President Fu-Manchu (9 page)

“
W
hat is it, mister,” the taximan whispered, “some new kind of a fever?”

“No,” said Nayland Smith. “It’s a new kind of a
murder
!”

“Why do you say so?” the hotel doctor asked, glancing in a puzzled way at the ghastly object on the sofa.

But Nayland Smith did not reply. Turning to the night manager:

“I want no one at present in the foyer,” he said, “to leave without my orders. You”—he pointed to the house detective—“will mount guard over the taxicab outside the main entrance. No one must touch it or enter it. No one must pass along the sidewalk between the taxi and the hotel doors. It remains where it stands until further notice. Hepburn”—he turned—“get two patrolmen to take over this duty. Hurry. I need you here.”

Mark Hepburn nodded and went out of the night manager’s room, followed by the house detective.

“What about anyone living here and coming in late?” asked the night manager, speaking with a rich Tipperary brogue.

“What’s your house detective’s name?”

“Lawkin.”

“Lawkin!” cried Smith, standing in the open door, “any residents are to be directed to some other entrance.”

“O.K., sir.”

“The use of an office, Mr. Dougherty,” Nayland Smith continued, addressing the manager, “on this floor? Can you oblige us?”

“Certainly, Mr. Smith. The office next to this.”

“Excellent. Have you notified the police?”

“I considered I had met regulations by notifying yourself and Captain Hepburn.”

“So you have. I suppose a man is not qualified to hold your job unless he possesses tact.” He turned to the taximan. “Will you follow Mr. Dougherty to the office and wait for me there?”

The driver, a man palpably shaken, obeyed Dougherty’s curt nod and followed him out, averting his eyes from the sofa. Two men and the doctor remained, one wearing dinner kit, the other a lounge suit. To the former:

“I presume that you are assistant night manager?” said Nayland Smith.

“That is so. Fisk is my name, sir. This”—indicating the square-jowled wearer of the lounge suit—“is James Harris, assistant house detective.”

“Good,” rapped Nayland Smith. “Harris—give a hand to Lawkin outside.” Harris went out. “And now, Mr. Fisk, will you please notify Mr. Dougherty that I wish to remain alone here with Dr.—”

“My name is Scheky,” said the physician.

“—with Dr. Scheky.” The assistant night manager went out, Nayland Smith and Dr. Scheky were alone with the dead man.

“I have endeavored to clear this room, Doctor,” Smith continued, addressing the burly physician in the topcoat, “without creating unnecessary panic. But do you realize that you and I now face risk of the same death”—he pointed—“that
he
died?”

“I had not realized it, Mr. Smith,” the physician admitted, glancing down with a changed expression at the bright red blotches on the dead man’s skin; “nor do I know why you suspect murder.”

“Perhaps you will understand later, Doctor. When Captain Hepburn returns I am sending for certain equipment. If you care to go to your apartment I will have you called when we are ready…”

In an adjoining office, amid cleared desks and closed files, the pale-faced taximan faced Nayland Smith’s interrogation.

“I took him up on Times Square… No, I never seen him before. He gave the address ‘Regal-Athenian, Park entrance.’… Sure he seemed all right; nothing wrong with him. When we get here he says: ‘Go in to the desk and ask if this man is in the hotel’—and he slips me the piece of paper through the window. ‘Give ’em the paper’—that was what he said. ‘It’s a hard name—’”

“Sure of that?” rapped Nayland Smith.

“Dead sure. I took the paper and started… There was nobody about. As I moved off, he pulled out of his pocket what looks like a notebook. I guess it’s out there now… Next minute I hear his first yell—mister, it was awful! He had the door open in a flash and falls right out on to the sidewalk.”

“Where were you? What did you do?”

“I’m halfway up the hotel steps. I started to run back. He’s lashing around down there and seems to be tearing his clothes off—”

“Stop. You are quite certain on this point?”

“Sure,” the man declared earnestly; “I’m sure certain. He had his topcoat right off and ripped his collar open… He’s yelling, ‘The scarlet spots!’—like I told you. That’s what I heard him yell. And he’s fighting and twisting like he was wrestling with somebody… Gee!”

The man pulled his cap off and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I run in here. There wasn’t a cop in sight. Nobody was in sight… What could I do, mister? I figured he’d gone raving mad… When we got out to him he’s lying almost still. Only his hands was twitching…”

The night manager came into the office.

“All heat turned off on this floor,” he reported, “and all doors closed…”

Outside the Regal-Athenian the atmosphere was arctic. Two patrolmen watched Mark Hepburn with an electric torch and a big lens examining every square foot of sidewalk and the carpeted steps leading up to the main entrance. Residents who arrived late were directed to a door around the corner. In reply to questions the invariable answer of the police was:

“Somebody lost something valuable.”

The death cab had been run into an empty garage. It had been sealed; and at this very moment two men wearing chemists’ masks were pumping it full of a powerful germicidal gas.

Later, assisted by Dr. Scheky—both men dressed as if working in an operating theatre—Hepburn stripped and thoroughly examined the body and the garments of James Richet. The body was then removed, together with a number of objects found in Richet’s possession. The night manager’s room was sealed, to be fumigated. The main foyer, Nayland Smith ordered, must be closed to the public pending further orders. Dawn was very near when Dr. Scheky said to Hepburn:

“You are not by chance under the impression that this man died of some virulent form of plague?”

Mark Hepburn stared haggardly at the physician. They were dead beat.

“To be perfectly frank, Doctor,” he answered, “I don’t know of what he died…”

I
n that domed room, amber-lighted through curious Gothic windows, the white-haired sculptor sat smoking Egyptian cigarettes and putting the finishing touches to a sinister clay head which one might have assumed to be his life’s work. Pinned upon a wooden panel beside the tripod on which the clay was set, was some kind of small colored picture, part of which had been masked out so that what remained resembled a tiny face surrounded by a margin of white paper.

This the sculptor examined through a powerful magnifying glass, and then lowering the glass, scrutinized the clay. Evidently his work was to attempt to produce a life-size model of the tiny head pinned to the board.

Seeming to be not wholly satisfied, the sculptor laid down the lens with a sigh and wheeled the clay along to the end of the table. At which moment the amber light went out, the dim bell rang. A high-pitched, imperious, guttural voice spoke.

“The latest report from the Regal-Athenian.”

“Received at 5.10 a.m. from Number in charge. Foyer closed to the public by Federal orders. Night manager’s office sealed. Taxi in garage on Lexington. The body of the dead man identified as that of James Richet, late secretary to Abbot Donegal, removed at 5 a.m. to police mortuary. Cause of death unknown. Federal Agents Smith and Hepburn in their quarters in the tower. End of report.”

Followed some moments of silence, broken only by an occasional faint ticking from an electric clock. Then:

“Fix the recording attachment, Number 81,” came an order. “You are free for four hours.”

Amber light poured again into the room. Number 81 stood up. Opening a cupboard in the telephone table, he attached three plugs to a switchboard contained in the cupboard. One of these connected with the curious electric clock which stood upon the desk; another with a small motor which operated in connection with the telephone; and a third with a kind of dictaphone capable of automatically recording six thousand words or more without change of cylinder.

As he was about to close the cupboard, a dim buzz indicated an incoming message. The faint hum of well-oiled machinery followed; a receiver-rest was lifted as if by invisible fingers, and a gleaming black cylinder began to revolve, the needle point churning wax from its polished surface as the message was recorded. A tiny aluminium disk dropped into a tray below the electric clock, having stamped upon it the exact time at which the telephone bell had rung.

Number 81, as if his endless duties had become second nature, waited until the cylinder ceased to revolve. The telephone-rest sprang up into its place; from the electric clock came the sound of a faint tick. Number 81 pressed a button on the desk. The cylinder began to revolve again and a voice spoke—that of the man whose report had just been recorded.

“Speaking from Base 3. The Abbot Donegal reported missing. There is reason to believe that he slipped away during the night and may be proceeding to New York to be present at the debate at Carnegie Hall. All Numbers along possible routes have been notified, but no report to hand. Number 44 speaking.”

Presumably satisfied that the mechanism was running smoothly, Number 81 closed the cupboard and stood up. Thus seen, he was an even bigger man than he had appeared seated; an untidy but an imposing figure. He took up the clay model, lifting it with great care. He slipped a tin of Egyptian cigarettes into a pocket of his dressing-gown and walked towards one of the panels which surrounded the seemingly doorless room.

This he opened by pressing a concealed switch. A descending staircase was revealed. Carrying the clay model as carefully and lovingly as a mother carries her newly born infant, he descended, closing the door behind him. He; went down one flight and entered a small, self-contained apartment. A table littered with books, plans, and all sorts of manuscripts stood by an open window. There was a bed in an alcove, and beyond, through an open door, a glimpse might be obtained of a small bathroom. Clearing a space on the littered table, Number 81 set down the clay model. He crossed the room and opened a cupboard. It showed perfectly empty. He raised a telephone from its hook. In German:

“The same as last night,” he said harshly; “but the liver sausage was no good. Also, I must have the real German lager. This which you send me is spurious. Hurry, please, I have much to do.”

These orders given, he crossed to the table and stared down dully at a large open book which lay there, its margins pencilled with numerous notes in tiny, neat handwriting. The book was
Interstellar Cycles
by Professor Albert Morgenstahl, Europe’s greatest physicist and master mathematician—expelled a year earlier from Germany for anti-Nazi tendencies and later reported to be dead.

At this work Number 81 stared for some time, turning the pages over idly and resting a long tobacco-stained finger upon certain of the notes. There was a creaking in the cupboard and a laden wagon occupied its previously vacant space. Upon this wagon a substantial repast was set. Taking out a long-necked bottle of wine and uncorking it, Number 81 filled a glass. This he tasted and then set it down.

He threw open the French windows upon one side of the room, revealing a narrow balcony with a high railing of scrolled ironwork. A weather-beaten table stood there, and for a moment Number 81 leaned upon it, gazing down upon a night panorama of the great city below; snow-covered roofs, dwarf buildings and giant towers; a distant gleam of water; a leaden sky. It was bitterly cold at that great elevation; an icy breeze stirred the mane of white hair.

But, as if immune to climatic conditions, Number 81 bore out the clay head of the majestic Chinaman and set it upon the table. Below him a dome, its veins gilded, every crack and cranny coated with snow, swept down gracefully to a lower parapet. Muffled noises from streets set in deep gullies reached his ears. He returned for his glass of wine, raised his head to the leaden sky, and:

“To the day of freedom!” he cried. “To the day when we meet face to face.” And now his eyes, glaring insanely, were lowered to the clay head—“To the day when we meet face to face; when those wheels in which I am trapped, which seem to move, inexorable as the planets in their courses, are still forever.”

He drank deeply, then tossed the remainder of the wine contemptuously into the face of the modeled head. He dashed the glass on the paving at his feet and, picking up the work to which he had devoted so many hours of care, raised it in both hands high above his head.

His expression maniacal, his teeth bared in a wolfish grin, far out over the dome he hurled it. It fell with a dull thud on the leaden covering. It broke, the parts showering down to the parapet, to fall, meaningless fragments, into some street far below…