by Sax Rohmer
Police Captain Rafferty found little of note in the rooms above the shop. They resembled hundreds of such apartments to be seen in that neighborhood. The sanctum of Huan Tsung, with its silk-covered walls and charcoal brazier, arrested his attention for a while. At the crystal globe he stared with particular interest, then glanced at his guide, whose name (or so he said) was Lao Tai.
“Fortuneteller work here?”
Lao Tai shook his head.
“Here Huan Tsung meditate. Huan Tsung great thinker.”
“He’ll have to think fast tonight. You have a cellar down below. Show me the way in.”
Lao Tai obeyed, leading Rafferty through to the back of the shop where a narrow wooden stair was almost hidden behind piles of merchandise. He switched up a light at the bottom of the stair and Rafferty went clattering down.
He found himself in a cellar not much greater in area than the shop above. A chute communicated with a trap in the sidewalk overhead. Cartons and crates bearing Chinese labels and lettering nearly filled the place. It smelled strongly of spice and rotten fish.
One long, narrow packing-case seemed to have been recently opened. Rafferty examined it with some care, then turned to Lao Tai, who watched him disinterestedly.
“When did this thing come?”
“Come tonight.”
Rafferty was beginning to wonder. All this man’s answers added up correctly—for he knew that such a crate had been delivered earlier that night.
“What was in it?”
“This and that.”
Lao Tai vaguely indicated the litter around.
“Well, show me some ‘this.’ Then we can take a look at any ‘that’ you’ve got handy.”
Lao Tai touched a chest of tea with a glossily disdainful shoe, and pointed to a number of bronze bowls stacked up on a rough wooden bench. His slightly slanting eyes held no message but one of a boredom too deep for expression. And it was while Police Captain Rafferty was wondering what lay hidden under this crust and how to break through to it, that Huan Tsung’s remarkable chariot returned to Pell Street and the old man was helped out.
He expressed neither surprise nor interest at finding police on the premises. He bowed courteously when Raymond Harkness stated that he had some questions to put to him, and, leaning on the arm of his Mongolian driver, led the way upstairs. Seating himself on the cushioned divan in the silk-lined room, he dismissed the driver, offered cigarettes, and suggested tea.
“Thanks—no,” said Harkness in his quiet way. “Just a few questions. You are acquainted with a doctor; a European, I believe. He is tall, dark, and wears a slight moustache. He called here tonight. I should be glad of his address.”
Huan Tsung began to fill a long-stemmed pipe. He had extraordinarily slender, adroit fingers.
“I fear I cannot help you,” he replied in his courteous, exact English. “A European physician, you say?” He shook his head. “It is possible, if he came here, that he came only to make a purchase. Have you questioned my assistant?”
“I haven’t. The man I mean is employed by Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
Not one of Huan Tsung’s thousand wrinkles stirred. His benevolent gaze became fixed upon Harkness.
“A strange name,” he murmured. “No doubt a nom de guerre. Tell me more of this strangely named doctor, if I am to help you.”
“It’s for you to tell me more. Will you tell me now, or will you come along and tell the boys at Centre Street?”
“Why, may I ask, should I drag my old bones to Centre Street?”
“It won’t be necessary, if you care to talk. You are an educated man, and I’m prepared to treat you that way if you behave sensibly.”
Huan Tsung went on filling his pipe. The illegible parchment of his features became creased by what might have been a smile.
“It is true. I formerly administered a large province of China, probably with justice, and certainly with success. Events, however, necessitated my departure without avoidable delay.”
“Did you know Dr. Fu-Manchu in China?”
Huan Tsung ignited a paper spill in the brazier and began to light his pipe.
“I regret deeply that your question is a foolish one. I thought I had made it clear that I am unacquainted with this person.”
“Pity your memory’s getting so unreliable,” said Harkness.
“Alas, after seventy, each succeeding year robs us of a hundred delights.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Captain Rafferty came in.
“Listen—there’s a door down in the basement leading to some other place—another cellar, I guess. Let’s have the key, or shall I break it open?”
Huan Tsung regarded the intruder mildly.
“I fear you have no choice,” he said. “The door leads, as you say, into the storeroom of my neighbor, Kwee Long, whose premises are on the adjoining street. He will have gone, no doubt. The door is locked from the other side. I possess no key to this door.”
“Sure of that, Huan Tsung?” Harkness asked quietly.
“Unless my failing memory betrays me.”
The door in the cellar was forced. It proved no easy job: it was a strong, heavy door. The police found themselves in a much larger cellar, which evidently ran under several stores and was of irregular shape. Part of it seemed to be used by a caterer, for there were numerous cases of imported delicacies. They could find no switches and worked by the light of their lamps.
Then they came to the part where Chinese coffins were stacked.
This place struck a chill—to the spirit as well as to the body. The deputy commissioner had just joined the party. Their only clues, so far, led to Huan Tsung’s. Hope rested on the report of Officer Moreno, that the pseudo-doctor had been seen leaving there that night.
“No evidence anybody’s been around here,” Rafferty declared. “See any more doors any place?”
“There’s one over here, Captain,” came a muffled voice.
All flocked in that direction. Sure enough, there was, at the back of a deep alcove. The man who had found it tried to open it. He had no success.
“Smash it!” the deputy commissioner ordered.
And they had just gone to work with that enthusiasm which such an order always inspires, when Rafferty held his hand up.
“Quiet, everybody!”
Nervous silence succeeded clamor.
“What did you think you heard?” a hoarse whisper came from the deputy commissioner.
“Sort of tapping, sir.”
A silent interval of listening in semidarkness; then another whisper:
“Where from?”
“The coffins… Ssh! There it is again!”
Another pause for listening followed, in which the ray of more than one flashlamp moved unsteadily.
“Maybe there’s a rat in there.”
“Quiet! Listen!”
A faint, irregular knocking sound became audible. It was followed by one which resembled a stifled moan.
“Quick! This way! Open all those things. Down with the lot!”
A rush back to the coffin cellar took place. They pulled down five or six, and found them empty. Rafferty held up his hand.
“Stop the clatter. Listen.”
All became quiet. And from somewhere near the base of another pile not yet attacked they heard it again, more clearly… tapping and a stifled groan.
“It’s that thing with all the gilt! Last but one from the floor!”
They went to work with a will. To move the empty coffins on top was a business of minutes. And in the most ornate specimen of all, they found Nayland Smith.
His wrists and ankles were lashed up with what looked like sewing silk. But clasp-knives failed to cut it. A piece of surgical strapping was fastened across his mouth. When this had been removed:
“Thank God you heard me,” he croaked. “I could just move one foot. Don’t blunt your knives on this stuff. Get a wire-cutter. Lift me out.”
Two men lifted him out, and supported him to a bench set
before the opposite wall. He smiled grimly as he sat there. The deputy commissioner produced a flask.
“Thank God indeed, Sir Denis. It’s a miracle you weren’t suffocated.”
“Air holes bored in coffin. Never mind me. What of Dr. Fu-Manchu?”
“Not a sign of him.”
Nayland Smith sighed, and took a drink.
“Yet he left here little more than half an hour ago.”
“What! But it’s impossible! No one has left this area during that time who wasn’t known to be a regular resident.”
Smith shot him a steely glance.
“What about Huan Tsung? Doesn’t he wear a wide-brimmed hat and a heavy, fur-lined coat?”
The deputy commissioner and Captain Rafferty exchanged worried looks.
“He does, and he certainly went out again,” said Rafferty. “He went twice to a house on lower Fifth. But he’s back.”
“He may be,” Smith rapped. “But he only went there once. It was Dr. Fu-Manchu, dressed like him, who came back and Dr. Fu-Manchu who has just slipped through your fingers again! Have this Fifth Avenue place raided—now… But already it’s too late.”
CHAPTER TEN
Manhattan danced on tirelessly; a city of a thousand jewelled minarets, and not one muezzin to call Manhattan to prayer.
An enemy, one who aspired to nothing less than dictatorship of the United States, was within the gates, watching Morris Craig’s revolutionary experiments. London, knowing the hazard, watched also. Washington, alive to the menace, had instructed the F.B.I. And the F.B.I., smelling out the presence of a further danger, in the formidable person of Dr. Fu-Manchu, had sent for Nayland Smith.
But no hint of the desperate battle waging in their midst was permitted to reach the ears of those whose fate hung in the balance. That hapless unit, the Man in the Street, went about his affairs never suspecting that a third world war raged on his doorstep.
Nayland Smith called up Craig the next morning.
“Thought you might be worried,” he said. “Had a bit of a brush with the enemy, but no bones broken. Watch your step, Craig. This thing is coming to a head. Hope to look in later…”
The mantle of gloom which had enveloped Craig dropped from his shoulders. His problems no longer seemed insuperable. Clearly enough, opposition more dangerous than that of commercial rivalry was in the field against Huston Electric. His science-trained brain, which demanded tangible evidence before granting even trivial surmises, had fought against acceptance, not merely of the presence, but of the existence, of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
Now he was converted.
Ignorant, yet, of what had happened to Nayland Smith, he must regard the attempt on Moreno as the work of some enemy unusually equipped. The mode of attack certainly suggested Oriental influence.
If, then, Dr. Fu-Manchu, what of the Soviet agent?
He might reasonably suppose, although Smith had never even hinted it, that Smith acted for the British government. Very well. Who was acting for the Kremlin?
Certainly, his discovery (for which, in his modest way, Craig claimed no personal credit) had called down the lightning. But, in his new mood, there was no place for misgiving. On the contrary, he was exultant; for by that night, he believed, his task would be completed.
When Camille came in, he turned to her with a happy smile.
“Just heard from Nayland Smith. Thank heaven the old lad’s okay.”
“I am glad,” said Camille, and Craig listened to the harp notes in her fascinating voice. “I know you were worried.”
“I’m worried about you, too.”
She started; her eyes seemed to assume a deeper shade. “Why—Dr. Craig?”
“You’re overdoin’ it, my dear. It simply won’t work, you know. Because I’m sure you’re not getting enough sleep.”
“Do I look such a wreck?” she smiled.
“You always look lovely,” he replied impulsively, and then regretted the words, for a faint flush tinged Camille’s cheeks, and so he added, “when you don’t wear those damned glasses.”
“Oh!” said Camille—and he watched for, and saw, that adorable little moue, like a suppressed dimple, appear on her lip. “As you told me you didn’t like them, I only wear them, now, when I am working.”
“I didn’t say anything of the kind. I said I preferred your eyes in the nude, so to speak. There’s only one other thing you might do to add to my joy.”
“What is that, Dr. Craig?”
“Well—must you hide the most wonderful hair that ever escaped captivity in Hollywood by pinning it behind your ears as if you wanted to forget it?”
Then Camille laughed, and her laughter rang true.
“Really, you are ridiculous! But very complimentary. You see, I know my hair is rather—well—flamboyant. It waves quite obstinately, and I don’t feel—”
“It’s a display entirely in order for the office of a stuffy physicist? Well—I’ll let you off. But there’s a proviso.”
“What is the proviso, Dr. Craig?”
“That you unloose the latent fires as from tomorrow, when we disport ourselves at Falling Waters.”
“Oh,” said Camille demurely. “Am I allowed to think it over?”
“Yes. But make up your mind by the morning.”
Camille crossed toward the door of her room, then paused, and turned.
“I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I quite forgot to mention what I really came to ask you, Dr. Craig.”
“Remembered now?”
“Yes. Mrs. Frobisher was speaking to me on the phone yesterday, and we discovered we both suffered from insomnia. She called me this morning to tell me she had arranged an appointment with Professor Hoffmeyer. Of course, I should never have dreamed of such a thing. But—”
“You can’t duck it as the boss’s wife has fixed it? Quite agree. He’ll probably prescribe six weeks at Palm Beach. But pay no attention.”
“What I wanted to ask you was if it would be all right for me to go along there at eight tonight?”
“Eight?”
“Yes. An unusual hour for a consultant. I suppose he is fitting me in when he has no other appointments.”
“Between the cocktails and the soup, I should guess. Certainly, Miss Navarre. Why ask?”
“Well”—Camille hesitated—“I know you plan to work late tonight, and I’m often wanted to take notes—”
“Forget it. Proceed from the learned professor’s straight to your sleeping sack. We make an early start tomorrow morning.”
“That’s very kind of you, Dr. Craig, and I am grateful. But when I took this appointment I knew what the hours would be. I shall certainly come back.”
Camille went into her room, quietly closing the door. All her movements were marked by a graceful composure.
* * *
At a quarter to eight, when Camille set out, Craig was crouched over his work, a formula like a Picasso landscape pinned to a corner of the board and a pen in his mouth.
“I expect to return in an hour, Dr. Craig.”
Craig raised his hand in a gesture of dismissal and said something that might have been “Go to bed.”
Camille pressed the button of the private elevator, and when it arrived, opened the door with her pass-key and went down to the thirty-second floor. She closed the door there—they were all self-locking—and crossed the big office, in which a light was always left on, to a similar door on the other side. She knew the second elevator would be below, for Regan had gone down at four o’clock, when Mr. Shaw had relieved him.
She pressed the button, and when the signal light glowed, unlocked the door and descended to the main floor. There was a small, dark lobby which opened directly onto the street, a means of private entry and exit used only by the laboratory and Michael Frobisher. At the moment that Camille stepped out of the elevator and as the door closed behind her, she knew that someone was in this lobby.
She stood quite still.
“Who’s there?” she asked in a low voic
e.
“Don’t be alarmed.” A flashlamp came to life. “It’s only me—or I, if you’re a purist!”
“Oh!” Camille whispered. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith!”
She could see his face now, framed in the upturned collar of a fur-lined coat. It was a very grim face.
“Wondering how I got in? Well, I’ll explain the great illusion. I have a duplicate key! Craig up there?”
“Yes, Sir Denis—and very busy.”
“Are you off for the night?”
“Not at all. I hope to be back in an hour.”
“Good girl!” That revealing smile swept grimness from his face as swiftly as a mask removed. “I have excellent reports of your keenness and efficiency.”
He patted her shoulder, passed her, and put his key in the elevator door.
Camille found herself standing on the street without quite knowing how she got there. Two men who gave her searching glances were lounging immediately outside, but, although her heart was racing, she preserved her admirable poise, waiting with apparent calm until a cruising taxi came along.
She gave the address, Woolton Building, and then tried to carry out advice printed on a card before her, “Sit back and relax.”
Unless to ignore the fact that she had reached a climax in her affairs. The tangled threads of her existence had tripped her at almost every turn. True, she had snapped one. But Camille found herself thinking of Omar’s words, “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ—”
Morris must be told. She had made up her mind to tell him tomorrow. Her crowning dread was that he would find out from someone else. She wanted him to learn the truth from her own lips…
Only one elevator remained in service at the Woolton Building. Most of the office staff had left. Camille told the bored operator, “Professor Hoffmeyer.”
“Hoffmeyer? Top.”
She stepped out on an empty corridor. Directly facing her was a door marked, “Professor Hoffmeyer. Inquiries.”
It proved to be a well-appointed reception office.
No one was there.
Camille sat down on a cushioned divan. A clock above the desk told her that she was three minutes ahead of time. Morris’s words flashed through her mind, “Between the cocktails and the soup.”
