn’t shown up—”

  “What!”

  “Had an accident some time before I returned. Left a note.”

  Nayland Smith’s challenging stare was almost frightening.

  “You mean the place was empty when you arrived at twelve?”

  “Just that.”

  “And you did nothing about it?”

  “Why should I?” Shaw demanded. “But when he didn’t appear at four o’clock, it was different. I have police headquarters on the line right now “

  “Tell them I’m here. Then hang up.”

  Shaw, upon whom this visitor had swept as a typhoon, went back and did so.

  “I know,” a voice replied. “We’re on the job. Stand by.”

  When Shaw rejoined him:

  “Your handyman, Sam, was got away by a ruse,” said Smith. “He wisely called the police, too—from Philadelphia. I came straight along. Someone wanted this place vacated tonight—and Craig played right into the enemy’s hands—”

  “But where is the Doctor? I have been calling him—”

  “You’d be surprised!” Smith snapped savagely. “At the present moment, he’s wandering about Central Park, moon-struck! One of two men looking after him got to a phone ten minutes ago.”

  Shaw looked thunderstruck.

  “Has he gone mad?”

  “Yes. He’s in love. Show me this note left by Regan.”

  He went racing up the steps. Shaw had left the laboratory door open.

  “There—on the table.”

  Nayland Smith bent over Regan’s strange message. He turned.

  “Sure it’s his writing?”

  “Looks like it—allowing for a shaky hand. He’d evidently cut himself. See—there are specks of blood here.” Shaw pointed. “And I think blood has been wiped from the floor just below.”

  Nayland Smith pulled at the lobe of his ear. His brown face looked drawn, weary, but his eyes shone like steel. The green twilight of this place, the eerie throbbing which seemed to penetrate his frame, he disliked, but knew he must ignore. A moment he stood so, then turned and ran back to the phone. He called police headquarters, gave particulars of what had happened, and:

  “Check all night taxis,” he directed rapidly, “operating in this area. All clinics and hospitals in the neighborhood. Recall Detectives Beaker and Holland, on duty at the door here between eight and four. Order them to report to Raymond Harkness.”

  He hung up, called another number, and presently got Harkness.

  “I’m afraid we lose, Harkness,” he said. “I’m at the Huston Building. Something very serious has occurred tonight. I fear the worst. The two men posted below must have tripped up, somewhere. They wil
l report to you. Make each take oath and swear he never left the door for a moment. Then call me. I shall be here . . .”

  In the throbbing laboratory, Martin Shaw was making entries in the log. He looked up as Nayland Smith came in.

  “Of course,” he said, “I can see something has happened to poor Regan. But it’s not clear to me that there’s anything else to it.”

  “Not clear?” rapped Smith. “Why should a man who generally hangs around the place at all hours—Sam—receive a faked call to get him to Philadelphia? Is it a mere coincidence that Regan deserts his post the same night? For some time before twelve o’clock—we don’t know for how long—no one was on duty here.”

  “There’s an entry in the book timed eleven-fifteen.”

  “Very shaky one. Still leaving a gap of forty-five minutes.”

  “If you mean some foreign agent got in, how did he get in?”

  “He probably had a duplicate key, as I have. The F.B.I, got mine from the locksmith who made the originals. Couldn’t someone else have done the same thing? Or borrowed, and copied, an existing key?”

  “But nothing has been disturbed. There’s no evidence that anyone has been here.”

  “There wouldn’t be!” said Smith grimly. “Dangerous criminals leave no clues. The visitor I suspect would only want a short time to examine the plant—and to borrow Craig’s figure of the transmuter valve—”

  “That would mean opening the safe.”

  “Exactly what we have to do—open the safe.”

  “No one but Dr. Craig has a key—or knows the combination.”

  “There are other methods,” said Nayland Smith drily. “I am now going out to examine the safe.”

  He proceeded to do so, and made a thorough job of it. Shaw came down and joined him.

  “Nothing to show it’s been tampered with,” Smith muttered . . . “Hullo! who comes?”

  He had detected that faint sound made by the private elevator. He turned to face the lobby; so did Shaw.

  The elevator ascended, stopped. A door banged. And Morris Craig ran in.

  “Smith!” he exclaimed—and both men saw that he was deathly pale. “What’s this? What has happened? I was brought here by two detectives—”

  “Serves you right!” rapped Nayland Smith. “Don’t talk. Act. Be good enough to open this safe.”

  “But”

  “Open it.”

  Craig, his hand none too steady, pulled out his keys, twirled the dial, and opened the safe. Nayland Smith and Martin Shaw bent over his shoulders.

  They saw a number of papers, and Craig’s large drawing board.

  But there was nothing on the board! A moment of silence followed—ominous silence.

  Then Nayland Smith faced Craig.

  “I don’t know,” he said, and spoke with unusual deliberation, “what lunacy led you to desert your job tonight. But I am anxious to learn”—he pointed—”what has become of the vital drawing and the notes, upon which you were working.”

  Morris Craig forced a smile. It was an elder brother of the one he usually employed. Some vast, inexpressible relief apparently had brought peace to his troubled mind.

  “If that’s all,” he replied, “the answer’s easy. I had a horrible idea that—something had happened—to Camille.”

  Nayland Smith exchanged a glance with Shaw.

  “Ignoring the Venusburg music for a moment”—the words were rapped out in his usual staccato manner—”where is the diagram?”

  Morris Craig smiled again—and the junior smile was back on duty. He removed his topcoat, stripped his jacket off, and groped up under his shirt. From this cache he produced a large, folded sheet of paper and another, smaller sheet—the one decorated with a formula like a Picasso painting.

  “In spite of admittedly high temperature at time of departure, I remembered that I was leaving town in the morning. I decided to take the job with me. If”—he glanced from face to face—”you suspect some attempt on the safe, all the burglar found was—Old Mother Hubbard. I carry peace to Falling Waters.”

  Chapter XVI

  The library at Falling Waters was a pleasant room. It was panelled in English oak imported by Stella Frobisher. An open staircase led up to a landing which led, in turn, to rooms beyond. There were recessed bookcases. French windows gave upon a paved terrace overlooking an Italian garden. Sets of Dickens, Thackeray, Punch, and Country Life bulked large on the shelves.

  There was a handsome walnut desk, upon which a telephone stood, backed by a screen of stamped Spanish leather. Leather-covered armchairs and settees invited meditation. The eye was attracted (or repelled) by fine old sporting prints. Good Chinese rugs were spread on a well-waxed floor.

  Conspicuous above a bookcase, and so unlike Stella’s taste, one saw a large, glazed cabinet containing a colored plan of the grounds surrounding Falling Waters. It seemed so out of place.

  On occasional tables, new novels invited dipping. Silver caskets and jade caskets and cloisonne caskets contained cigarettes to suit every palate. There were discreet ornaments. A good reproduction of Queen Nefertiti’s beautiful, commercialized head above a set of Balzac, in French, which no member of this household could read. A bust of Shakespeare. A copy of the Discus Thrower apparently engaged in throwing his discus at a bust by Epstein on the other side of the library.

  A pleasant room, as sunshine poured in to bring its lifeless beauties to life, to regild rich bindings, on this morning following those strange occurrences in the Huston research laboratory.

  Michael Frobisher was seated at the walnut desk, the phone to his ear. Stein, his butler-chauffeur, stood at his elbow. Michael Frobisher was never wholly at ease in his own home. He remained acutely conscious of the culture with which Stella had surrounded him. This morning, his unrest was pathetic.

  ‘“But this thing’s just incredible! . . . What d’you say? You’re certain of your facts, Craig? Regan never left a note like that before? . . . What d’you mean, he hasn’t come back? He must be in some clinic . . . The police say he isn’t? To hell with the police! I don’t want police in the Huston laboratory . . . You did a wise thing there, but I guess it was an accident . . . Bring the notes and drawing right down here. For God’s sake, bring ‘em right down here! How do we know somebody hasn’t explored the plant? Listen! how do we know?”

  He himself listened awhile, and then:

  “To hell with Nayland Smith!” he growled. “Huston Electric doesn’t spend half a million dollars to tip the beans into his pocket. He’s a British agent. He’ll sell us out! Are you crazy? . . . He may be backed by Washington. What’s good that comes to us from Washington, anyway?”

  He listened again, and suddenly:

  “Had it occurred to you,” he asked on a note of tension, “that Regan could be the British agent? He joined us from Vickers . . .”

  When at last he hung up:

  “Is there anything you want me to do?” Stein asked.

  Stein was a man who, seated, would have looked like a big man, for he had a thick neck, deep chest, and powerful shoulders. But, standing, he resembled Gog, or Magog, guardian deities of London’s Guildhall; a heavy, squat figure, with heavy, squat features. Stein wore his reddish hair cut close as a Prussian officer’s. He had a crushed appearance, as though someone had sat on his head.

  Frobisher spun around. “Did you get it?”

  “Yes. It is serious.” (Stein furthermore had a heavy, squat accent.) “But not so serious as if they have found the detail of the trans-muter.”

  “What are you talking about?” Frobisher stood up. “There’s enough in the lab to give away the whole principle to an expert.”

  That grey undertone beneath his florid coloring was marked.

  “This may be true—”

  “And Regan’s disappeared!”

  “I gathered so.”

  “Then—hell!”

  “You are too soon alarmed,” said Stein coolly. “Let us wait until we have all the facts.”
<
br />   “How’11 we ever have all the facts?” Frobisher demanded. “What are the facts about things that happen right here? Who walks around this house at night like a ghost? Who combed my desk papers? Who opened my safe? And who out of hell went through your room the other evening while you were asleep? Tell me who, and then tell me whyI”

  But before Stein had time to answer these reasonable inquiries, Stella Frobisher fluttered into the library. She wore a Hollywood pinafore over her frock, her hands were buried in gauntlet gloves, and she carried a pair of large scissors. Her blond hair was dressed as immaculately as that of a movie star just rescued from a sinking ship.

  “I know I look a fright, dear,” she assured Frobisher. “I have been out in the garden, cutting early spring flowers.”

  She emphasized “cutting” as if her more usual method was to knock their heads off with a niblick.

  “Allow me to bring these in for you, madame,” said Stein.

  His respectful manner was in odd contrast to that with which he addressed Frobisher.

  “Thank you, Stein. Lucille has the basket on the back porch.”

  She did not mention the fact that Lucille had also cut the flowers.

  “Very good, madame.”

  As Stein walked towards the door:

  “Oh, Stein—there will be seven to luncheon. Dr. and Mrs. Pardoe are coming.”

  Stein bowed and went out.

  “Who’s the old man?” growled Frobisher, opening a box of cigars which lay on the desk.

  “Professor Hoffmeyer. Isn’t it splendid that I got him to come?”

  “Don’t know till I see him.”

  “He’s simply wonderful. He will amaze you, Mike.”

  “Don’t care for amazement at mealtimes.”

  “You will fall completely under his spell, dear,” Stella declared, and went fluttering out again. “I must go and assemble my flowers.”

  At about this time, Morris Craig was putting a suitcase into the back of his car. As he locked the boot he looked up.

  “You know, Smith,” he said, “I’m profoundly conscious of the gravity of this thing—but I begin to feel like a ticket-of-leave man.

  There’s a car packed with police on the other side of the street. Do they track me to Falling Waters?”