President Fu-Manchu (31 page)

He turned aside, placing a small globular lamp upon the bare floor of the room: within it a bright light sprang up. He took a step back towards the window.

“I am not prepared to suffer any human hindrance in this hour of destiny. I have chosen Paul Salvaletti to rule at the White House. Here, in the United States, I shall set up my empire. Time and time again you have checked me—but this time, Sir Denis, you arrive too late. You are correct in your surmise that there is another means of entrance to these apartments, formerly occupied by Professor Morgenstahl (whose name will be familiar to you) and by myself.”

“Smith,” Hepburn whispered, “there’s one chance…”

But Nayland Smith did not turn; he was watching Dr. Fu-Manchu. The superhuman Chinaman was winding what appeared to be a watch. He placed it on the floor beside the lamp, turned, and spoke:

“I bid you good-bye, Sir Denis; and—I speak with sincerity—not without regret. Your powers of pure reasoning are limited: your gifts of intuition are remarkable. In this respect I place you among the seven first-class brains of your race. Captain Hepburn has excellent qualities. He is a man I should be glad to have in my service. However, he has chosen otherwise. The small apparatus which I have placed upon the floor (a hobby of the late Lord Southery, a talented engineer whom I believe you knew) contains a power which, expanding from so small a center, will, I am convinced, astound you. I have timed it to explode in one hundred and twenty seconds. Its explosion will entirely obliterate the dome of the Stratton Building. I must leave you.”

He turned, and in the glare of the globular light upon the floor crossed to the door and disappeared.

Nayland Smith, fists clenched, glared in through the bullet-proof glass.

“Hepburn,” he said; “I have been blind and mad. Forgive me.”

“Smith! Smith!” Hepburn grasped his arm. “I have been trying to tell, you…! You know what we’re supposed to be here for?”

“The lightning conductor. What the hell does it matter now!”

“It matters everything. Look!”

Hepburn pointed downwards: Nayland Smith stared in the direction indicated.

The cable of a lightning conductor attached from point to point passed down immediately beside the balcony to a dim parapet below…

“God help us!” Smith whispered, “will it bear a man’s weight?”

“
T
he history of America,” said the Abbot of Holy Thorn, “has acquired several surprising chapters since our last meeting, Sir Denis.”

Nayland Smith, standing at the window of the abbot’s high-set study staring out at a sun-bathed prospect, turned slightly and nodded. Every detail of his former visit had recurred in his memory. And at this hour, while the fate of the United States hung in the balance, he was really no nearer to success than on the night when first he had entered this room! His briar was fuming like a furnace. Abbot Donegal lighted another cigarette…

The explosion at the Stratton Building in New York was already ancient history. Amid the feverish excitement now sweeping the country, a piece of news must be sensational indeed to survive for longer than forty-eight hours.

Fragments of the dome had fallen at almost incredible distances from the scene of the explosion. The huge building had rocked upon its foundations, great gaps appearing in the masonry. The firemen, faced with a number of problems unique in their experience, had worked like demons. The total loss was difficult to compute, but, miraculously, there had been few serious casualties.

Their descent of the dome by means of the lightning conductor was a thing to haunt a man’s dreams, but Smith and Hepburn had accomplished it. Then had come that race along the narrow parapet to the window of the office occupied by the police party: finally, a wild dash down the stairs—for the elevator could not accommodate all…

The mystery of the origin of the explosion had not been publicly explained to this day.

“Those amazing financial resources controlled by Salvaletti,” said the abbot, “have enabled him to make heavy inroads. He has stolen many of my converts: the Brotherhood of National Equality has suffered. My poor friend Orwin Prescott, as you know, has set out upon a world cruise. This most damnable campaign, this secret poisoning, unlike anything the world has known since the days of the Borgias, has wrecked that fine career. The other victims are countless: I doubt, Sir Denis, if even you know their number.”

“On several occasions,” Smith replied grimly, “I have narrowly escaped being added to their number. You also, Dom Patrick, have had an unpleasant experience, of which I need not remind you. Your reference on the radio last night to certain secret stirrings in the Asiatic colonies throughout the States created a profound sensation. It resulted in my presence here today…” He rested his hands on the table, looking into the upraised eyes of the abbot. “Only because you have been silent have you remained immune so long.”

“That silence had to be broken,” said the priest sternly.

“I should have preferred that you awaited the word from me,” rapped Nayland Smith, standing upright and beginning to pace the floor. “I have insufficient men at my disposal for the work of protection they are called upon to do. Washington, you know as well as I, is an armed camp. The country is in a state of feverish unrest, unparalleled even in war time. Big names, now, are deserting to the enemy!”

“I am painfully aware of the fact, Sir Denis,” the abbot replied sadly. “But I am informed that the circumstance under which some of these desertions took place have been peculiar.”

He stared in an odd way at Nayland Smith.

“Your information is correct! Cruel forms of coercion have been employed in many instances. And the purpose of my visit is this”—he paused before the desk at which the abbot was seated: “You intimated that you intended to touch upon this phase of the campaign in your next address on Wednesday night. You implied that other revelations were to follow. As a result of those words, Dom Patrick Donegal, your life at this moment is in grave danger. I ask you as man to man: How much do you know? What do you intend to say?”

The abbot, his chin resting on an unraised hand, stared unseeingly before him. He resembled the figure of some medieval monk who out of the reluctant ether sought to conjure up the Great Secret. Nayland Smith watched him silently.

He had real respect for Patrick Donegal, and despite the slightness of their acquaintance something resembling friendship. His sincerity, if he had ever doubted it, he doubted no longer: he was deeply read, fearless, unshakable in his faith. And that the abbot had sources of information denied to the Department of Justice Nayland Smith knew quite well.

“I know,” said the abbot, at last, speaking very slowly and with a studious distinctness, “the character of the man who, remorselessly and over many murdered bodies, has driven Paul Salvaletti forward to the place which he holds. I do not know his name. He is a member of a very old Chinese family, and a man of great culture. He controls, or at least he has a voice in the councils of a secret society based in Tibet, but represented in all parts of the world where Eastern nationals are to be found.”

“Do you know the name of this society?” Nayland Smith asked.

“I do not. Our missionaries in the East, who sometimes refer to it as ‘The Seven,’ regard it as the power of Satan manifested in evil-minded men. The Mafia in Italy was for generations a thorn in the side of the Church. An old friend of mine working in Japan tells me that the Society of the Black Dragon exercises a firmer hold over the imagination of the people than any religion has ever secured. But… ‘The Seven’…” He paused and glanced up.

Nayland Smith nodded.

“Their wealth is incalculable, I am told. Men in high places, wielding great social and political influence, are among the members. And all their resources have been rallied to support this attack among the Constitution of the United States. You see, Sir Denis”—he smiled—“my inquiries have made great headway!”

“They have!” rapped Nayland Smith, and again paced the floor.

The Intelligence Department of Abbot Donegal’s Church went up a notch higher. Never before this hour had he realized that the Rock of St. Peter was behind him in his fight against the powers of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

“Satan in person is on earth,” said the priest. His face bore the rapt look of the mystic—his voice rose upon a note of inspiration. “His works are manifest. Ours are the humble hands chosen to cast him down!”

Abruptly his expression changed; he became again the practical man of the world.

“We are together in this,” he said, smiling—“Federal Agent 56! Now I am prepared to listen to your advice; I do not undertake to accept it.”

Nayland Smith stared out of the window. Far away to the right, through crystal-clear air, he could catch a glimpse of a wide river. He twitched at the lobe of his ear and turned.

“I never waste advice,” he said rapidly. “You have set your course; I am powerless to alter it. But if, as you say, we work together, there are certain things upon which I must insist.”

He rested his hands on the desk; steely eyes pierced into guarded recesses of the abbot’s mind.

“I am responsible for your personal safety. You must help me. Your life from now onward is dedicated to our common cause. I shall make certain arrangements for your protection; the conditions will be onerous… but you must accept them. I will add to your knowledge of this vast conspiracy. You alone can stem the tide. I will give you
names.
Upon the result our final success depends.”

“Success or failure in human affairs invariably hangs upon a thread,” the abbot replied. “The engagement of Paul Salvaletti and Lola Dumas has been given publicity greater than any royal wedding in the Old World ever obtained in America. In this the satanic genius who aims to secure control of the United States proves himself human—for it is human to err.”

“I see!” snapped Nayland Smith; his eyes glittered with repressed excitement. “You have information touching the private life of Salvaletti?”

“Information, Sir Denis, which my conscience demands I should make public…”

“
I
t is essential, my friend, to our success, even at this hour,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu, “indeed essential to our safety, that we silence this pestilential priest.”

The room in which he sat appeared to contain all those appointments which had characterized his former study at the top of the Stratton Building. The exotic tang of incense was in the air, but windows opened on to a veranda helped to sweeten the atmosphere. Beyond a patch of lawn, terminated by glass outbuildings, a natural barrier of woods rose steeply to a high skyline. The trees, at the call of Spring, were veiling themselves in transparent green garments, later magically to be transformed into the gorgeous vestments of Summer. The Doctor’s ever-changing headquarters possessed the virtue of variety.

From the point of view of the forces controlled by Nayland Smith, he had completely disappeared following the explosion at the Stratton Building. The cave of the seven-eyed goddess had given up none of its secrets. Sam Pak, the much sought, remained invisible. A state-to-state search had failed to produce evidence to show that Dr. Fu-Manchu was still in the country.

Only by his deeds was his presence made manifest.

Salvaletti was the idol of an enormous public. His forthcoming marriage to Lola Dumas promised to be a social event of international importance. An almost frenzied campaign on the part of those saner elements who recognized that the League of Good Americans was no more than a golden bubble, was handicapped at every turn. Men once hopeless and homeless who find themselves in profitable employment are not disposed to listen to criticisms of their employers. A policy of silence had been determined upon as a result of many anxious conferences in Washington. It was deemed unwise to give publicity to anything pointing to the existence of an Asiatic conspiracy behind the league. Substantial evidence in support of such a charge must first be obtained, and despite the feverish activity of thousands of agents all over the country, such evidence was still lacking. The finances of the league could not be challenged; they stood well with the Treasury: there were no evasions. Yet, as Sir Denis had proved to a group of financial experts, the League of Good Americans, at a rough estimate, must be losing two million dollars a week!