Re-enter Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “That was your father, Merrick. We’re to expect the President at ten o’clock tonight.”

  This made sleep even more difficult. He could not stop thinking. For some reason that he could not grasp, he had been dragged into the heart of a top secret that might very well involve the survival of civilization.

  Why? he kept asking himself. Why?

  But he could find no answer.

  Nature conquered at last, and he forgot his problems. It was after nine o’clock when he woke, and he went into the living room to see if Nayland Smith was there. He found a note on the desk, penciled in block letters, presumably because Sir Denis’ handwriting was almost illegible.

  It said, “Don’t go out until I come back. D. N. S.”

  Brian took up the phone and asked to be connected with Lola’s apartment.

  She answered at once.

  “Listen, Lola honey—did you call me last night? I had to go out.”

  “No, Brian. I couldn’t make it.”

  “How are you fixed for today? I’m not certain about lunch, but—”

  “I am. I don’t get any. There’s only one possible spot, maybe an hour, about four o’clock. Will you be free then if I am?”

  “I’ll see that I am. I’ll wait in the Paris Bar. We can’t miss each other there.”

  When presently he hung up, Brian had become uneasily aware of the fact that Lola was preoccupied, keyed up in a new way. He wondered if Madame Baudin had been overworking her, and he wondered, not for the first time, if Lola was changing, slipping away from him…

  When Nayland Smith came in, around noon, he showed such signs of agitation that Brian felt alarmed. The state of his nerves on his clandestine first visit was mild compared with his present condition.

  “What happened, Sir Denis?”

  Nayland Smith turned aside irritably, crossed to the buffet and mixed himself a stiff drink. He dropped down in a chair, took a long swallow, and then raised haggard eyes.

  “The worst that could happen, under the circumstances. Dr. Fu Manchu is here.”

  “Here! You mean in New York?”

  “Exactly.” He emptied his glass. “In just a few hours the President will leave Washington. I shall find myself up against the master mind—and Fu Manchu will stick at nothing.”

  He stood up and refilled his glass.

  This was so unlike the abstemious, cool-brained Nayland Smith that Brian had known that he was gripped by a swift and dismal foreboding. Sir Denis was afraid!

  The idea chilled him. It was almost unthinkable. But many incidents passed in lightning parade across his mind, incidents that individually had shaken his faith at the time, but that collectively threatened to shatter it.

  Suffering had broken this man of iron. It was a tragedy.

  “You don’t suggest, Sir Denis, that the President may be in personal danger?”

  “Now that Fu Manchu is here, we are all in personal danger. Look, Merrick—I’m going up to see Dr. Hessian. He should know. Go out and get some lunch. When you come back—and don’t hurry—I may be asleep. I had no sleep last night, so don’t disturb me.”

  * * *

  Lingering over his lunch, feeling miserable and about as useful as a stray dog, Brian tried to muster his wandering ideas, to form some sort of positive picture.

  Fu Manchu was in New York. And Nayland Smith had gone to pieces.

  These two facts he must accept, for they stood for cause and effect. For the first he had been prepared; for the second he had not. As aide to Sir Denis, he would clearly have to take over his responsibilities if his chief failed.

  He lacked almost every essential facility. Sir Denis hadn’t troubled to put him in touch with the FBI agents associated with them. He didn’t know one by sight. He had no more than a nodding acquaintance with Dr. Hessian; and for all that scientist’s undoubted genius, he found his personality strangely repellant.

  Brian seriously considered calling his father, laying all the circumstances before that man of wide experience, and abiding by his advice. But an implied betrayal of the trust imposed upon him by Sir Denis ruled this plan out. Yet he had to do something.

  It was nearly three o’clock when he went up to the suite. He found a “Do Not Disturb” card outside, but opened the door quietly and went in. A similar card hung on Nayland Smith’s bedroom door. There was a note, in block letters, on the desk. It said:

  “Do what you like until seven o’clock, but stay out of the Babylon-Lido until then. Don’t enter on any account. Then wait in the Paris Bar until I page you. This is important. D. N. S.”’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Brian went into the Paris Bar at four o’clock he found it empty, as he might have expected it to be at that hour. Conscientious by nature, he wasn’t sure that his being there didn’t amount to disobeying Nayland Smith’s order, but, he couldn’t see how standing Lola up could benefit anyone.

  He was still studying the problem when Lola came in.

  “Lola!” There was no one else in the place, not even a bartender, and he took her in his arms. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

  He held her close and gave her a lingering kiss. Then he recovered himself as she drew back and looked up at him with that quizzical smile.

  ‘So it seems, dear.” But her gray eyes, didn’t register resentment; they invited. So did the tempting lips.

  Their second kiss was so like one of mutual passion that Brian’s heart leaped. Lingering doubts were dispelled. Lola did love him.

  “Let’s get out of here, dearest.” He spoke hoarsely. “I want to talk to you alone, and we can’t count on having this place to ourselves very long. Queer things are going on.” His arm was around Lola’s waist. “Where can we be alone—if only for half an hour?”

  “Well”—Lola hesitated—“I have one of the tiniest rooms in the Babylon-Lido. Madame doesn’t squander money. We could go up there, but—” She glanced up at him.

  “I promise to behave.”

  Lola’s room was on the eighth floor; its one window commanded an excellent view of a brick wall. The room wasn’t much larger than either of the bathrooms in Sir Denis’ suite, but it was delightfully intimate, and Brian’s mood of depression magically lifted. When Lola offered him a cigarette, he sparked his lighter, glanced at the cigarette, and paused.

  “May I have a light?” Lola said sweetly. “They arrived this morning. Your extravagant tastes need watching.” The cigarettes were Azîzas—those he had ordered in Cairo.

  “Did you get my letter, Lola?”

  “Yes, it was forwarded. Thank you for everything, Brian. And now, what is it you want to talk about? I warned you, dear, I hadn’t much time. On the stroke of five I have to be off.”

  “Then I’d better begin. What I want to say is strictly confidential. But I just have to say it to somebody, and there’s nobody else but you I can say it to. I’m worried about Sir Denis.”

  “Why, Brian?” Lola drew her brows together in a frown of concentration. “Is he ill?”

  “Yes.” Brian nodded. “Mentally ill, I’m afraid. I think he’s losing his nerve.”

  “From your account of Sir Denis, I supposed he had no nerves.”

  “So did I. But today he seemed to fall apart.”

  “Why? Has something happened?”

  Brian began to remember that it was his duty to keep his mouth shut. He must put a curb on his confidences. But he believed in Lola’s worldly wisdom, and desperately needed her advice.

  He glanced at her. It had occurred to him almost from the moment of their meeting that she kept up her usual air of easy self-possession only by means of a sustained effort. Perhaps his passionate greeting had shaken her. But certainly, although she masked the fact, she was queerly keyed up. She kept glancing at her watch.

  “Sir Denis seems to think some new danger has developed,” he told her.

  “Danger? To whom?”

  “To all of us, I guess.” He began to grope for words. “My father�
�s expected tonight, and some other important people. If this danger is real, I’m wondering if I should stop them.”

  “Surely Sir Denis would have stopped them himself if he couldn’t guarantee their safety.”

  “You don’t know,” Brian said, “how completely he’s gone to pieces.”

  “Well, surely you could at least discuss it with him, since your father is involved.”

  Brian shook his head wearily. “He’s asleep up there. And I have his written order. Look at this.” From his pocket he took out the note he had found on the desk. “They’ll be on their way before seven o’clock.”

  Lola read the note, but made no comment. She passed it back and glanced at her wrist watch.

  “What would you advise me to do, Lola?”

  She stood up. “In the first place, get a move on. I have to go. As for Sir Denis’ order, I’d say do nothing—except obey it to the letter.”

  * * *

  With a sense of desolation Brian watched Lola’s taxi weave its way into the traffic torrent and finally become lost to view. She had her troubles, too, he knew, although they didn’t involve millions of human destinies, but only the vanity of a few wealthy women who bought their dresses at Michel’s.

  He started away at a brisk pace toward Central Park. An hour’s walk in the fresh air might help him to shake off his gloom.

  From the moment he entered the Park he hardly noticed where he was going. Evening was drawing on when he found himself passing behind the Metropolitan Museum and pulled up to check the time. He decided to turn back, swung around, and saw that the only other pedestrian in sight, a man walking twenty yards behind him, had done the same.

  He thought nothing of this at the moment. Returning along the same path, he saw the man ahead turn to the left, toward an exit on Fifth Avenue. Brian passed on, nervously considering the night’s program, wondering why the mere approach of Dr. Fu Manchu had so shattered Nayland Smith’s courage and what it could be that Sir Denis feared. Did he seriously believe the President’s life to be in danger? And did he doubt his own ability to protect him?

  Something prompted Brian to pause and look behind.

  The man he had supposed to have left the Park was following him again.

  Anger came first, then an unpleasant chill.

  His follower might be an agent of Dr. Fu Manchu, or he might be one of the FBI men detailed, according to Sir Denis, to keep him under observation. In any case, it was getting dark, the Park seemed deserted, and Brian went out by the 72nd Street exit and hailed a taxi.

  In the main entrance to the Babylon-Lido he looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to seven.

  He turned away and walked around the corner. He had noticed a little bar almost directly facing the trade entrance to the hotel and decided that he could pass the time there, over a drink. It was better than walking up and down, he was tired of walking now, and feeling thirsty.

  Taking a corner stool just inside the door, he ordered a drink, lighted a cigarette, and settled down to wait for seven o’clock.

  For what possible reason had. Nayland Smith banished him from the Babylon-Lido until that hour? It was incomprehensible. Unless, which seemed probable, he was followed by a federal agent wherever he went, why was Sir Denis’ warning never to go out alone apparently forgotten?

  Either he had become a mere cipher in the game, or Nayland Smith had thrown his hand in and didn’t care what happened.

  Brian started a fresh cigarette, looked at his watch. Ten minutes to wait.

  With some unknown menace embodied in the name Dr. Fu Manchu hanging over the party assembly tonight—a party to include the President—this enforced inaction was almost unendurable. Brian found it nearly impossible to remain still.

  He stared out of the window—and became very still indeed; so still that he might have been suddenly frozen to his seat.

  Lola was standing in the trade entrance to the Babylon-Lido talking to Nayland Smith.

  Her face was in shadow, but she was dressed as he had left her at five o’clock. This time there could be no room for doubt. Nor could he be wrong about the man. It was Sir Denis. The coat, the soft-brimmed hat, his stance—all were unmistakable. He saw them go in.

  In half a minute he had paid for his drink and dashed recklessly across the street, ignoring the traffic lights.

  He had never been in this warren of storerooms, cellars, and kitchens before, but somehow he made his way through and at last penetrated to the vast but now familiar lobby. His heart was beating fast. What had Lola to do with Nayland Smith? She had told him only that afternoon that she had never met Sir Denis.

  The clock over the reception desk recorded five minutes to seven.

  People buzzed about in a state of perpetual motion. They all appeared to be in a hurry. Smart women in mink stoles who couldn’t find their men, eager-eyed young men rushing around looking for their girls, businessmen dashing for telephones… the scene seemed to swim before Brian like a color film out of focus. It was a ballet inspired by a mad director.

  But the two figures he was looking for were not to be seen.

  He debated with himself, looking again at the clock. He could endure this suspense no longer. He must know the truth, orders or no orders. To wait to be paged in his present frame of mind was out of the question. He turned and hurried off to the corridor where the express elevators were located. The man on duty knew him and smiled a greeting as Brian stepped in.

  “Sir Denis has just gone up, sir,” he reported.

  Brian experienced a fluttering sensation, in the pit of his stomach.

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The elevator began its ascent. Nayland Smith, Brian reflected, must have gone out to meet Lola. They had evidently parted on entering the hotel. But why had they come in by the trade entrance? He could only conclude that the meeting had been a clandestine one.

  When he arrived at the top floor he stood for a moment to get a grip on himself. Then he walked along to the door of Suite 2610. The “Do Not Disturb” card had gone. He quietly slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.

  Dusk had fallen now and he saw that lights were on in the living room. There was no sound.

  He walked in quietly… then gulped, and stood quite still.

  Flat on his back on the floor, his knees dawn up, his fists clenched, lay Nayland Smith. His face was purple, his teeth were bared, and his eyes bulged from his head.

  He had been strangled.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The horror of his discovery quite literally paralyzed Brian. His senses were numbed. He stood speechless, incapable of movement, of thought.

  A slight sound from the direction of the desk roused him, bringing swift realization of his own danger. He turned toward the desk, and his brain reeled. He was gripped by the agonizing certainty that the murder of Nayland Smith had disturbed his reason.

  Standing beside the tall, painted screen, a finger on his lips, urgent command in his eyes, and beckoning Brian to join him, was Nayland Smith.

  Brian clenched his fists, glanced from the dead man to this phantom of the living.

  The living Sir Denis was beside him in three strides. He gripped Brian’s arm, speaking softly into his ear: “Not a word! Behind the screen, Merrick—for your life—and for mine!”

  There was nothing ghostly in the grip of those sinewy fingers, nothing but vital urgency in the whispered orders.

  Brian found himself in shadow behind the screen. One spear of light shone through a hole in the parchment, and, still half stupefied at this incredible situation, he saw Nayland Smith jab his thumb through another panel in the screen and make a second hole.

  “Look!” came a whisper in his ear. “Do nothing. Say nothing.”

  Silence.

  Peering through the slot in the parchment, Brian focused on the dead man. For all that agonized expression, the swollen features, the protruding eyes, he was prepared to take oath and swear that it wa
s Sir Denis who lay there. But another Sir Denis, very much alive, stood beside him, and continued to grip his arm!

  Then he noticed something he hadn’t noticed before.

  A door that communicated with the next suite, normally locked, stood partly open. The room beyond was in darkness.

  Two men came through the door. The first was a thickset Oriental whose coarse, brutal features and abnormally long arms were more simian than human. The second Brian recognized; it was the slender, elegant man the waiter had reported to be an Indian prince.

  They lifted the body and carried it out. The communicating door was closed.

  “Don’t speak!” The words were whispered in his ear. “This room is wired.”

  The new Sir Denis crossed to the recently closed door and locked it. He turned and beckoned to Brian to follow him. In the foyer he whispered, “Say nothing, but take your cue from me.” Brian nodded. Nayland Smith opened the outer door then shut it again noisily. “Hello, Merrick. You’re a little early,” He spoke now in a loud tone. “Anything wrong? You look under the weather. Go and lie down. I’ll bring a drink to your room.”

  Brian crossed, rather unsteadily, to his own room and went in. Sir Denis’ extemporized “cue” wasn’t far from the truth. This experience had shaken him severely. Even now he couldn’t get the facts into focus.

  Nayland Smith rejoined him, carrying two drinks. He quietly closed the bedroom door behind him.

  “I need one, too, Merrick,” he confessed. “That premature entrance nearly resulted in a second murder—yours!”

  “But—”

  “Wait a minute.” Sir Denis held up his hand. “Let’s get the important thing settled first, because there’s a lot to say and not much time to say it. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t wonder which of us is the real Nayland Smith. I had a fair chance to study my double, and I felt like a man looking in a mirror. Hark back to the time I stayed in Washington. Ask me something about your home life that nobody could know who hadn’t lived with you.”

  Brian tried to force his bewildered brain to think clearly, and presently an idea came.