President Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Moya looked up. She was still very pale; her expression was troubled.

  “Has he gone?” she asked rather wearily.

  “Yes, he has left the park.”

  “He has gone to make his report.” She closed her book and sighed as Mark Hepburn sat down beside her. “I seem to be under suspicion. I think the movements of everybody in the organization are checked from time to time. There has been some tremendous upset. Probably you know what it is? Frankly—I don’t. But it has resulted in an enormous amount of mechanical work being piled up on my shoulders. I receive hundreds of messages, apparently quite meaningless, which I have to take down in shorthand and repeat if called upon.”

  “To whom do you repeat them, Moya?”

  “To someone with a German accent. I have no idea of his identity.” Her gloved fingers played nervously with the book. “Then there is the Salvaletti-Dumas wedding. Old Emmanuel Dumas and myself have been made responsible for all arrangements. Lola, as you know, is with Salvaletti. It’s terribly hard work. Of course, it’s sheer propaganda and we have plenty, of assistance. Nothing is being neglected which might help Salvaletti forward to the Presidency.”

  “The murder of Harvey Bragg was a step in that direction,” said Hepburn grimly; “but—”

  He checked his words. A party operating under his direction had located Dr. Fu-Manchu and the man known as Sam Pak, in a farmhouse in Connecticut! Even now it was being surrounded. Lieutenant Johnson was in charge…

  Moya did not answer at once; she sat staring straight before her for a while and then:

  “That may be true,” she replied in a very quiet voice. “I give you my word that I don’t know if it is true or not. And I’m sure you realize”—she turned to him, and he looked into her beautiful, troubled eyes—“that if I had known I should not have admitted it.”

  He watched her for a while in silence.

  “Yes, I do,” he said at last, in his unmusical, monotonous voice. “You play the game, even though you play it for the most evil man in the world.”

  “The President!” Moya forced a wan smile. “I sometimes think he is above good or evil—he thinks on a plane which we simply can’t understand. Has that ever occurred to you, Mark?”

  “Yes.” Mark Hepburn nodded. “It’s Nayland Smith’s idea, too. It simply means that he’s doubly dangerous to the peace of the world. You are such a dead straight little soul, Moya, that I can’t tell you what I have learned about the man you call the President. It’s a compliment to you, because I think if you were asked what I had said, you would feel called upon to answer truthfully.”

  Moya glanced at him, then looked aside.

  “Yes,” she replied slowly, “I suppose I should. But”—she clenched her hands—“quite honestly, I don’t care very much today who gets control of the country. In the end, all forms of government are much alike, I believe. I am frightfully, desperately worried about Robbie.”

  “What’s the matter, Moya?”

  Hepburn bent to her. She continued to look aside: there were tears on her lashes.

  “He’s very ill.”

  “My dear!” In the most natural way in the world his arm was around her shoulders; he held her to him. “Why didn’t you tell me at first? What’s wrong? Who is attending him?”

  “Dr. Burnett. It’s diphtheria! He contracted it on his last visit to the garden. I have heard, since, there’s a slight epidemic over there.”

  “But diphtheria, in capable hands—”

  “Something seems to have gone wrong. I want another opinion. I must hurry back now.”

  Mark Hepburn cursed himself for an obtuse fool, for Moya knew that he was a doctor of medicine.

  “Let me see him!” he said eagerly. “I know that sounds egotistical; I mean I’m a very ordinary physician. But at least I have a deep interest in the case.”

  “I wanted you to see him,” Moya answered simply. “Really, that was why I came today. I only learned last night what was the matter…”

  * * *

  Nayland Smith hurried down from the plane and ran across the floodlighted dusk of the flying ground to a waiting car. The door banged; the car moved off. To the other occupant:

  “Who is it?” he snapped.

  “Johnson.”

  “Ah, Johnson, a recruit from the navy, I believe, as Hepburn is a recruit from the army? I have been notified that Dr. Fu-Manchu and the man Sam Pak have been traced to a farmhouse in Connecticut. The latest news?”

  “Dr. Fu-Manchu left by road a few minutes ago, before I and my party could intercept him.”

  “Damnation!” Nayland Smith drove his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Too late—always too late!”

  “He was heading for New York. Every possible point en route is watched. I returned by air to meet you.”

  “However disguised,” said Smith, “his height alone makes his a conspicuous figure. Tell me where to drop you. Keep in touch with the Regal.”

  A police car preceded them on the lonely road and another brought up the rear. But a third car, showing no lights and traveling at sixty-five to seventy, passed.

  A torrent of machine-gun bullets rained upon them! A violent explosion not five yards behind told of a wasted bomb!

  The murder party roared away ahead—a Z-car, with Rolls engines built for two hundred miles per hour…

  The heavy windows had splintered in several places—but not one bullet had penetrated!

  Johnson sprang out on to the roadside as they pulled up. “Everything right in front?”

  “O.K., sir.”

  Men were running to them from the leading car and jumping out of that which followed, when, leaning from the open door:

  “Back to your places!” Nayland Smith shouted. “We stop for nothing…”

  In the covered car park of the Regal-Athenian Smith alighted and ran in. The door was still swinging when Wyatt, a government man, came out from the reception office.

  “I have a message from Captain Hepburn,” he said.

  Nayland Smith, already on his way to the elevator, paused, turned.

  “What is it?”

  “He does not expect to be here at the time arranged, but asks you to wait until he calls you.”

  Upstairs, in their now familiar quarters, Fey prepared a whisky.

  “What’s detaining Captain Hepburn?” Nayland Smith demanded. “Do you know?”

  “I don’t, sir, but I think it’s something to do with the lady.”

  “Mrs. Adair?”

  “Yes, sir. Mary Goff—a very excellent woman who has called here before—brought a note for Captain Hepburn this morning, just after you left, sir. Captain Hepburn has been out all day, but he returned an hour ago, collected up some things from his laboratory, and went out again.”

  Nayland Smith set down his glass and irritably began to load his pipe.

  This was a strange departure from routine, and Mark Hepburn was a man of routine. Smith did not understand. Admittedly he was ahead of time, but he had counted upon finding Hepburn here. In such an hour of crisis as this, the absence of his chief of staff was more than perturbing. Every minute, every second, had its value. Dr. Fu-Manchu had thwarted them at point after point. Despite their sleepless activity that cold, inexorable genius was carrying his plans to fruition…

  The phone bell rang. Fey answered. A moment he listened, then, looking up:

  “Captain Hepburn, sir,” he said.

  * * *

  “How is he, Dr. Burnett?”

  Moya’s voice was breathlessly anxious—her eyes were tragic. Dr. Burnett, a young man with charming manners and a fashionable practice, shook his head, frowning thoughtfully.

  “There’s really nothing to worry about, Mrs. Adair,” he replied. “Nevertheless I am not entirely satisfied.”

  Moya turned as Mark Hepburn came into the sitting-room. His intractible hair was more than normally untidy. He was acutely conscious of the danger of the situation, for he knew now that his presenc
e would be reported by those mysterious watchers whose eyes missed nothing. He had made a plan, however. If Moya should be in peril, he would declare himself as a Federal agent who had forced his way in to interrogate her.

  “Dr. Burnett,” said Moya, “this is”—for the fraction of a second she hesitated—“Dr. Purcell, an old friend. You don’t mind if he sees Robbie?”

  Dr. Burnett bowed somewhat frigidly.

  “Not at all,” he replied; “in fact, I was about to suggest another opinion—purely in the interests of your peace of mind, Mrs. Adair. I had thought of Dr. Detmold.”

  Dr. Detmold had the reputation of being the best consulting physician in New York, and Mark Hepburn, as honest with himself as with others, experienced a moment of embarrassment. But finally:

  “The boy’s asleep,” said Dr. Burnett, “and I am anxious not to arouse him. But if you will come this way, Dr.—er—Purcell, I shall be glad to hear your views.”

  In the dimly lighted bedroom, Nurse Goff sat beside the sleeping Robbie; her appearance indicated, correctly, that she had known no sleep for the past twenty-four hours. She looked up with a gleam of welcome in her tired, shrewd eyes as Hepburn entered.

  He beckoned her across to the open window, and there in a whisper:

  “He looks very white, nurse. How is his pulse?”

  “He’s failing, sir! The poor bairn is dying under my eyes. He’s choking—he can swallow nothing! How can we keep him alive?”

  Mark Hepburn crossed to the bed. Gently he felt the angle of the boy’s jaw: the glands were much enlarged. Slight though his touch had been, Robbie awoke. His big eyes were glassy. There was no recognition in them.

  “Water,” he whispered. “Froat… so sore!”

  “Poor bonnie lad,” murmured Mary Goff. “He’s crying for water, and every time he tries to swallow it I expect him to suffocate. Oh, what will we do! He’s going to die!”

  Hepburn, who had hastily collected from the Regal those indispensable implements of his trade, a stethoscope, a thermometer and a laryngeal mirror, began to examine the little patient. It was a difficult examination, but at last it was completed…

  Although painfully aware of her danger, he hadn’t the heart to deter Moya when, her face a mask of sorrow, she crossed to the boy’s bed. He beckoned to Dr. Burnett, and outside in the sitting-room:

  “I fear the larynx is affected,” he said; “I am not equipped for a proper examination in this light. But what is your own opinion?”

  “My opinion is, Dr. Purcell, that the woman Goff, although she is a trained nurse, has a sentimental attachment to the patient and is unduly alarming Mrs. Adair. The action of the antitoxin, admittedly, has been delayed, but if normal measures are strictly carried out I can see no cause for alarm.”

  Mark Hepburn ran his fingers through his untidy hair.

  “I wish I could share your optimism,” he said. “Do you know Dr. Detmold’s number? I should like to speak to him.”

  * * *

  “The human equation—forever incalculable,” muttered Nayland Smith.

  He hung up the telephone and crossing, stared out of the window.

  The night had a million eyes: New York’s lights were twinkling… Admittedly the situation was difficult; he put himself mentally in Hepburn’s place: and Hepburn had asked only to be allowed to remain until the famous consultant arrived.

  Nayland Smith stared at the decapitated trunk of the Stratton Building. There were lighted rooms on the lower floors, but the upper were in darkness. The great explosion at the summit had wrought such havoc that even now it was possible the entire building would be condemned. That explosion had been the personal handiwork of Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  Their escape from the catastrophe prepared for them fell nearly within the province of miracles. Yet to this very hour Dr. Fu-Manchu remained at large, his wonderful brain weaving schemes beyond the imagination of normal men…

  Could anything, short of the destruction of that apparently indestructible life, prevent the triumph of Paul Salvaletti? The puzzle was maddeningly insoluble. The League of Good Americans began frankly to assume the dimensions of a Fascist movement, with the dazzling personality of Salvaletti at its head. On Wednesday next, at eight o’clock (if he lived), Abbot Donegal would tell the country the truth. What would the reaction be?

  Dr. Fu-Manchu was buying the United States with gold!

  Once, in Nayland Smith’s presence, he had said:

  “Gold! I could drown mankind in gold!”

  That secret, to the discovery of which so many alchemists had devoted their lives, was held by the Chinese Doctor. Smith had known for a long time that gigantic operations in gold were being carried on. Indeed, although few had even suspected, it was these secret operations which had created the financial chaos from which every nation of the world suffered to this day.

  Tonight the end seemed to him inevitable. There, alone, staring out at the lights of New York, Nayland Smith fought a great fight.

  Could he hope to check this superman who fought with weapons not available to others; who had the experience of unimaginable years; who wielded forces which no other man had ever controlled? There was one certain way, and one only: that which Dr. Fu-Manchu himself doubtless would have chosen.

  The death of Paul Salvaletti would bring this mighty structure crashing to the earth…

  But, even though the fate of the country, perhaps of the Western world, hung in the scales, assassination was not a weapon which Nayland Smith could employ.

  There was perhaps another way: the destruction of Dr. Fu-Manchu. That subtle control removed, the gigantic but fragile machine would be lost; a rudderless ship in a hurricane.

  A bell rang. Fey came in and crossed to the telephone.

  “Lieutenant Johnson, sir.”

  Nayland Smith took up the receiver. “Hullo, Johnson.”

  “Touch and go again!” came Johnson’s voice on a note of excitement. “Dr. Fu-Manchu was recognized by one of our patrols, but his car developed tremendous speed, and our men couldn’t follow. They called through to the next point. The car was intercepted. It was empty—except for the driver! We’ve got the driver.”

  “Anything more?”

  “Yes: a report that two men were seen to change cars in Greenwich. Descriptions tally. Second car sighted just over the line. But description now passed on to all patrols. Speaking from Times Building.”

  “Stand by. I’ll join you.”

  Nayland Smith hung up.

  “Fey!” he shouted.

  Fey reappeared silently.

  “Captain Hepburn is at the second address under the name of Adair in the notebook on the telephone table. We have no number for this address. If I want him you will send a messenger.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I shall keep in touch. I am going out now.”

  “As you are, sir?”

  “Yes.” Nayland Smith smiled grimly. “My attempted change of residence was a fiasco, and I don’t propose to give further amusement to the enemy by wearing funny disguises.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE GREAT PHYSICIAN

  “I have called Dr. Detmold,” said Mark Hepburn, “and have told him to bring—” he hesitated—“the necessary remedies.”

  Moya clutched him convulsively. For the first time in their strange friendship he found her in his arms.

  “Does that mean—” she was watching him with an expression which he was never to forget—“that—”

  “Don’t worry, Moya—my dear. It will be all right. But I’m glad I came.”

  “Mark,” she whispered, “I never realized until now how I wanted—someone I could count on.”

  Mark Hepburn stroked her hair—as many times he had longed to do.

  “You know you can count on me?”

  “Yes—I know I can.”

  Hepburn tried to conquer the drumming in his ears, which was caused by the acceleration of his heart. When he spoke, his voice was even more ton
eless than normally.

  “I’m not a very wonderful bargain, Moya; but when all these troubles are past—because it isn’t fair to ask you now…”

  Moya raised her eyes to his: they were bright with stifled tears. But in them he read that which made further, ineloquent words needless.

  All the submerged poetry in his complex character expressed itself in that first ecstatic kiss. It was a passionate sacrament. As he released Moya he knew, deep in his buried self, that he had found his mate.

  “Moya, darling.”

  Her head rested on his shoulder…

  “Mark, dear, messages from this apartment are tapped,” she said. “It’s quite possible that your conversation with Dr. Detmold will be reported elsewhere.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If your—employers catch me here, I shall declare myself and put you all under arrest.”

  Moya gently freed herself and stepped away as Dr. Burnett joined them.

  “In certain respects,” said Burnett, “the patient’s condition, admittedly, is not favourable. My dear Mrs. Adair”—he patted her shoulder—“he is in very good hands. Dr. Detmold is coming?”

  “Yes,” Hepburn replied.

  “I am sure he will endorse my opinion. The symptoms are not inconsistent with the treatment which I have been following.”

  Mark Hepburn entirely agreed. Robbie’s survival of the treatment was due to a splendid constitution.

  “If you will excuse me for a moment,” he muttered, “I should like to look at the patient.”

  In the silence of the sick room he bent over Robbie. There was agony now in the eyes of Nurse Goff. The boy had had a choking fit in which he had narrowly escaped suffocation. He was terribly exhausted. His fluttery pulse was alarming. Walking on tiptoe, Hepburn crossed to the open window, beckoning Nurse Goff to follow him.

  There he held a whispered consultation. Presently the door opened and Dr. Burnett came in with Moya; the reassuring tone of his voice died away as he entered the room. He looked in a startled manner at his patient.

  A change for the worse, which must have been apparent even to a layman, had taken place. Dr. Burnett crossed to the bed. There came a sound of three dull blows on the outer door, as if someone had struck it with a clenched hand…