by Sax Rohmer
“Which way, Hepburn?” he snapped.
Mark Hepburn, slowly recovering control of his normal self, leaned on the sill and pointed.
“The wing on the right, third window from the end, two floors below this.”
“There’s no one there, and the room is dark.” The wail which tells that the Fire Department is out, a solo rarely absent from New York’s symphony, rose, ghostly, through the night. “I have had an unpleasantly narrow escape. Beyond doubt you were acting under hypnotic direction. Fey’s evidence confirms it. A daring move! The Doctor must be desperate.” He glanced down at the fountain pen which lay upon a little table. “I wonder what you charged it with,” he murmured meditatively. “Dr. Fu-Manchu assumed too much in thinking you had hypodermic syringes in your possession. You obeyed his instructions—but charged the fountain pen; thus probably saving my life.”
It was only a few moments later that Wyatt, the government agent in charge below, found the night manager and accompanied by two detectives was borne up to the thirty-eighth floor of the hotel wing in which the suspected room was located.
“I can tell you there’s no one there, Mr. Wyatt,” the manager said, twirling a large key around his fore-finger. “It was vacated this morning by a Mr. Eckstein, a dark man; possibly Jewish. There’s only one curious point about it—”
“What’s that?” Wyatt asked.
“He took the door key away…” Mr. Dougherty smiled grimly; his Tipperary brogue was very marked. “Unfortunately, it often happens. But in this case there may have been some ulterior motive.”
The bedroom, when they entered, was deserted; the two beds were ready for occupation by incoming guests. Neither here nor in the bathroom was there evidence pointing to a recent intruder…
The detectives were still prowling around and Nayland Smith on the fortieth floor of the tower was issuing telephone instructions when a tall man, muffled in a fur topcoat—a man who wore glasses and a wide-brimmed black hat—stepped into an elevator on the thirtieth floor and was taken down to street level…
“No one is to leave the building,” rapped Nayland Smith, “until I get down. Don’t concentrate on the tower; post men at every elevator and every exit.”
Wyatt, the night manager, and the two detectives stepped out of the elevator at the end of the huge main foyer. The tall man in the fur coat was striding along its carpeted center aisle. The place was only partially lighted at that late hour. There was a buzz of vacuum cleaners. He descended marble steps to the lower foyer. A night porter glanced up at him, curiously, as he passed his desk.
A man came hurrying along an arcade lined by flower shops, jewelers’ shops and other features of a luxury bazaar, but actually contained within the great hotel, and presently appeared immediately facing the elevator by which Wyatt and his party had descended. Seeing them he hurried across, and:
“No one is to leave the building!” he cried. “Post men at all elevators and all entrances.”
The tall visitor passed through the swing doors and descended the steps to the sidewalk. A Lotus cab which had been standing near by drew up; opening the door, he entered. The cab moved off. It was actually turning the Park Avenue corner when detectives, running from the westerly end of the building, reached the main entrance and went clattering up the steps. One, who seemed to be in charge, ran across to the night porter. Federal Agent Wyatt was racing along the foyer towards them.
“Who’s gone out,” the detective demanded, “in the last five minutes? Anybody?”
But even as the startled man began to answer, the Lotus cab was speeding along almost deserted streets, and Dr. Fu-Manchu, lying back in the corner, relaxed after a dangerous and mentally intense effort which he had every reason to believe would result in the removal of Enemy Number One. Nayland Smith’s activities were beginning seriously to interfere with his own. The abandonment of the Chinatown base was an inconvenience, and reports received from those responsible for covering the Stratton Building suggested that further intrusion might be looked for…
CHAPTER THIRTY
PLAN OF ATTACK
Gray morning light was creeping into the sitting-room.
“Last night’s attempt,” said Nayland Smith (he wore a dressing-gown over pyjamas), “is not uncharacteristic of the Doctor’s methods.”
“Poor consolation for me,” Hepburn replied, speaking from the depths of an armchair in which, similarly attired, he was curled up.
“Don’t let us worry unduly,” said Nayland Smith. “I have known others to suffer from the insidious influence of Fu-Manchu; indeed, I have suffered myself. Physical fear has no meaning for the Doctor. Undoubtedly he was here in person, here in the enemy’s headquarters. He walked out under the very noses of the police officers I had dispatched to intercept him. He is a great man, Hepburn.”
“He is.”
“There is no evidence that you were drugged in any way last night, but we cannot be sure, for the Doctor’s methods are subtle. That he influenced your brain while you were sleeping is beyond dispute. The dream of the interminable labyrinth, the conviction that my life depended upon your escape—all this was prompted by the will of Fu-Manchu. You were dreaming, although even now you doubt it, when you thought you awoke. He only made one mistake, Hepburn. He postulated a hypodermic syringe which was not in your possession!”
“But I loaded a fountain pen with some pretty deadly drugs which now it is impossible to identify.”
“You carried out your hypodermic instructions to the best of your ability. The power of Fu-Manchu’s mind is an awful thing. However, by an accident, a pure accident, or an oversight, he failed—thank God! Let us review the position!”
Mark Hepburn reached out for a cigarette; his face was haggard, unshaven.
“We are beginning to harass the enemy.” Nayland Smith, pipe fuming furiously, paced up and down the carpet. “That there is a staircase below Wu King’s with some unknown exit on the street is certain. At any moment I expect a report that the men have broken in there. Its construction has been carried out from the point that I call the water-gate; hence Finney’s ignorance of its existence. Once we have reached it, with the equipment at our disposal we can break through. It doesn’t matter how many iron doors obstruct us. The entrance from the sewers we have been unable to trace. But penetration to the Chinatown base is only a question of time.”
He puffed furiously, but his overworked pipe had gone out. He laid it in an ash-tray and continued to walk up and down. Mark Hepburn, laboring under a load of undeserved guilt, watched him fascinatedly.
“What Mrs. Adair knows which would be of value to us is problematical. According to Lieutenant Johnson’s report, it would seem to be perfectly feasible to obtain possession of the boy, Robbie, during one of his visits to Long Island.”
“The owner of the house and his family are at the coast,” Mark Hepburn said monotonously. “He is, as you will have noted, a co-director with the late Harvey Bragg of the Lotus Transport Corporation.”
“I had noted it,” Smith said dryly; “but he may nevertheless be innocent of any knowledge of the existence of Dr. Fu-Manchu. That’s the devilish part of it, Hepburn. The other points are: (a) Can Mrs. Adair afford us any material assistance; (b) Is it safe to attempt it?”
“The Negro chauffeur,” Hepburn replied, “may have orders, for all we know to the contrary, to shoot the boy in the event of any such attempt. Frankly, I don’t feel justified.”
“Assuming we succeeded…”
“Her complicity would be fairly evident—she would suffer?”
Nayland Smith paused in his promenade and, turning, stared at Hepburn.
“Unless we kidnapped her at the same time,” he snapped.
Mark Hepburn stood up suddenly, dropping his recently lighted cigarette in a tray.
“By heaven, Smith,” he said excitedly, “that may be the solution!”
“It’s worth thinking about, but it would require a very careful plan. I am disposed at the mom
ent—without imperiling the lives of Mrs. Adair and her son—to concentrate upon the Stratton Building. Your experience there was definitely illuminating.”
He crossed to the big desk above which the maps were pinned, and looked down at a number of clay fragments which lay there.
“I feel disposed, Hepburn—if necessary with the backing of the Fire Department—to pursue your inquiry into the flaw in the lightning conductors. An examination could be arranged after office workers had left. But I think it would be unwise to give any warning to this Mr. Schmidt whom you have mentioned, of our intention. Do you agree with me?”
“Yes,” Hepburn replied slowly; “that is what I had planned myself. But, Smith…”
Smith turned and regarded him.
“Do you realize how I feel? In the first place you know—I haven’t disguised it—that I am becoming really fond of Moya Adair. That’s bad enough—she’s one of the enemy. In the second place, it seems that I am such a poor weakling that this hellish Chinaman can use me as an instrument to bring about your murder! How can you ever trust me again?”
Nayland Smith stepped up to him, grasped both his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
“I would trust you, Hepburn,” he said slowly, “as I would trust few men. You are human—so am I. Don’t let the hypnotic episode disturb your self-respect. There is no man living immune from this particular power possessed by Dr. Fu-Manchu. There’s only one thing: Should you ever meet him again—avoid his eyes.”
“Thank you,” said Mark Hepburn; “it’s kind of you to take it that way.”
Smith grasped the outstretched hand, dapped Hepburn on the shoulder and resumed his restless promenade.
“In short,” he continued, “we are beginning to make a certain amount of headway. But the campaign, as time goes on, grows more and more hectic. In my opinion our lives, as risks, are uninsurable. And I am seriously worried about the Abbot of Holy Thorn.”
“In what way?”
“His life is not worth—that!”
He snapped his fingers.
“No.” Mark Hepburn nodded, selecting a fresh cigarette and staring rather haggardly out of the window across the roofs of a gray New York. “He is not a man one can gag indefinitely. Dr. Fu-Manchu must know it.”
“Knowing it,” snapped Nayland Smith, “I fear that he will act. If we had a clear case, I should be disposed to act first. The thing is so cunningly devised that our lines of attack are limited. Excluding an unknown inner group surrounding the mandarin, in my opinion not another soul working for the League of Good Americans has the remotest idea of the ultimate object of that League, or of the source of its revenues! All the reports—and I have read hundreds—point in the same direction. Many thousands of previously workless men have been given employment. Glance at the map.” He pointed. “Every red flag means a Fu-Manchu advance! They are working honorably at the tasks allotted to them. But every one, when the hour comes, will cry out with the same voice: every one, north, south, east and west, is a unit in the vast army which, unknowingly; is building up the domination of this country by Dr. Fu-Manchu, through his chosen nominee—”
“Salvaletti!”
“Salvaletti; it seems at last to become apparent. It is clear that this man has been trained for years for his task. I even begin to guess why Lola Dumas is being associated with him. In another fortnight, perhaps in a week, the following of Paul Salvaletti will be greater than that of Harvey Bragg ever was. Nothing can stop him, Hepburn, nothing short of a revelation—not a statement, but a revelation, of the real facts…”
“Who can give it? Who would be listened to?”
Nayland Smith paused over by the door, turned, staring at the shadowy figure in the armchair.
“The Abbot of Holy Thorn,” he replied. “But at the risk of his life…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
PROFESSOR MORGENSTAHL
The Memory Man worked industriously on his clay model. Pinned to the base of the wooden frame was a photographic enlargement of the three-cent stamp with the white paper mask. He was engrossed in his task. The clay head was assuming a grotesque semblance of the features of Dr. Fu-Manchu—a vicious caricature of that splendid, evil face.
Incoming messages indicated a feverish change of plan in regard to the New York area. The names of Nayland Smith and Captain Hepburn figured frequently. These two apparently were in charge of counter-operations. Reports from agents in the South, identifiable only by their numbers, spoke of the triumphant progress of the man Salvaletti. Occasional reports from far up in Alaska indicated that the movement there was proceeding smoothly. The only discordant note came from the Middle West, where Abbot Donegal, a mere name to the Memory Man, seemed to be a focus of interest for many agents.
It all meant less than nothing to the prisoner who had memorized every message received since the first hour of his captivity. Sometimes, in the misery of this slavery which had been imposed upon him, he remembered happier days in Germany, remembered how at his club he had been challenged to read a page of the Berlin Tageblatt, and then to recite its contents from memory; how, without difficulty, he had succeeded and won his wager. But those were the days before his exile. He knew now how happy they had been. In the interval he had died. He was a living dead man… Busily, with delicate fingers, he modeled the clay. His faith in a just God remained unshaken.
Without warning the door by which he gained access to his private quarters opened. Wearing a dark coat with an astrakhan collar, an astrakhan cap upon his head, a tall man came in. The sculptor ceased to toil and sat motionless—staring at the living face of Dr. Fu-Manchu, which so long he had sought to reproduce in clay!
“Good morning, Professor Morgenstahl.”
Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke in German. Except that he overstretched the gutturals, he spoke that language perfectly. Professor Morgenstahl, the mathematical genius who had upset every previous conviction respecting the relative distances of the planets, who had mapped space, who had proved that lunar eclipses were not produced by the shadow of the earth, and who now was subjugated to the dreadful task of a one-man telephone exchange, did not stir. His great brain was a file, the only file, of all messages received at that secret headquarters from the whole of the United States. Motionless, he continued to stare at the man who wore the astrakhan cap.
That hour of which he had dreamed had come at last! He was face to face with his oppressor…
The muscles of his powerful body responded to the urge of his brain. At whatever cost to himself, he was determined to kill this man who stood before him.
Vividly before his eyes those last scenes arose: his expulsion from Germany almost penniless, for his great intellect which had won world-wide recognition had earned him little money; the journey to the United States, where no man had identified him as the famous author of Interstellar Cycles, nor had he sought to make himself known. He could even remember his own death—for certainly he had been dead—in a cheap lodging in Brooklyn; his reawakening in the room below (with this man, this devil incarnate, standing over him!); his enslavement, his misery.
Yes, living or dead—for sometimes he thought that he was a discarnate spirit—he must at least perform this one good deed: the dreadful Chinaman must die.
“No doubt you weary of your duties, Professor,” the guttural voice continued. “But better things are to come. A change of plan is necessitated. Other quarters have been found for you, with similar facilities.”
Professor Morgenstahl, sitting behind the heavy table with its complicated mechanism, recognized that he must temporize.
“My books,” he said, “my apparatus—”
“Have been removed. Your new quarters are prepared for you. Be good enough to follow me.”
Slowly, Professor Morgenstahl stood up, watched by unflinching green eyes. He moved around the corner of the table, where the nearly completed model stood. He was estimating the weight of that tall, gaunt figure; and to ounces, his estimate was correct. But in the moment wh
en, clear of the heavy table, he was preparing to strangle with his bare hands this yellow-faced horror who had rescued him from the grave, only to plunge him into a living hell, the watching eyes seemed to grow larger; inch by inch they increased—they merged—they became a green lake; he forgot his murderous intent. He lost identity…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
BELOW WU KING’S
“Lay off there,” shouted Inspector Finney.
The roar of the oxy-acetylene blowpipe ceased. They were working on the third door below Wu King’s premises, from a tunneled staircase of the existence of which Wu King blandly denied all knowledge. Turning upwards:
“What’s new?” Finney shouted.
“We’ve got the street door open!”
Leaving the men with the blowpipe, Finney ran up. The air was stifling, laden with acrid fumes. An immensely heavy door, an iron framework to the outer side of which the appearance of a wall had been given by cementing half-bricks into the hollow of the frame, stood open. A group of men sweating from their toils examined it. Outside, on the street, two policemen were moving on the curious sightseers.
“So that was the game,” Finney murmured.
“No wonder we couldn’t find it,” said one of the men, throwing back a clammy lock of hair from his damp forehead. “It looks like a brick wall and it sounds like a brick wall!”
“It would,” Finney commented dryly: “it is a brick wall, except it opens. Easy to guess now how they got it fixed. They did their building from the other end, wherever the other end is. Now just where do we stand?”
He stepped out on to the street, looking right and left. The masked door occupied the back of a recess between one end of Wu King’s premises and the beginning of a Chinese cigar merchant’s. Its ostensible reason was to accommodate a manhole in the sidewalk. The manhole was authentic: it communicated with an electric main—Inspector Finney knew the spot well enough. Tilting back his hard black hat, he stared with a strange expression at the gaping opening where he had been accustomed for many years to see a brick wall.
