Re-enter Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  But it was the part played by Lola Erskine that crowned his misery. Peter Wellingham, he knew now, was a Red agent. Beyond doubt he had been right when he thought it was Lola he had seen with Wellingham in Hyde Park. Lola had drawn his attention to the Times advertisement. If any room for doubt had remained, seeing her in the company of the false Nayland Smith would have swept it away. How little either of them could have suspected that their murder plot was known!

  Brian groaned in his misery. From first to last he had been in the hands of creatures of Dr. Fu Manchu. Zoe Montero, Ahmad—all had played him like a hooked fish.

  He remembered bitterly Lola’s saying of the Times advertisement, “It read like a job created purposely for you.” It had been created purposely for him, and she knew it.

  Fu Manchu or the Reds, whichever of them she worked for, had sent her off to New York to take him over as soon as he arrived. They were naturally anxious to know if he suspected anything. Many of her questions about Nayland Smith recurred to him, and he could see their purpose now. Perhaps little Zoe alone had really weakened and tried to help him.

  He would have loved to think so.

  But Lola…

  It called for a mighty effort to put his own petty troubles aside, to get back to the concrete inescapable fact that he was still involved in a giant conspiracy that might change world history.

  He looked at the time. Surely Sir Denis should be back by now.

  And, as he arrived at this conclusion, Sir Denis did come back. He entered quietly, put one finger to his lips, and pointed to the open door of Brian’s room.

  They went in, and Nayland Smith closed the door.

  “Lucky I was warned that our living room is wired,” he remarked. “Well, I think I’ve passed, Merrick. At least I’m still alive! But those X-ray eyes may have seen more than Fu Manchu thought it diplomatic to give away. He was employed by the Reds—rather reluctantly, I gather—to carry out a certain scheme.”

  “Your double told me the same thing. That Fu Manchu had been employed to keep Dr. Hessian’s invention from falling into the hands of the United States.”

  “That was the story my double sold to the authorities. Remember, he was accepted for myself. Hessian wasn’t doubted. The only dark horse in the stable was you. The FBI rarely let you out of their sight.”

  “You mean they suspected me of being a Red spy?” Brian blazed angrily.

  “They didn’t know what or whom to suspect, Merrick, until I came on the scene. By the way, they’ll be expecting me to report. But I’m in rather a quandary.”

  “If Fu Manchu already knows the secret of this sound cover, what on earth is he doing here?”

  Nayland Smith laughed dryly. “What Fu Manchu him, self described to me as the so-called Hessian Sound Zone he really meant to place in the hands of the United States! He had no intention, of following his Red instructions. These were designed simply to keep the President from upsetting certain of their plans. It involved an urgent telephone call from the White House, a mouthpiece that ejected an odorless gas, and some other details that Fu Manchu could undoubtedly have provided.”

  “But why such an elaborate, setup?”

  Nayland Smith began to fill his pipe, glancing aside at Merrick.

  “Have you ever thought how hard it would be to get the President of the United States alone? Had the Red plan been carried out, he would have been alone at the phone in an anteroom of the penthouse tonight. He would have been struck down by what any physician would have diagnosed as a heart attack, and been incapable of transacting any business for a long time.”

  “Good God! What a villainous plot!”

  “But child’s play for Dr. Fu Manchu. That’s why he was employed.”

  “Then the Hessian Sound Zone is just an illusion—a hoax?”

  Nayland Smith dropped his pouch back into his pocket and struck a wooden match.

  “Not a bit of it. The Sound Zone is Dr. Fu Manchu’s invention. He’s a scientific genius. The thing is an astounding reality.”

  “Astounding’s an understatement.”

  “It would give complete immunity from blast. No projectile could penetrate it. The nuclear fall-out would be dispersed over a wide area of the upper atmosphere. This, if such horrible weapons are ever used, is unavoidable. The consequences would depend upon the direction of the wind, over which no man, not even Dr. Fu Manchu, has control.”

  “Then why not let bygones be bygones, if Fu Manchu has really come clean?”

  “Because, to mention one reason, its adoption, while making America, and I suppose the other Western allies, immune to direct air attack, would also give the Si-Fan absolute control of the Near and Far East.”

  “But if it’s real—”

  “Just so, Merrick.” Sir Denis lighted his pipe. “That’s why we have to hold the candle to the devil. That’s why we can’t arrest the two assassins next door, and produce the body that I suppose is hidden there. That’s why I don’t know what to report.”

  Brian was dumbfounded. “You mean that, after what happened tonight, Fu Manchu will still go ahead with his project?”

  Nayland Smith nodded. “It’s his master plot. He won’t give it up easily.”

  The smell of tobacco smoke spurred Brian to light a cigarette; to put himself in the background; to concentrate on these vast issues at stake.

  “This master plot may be clear to you, Sir Denis, but I can’t get it. Why would the fact—and I accept your word that it is a fact—that the West was safe from air attack help this amazing man to take over the East?”

  “Because the Reds, helpless to retaliate, could be blasted into submission or unconditional surrender. And the vast underground movement that he has developed throughout the East would seize power. There’d be no holding him. I assure, you, Merrick, that Hitler and Stalin were babes and sucklings compared to Dr. Fu Manchu.”

  Nayland Smith continued his usual promenade. Brian was deep in thought.

  “His cutting in with a double for yourself,” be admitted, “wasn’t far short of criminal genius. His preparations to handle the things if you happened to be alive were masterly.”

  “Dragging the son of a prominent Senator and friend of the President into his program also had elements of talent,” Sir Denis remarked dryly. “Never underestimate Dr. Fu Manchu. If he hadn’t been bitten by the bug called Power he would be honored today as one of the world’s greatest intellects. Fortunately in this case, like many men of genius, he’s more than slightly mad.”

  “But what are you going to do?” Brian demanded. “The FBI must know now that Dr. Hessian isn’t the real man.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Nayland Smith snapped. “I haven’t told them. I alone know the fate of the real Hessian. They accepted my double and Hessian as authentic. They began to worry about Nayland Smith the Second; thought I had been brain-washed or something. But they never doubted Hessian. They know now that my understudy wasn’t Nayland Smith, but they believe that Hessian is Hessian and that the purpose of the plot is to steal his invention.”

  “Then why keep them in the dark?”

  “Because, as he believes I am his own man, I hope, Fu Manchu still plans to meet the President tonight and to hand over his system to the United States! The late Nayland Smith the Second was an actor called William Hailsham, an active member of the Communist party. My orders are to tell the committee that the impostor attempted to kill me and that in self-defense I strangled him!”

  “But are you really going to do it?”

  Nayland Smith pulled at his ear. “I don’t know. I’m thinking hard.”

  This remarkable conversation was still going on in Brian’s room in Suite 2610 when a tall, spare figure wearing a long black coat and a wide-brimmed black hat rapped in a peculiar manner on the door of Suite 2611. The door was opened immediately by the slender man who wore a blue turban.

  He salaamed deeply. “Master!”

  Dr. Fu Manchu walked in with his majestic yet curiously f
eline step, and in the main room, which, although richly furnished, was smaller than that in the adjoining suite, faced the second occupier, whose apelike ugliness had so appalled Brian when he had seen him through a hole in the screen.

  He too saluted the Doctor as one doing reverence to a pagan god.

  “Everything found in his possession,” Fu Manchu demanded, speaking Hindustani. “Quickly. Show me.”

  The thickset man ran to an open suitcase, took out a parcel, and spread all it contained on a table. “Here is everything, Master.”

  Fu Manchu examined the exhibits found on the person of the dead man, one by one. A silver disk stamped with a number and a curious design seemed to excite him strangely. His eyes, when he raised them, gleamed with the light of madness.

  He turned, pointed to an outsized wardrobe trunk standing against the wall. On it was painted “Prince Ranji Bhutani.”

  “Unlock it!” he commanded.

  The younger man, his handsome but sinister features registering intense alarm, produced a bunch of keys and unlocked the big trunk.

  Upright inside, and secured with leather straps, the double of Nayland Smith stood, his head drooping so that the swollen features were in shadow. Dr. Fu Manchu stepped forward and tilted the head upward—no easy matter, for the neck muscles were already stiff.

  From a pocket of his black coat he took out a lens and, peering closely, examined the nose of the victim.

  He replaced the lens, turned, and struck the long-armed thug a flat-handed blow across the face. The younger killer fell to his knees, clasping his-hands.

  “Master!”

  “Fools!” Fu Manchu’s features were contorted; his expression was that of a dangerous maniac. “You have killed the wrong man!” By a stupendous effort of will, he recovered his usual calm. “Relock the trunk. Remain here until further orders reach you.”

  With his silent, catlike walk, Dr. Fu Manchu turned away, opened the door, and went out. He passed the suite occupied by Nayland Smith, and went up to the penthouse. In the dark room adjoining that equipped for the demonstration he seated himself at the radio switchboard and made an adjustment.

  A point of blue light appeared. A woman spoke; “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Tonight’s plans are changed. Report to me immediately.”

  * * *

  At about this time, Brian, chain-smoking in his agitation, was watching Nayland Smith pacing the floor of the room like an English guardsman on sentry duty. At last Sir Denis broke his long silence.

  “I have chosen my course, Merrick. Heaven grant it’s the right one. Bearing in mind what I mean to do tonight—must do—I doubt if Fu Manchu’s secret device would be handed over. He has the cunning of the serpent. He takes fantastic risks, but always assures himself of a way out. My explanation to the committee, which I am supposed to give verbatim—the deceased actor was evidently a quick study—would certainly break up the conference.”

  “Sure! Just what I was thinking! The meeting tonight—”

  “I can’t believe that a man so astute as Dr. Fu Manchu ever intended it to take place. He has changed his plans. He may be laying another trap—he may be preparing to make a getaway. This could only mean that the cunning devil recognized me.”

  “Then why didn’t he bump you off when he had you up there in the penthouse?”

  “Think again, Merrick,” Sir Denis snapped. “Consider two dead Nayland Smiths on his hands in the Babylon-Lido! No. There hasn’t been time to move the other one. We may lose the secret of the Sound Zone, but at last, we have Dr. Fu Manchu.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Nayland Smith knocked ash from the hot bowl of his pipe. “I can’t stop the others. That doesn’t matter. But I shall signal the plane bringing your father and the President, and their course will be changed. We don’t know what new deviltry may be brewing, and I daren’t risk it. Our best defense is attack.”

  He headed for the door.

  “What’s my job?” Brian wanted to know.

  “We’ll slip down and talk to Ray Harkness. He’s in charge of the FBI engaged on this job. We have worked together before. This double business has shaken him badly. Before I went up tonight we arranged a password—in case the wrong man had survived!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Brian saw a smallish, dapper man who might have been an accountant or a bank manager, but couldn’t possibly be a detective, except that it happened he was.

  He jumped up as they came in.

  “Bamboo!” Nayland Smith said. Presumably that was the arranged password. “Virtue triumphed for once, Harkness!”

  Raymond Harkness sat down again. “Thank God I see you alive! It was a crazy risk, and in my opinion unnecessary.”

  Nayland Smith rested his hand on Harkness’ shoulder. “Your staff work was excellent. Merrick, here, threatened to disturb the plan at a critical moment. But our luck held, and I held on to Merrick. By the way, you haven’t met.”

  “No.” Harkness shook hands with Brian, smiling. “But we’ve wasted a lot of time covering you, Mr. Merrick. For heaven’s sake, what happened? Where’s… the other one? We knew all the details of the trap, but not what it was planned to do when you walked into it.”

  “An expert job of strangling. He never uttered a sound.”

  “Good God! They’ve murdered their own man?” Sir Denis nodded, “What have they done with his body?”

  “Still in the room next to ours, I suppose. But if we’re to get the whole gang in the bag I want quick action. You have the list of tenants occupying apartments on our floor?”

  Harkness held up a typed sheet. “It’s been impossible at short notice, to check all of them. But speaking of the room next to yours—”

  “No time now. Look—I’ll tell you what we must do. Hold the elevators on this floor. Instruct the operators to tell upgoing passengers to use the stairs beyond this floor. There are two elevators but only one stairway. Post a good man at the stairs on this floor. Order him to direct such passengers to this room. Keep your door open. Tell ’em what you like, but hold ’em.”

  Harkness raised his eyebrows, but took up the phone and gave these unwelcome instructions to the hotel office, adding, “To go into force as of now.” He hung up, glanced at Nayland Smith. “Well, what about anyone coming down?”

  “They must be told to go up again until further notice. Police Department orders. An experienced patrolman in uniform would be best for the stair job.”

  Harkness nodded and spoke again on the phone. Then he said, “You’re in charge tonight, Sir Denis, but we’ve worked together before and I like to know what to expect. Do you think it’s a plot against the President?”

  “Not against his life, Harkness,” Nayland Smith answered. “At least, I don’t think so. But in any event, he won’t be here. I gave orders a few minutes ago to have his course diverted.”

  Raymond Harkness watched Sir Denis with steady eyes. “Then you believe Fu Manchu is still in New York?”

  “I know it.”

  “Where?”

  “In the penthouse.”

  “What!” Harkness sprang up. “Then he’s holding Dr. Hessian! He’s in our hands! What are we waiting for?”

  “Go easy!” Nayland Smith smiled his grim smile. “And don’t worry about Dr. Hessian. I’m looking after him!”

  Harkness sat down again. “You know, now that I hear you and see you, I wonder I ever fell for your double. But at the time I was completely sold.”

  “So was everybody else. Who but Dr. Fu Manchu could have pulled off such a thing?”

  There was a rap on the room door, and a smart-looking police sergeant came in. Harkness looked up.

  “Ah! It’s Sergeant Ruppert. I knew you were detailed, for duty here tonight. I want you to stand at the foot of the stairs to the floor above. Stand on the other side of the door. No need to alarm the people on this floor. Anyone wanting to go up is to be directed to this apartment. Make sure they come here, but don’t lose si
ght of the staircase exit. Anyone coming down is to be sent back—anyone. All clear?”

  “All ready, sir. But what about the elevators?”

  “They’ve been stopped from this floor upward.” Harkness glanced at Nayland Smith. “Anything else?”

  “One thing,” Sir Denis said. “Jump to it, Sergeant! Every minute counts!” Sergeant Ruppert nodded and ran out. “Any news from Number One, Harkness?”

  Raymond Harkness shook his head. “No. Can’t figure it out. She expected to have something to report on the latest move. It could be useful. But not a word. And we can’t locate her. I hope—”

  “So do I.” There was a deep sincerity in Nayland Smith’s voice. “She takes risks few men would take—and Fu Manchu is merciless… How many have you on duty tonight, Harkness?” Nayland Smith asked. “Without Merrick and myself.”

  “Eleven. Four FBIs and nine police. Four in uniform, including the Sergeant, and five plain-clothesmen. If I can count Number One, twelve.”

  “Assemble them all here. There are seven apartments upstairs, including mine. I want them all searched. You have keys from the management?”

  “Here.”

  “I’ll take the key of the stair door to the penthouse and the key of the inside door.”

  Harkness passed over three keys. “There are two doors to the penthouse,” he explained. “The second I believe opens into the kitchen.”

  “And now, can you lend Merrick a gun?”

  “Sure.” Harkness pulled a drawer open and took out a regulation police revolver. “It isn’t easy to carry, Mr. Merrick, but it’s practical.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brian put the heavy weapon in a coat pocket. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but the more exciting it turned out to be, the better he would like it. He needed an antidote to his mood of angry self-contempt.

  “Let the whole party stand by, Harkness,” Sir Denis went on in his quick-fire way, “until I give the word. Merrick and I are going to do a spot of reconnaissance. If a trap is being laid, we don’t want to walk right into it.”

  They met no one in the long corridor as they headed toward the elevators. The door to the stairs, with a red light above it, was a few paces beyond, it was that hour which comes in every big hotel when nearly all the guests are either out for the evening or retired to their rooms.