by Sax Rohmer
“They do!” Nayland Smith replied. “As I understand it, you are now going to pick up Miss Navarre?”
“That is the program.” Craig smiled rather unhappily. “I feel a bit cheap leaving Shaw alone, in the circumstances. But—”
“Shaw won’t be alone” Smith rapped irritably. “I think—or, rather, fear—the danger at the laboratory is past. But, to make sure, two carefully selected men will be on duty in your office day and night until you return. Plus two outside.”
“Why not Sam? He’s back.”
“You will need Sam to lend a hand with this radio burglar alarm you tell me about”
“J shall?”
“You will. I can see you’re dying to push off. So—push! I trust you have a happy week-end.”
And when Craig turned into West Seventy-fifth Street, the first thing that really claimed his attention was the presence of a car which had followed him all the way. The second was a figure standing before the door of an apartment house—a door he could never forget.
This figure wore spectacles, a light fawn topcoat, a cerise muffler, and a slate-grey hat with the brim turned up not at the back, but in front . . .
“Morning, boss,” said Sam, opening the door. “Happen to have—”
“I have nothing but a stem demand. It’s this: What the devil are you doing here7.”
“Well”—Sam shook his head solemnly—”it’s like this. Seems you’re carrying valuables, and Sir Denis, he thinks—”
“He thinks what?”
“He thinks somebody ought to come along—see? Just in case.”
Craig stepped out.
“Tell me: Are you employed by Huston Electric or by Nayland Smith?”
Sam tipped his hat further back. He chewed thoughtfully.
“It’s kind of complicated. Doctor. Sir Denis has it figured I’m doing my best for Huston’s if I come along and lend a hand. He figures there may be trouble up there. And you never know.”
Visions of a morning drive alone with Camille vanished.
“All right,” said Craig resignedly “Sit at the back.”
In a very short time he had hurried in. But it was a long time before he came out.
Camille looked flushed, but delightfully pretty, when she arrived at Falling Waters. Her hair was tastefully dressed, and she carried the black-rimmed glasses in her hand. Stella was there to greet her guests.
“My dear Miss Navarre! It’s so nice to have you here at last! Dr. Craig, you have kept her in hiding too long.”
“Not my fault, Mrs. Frobisher. She’s a self-effacing type.” Then, as Frobisher appeared: “Hail, chief! Grim work at—”
Frobisher pointed covertly to Stella, making vigorous negative signs with his head. “Glad to see you, Craig,” he rumbled, shaking hands with both arrivals.
“You have a charming house, Mrs. Frobisher,” said Camille. “It was sweet of you to ask me to come.”
“I’m so glad you like it!” Stella replied. “Because you must have seen such lovely homes in France and in England.”
“Yes,” Camille smiled sadly. “Some of them were lovely.”
“But let me take you along to your room. This is your first visit, but I do hope it will be the first of many.”
She led Camille away, leaving Frobisher and Craig standing in the lobby—panelled in Spanish mahogany from the old Cunard liner, Mauretania. And at that moment Frobisher’s eye rested upon Sam, engaged in taking Craig’s suitcase from the boot, whilst Stein stood by.
“What’s that half-wit doing down here?” Frobisher inquired politely.
“D’you mean Sam? Oh, he’s going to—er—lend me a hand overhauling your burglar system.”
“Probably make a good job of it, between you,” Frobisher commented drily. “When you’ve combed your hair, Craig, come along to my study. We have a lot to talk about. Where’s the plan?”
Craig tapped his chest. He was in a mood of high exaltation.
“On our person, good sir. Only over our dead body could caitiffs win to the treasure.”
And in a room all daintily chintz, with delicate water colors and lots of daffodils, Camille was looking out of an opened window, at an old English garden, and wondering if her happiness could last.
Stein tapped at the door, placed Camille’s bag inside, and retired.
“Don’t bother to unpack, my dear,” said Stella. “Flora, my maid, is superlative.”
Camille turned to her, impulsively.
“You are very kind, Mrs. Frobisher. And it was so good of you to make that appointment for me with Professor Hoffmeyer,”
“With Professor Hoffmeyer? Oh! my dear! Did I, really? Of course”—seeing Camille’s strange expression—”I must have done. It’s queer and it’s absurd, but, do you know, I’m addicted to the oddest lapses of memory.”
“You are7” Camille exclaimed; then, as it sounded so rude, she added, “I mean lam, too.”
“You are?” Stella exclaimed in turn, and seized both her hands. “Oh, my dear, I’m so glad! I mean, I know I sound silly, and a bit horrid. What I wanted to say was, it’s such a relief to meet somebody else who suffers in that way. Someone who has no possible reason for going funny in the head. But tell me—what did you think of him?”
Camille looked earnestly into the childish but kindly eyes.
“I must tell you, Mrs. Frobisher—impossible though it sounds— that I have no recollection whatever of going there!”
“My dear!” Stella squeezed her hands encouragingly. “I quite understand. Whatever do you suppose is the matter with us?”
“I’m afraid I can’t even imagine.”
“Could it be some new kind of epidemic?”
Camille’s heart was beating rapidly, her expression was introspective; for she was, as Dr. Fu Manchu had told her (but she had forgotten), a personable woman with a brain.
“I don’t know. Suppose we compare notes—”
Michael Frobisher’s study, the window of which offered a prospect of such woodland as Fenimore Cooper wrote about, was eminently that of a man of business. The books were reference books, the desk had nothing on it but a phone, a blotting-pad, pen, ink, a lamp, an almanac, and a photograph of Stella. The safe was built into the wall. No unnecessary litter.
“There’s the safe I told you about,” he was saying. “There’s the key—and the combination is right here.” He touched his rugged forehead. “Yet—I found the damned thing wide open! My papers”—he pulled out a drawer—”were sorted like a teller sorts checks. I know. I always have my papers in order. Then—somebody goes through my butler’s room.” He banged his big fist on the desk. “And not a bolt drawn, not a window opened!”
“Passing strange,” Craig murmured. He glanced at the folded diagram. “Hardly seems worthwhile to lock it up.”
Michael Frobisher stared at the end of his half-smoked cigar, twirling it between strong fingers.
“There’s been nothing since I installed the alarm system. But I don’t trust anybody. I want you to test it. Meanwhile”—he laid his hand on the paper—”how long will it take you to finish this thing?”
“Speaking optimistically, two hours.”
“You mean, in two hours it will be possible to say we’re finished?”
“Hardly. Shaw has to make the valves. Wonderful fellow, Shaw. Then we have to test the brute in action. When that bright day dawns, it may be the right time to say we’re finished!”
Frobisher put his cigar back in his hard mouth, and stared at Craig.
“You’re a funny guy,” he said. “It took a man like me to know you had the brains of an Einstein. I might have regretted the investment if Martin Shaw hadn’t backed you—and Regan. I’m doubtful of Regan—now. But he knows the game. Then—you’ve shown me things.”
“A privilege, Mr. Frobisher.”
Frobisher stood up.
“Don’t go all Oxford on me. Listen. When this detail here is finished, you say we shall be in a position to tap a sourc
e of inexhaustible energy which completely tops atomic power?”
“I say so firmly. Whether we can control the monster depends entirely upon—that.”
“The transmuter valve?”
“Exactly. It’s only a small gadget. Shaw could make all three of ‘em in a few hours. But if it works, Mr. Frobisher, and I know it will, we shall have at our command a force, cheaply obtained, which could (a) blow our world to bits, or (b) enable us to dispense with costly things like coal, oil, enormous atomic plants, and the like, forever. I am beginning to see tremendous possibilities.”
“Fine.”
Michael Frobisher was staring out of the window. His heavy face was transfigured. He, too, the man of commerce, the opportunist, could see those tremendous possibilities. No doubt he saw possibilities which had never crossed the purely scientific mind of Morris Craig.
“So,” said Craig, picking up the diagram and the notes, “I propose that I retire to my cubicle and busy myself until cocktails are served. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Remember—not a word to Mrs. F.”
When Craig left the study, Frobisher stood there for a long time, staring out of the window.
* * *
But Morris Craig’s route to his “cubicle” had been beset by an obstacle—Mrs. F. As he crossed the library towards the stair, she came in by another door. She glanced at the folded diagram.
“My dear Dr. Craig! Surely you haven’t come here to work?”
Craig pulled up, and smiled. Stella had always liked his smile; it was so English.
“Afraid, yes. But not for too long, I hope. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll nip up and get going right away.”
“But it’s too bad. How soon will you be ready to nip down again?”
“Just give me the tip when the bar opens.”
“Of course I will. But, you know, I have been talking to Camille. She is truly a dear girl. I don’t mean expensive. I mean charming.”
Craig’s attention was claimed, magically, by his hostess’s words.
“So glad you think so. She certainly is—brilliant.”
Stella Frobisher smiled her hereditary smile. She was quite without sex malice, and she had discovered a close link to bind her to Camille.
“Why don’t you. forget work? Why don’t you two scientific people go for a walk in the sunshine? After all, that’s what you’re here for.”
And Morris Craig was sorely tempted. Yes, that was what he was here for. But—
“You see, Mrs. Frobisher,” he said, “I rather jibbed the toil last night. Camille—er—Miss Navarre, has been working like a pack-mule for weeks past. Tends to neglect her fodder. So I asked her to step out for a plate of diet and a bottle of vintage “
“That was so like you. Dr. Craig.”
“Yes—I’m like that. We sort of banished dull care for an hour or two, and as a matter of fact, carried on pretty late. The chief is anxious about the job. He has more or less given me a deadline. I’m only making up for lost time. And so, please excuse me. Sound the trumpets, beat the drum when cocktails are served.”
He grinned boyishly and went upstairs. Stella went to look for Camille. She had discovered, in this young product of the Old World, something that the New World had been unable to give her. Stella Frobisher was often desperately lonely. She had never loved her husband passionately. Passion had passed her by.
In the study, Michael Frobisher had been talking on the phone. He had just hung up when Stein came in.
“Listen,” he said. “What’s this man, Sam, doing here?”
Stein’s heavy features registered nothing.
“I don’t know.”
“Talk to him. Find out. I trust nobody. 1 never employed that moron. Somebody has split us wide open. It isn’t just a leak. Somebody was in the Huston Building last night that had no right to be there. This man was supposed to be in Philadelphia. Who knows he was in Philadelphia? Check him up. Stein. It’s vital.”
“I can try to do. But his talk is so foolish I cannot believe he means it. He walks into my room, just now, and asks if I happen to have an old razor blade.”
“What for?”
“He says, to scrape his pipe bowl.”
Michael Frobisher glared ferociously.
“Ask him to have a drink. Give him plenty. Then talk to him.”
“I can try it.”
“Go and try it.”
Stein stolidly departed on this errand. There were those who could have warned him that it was a useless one.
Upstairs, in his room, Morris Craig had taken from his bag ink, pencils, brushes, and all the other implements of a craftsman’s craft. He had borrowed a large blotting-pad from the library to do service in lieu of a drawing board.
Stella and Camille had gone out into the garden.
The sim was shining.
And over this seemingly peaceful scene there hung a menace, an invisible cloud. The fate of nations was suspended on a hair above their heads. Of all those in Falling Waters that morning, probably Michael Frobisher was the most deeply disturbed. He paced up and down the restricted floor space of his study, black brows drawn together over a deep wrinkle, his eyes haunted.
When Stein came in without knocking, Frobisher jumped around like a stag at bay. He collected himself.
“Well—what now?”
Stein, expressionless, offered a card on a salver. He spoke tonelessly.
“Sir Denis Nay land Smith is here.”
Chapter XVII
“I can tell you, broadly, what happened last night,” said Nayland Smith. “It was an attempt to steal the final plans assumed to be locked in Craig’s safe.”
“I guessed as much,” Michael Frobisher replied.
Under drawn brows, he was studying the restless figure pacing to and fro in his study, fouling the air with fumes from a briar pipe which, apparently, Smith had neglected to clean since the day he bought it. Frobisher secretly resented this appropriation of his own parade ground, but recognized that he was powerless to do anything about it.
“The safe was opened.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Quite!” Smith rapped, glancing aside at Frobisher. “It was the work of an expert. Dr. Fu Manchu employs none but experts.”
“Dr. Fu Manchu! Then it wasn’t—”
Smith pulled up right in front of Frobisher, as he sat there behind his desk.
“Well—go on. Whom did you suspect?”
Frobisher twisted a half-smoked cigar between his lips.
“Come to think,1 don’t know.”
“But you do know that when a project with such vast implications nears maturity, big interests become involved. Agents of several governments are watching every move in your dangerous game. And there’s another agent who represents no government, but who acts for a powerful and well organized group.”
“Are you talking about Vickers?” Frobisher growled.
“No. Absurd! This isn’t a commercial group. It’s an organization controlled by Dr. Fu Manchu. In all probability, Dr Fu Manchu was in Craig’s office last night.”
“But—”
“The only other possibility is that the attempt was made by a Soviet spy. Have you reason to suspect any member of your staff?”
“I doubt that any Russian has access to the office.”
“Why a Russian?” Nayland Smith asked. “Men of influence and good standing in other countries have worked for Communism. It offers glittering prizes. Why not a citizen of the United States?”
Frobisher watched him covertly. “True enough.”
“Put me clear on one point. Because a false move, now, might be fatal. You have employed no private investigator?”
“No, sir. Don’t trust my affairs to strangers.”
“Where are Craig’s original plans?”
Michael Frobisher glanced up uneasily.
“In my New York bank.”
In this, Michael Frobisher was slightly misinformed. His wife, presenting an order typ
ed on Huston Electric notepaper and apparently signed by her husband, had withdrawn the plans two days before, on her way from an appointment with Professor Hoffmeyer.
“Complete blueprints—where?”
“Right here in the house.”
“Were they in the safe that was opened the other night?”
“No, sir—they were not.”
“Whoever inspected the plant in the laboratory would be a trained observer. Would it, in your opinion, be possible to reconstruct the equipment after such an examination?”
Michael Frobisher frowned darkly.
“I want you to know that I’m not a physicist,” he answered. “I’m not even an engineer. I’m a man of business. But in my opinion, no—it wouldn’t. He would have had to dismantle it. Craig and Shaw report it hadn’t been touched. Then, without the transmuter, that plant is plain dynamite.”
Nayland Smith crossed and stared out at the woods beyond the window.
“I understand that this instrument—whatever it may be—is already under construction. Only certain valves are lacking. Craig will probably complete his work today. Mr. Frobisher”—he turned, and his glance was hard—”your estate is a lonely one.”
Frobisher’s uneasiness grew. He stood up.
“You think I shouldn’t have had Craig out here, with that work?”
“I think,” said Smith, “that whilst it would be fairly easy to protect the Huston laboratory, now that we know what we’re up against, this house surrounded by sixty acres, largely woodland, is a colt of a different color. By tonight, there will be inflammable material here. Do you realize that if Fu Manchu—or the Kremlin— first sets up a full-scale Craig plant, Fu Manchu—or the Kremlin— will be master of the world?”
“You’re sure, dead sure, that they’re both out to get it?”
Frobisher’s voice was more than usually hoarse.
“I have said so. One of the two has a flying start. I want to see your radar alarm system and I want to inspect your armory. I’m returning to New York. Two inquiries should have given results. One leading to the hideout of Dr. Fu Manchu, the other to the identity of the Soviet agent.”
Camille and Stella Frobisher came in from the garden.
“You know,” Stella was saying, “I believe we have discovered something.”
