Re-enter Fu-Manchu (19 page)

Brian studied the clean-cut features, thinking hard.

“His skin maybe was artificially sunburned. It didn’t look quite natural.”

“Nothing to be done about that. What else?”

“Well, something had happened to the bridge of his nose. He wore plaster the first time I saw him. There was no scar, except when he smiled. Then there was a faint wrinkle where the plaster had been.”

“That may explain what was found in a sort of studio in the Sherîf’s house: a wonderful clay model of my head! These people must have got out in a desperate hurry. The studio adjoined a small operating theatre. It seems likely that my double had undergone plastic surgery. H’m! Must avoid smiling!”

“What was that phone message, Sir Denis?”

“In thirty minutes I’m bidden to a conference with Dr. Fu Manchu, and probably my life hangs on not arousing his suspicions. The odds are in my favor. But my opponent—”

“Where are you to meet?”

“Up in the penthouse.”

“You mean Fu Manchu really
lives
there?”

“It’s his base of operations. I don’t wonder it staggers you. But let me bring you up to date. One day in Cairo there was considerable disturbance in the Sherîf’s household. I sensed that something unusual was going on. Of course, it was the departure of Fu Manchu and most of his unsavory crew for the States. Don’t ask me how he travels without being identified, unless he has a magic carpet, because I don’t know.”

“That time, Sir Denis, if I’m not wrong, he traveled with me and your double, posing as Dr. Hessian in a plane provided by the British government.”

Nayland Smith laughed out loud. “You’re not wrong, Merrick. Thanks for the information. You see, I know his impersonation of an eccentric German scientist. He has worked it before. He’s a master of numberless languages and dialects. To the Western mind, he isn’t typically Chinese. He’s at least as tall as I am, has fine ascetic features and a splendid head. His eyes alone, and his hands, betray the Asiatic.”

“But where is the real Dr. Hessian?”

“If he’s alive—which I doubt—Otto Hessian is probably in Siberia. He disappeared behind the Iron Curtain three years ago. Well, as I said, there was a disturbance in the household—and an unpleasant change for me. I was transferred to a room in the cellar. Unmistakably a dungeon, belonging to the days when the old house had been the palace of some wealthy pasha.

“Merrick, I all but lost hope. Two of Fu Manchu’s thugs had been left behind to guard me, I expected from hour to hour they would get the word to finish me off. My only exercise was walking about the cellar. And the nights were dreadful. I suspected, but couldn’t confirm the suspicion, that some kind of murder machine was installed in my cell.

“Then one night a queer thing happened. I was roused by a faint noise outside my locked door. I thought my time had come. A light shone through the grille, and I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ The light vanished. Complete silence. Nothing happened… until the next day.

“Neither of the assassins brought me my breakfast. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. Hours passed. No one came. I asked myself if I was doomed to starve to death. But early next morning a party of Egyptian police, accompanied by Sir Nigel Richardson of the British Embassy, and Lyman Bostock, his American opposite number, burst into the cellar.”

“How had they traced you?” Brian asked.

“Top marks to your FBI, Merrick. My understudy, who had by then arrived in New York, had excited the suspicion of one of their brightest undercover agents. I suspect—but don’t let it worry you—that
you
may have spilled a hint that gave the clue. A code message reached Bostock. It asked for a
secret
examination to be made of the house of the Sherîf, not neglecting the cellars. A tall order. How the devil they arranged it I don’t know, and they both laughed when I asked them. But I remembered the light through the grille of my cell. Anyway, they succeeded in getting a search warrant. And I can assure you that getting that warrant must have taken a lot of doing! The place was deserted. Not a soul in the building—except myself. The Sherîf had got wind of the thing and pushed off in a hurry with his entire household, including, I was told, several ladies and a fat eunuch. When I heard of the astonishing deception to which Richardson and Bostock had been made parties, I knew that not another hour must be wasted. Both wanted this impostor arrested by the New York police at once. I disagreed.

“I made them see that the archconspirator would slip through our fingers. We must find out first the purpose of this amazing plot—which was what the FBI wanted to know, too. Then we’d have the whole gang in the bag.”

“What I don’t understand,” Brian declared, “is why they left you alive.”

Nayland Smith smiled grimly. “Because somebody blundered—or got cold feet. My cell, as I suspected, was fitted with the brain-blasting equipment, and for purposes of concealing evidence, there was a man-sized bath of curious construction in another room that was intended to contain acid. Something had thrown the gang into a panic, and these little arrangements, by the mercy of providence, were overlooked at the last moment.”

“Tell me one thing, Sir Denis. By what accident did
I
get into the picture, and why?”

“Not by accident, I assure you. Fu Manchu already had me in his hands, and no doubt his agents were combing likely spots for a young, unemployed American with an influential background, to make doubly sure of my understudy’s acceptance. You were the very man. The FBI had agents in London—I don’t know why—and they found out that you had been employed by a Communist group, but they were ordered not to interfere. Washington had no idea what was brewing, but thought that you, as an innocent accomplice, might come up later with some useful information.”

“You mean”—Brian flushed indignantly—“that I was allowed to walk blindfolded into this thing?”

“I mean that, yes. And don’t glare at me!
I
had nothing to do with it. What’s more, it’s been done before. You see, Merrick, if you had known, you’d have betrayed yourself. Undercover espionage isn’t your field. How well it has worked out you can see for yourself. They are quite sure of you, and so we have the game in our hands.”

Brian lighted a cigarette, but said nothing.

“Well,” Nayland Smith went on, “I got my own way and was smuggled out of Cairo. I traveled as Major S. D. Smith, wearing a toothbrush mustache and a monocle. Not a word was allowed to leak out about the raid on the Sherîf’s house. All the same, the Si-Fan got the news. When I arrived at Idlewild, at five-thirty this afternoon, I was met by the FBI. Their star operative, already a member of the Communist party, had managed, by what I can only call a stroke of genius, to become a top executive of the Si-Fan! Every detail of my projected execution was known.

“First, you had to be kept away until it was all over. Second, as it was assumed that I should apply for a spare key and walk right up to the suite reserved in my name—exactly what I had planned to do—my double had orders to go out.”

“Yes?” Brian was getting excited. “What happened?”

“A tactical move by the FBI worthy of Napoleon. My double’s orders were to slip around to a back entrance, go up in the service elevator, and return to the suite. He had to unlock the communicating door and then take cover until I came in and had been liquidated. The FBI men managed to detain him long enough for
me
to come up first, open the door, and lie low. When my wretched double appeared, he got what was coming to
me
!”

“Do you mean to say the police and the FBI suspected nothing right up to the time you were found in Cairo?”

“They accepted Nayland Smith the Second and Dr. Hessian as authentic. They still think Hessian is. They didn’t know where
you
fitted in. In other words, it was the discovery by their agent in London that you had been employed by a Red agent that sparked the inquiry.” Sir Denis glanced at his watch. “And now I must be off. Don’t look so desperate, Merrick! I’m well briefed, and”—he tapped a coat pocket—“prepared for anything. Stand by.”

D
r. Fu Manchu sat at the long table in the room without windows when Nayland Smith came in. ‘Sit down,” he ordered. “I have much to say to you.”

Nayland Smith sat down in a chair on the other side of the table. He found that while Fu Manchu’s face remained in shadow, his own was brightly lighted. As of old, he experienced a tingling of the scalp when he came close to the force that seemed to proceed from this evil superman. He recalled the form of address he had been told to use.

“At your service, Excellency.”

Fu Manchu watched him. A stray beam of light touched the green eyes. Their regard was hard to meet.

“You did well, William Hailsham,” the sibilant voice said, “until I had to warn you that your prototype had escaped death and was on his way. Your behavior in face of danger disappointed me. I asked myself if I had rescued a cur from a Soviet labor camp for this!” The strange voice hissed the last word. “Your political views terminated your career as an actor. Your arrogance offended even your Communist employers. I alone offered you a way to speedy fortune and security.”

Nayland Smith remained silent. Dr. Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff.

“I am too closely tied to this project. I had hoped to bring with me what you would term a ‘stand-in’ for Dr. Hessian, as you are ‘stand-in’ for Nayland Smith. Unfortunately, certain surgical treatment proved unsatisfactory at the last moment. Therefore, my personal presence, although dangerous, is necessary.” He closed the lid of the silver snuffbox.

“The first crisis is over. Those responsible shall pay a heavy price. There is only one Nayland Smith—yourself. But—falter tonight, and there will be
no
Nayland Smith.” He passed his hand over his high brow. “I regret the necessity. Physically, you might have been twins. But there the likeness ends. Had the real Nayland Smith been my ally instead of my enemy, I should sit today on the throne of an empire greater than Rome ever knew. Listen.”

And Nayland Smith listened intently.

“The entire routine for tonight is changed. You handled the premature appearance of that impetuous fool Merrick very well. You seemed to have recovered your nerve—for you had no more than locked the communicating door when he arrived. I have not lost hope that you may carry off the situation tonight.”

Dr. Fu Manchu paused, and his eyes seemed to film over; but soon he went on:

“The plan of the Reds was to ensure that a certain message to Congress should not be sent. This you know. It was a desperate plan, and a bad one. I never intended to carry it out. This also you know. My own plan would have served the same purpose, but gone further. For, with the acceptance of the so-called ‘Hessian Sound Zone,’ I should have had access to every important air base, every military objective, from coast to coast. I should have made them invulnerable!” His voice quivered with the enthusiasm of the fanatic. “Then—at last—I could have challenged the power of communism… and broken it!”

Fu Manchu raised clenched hands above his head, then lowered them. He spoke softly.

“These are your new orders…”

* * *

Brian paced the living room like a man possessed.

He had been allowed to become a party to a conspiracy directed against the United States government by the very people sworn to defend it; used as a tool! He grew hot with indignation. The mystery that had puzzled him all along was a mystery no more. He had been employed solely as a link with his father, and, through his father, with the President.

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.