President Fu-Manchu (26 page)

“Prepare coast-to-coast reports. I shall require you to relay them in the order received, in one hour.”

Amber light prevailed again in the domed room where the man of miraculous memory worked upon his endless task of fashioning that majestic Chinese head. And at the moment that the light reappeared, the long bony fingers of Dr. Fu-Manchu reached out to the silver box. Raising the lid, he extracted the delicate equipment for opium smoking which this receptacle contained.

* * *

“What’s the idea, Hepburn?” rapped Nayland Smith.

The
New York Times
propped up against a coffee-pot, he was sitting at a frugal breakfast as Hepburn came into the sitting-room. Save for a suggestion of shadows beneath his keen eyes, there was little in that bronzed face to show the state of sustained nervous tension in which Nayland Smith had been during the past forty-eight hours. Automatically filling his pipe, he stared at Hepburn.

The moustache and beard had vanished. Mark Hepburn was again his clean-shaven self. He smiled in his almost apologetic way.

“Wasn’t it your friend Kipling who said that women and elephants never forget?” he asked. “I guess he might have included Dr. Fu-Manchu. Anyway, I was shot at twice last night!”

Nayland Smith nodded.

“You’re right,” he said rapidly; “I had forgotten momentarily that he saw you at the window. Yes, the bearded newspaperman must disappear.”

Fey entered from the kitchenette bearing silver-covered dishes upon a tray; an appetizing odor accompanied him. Fey’s behavior was that of a well-trained servant in a peaceful English home.

“I am making fresh coffee, sir,” he said to Hepburn. “It will be ready in a moment.”

He uncovered the dishes and withdrew.

“I am rapidly coming to the conclusion,” said Nayland Smith while Hepburn explored under the covers, “that we have outstayed our welcome here. It’s only a question of time for one or both of us to be caught either going out or coming in.”

Hepburn did not reply. Nayland Smith struck a match, lighted his pipe and continued:

“So far we have been immoderately lucky, although both of us have had narrow squeaks. But we know that this place is covered night and day. It would be wise, I think, if we made other arrangements.”

“I am disposed to agree with you,” said Mark Hepburn slowly.

“The papers”—Nayland Smith indicated a score of loose sheets upon the carpet beside him—“are reticent about our abortive raid. A washout, Hepburn! Impossible to hold either of the prisoners. We have no evidence against them.”

“I know it.”

Fey entered with coffee and then withdrew to his tiny sanctum.

“It is merely a question of time,” Smith went on, unconsciously echoing the words of Dr. Fu-Manchu, “for us to find this Chinese rabbit warren. I attended the line-up this morning but it’s a waste of breath to interrogate a Chinaman. This fact undoubtedly accounts for the survival of torture in their own country. Wu King, as I anticipated, fell back on the story of Tong warfare. Centre Street is beginning to regard me as a tiresome fanatic. Yet”—he brought his palm sharply down upon the table—“I was right about the Chinatown base. It’s there, but by the time we find it it will be deserted. An impasse, Hepburn, and our next move in doubt.”

He pointed to the newspaper propped up against the coffee-pot.

“I begin to see the hand of Fu-Manchu everywhere. Although I wore glasses and my clerical dress (upon which you have complimented me) I nearly came to grief on the corner right outside here this morning.”

“What happened?”

“A heavy lorry, ignoring signals, drove at me hell-for-leather! Only the skill of my driver saved me. The man said his brakes had failed… The lorry belonged to the Lotus Corporation.”

“But Smith—”

“We must expect it. Our enemy is a man of genius. Our small subterfuges probably amuse him! Consider what’s at stake! Have you glanced at the Abyssinian situation, for instance? Dr. Fu-Manchu’s triumph here would mean the end of Italy’s ambition.”

“You think so?”

Hepburn looked up sharply.

“I know it,” Nayland Smith returned.

“The map of the world is going to be altered, Hepburn, unless we can check what is going on in this country. Have you given due thought to the fact that almost overnight Paul Salvaletti has become a national figure?”

“Yes; I can’t fit him into the picture.”

“There is one very curious point…”

“To what do you refer?”

“Lola Dumas is with Salvaletti. She is frequently in the news with him.”

“Is that so strange? She has always been associated with the League of Good Americans.”

“The League of Good Americans is merely another name for Dr. Fu-Manchu,” rapped Nayland Smith, standing up and beginning to pace the floor. “It is a point of very great interest: it implies that Dr. Fu-Manchu is backing Salvaletti; in other words, that Salvaletti is not an opportunist who has sprung into the breach—”

“Good heavens!” Hepburn laid down his fork, “the breach was
prepared
for him?”

“Exactly.”

“Is it possible?”

“The pattern begins to become apparent. We have been looking too closely at one small piece of it. I have read the report upon Salvaletti. Even now it is far from complete but it would appear that his training throughout has tended inevitably in one direction. Thank heaven that Abbot Donegal is safe. I have said it before, I say it again: that priest’s life is valuable. He may yet be called upon to stem the tide. Look at the papers…”

In his restless promenade he stirred the loose sheets with his foot.

“The grave problems facing the Old World are allotted but little space. The nervous collapse (as such it is accepted) of Orwin Prescott merely occurs as a brief bulletin from Weaver’s Farm. The several murders which have decorated the Doctor’s visit to the United States are falling into the background. Even our Chinatown raid is granted scant honors. No, Harvey Bragg, the Martyr, continues to dominate the news—his name now coupled with that of Paul Salvaletti. And—a significant fact, as I have said—Lola Dumas is creeping in.”

There was a short silence interrupted only by the buzzing of the telephone, the subdued voice of Fey answering in an adjoining room. Evidently none of the messages was of sufficient importance to demand the presence of Nayland Smith or Hepburn. But Fey would be making careful notes. Smith, staring out of the window, saw that all trace of fog had disappeared; that icily clear visibility which sometimes characterizes New York City in the winter months was prevailing.

“Are you looking at the Stratton Building, Smith?” Hepburn asked.

“Yes,” snapped Smith. “Why?”

“You remember what I told you about the strange man who lives up there at the top—as reported by Robbie Adair?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps—I admit maybe because it is associated with Mrs. Adair, I am very curious about this man. I put inquiries in hand late last night and I have a report this morning. There’s rather a queer thing about the Stratton Building.”

“What is it?” Nayland Smith turned and looked at Hepburn.

“This—so far as the report goes; it’s by no means complete: The whole of the building is occupied by offices of concerns in which the late Harvey Bragg was interested.”

“What!”

“The New York headquarters of the League of Good Americans is there; the head office of the Lotus Transport Corporation; even the South Coast Trade Line has an office in the building.”

Nayland Smith came forward, resting his hands upon the table; bending down, he stared keenly into Mark Hepburn’s eyes.

“This is very interesting,” he said slowly.

“I think so. It’s odd, to say the least. Therefore I arranged early this morning to inspect the lightning conductors—by courtesy of the Midtown Electric Corporation. I may discover nothing, but at least it will give me access to a number of the rooms in the building.”

“You interest me keenly,” said Nayland Smith, returning to the window and staring up at the Stratton Building. “The League of Good Americans, eh? You must realize, Hepburn, that the great plot doesn’t end with the control of the United States. It embraces Australia, the Phillipines, and ultimately Canada! Middle Western farmers, crippled by mortgages, are being subsidized by the league and sent to Alaska, where unconsciously they are establishing a nucleus of Fu-Manchu’s future domination!”

“In heaven’s name where does all the money come from?”

“From the Si-Fan, the oldest and most powerful secret society in the world. If the truth about the League of Good Americans—‘America for every man and every man for America’—reached the public, I shudder to think what the reaction would be! But to return to personal matters—What are your plans in regard to Mrs. Adair?”

“I have none.” Mark Hepburn spoke slowly, his voice sounding even more monotonous than usual. “I have told you everything I know about her, Smith. And I think you will agree that the situation is one of great danger.”

“It is—for both. I assume that you are leaving it to Mrs. Adair to communicate with you?”

“I must.”

Nayland Smith stared hard for a moment, and then:

“She may be a trump card, Hepburn,” he said, “but frankly, I don’t know how to play her.”

* * *

“Saw my funny man last night, Goofy,” said Robbie Adair, laying down his porridge spoon and staring up wide-eyed at Nurse Goff. “Funny man who makes heads.”

“I believe he’s just a dream of yours, child,” Nurse Goff declared. “I have never seen him.”

But Robbie was very earnest on the point, and was not to be checked. According to his account, the mysterious madman who hurled models of human heads from his lofty studio had appeared on the previous night. Robbie had awakened very late; he knew it had been very late “’cause of the way the sky looked.” He had gone to the window and had seen the man hurl a plaster head far out over the dome.

“I never heard such a silly tale in my life,” Nurse Goff declared. “God bless the child—he’s dreaming!”

“Not dweaming,” Robbie declared stoutly. “Please can I have some jam? Is Mum coming today?”

“I don’t know, dear; I hope so.”

“Are we going to the garden?”

“If it’s fine, Robbie.”

Robbie dealt with bread and jam for some time, and then:

“Will Uncle Mark be there?” he inquired.

“I don’t think so, dear.”

“Why not? I like Uncle Mark—all ’cept his whiskers. I like Yellow Uncle, too, but he never comes.”

Nurse Goff suppressed a shudder. The man whom the boy had christened “Yellow Uncle” terrified her as her dour Scottish nature had never been terrified before. His existence in the life of Mrs. Adair, whom she respected as well as liked, was a mystery beyond her understanding. Rare though his visits were, that he was Mrs. Adair’s protector she took for granted. But how Mrs. Adair, beautiful and delicately nurtured, ever could have begun this association with the dreadful Chinaman was something which Mary Goff simply could not understand. The affection of Robbie for this sinister being was to her mind even a greater problem.

“Give me an auto on my birfday,” Robbie added reminiscently; “Yellow Uncle did.”

“
Gave
you an auto, Robbie. God bless the boy! I don’t know where you get these words…”

When, an hour later, his “auto” packed behind in the big Rolls diven by Joe, the cheerful Negro chauffeur, lonely little Robbie accompanied by Nurse Goff set out for his Long Island playground, a “protection” party in a Z-car was following.

Far in the rear, keeping the Z-car in sight, a government car in charge of Lieutenant Johnson brought up the rear of the queer procession.

M
ark Hepburn, in blue overalls and wearing a peaked cap, crept out from a window on to a dizzy-parapet. Two men similarly attired followed him. One was an operative of Midtown Electric, the firm which had installed the lightning conductors; the other was a federal agent. They were on the forty-seventh floor of the Stratton Building. The leaded dome swept up above them; below the New York hive buzzed ceaselessly.

“This way,” said Hepburn, and headed along the parapet.

He constantly looked down into a deep gutter which formed their path until, at a point commanding an oblique view of the gulley which was Park Avenue, he pulled up sharply.

Storm clouds were gathering and sweeping over the city. To look upward was to derive an impression that the towering building swayed like a ship. Mark Hepburn was looking downward. He expressed an exclamation of satisfaction.

Fragments of clay littered the gutter; on some of the larger pieces might be seen the imprint of a modeler’s work. The madman of the Stratton Building was no myth, but an actuality!

Hepburn glanced up for a moment. The effect of the racing clouds above the tower of the building was to make him dizzy. He felt himself lurching and closed his eyes quickly; but he had seen what he wanted to see.

Above the slope of the leaded dome was an iron gallery upon which two windows opened…

“Steady-oh, Captain!” said the government man, seeing him sway. “It’s taken a long time to get up, but it wouldn’t take long to fall down!”