President Fu-Manchu (14 page)

As a prominent supporter, and frequently the host, of Harvey Bragg, he had entered upon a new term of notoriety. These two, father and daughter, by virtue of their beauty alone—for Emmanuel Dumas was a strikingly handsome man—must have focused interest in almost any gathering.

The room was packed from end to end. Prominent society people, who once would have shunned the Dumas apartment, might be seen in groups admiring the strange ornaments, studying the paintings; eager to attract the attention of this singular man once taboo, but now bathed in a blaze of limelight.

Politicians of all shades of opinion were represented.

The air was heavy with tobacco smoke; the buzz of chatter simian; champagne flowed almost as freely as water from the fountains of Versailles. Many notable people came and went unnoticed from this omnium gatherum, for the dazzling personalities of the hostess and her father outshone them all. One would have thought that no man and few women could have diverted attention from the glittering pair; yet when, unheralded, Harvey Bragg came striding into the room, instantly the Dumases were forgotten.

All eyes were turned in Bragg’s direction. Sascha lamps appeared from leather cases in which they had lain ready; a platoon of cameras came into action; notebooks were hastily opened.

Bluebeard Bragg was certainly an arresting figure. His nickname was double-edged. Bragg’s marital record alone would have explained it; the man’s intense swarthiness equally might have accounted for the “bluebeard.” Slightly above medium height, he was built like an acrobat. The span of his shoulders was enormous: his waist measurement would have pleased many women. Withal, he had that enormous development of thigh and the muscular shapely calves seen in male members of the Russian Ballet. He had, too, the light, springy walk of a boxer; and his truculent, black-browed face, lighted by clear hazel eyes that danced with humor, was crowned by a profusion of straight, gleaming, black hair. Closely though he was shaved—for Harvey Bragg was meticulous in his person—his jaw and chin showed blue through the powder.

“Folks!” he cried—his voice resembled that of a ship’s officer bellowing orders through a gale “I’m real sorry to be late, but Mr. and Miss Dumas will have been taking good care of you, I guess. To tell you the truth, folks, I had a bad hangover…”

This admission was greeted by laughter from his followers.

“I’ve just got up, that’s the truth. Knew I was expected to see people; jumped in the bath, shaved, and here I am!”

There came a dazzling flash of light. The cameras had secured a record, in characteristic pose and costume, of this ex-lord of the backwoods who aimed at the White House.

He wore a sky-blue bathrobe, and apart from a pair of red slippers, apparently nothing else. But he was Harvey Bragg—Bluebeard; the man who threatened the Constitution, the coming Hitler of the United States. His ugliness—for despite his power and the athletic lines of his figure the man was ugly—dominated that gathering. His circus showman’s voice shouted down all opposition. No normal personality could live near him. He was Harvey Bragg. He was “It.” He was the omnipresent potential Dictator of America.

Among the group of reporters hanging on Bragg’s words was one strange to the others; a newcomer, representing New York’s smartest weekly. He was tall, taciturn, and slightly built. He had thick, untidy hair, graying over the temples, a stubbly black beard and moustache, and wore spectacles. His wide-brimmed black hat and caped coat spoke of Greenwich Village.

His deep-set eyes had missed nothing, and nobody, of importance in the room. He had made few notes. Now he was watching Bluebeard intently.

“Boys and girls!”—arms raised, Harvey Bragg gave his benediction to everyone present—“I know what you all want to hear. You want to hear what I’m going to say to Orwin Prescott at Carnegie Hall.”

He lowered his arms in acknowledgement of the excited buzz followed by silence which greeted this remark.

“I’m going to say just one thing. And this goes, boys”—he included with a sweeping gesture of his left hand the whole of the newspaper men present—“with you as well as with everybody else. I’m going to say just this: Our country, which we all love, is unhappy. We have seen hard times—but we’ve battled through. We’ve got sand. We’re not dead yet by a long shot. No, sir! But we’re alive to the dangers ahead. And I want to ask you, Dr. Orwin Prescott, just this: Are you peddling junk for the Abbot of Holy Thorn or are you selling goods of your own?”

Loud applause followed this, led by Dumas
père et fille.

“I’m not saying, folks, that Abbot Donegal’s stuff is all backfire. I’m saying that second-hand promises are bad debts. I want to hear of anything that Orwin Prescott has promised which Orwin Prescott has done. I don’t promise things. I
do
things. No decent citizen ever reported for work to a depot of the League of Good Americans who didn’t get a job!” Again he was interrupted by loud applause…

“The man we’re all looking for is the man who does things. Very well. Seconds out! The fight starts! On my right: Donegal—Prescott. On my left: Harvey Bragg! America for every man and every man for America!”

Cheers and a deafening clapping of hands rewarded the speaker. Harvey Bragg stood, arms upraised forensically, dominating that gathering excited by his crude oratory. At which moment, even as Sascha lights flashed and cameras clicked:

“A lady to see you, Mr. Bragg,” came a discreet whisper.

Harvey Bragg lowered his arms, reluctantly relinquishing that heroic pose, and glanced aside. His confidential secretary, Salvaletti, stood at his elbow. There was an interchange of glances. Reporters surged around them.

“Urgent?” Harvey Bragg whispered.

“Number 12.”

Bragg started, but recovered himself. “Easy-looking?”

“A beauty.”

“Excuse me, folks!” Bragg cried, his tremendous voice audible above the excitement, “I’ll be right back in two minutes.”

Of those who actually overheard this whispered conversation, Lola Dumas was one. She bit her lip, turned, and crossed to a senator from the South who was no friend of Harvey Bragg’s. The other was the new reporter. He followed Lola Dumas and presently engaged her in conversation.

More wine was uncorked. Newspaper men always welcomed an assignment to the Dumases’ apartment…

Rather more than five minutes had elapsed when Harvey Bragg came back. He was holding the hand of a very pretty woman whose smart frock did justice to a perfect figure, and whose little French hat displayed mahogany curls to their best advantage.

“Folks!” he roared, “I want you all to know my new secretary.” His roving glance sought and found Lola Dumas: he smiled wickedly. “What this little girl doesn’t know about the political situation not even Harvey Bragg can tell her…”

* * *

Although one calling might not have suspected the fact, the whole of the Regal Tower, most expensive and fashionable part of the Regal-Athenian Hotel, was held by police officers and federal agents. Those visitors who applied for accommodation in this section of the hotel were informed that it was full; those who had been in occupation had very courteously been moved elsewhere on the plea of urgent alterations.

From the porters at the door in the courtyard to the clerks in the reception desk, the liftman and the bell-boys, there was no man whose uniform did not disguise a detective.

Elaborate precautions had been taken to ensure the privacy of incoming and outgoing telephone calls. No general headquarters ever had been more closely guarded. Armageddon was being waged, but few appreciated the fact. In the past Wellington had crushed Bonaparte’s ambition to control Europe, but the great Corsican fought at Waterloo with a blunted sword. Foch and his powerful allies had thrown back Marshal von Hindenburg and the finest military machine in history since the retreat from Moscow broke the Grand Army of Napoleon. But now, Nayland Smith, backed by the government of the United States, fought, not for the salvage of the Constitution, not for the peace of the country, but for the future of the world. And the opposing forces were commanded by a mad genius…

Dressed in an old tweed suit, pipe clenched between his teeth, he paced up and down the sitting-room. His powers were all that a field-marshal could have demanded. His chief of staff, Mark Hepburn, was one such as he would have selected. But…

Someone had unlocked the door of the apartment.

Fey appeared in the vestibule as if by magic, his right hand in his coat pocket. Nayland Smith stepped smartly to the left, taking up a position from which he could see the entrance. A tall, pale, bearded man came in, wearing a caped coat and a wide-brimmed black hat…

“Hepburn!” cried Smith, and hurried forward to meet him. “Thank heavens you’re back safe. What news?”

Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C., a parody of his normal self, smiled wryly. His pallor, his graying temples, were artificial, but the beard and moustache were carefully tended natural products, although at the moment chemically improved. The character he was assuming was one which he might be called upon to maintain for a considerable time, in accordance with the plan.

“Just left the Bragg reception at the Dumas apartment,” he said, removing his glasses and staring rather haggardly at Nayland Smith. “There isn’t much to report except that Bragg’s confidential secretary, Salvaletti, is pretty obviously the link with Fu-Manchu.”

“Then Bragg is doubly covered,” said Nayland Smith grimly. “Lola Dumas is almost certainly one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s agents.”

“Yes.” Mark Hepburn dropped wearily into an armchair. “But there’s some friction in that quarter. A woman was announced just before I left, and Bragg went out to interview her. I managed to pick up some scraps of the conversation between Salvaletti and Bragg, but from the way Lola Dumas watched Bragg, I gathered that their relations were becoming strained.”

“Describe Salvaletti,” said Nayland Smith succinctly.

Mark Hepburn half closed his eyes. Smith watched him. There was something odd in Hepburn’s manner.

“Above medium height, pale, stooping. Light-blue eyes, dark, lank hair, a soft voice and a sickly smile.”

“Seen him before?”

“Never! He’s a new one on me.”

“Probably indigenous to the American underworld,” Smith murmured; “therefore I should not know him. You are sure it was a woman who was announced?”

“Positive. Harvey Bragg brought her into the room and displayed her to the company as his new secretary. It’s about this woman I want to talk to you. I want your advice. I don’t know what to do. It was Mrs. Adair… who escaped, thanks to my negligence, from the Tower of the Holy Thorn…”

I
n the Gothic dome where most of the life of the Memory Man was passed, lights were extinguished. A red spark marking the tip of a burning Egyptian cigarette glowed in the darkness.

There was a short silence, and then:

“Report,” directed the familiar, hated voice, “from Numbers covering Nayland Smith.”

“Three have been received since I relayed. Shall I repeat them in detail or summarize their contents?”

“Summarize.”

“There is no certain evidence that he has left his base during the last twelve hours. A report from Number 44 suggests that he may have visited the police mortuary. This report unconfirmed. Two Numbers and eight operatives, with two Z-cars, covering Centre Street. Federal Agent Hepburn not reported to have moved out from the Regal Tower. This is a summary of the three reports.”

Darkness still prevailed…

“The latest report regarding Abbot Donegal.”

“Received thirty minutes after that last relayed. A man answering to the abbot’s description reported as hiring a car at Elmira. Believed to have arrived there from the West by American Airlines. Posing as Englishman. Wears single eyeglass and carries golfing kit…”

In the tower study, so oddly corresponding in point of elevation with Nayland Smith’s headquarters, but which bore an atmosphere of stale incense whereas the apartment high above the Regal-Athenian Hotel was laden with fumes of broad-cut smoking mixture, Dr. Fu-Manchu sat behind the lacquer table. There was no one else in the room.

The life of one who aspires to empire—though thousands may await his commands—is a wan and lonely life. Solitude is the mother of inspiration. The Chinaman, these reports from the Memory Man received, sat in his high, carven chair, eyes closed. He was speaking as though to one standing near him. On the little polished switchboard two spots of light glowed; green, and amber.

“Dispatch a party in a Z-car,” he directed, his voice unemotional but the gutturals very marked. “Explore all farms, roadhouses and hotels along the route which I have indicated. Abbot Donegal is reported as traveling incognito. He may be posing as an English tourist. If found, he is not to be molested, but he must be detained. Instruct the Number in charge to send in reports from point to point. This is a personal order from the President.”

A slender yellow hand with long, pointed nails reached out. The two lights disappeared. Dr. Fu-Manchu opened his eyes: their greenness was dimmed. He raised the lid of a silver box which stood upon the table and from it took a small, exquisitely made opium-smoking outfit. He lighted the tiny lamp and inserted a gold bodkin into a container holding the black gum which is born of the white poppy. He had not slept for forty-eight hours…