President Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Followed some moments of silence, broken only by an occasional faint ticking from an electric clock. Then:

  “Fix the recording attachment, Number 81,” came an order. “You are free for four hours.”

  Amber light poured again into the room. Number 81 stood up. Opening a cupboard in the telephone table, he attached three plugs to a switchboard contained in the cupboard. One of these connected with the curious electric clock which stood upon the desk; another with a small motor which operated in connection with the telephone; and a third with a kind of dictaphone capable of automatically recording six thousand words or more without change of cylinder.

  As he was about to close the cupboard, a dim buzz indicated an incoming message. The faint hum of well-oiled machinery followed; a receiver-rest was lifted as if by invisible fingers, and a gleaming black cylinder began to revolve, the needle point churning wax from its polished surface as the message was recorded. A tiny aluminium disk dropped into a tray below the electric clock, having stamped upon it the exact time at which the telephone bell had rung.

  Number 81, as if his endless duties had become second nature, waited until the cylinder ceased to revolve. The telephone-rest sprang up into its place; from the electric clock came the sound of a faint tick. Number 81 pressed a button on the desk. The cylinder began to revolve again and a voice spoke—that of the man whose report had just been recorded.

  “Speaking from Base 3. The Abbot Donegal reported missing. There is reason to believe that he slipped away during the night and may be proceeding to New York to be present at the debate at Carnegie Hall. All Numbers along possible routes have been notified, but no report to hand. Number 44 speaking.”

  Presumably satisfied that the mechanism was running smoothly, Number 81 closed the cupboard and stood up. Thus seen, he was an even bigger man than he had appeared seated; an untidy but an imposing figure. He took up the clay model, lifting it with great care. He slipped a tin of Egyptian cigarettes into a pocket of his dressing-gown and walked towards one of the panels which surrounded the seemingly doorless room.

  This he opened by pressing a concealed switch. A descending staircase was revealed. Carrying the clay model as carefully and lovingly as a mother carries her newly born infant, he descended, closing the door behind him. He; went down one flight and entered a small, self-contained apartment. A table littered with books, plans, and all sorts of manuscripts stood by an open window. There was a bed in an alcove, and beyond, through an open door, a glimpse might be obtained of a small bathroom. Clearing a space on the littered table, Number 81 set down the clay model. He crossed the room and opened a cupboard. It showed perfectly empty. He raised a telephone from its hook. In German:

  “The same as last night,” he said harshly; “but the liver sausage was no good. Also, I must have the real German lager. This which you send me is spurious. Hurry, please, I have much to do.”

  These orders given, he crossed to the table and stared down dully at a large open book which lay there, its margins pencilled with numerous notes in tiny, neat handwriting. The book was Interstellar Cycles by Professor Albert Morgenstahl, Europe’s greatest physicist and master mathematician—expelled a year earlier from Germany for anti-Nazi tendencies and later reported to be dead.

  At this work Number 81 stared for some time, turning the pages over idly and resting a long tobacco-stained finger upon certain of the notes. There was a creaking in the cupboard and a laden wagon occupied its previously vacant space. Upon this wagon a substantial repast was set. Taking out a long-necked bottle of wine and uncorking it, Number 81 filled a glass. This he tasted and then set it down.

  He threw open the French windows upon one side of the room, revealing a narrow balcony with a high railing of scrolled ironwork. A weather-beaten table stood there, and for a moment Number 81 leaned upon it, gazing down upon a night panorama of the great city below; snow-covered roofs, dwarf buildings and giant towers; a distant gleam of water; a leaden sky. It was bitterly cold at that great elevation; an icy breeze stirred the mane of white hair.

  But, as if immune to climatic conditions, Number 81 bore out the clay head of the majestic Chinaman and set it upon the table. Below him a dome, its veins gilded, every crack and cranny coated with snow, swept down gracefully to a lower parapet. Muffled noises from streets set in deep gullies reached his ears. He returned for his glass of wine, raised his head to the leaden sky, and:

  “To the day of freedom!” he cried. “To the day when we meet face to face.” And now his eyes, glaring insanely, were lowered to the clay head—“To the day when we meet face to face; when those wheels in which I am trapped, which seem to move, inexorable as the planets in their courses, are still forever.”

  He drank deeply, then tossed the remainder of the wine contemptuously into the face of the modeled head. He dashed the glass on the paving at his feet and, picking up the work to which he had devoted so many hours of care, raised it in both hands high above his head.

  His expression maniacal, his teeth bared in a wolfish grin, far out over the dome he hurled it. It fell with a dull thud on the leaden covering. It broke, the parts showering down to the parapet, to fall, meaningless fragments, into some street far below…

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TANGLED CLUES

  In the light of a gray wintry dawn creeping wanly through the windows, Nayland Smith and Mark Hepburn stood looking down at some curious objects set out upon the big corner table. These had been found in Richet’s possession.

  One was a gold and ivory badge. Hepburn took it up and stared at it curiously. It bore the number 38.

  “According to the taximan,” said Nayland Smith, “to whom I showed it, these badges simply mean that the wearer is an official of Harvey Bragg’s League of Good Americans. It appears that no man is eligible for employment by the Lotus Cab Corporation who is not a member of this league.”

  “There’s more in it than that,” Hepburn murmured thoughtfully.

  “I agree; but I don’t think the man knew it. He admitted that they sometimes had orders from wearers of such badges requiring them to pick up certain passengers at indicated points and to report where they set them down.”

  “But he denied that he had any such orders last night?”

  “He stuck to it grimly. According to his account, the choice of his cab by Richet was a coincidence.”

  Hepburn laid the badge down.

  “There are only two other points of interest,” said Nayland Smith, “although we may learn more if we can trace Richet’s baggage. These are his notes of Weaver’s Farm and of this address… that.”

  The object to which he pointed, found upon the floor of the taxi, was certainly an odd thing for a man to carry about. It was a cardboard case made to hold a pack of playing cards… but there were no cards!

  Several sheets of blank paper had also been found, folded in a manner which seemed to indicate that they had been in the cardboard case. This case, in Smith’s opinion, was the object which the driver had mistaken for a notebook.

  “Richet was actually holding it in his hand, Hepburn,” he rapped energetically, “at the moment of the attack. This fact is of first-rate importance.”

  Hepburn, eyes half closed, nodded slowly. The nervous energy of this man surpassed anything in his experience. And as if recognition of his companion’s weariness had come to him suddenly, Nayland Smith grasped Hepburn’s arm.

  “You are asleep already!” he declared, and smiled sympathetically. “Suppose we arrange to meet for ham and eggs at noon. Don’t forget, Miss Lakin is due at four o’clock. If you meet her—not a word about Richet.”

  * * *

  The bell rang, and Fey, his leathery face characteristically expressionless, crossed the vestibule and opened the door. A woman stood there, tall and composed, her iron-gray hair meticulously groomed as it peeped from beneath the brim of a smart but suitable hat. She was wrapped in furs. Beside her stood a man who wore the uniform of the Regal-Athenian Hotel. He exchang
ed a glance with Fey, nodded, turned and went away.

  “Sir Denis is expecting you, madam,” said Fey, standing aside.

  And as the visitor entered the vestibule, Nayland Smith hurried from the adjoining sitting-room, hand outstretched. His lean brown features exhibited repressed excitement.

  “Miss Lakin,” he exclaimed, “you are very welcome. I received the letter which you sent by special messenger, but your phone message has intrigued me more than the letter. Please come in and sit down and give me all the details.”

  The sitting-room in which Miss Lakin found herself possessed several curious features. The windows which occupied nearly the whole of one wall afforded a view of a wide area of New York City. Storm clouds had passed; a wintry sun lighted a prospect which had a sort of uncanny beauty. Upon countless flat roofs far below, upon the heads of gargoyles and other grotesque ornamentations breaking the lines of the more towering buildings, snow rested. The effect was that of a city of ice gnomes magically magnified. Through clear, frosty air the harbor was visible, and one might obtain a glimpse of the distant sea. Above a littered writing-table set near one of the windows, a huge map of the city was fixed upon the wall; the remainder of this wall was occupied by a map, on a much smaller scale, of the whole of the United States. These maps had one character in common: they were studded with hundreds of colored pins which appeared to have been stuck in at random.

  “The room is rather warm, madam,” said Fey. “Allow me to take your coat.”

  The heavy fur coat draped carefully across his arm:

  “A cup of tea, madam?” he suggested.

  “English tea,” snapped Nayland Smith.

  “Thank you,” said Miss Lakin, smiling faintly; “you tempt me. Yes, I think I should enjoy a cup of tea.”

  Nayland Smith stood before the mantelpiece, hands behind him. He had that sort of crisp, wavy hair, silvery now at the sides, which always looks in order; he was cleanly shaven, and his dark-skinned face offered no evidence of the fact that he had had only six hours’ sleep in the past forty-eight. He wore a very old tweed suit, and what looked like a striped shirt with an attached collar, but which closer scrutiny would have revealed to be a pyjama jacket. As Fey went out:

  “Miss Lakin,” he continued, and his manner was that of a man feverishly anxious, “you have brought the letter to which you referred?”

  Sarah Lakin took an envelope out of her handbag and handed it to Nayland Smith, watching him with her steady, grave eyes. He took it, glanced at the hand-written address, then crossed to the writing-table.

  “I have also,” she said, “a note of the place at which we were to communicate with the very unpleasant person who called upon me yesterday.”

  Nayland Smith turned; his expression was grim.

  “I fear,” he said rapidly, “that we cannot hope for much help from that quarter.” He turned again to the littered table. “Here are three letters written by Orwin Prescott at Weaver’s Farm immediately prior to his disappearance. You know why I detained them and what I have discovered?”

  Miss Lakin nodded.

  “Copies have been sent to the persons to whom the letters were addressed, but I should judge, although I am not a specialist in the subject, that this is in Dr. Prescott’s handwriting?”

  “I can assure you that it is, Sir Denis. Intellectually my cousin and I are too closely akin for any deception to be possible. That letter was written by Orwin. Please read it.”

  A subdued clatter of teacups became audible from the kitchenette to which Fey had retired, as Nayland Smith extracted the letter from the envelope. Sarah Lakin watched Sir Denis intently. He fascinated her. Brief though her acquaintance with him had been, her own fine nature had recognized and welcomed the keen, indomitable spirit of this man, who in an emergency personal and national, had thrown the weight of his trained powers into the scale.

  He studied the letter silently, reading it once, twice. He then read it aloud:

  “Dear Sarah,

  This to relieve your anxiety. By this time you will know that I am the victim of a plot; but I have compromised with the enemy, pax in bello, and I congratulate you and those associated with you upon the manner in which you have succeeded in restraining the newspapers from reference to the subject of my temporary disappearance. I have instructed Norbert, who will communicate with you. The experience has been unpleasant and even now I am not wholly my own master. Please conduct yourself as though you were ignorant of this misadventure, but have no fears respecting my appearance at Carnegie Hall. I shall be there. I dislike seeming to mystify, but it would be to my best interests if you make no attempt to communicate with me until the night of the debate. It is unnecessary that I should tell you to have courage.

  Always affectionately yours,

  Orwin.”

  “No date,” Nayland Smith commented. “No address. A sheet torn from a common type of writing-block. The envelope, also, is of a very ordinary kind, bearing a New York postmark. H’m…!”

  He dropped letter and envelope upon the desk and, taking up a tobacco pouch, began to load his pipe. Fey entered with a tea tray which he placed upon a small table before Miss Lakin.

  “Cream or milk?”

  “Milk, and one piece of sugar, thank you.”

  Except for a certain haggardness visible on the face of Nayland Smith and the strangeness of his attire in one obviously trained to conform to social custom, there was little in the atmosphere of this room high above the turmoil of New York to suggest that remorseless warfare raged about the pair who faced one another across a tea-table.

  “I am entirely at a loss what to do, Sir Denis.”

  As Fey withdrew, the deep voice of Miss Lakin broke the silence; her steady eyes were fixed upon Nayland Smith. He lighted his pipe, paused, looked down at her, and:

  “A very foul briar is unusual at tea-time,” he snapped, and dropped his pipe in an ash tray. “Please forgive me. I am up against the greatest and perhaps the last problem of my life.”

  “Sir Denis…” Miss Lakin bent forward, took up the charred pipe from the tray and extended it towards him. “Surely you know that I understand. I have lived in a wider world than Connecticut, and I want your advice badly. Please concentrate upon the problem in your own way. What should I do? What do you advise me to do?”

  Nayland Smith stared hard at those grave eyes of the speaker; then, pipe in hand, began to walk up and down the room, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. They were forty floors above the streets of New York, and yet the ceaseless bombilation of those amazing thoroughfares reached them though such windows as were open: the hooting of lorry horns, the roar of ten thousand engines, the boom of a distant train rumbling along the rails, the warning siren of a tug-boat on East River. The city was around them, throbbing, living, an entity, a demi-god, claiming them—and as it seemed in this hour, demanding their destruction.

  “Is the phrasing characteristic of your cousin’s style?” Nayland Smith demanded.

  “Yes, broadly.”

  “I understand. It struck me as somewhat pedantic.”

  “He has a very scholarly manner, Sir Denis, but as a rule it is not so marked in his intimate letters.”

  “Ah… Who is Norbert?”

  “Maurice Norbert is Orwin’s private secretary.”

  “I see. May I take it, Miss Lakin, that in this fight for domination of the United States your cousin did not actually aim at the Presidency?”

  “He did not even desire it, Sir Denis. He is what our newspapers term a hundred-percent American, but in the best sense of the phrase. He hoped to break the back of Harvey Bragg’s campaign. His aims were identical with those of the Abbot Donegal. His disappearance from the scene at this time would be fatal.”

  “I agree! But it seems that he is not going to disappear.”

  “Then do you believe that what he says is true?”

  “I am disposed to believe it, Miss Lakin. My advice is to conform strictly to the letter and spirit of his
request.”

  Miss Lakin was watching him intently, then:

  “I am afraid I don’t agree with you, Sir Denis,” she said.

  “Why?” He turned and faced her.

  “That Orwin was kidnapped we know. Thank God he is alive! Surely he was forced to write this letter by the kidnappers. They are playing for time. Surely you can see that they are playing for time!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE SCARLET BRIDES

  In a small, book-lined room, high above New York City, dimly lighted and pervaded by a faint smell of incense, Dr. Fu-Manchu, wearing a yellow robe but with no cap crowning his massive skull, sat behind a large lacquered table, his eyes closed. From a little incense burner in one corner of this table a faint spiral of smoke arose—some might have ascribed this to a streak of effeminacy in an otherwise great man, but one who knew the potency of burning perfumes as understood in the ancient Orient would have placed a different construction upon the circumstances. The Delphic Oracle was so inspired; incense cunningly prepared, such as the khyfi of the ancient Egyptians, can exalt the subconscious mind. A voice was speaking as though someone stood in the room, although except for the presence of the majestic Chinaman it was empty.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu pressed a button, the voice ceased, and there was silence in the incense-laden place. For two, three, five minutes the Chinaman sat motionless, his lean, long-fingered hands resting upon the table before him, his eyes closed.

  “I am here, Master,” said a feeble voice speaking in Chinese.

  “Listen carefully,” Dr. Fu-Manchu replied in the same language. “It is urgent. How many of our Scarlet Brides from New Zealand have you in reserve?”

  “Fifteen, Master. I sacrificed five in the case of the man James Richet, fearing that some might not survive the cold.”