The Shadow of Fu-Manchu (20 page)

A pleasant room, as sunshine poured in to bring its lifeless beauties to life, to regild rich bindings, on this morning following those strange occurrences in the Huston research laboratory.

Michael Frobisher was seated at the walnut desk, the phone to his ear. Stein, his butler-chauffeur, stood at his elbow. Michael Frobisher was never wholly at ease in his own home. He remained acutely conscious of the culture with which Stella had surrounded him. This morning, his unrest was pathetic.

“But this thing’s just incredible!… What d’you say? You’re certain of your facts, Craig? Regan never left a note like that before?… What d’you mean, he hasn’t come back? He must be in some clinic… The police say he isn’t? To hell with the police! I don’t want police in the Huston laboratory… You did a wise thing there, but I guess it was an accident… Bring the notes and drawing right down here. For God’s sake, bring ’em right down here! How do we know somebody hasn’t explored the plant? Listen! How do we know?”

He himself listened a while and then:

“To hell with Nayland Smith!” he growled. “Huston Electric doesn’t spend half a million dollars to tip the beans into
his
pocket. He’s a British agent. He’ll sell us out! Are you crazy?… He
may
be backed by Washington. What’s good that comes to us from Washington, anyway?”

He listened again, and suddenly:

“Had it occurred to you,” he asked on a note of tension, “that
Regan
could be the British agent? He joined us from Vickers…”

When at last he hung up:

“Is there anything you want me to do?” Stein asked.

Stein was a man who, seated, would have looked like a big man, for he had a thick neck, deep chest, and powerful shoulders. But, standing, he resembled Gog, or Magog, guardian deities of London’s Guildhall; a heavy, squat figure, with heavy, squat features. Stein wore his reddish hair cut close as a Prussian officer’s. He had a crushed appearance, as though someone had sat on his head.

Frobisher spun around. “Did you get it?”

“Yes. It is serious.” (Stein furthermore had a heavy, squat accent.) “But not so serious as if they have found the detail of the transmuter.”

“What are you talking about?” Frobisher stood up. “There’s enough in the lab to give away the whole principle to an expert.”

That grey undertone beneath his florid coloring was marked.

“This may be true—”

“And Regan’s disappeared!”

“I gathered so.”

“Then—hell!”

“You are too soon alarmed,” said Stein coolly. “Let us wait until we have all the facts.”

“How’ll we
ever
have all the facts?” Frobisher demanded. “What are the facts about things that happen right here? Who walks around this house at night like a ghost? Who combed my desk papers? Who opened my safe? And who out of hell went through
your
room the other evening while you were asleep? Tell me
who
, and then tell me
why!
”

But before Stein had time to answer these reasonable inquiries, Stella Frobisher fluttered into the library. She wore a Hollywood pinafore over her frock, her hands were buried in gauntlet gloves, and she carried a pair of large scissors. Her blond hair was dressed as immaculately as that of a movie star just rescued from a sinking ship.

“I
know
I look a
fright
, dear,” she assured Frobisher. “I have been out in the garden,
cutting
early spring flowers.”

She emphasized “cutting” as if her more usual method was to knock their heads off with a niblick.

“Allow me to bring these in for you, madame,” said Stein. His respectful manner was in odd contrast to that with which he addressed Frobisher.

“Thank you, Stein. Lucille has the
basket
on the
back
porch.”

She did not mention the fact that Lucille had also cut the flowers.

“Very good, madame.”

As Stein walked towards the door:

“Oh, Stein—there will be
seven
to luncheon. Dr. and
Mrs.
Pardoe are coming.”

Stein bowed and went out.

“Who’s the old man?” growled Frobisher, opening a box of cigars which lay on the desk.

“Professor Hoffmeyer. Isn’t it
splendid
that I got
him
to come?”

“Don’t know till I see him.”

“He’s simply
wonderful.
He will
amaze
you, Mike.”

“Don’t care for amazement at mealtimes.”

“You will fall
completely
under his
spell
, dear,” Stella declared, and went fluttering out again. “I must go and
assemble
my flowers.”

At about this time, Morris Craig was putting a suitcase into the back of his car. As he locked the boot he looked up.

“You know, Smith,” he said, “I’m profoundly conscious of the gravity of this thing—but I begin to feel like a ticket-of-leave man. There’s a car packed with police on the other side of the street Do they track me to Falling Waters?”

“They do!” Nayland Smith replied. “As I understand it, you are now going to pick up Miss Navarre?”

“That is the program.” Craig smiled rather unhappily. “I feel a bit cheap leaving Shaw alone, in the circumstances. But—”

“Shaw won’t be alone,” Smith rapped irritably. “I think—or, rather, fear—the danger at the laboratory is past. But to make sure, two carefully selected men will be on duty in your office day and night until you return. Plus two outside.”

“Why not Sam? He’s back.”

“You will need Sam to lend a hand with this radio burglar alarm you tell me about.”

“
I
shall?”

“You will. I can see you’re dying to push off. So—push! l trust you have a happy week-end.”

And when Craig turned into West Seventy-fifth Street the first thing that really claimed his attention was the presence of a car which had followed him all the way. The second was a figure standing before the door of an apartment house—a door he could never forget.

This figure wore spectacles, a light fawn topcoat, a cerise muffler, and a slate-grey hat with the brim turned up not at the back, but in front…

“Morning, boss,” said Sam, opening the door. “Happen to have—”

“I have nothing but a stern demand. It’s this: What the devil are you doing
here?
”

“Well”—Sam shook his head solemnly—“it’s like this. Seems you’re carrying valuables, and Sir Denis, he thinks—”

“He thinks what?”

“He thinks somebody ought to come along—see? Just in case.”

Craig stepped out.

“Tell me: Are you employed by Huston Electric or by Nayland Smith?”

Sam tipped his hat further back. He chewed thoughtfully. “It’s kind of complicated, Doctor. Sir Denis has it figured I’m doing my best for Huston’s if I come along and lend a hand. He figures there may be trouble up there. And you never know.”

Visions of a morning drive alone with Camille vanished. “All right,” said Craig resignedly. “Sit at the back.”

In a very short time he had hurried in. But it was a long time before he came out.

Camille looked flushed, but delightfully pretty, when she arrived at Falling Waters. Her hair was tastefully dressed, and she carried the black-rimmed glasses in her hand. Stella was there to greet her guests.

“My
dear
Miss Navarre! It’s so
nice
to have you
here
at last! Dr. Craig, you have kept her in
hiding
too long.”

“Not my fault, Mrs. Frobisher. She’s a self-effacing type.” Then, as Frobisher appeared: “Hail, chief! Grim work at—”

Frobisher pointed covertly to Stella, making vigorous negative signs with his head. “Glad to see you, Craig,” he rumbled, shaking hands with both arrivals.

“You have a charming house, Mrs. Frobisher,” said Camille. “It was sweet of you to ask me to come.”

“I’m so
glad
you like it!” Stella replied. “Because you must have seen such
lovely
homes in France and in England.”

“Yes,” Camille smiled sadly. “Some of them
were
lovely.”

“But let me take you along to your
room.
This is your
first
visit, but I do
hope
it will be the first of
many.
”

She led Camille away, leaving Frobisher and Craig standing in the lobby—panelled in Spanish mahogany from the old Cunard liner,
Mauretania.
And at that moment Frobisher’s eye rested upon Sam, engaged in taking Craig’s suitcase from the boot, whilst Stein stood by.

“What’s that half-wit doing down here?” Frobisher inquired politely.

“D’you mean Sam? Oh, he’s going to—er—lend me a hand overhauling your burglar system.”

“Probably make a good job of it, between you,” Frobisher commented drily. “When you’ve combed your hair, Craig, come along to my study. We have a lot to talk about. Where’s the plan?”

Craig tapped his chest. He was in a mood of high exaltation.

“On our person, good sir. Only over our dead body could caitiffs win to the treasure.”

And in a room all daintily chintz, with delicate water colors and lots of daffodils, Camille was looking out of an opened window, at an old English garden, and wondering if her happiness could last.

Stein tapped at the door, placed Camille’s bag inside, and retired.

“Don’t
bother
to unpack, my dear,” said Stella. “Flora, my maid, is
superlative.
”

Camille turned to her, impulsively.

“You are very kind, Mrs. Frobisher. And it was so good of you to make that appointment for me with Professor Hoffmeyer.”

“With Professor Hoffmeyer? Oh! my dear!
Did
I, really? Of course”—seeing Camille’s strange expression—“I
must
have done. It’s queer and it’s
absurd
, but, do you know, I’m
addicted
to the oddest
lapses
of memory.”

“
You
are?” Camille exclaimed; then, as it sounded so rude, she added, “I mean
I
am, too.”

“
You
are?” Stella exclaimed in turn, and seized both her hands. “Oh, my dear, I’m
so
glad! I mean, I know I
sound
silly, and a bit
horrid.
What I
wanted
to say was, it’s such a
relief
to meet somebody
else
who suffers in that
way.
Someone who has no possible
reason
for going funny in the head. But
tell
me—what did you
think
of him?”

Camille looked earnestly into the childish but kindly eyes. “I must tell you, Mrs. Frobisher—impossible though it sounds—that I have no recollection whatever of going there!”

“My dear!” Stella squeezed her hands encouragingly. “I
quite
understand. Whatever do you
suppose
is the matter with us?”

“I’m afraid I can’t even imagine.”

“
Could
it be some new kind of
epidemic?
”

Camille’s heart was beating rapidly, her expression was introspective; for she was, as Dr. Fu-Manchu had told her (but she had forgotten), a personable woman with a brain.

“I don’t know. Suppose we compare notes—”

Michael Frobisher’s study, the window of which offered a prospect of such woodland as Fenimore Cooper wrote about, was eminently that of a man of business. The books were reference books, the desk had nothing on it but a phone, a blotting-pad, pen, ink, a lamp, an almanac, and a photograph of Stella. The safe was built into the wall. No unnecessary litter.

“There’s the safe I told you about,” he was saying. “There’s the key—and the combination is right here.” He touched his rugged forehead. “Yet—I found the damned thing wide open! My papers”—he pulled out a drawer—“were sorted like a teller sorts checks.
I
know. I always have my papers in order. Then—somebody goes through my butler’s room.” He banged his big fist on the desk. “And not a bolt drawn, not a window opened!”

“Passing strange,” Craig murmured. He glanced at the folded diagram. “Hardly seems worthwhile to lock it up.” Michael Frobisher stared at the end of his half-smoked cigar, twirling it between strong fingers.

“There’s been nothing since I installed the alarm system. But I don’t trust anybody. I want you to test it. Meanwhile”—he laid his hand on the paper—“how long will it take you to finish this thing?”

“Speaking optimistically, two hours.”

“You mean, in two hours it will be possible to say we’re finished?”

“Hardly. Shaw has to make the valves. Wonderful fellow, Shaw. Then we have to test the brute in action. When that bright day dawns, it may be the right time to say we’re finished!”

Frobisher put his cigar back in his hard mouth, and stared at Craig.

“You’re a funny guy,” he said. “It took a man like me to know you had the brains of an Einstein. I might have regretted the investment if Martin Shaw hadn’t backed you—and Regan. I’m doubtful of Regan—now. But he knows the game. Then—you’ve shown me things.”

“A privilege, Mr. Frobisher.”

Frobisher stood up.

“Don’t go all Oxford on me. Listen. When this detail here is finished, you say we shall be in a position to tap a source of inexhaustible energy which completely tops atomic power?”

“I say so firmly. Whether we can control the monster depends entirely upon—that.”

“The transmuter valve?”

“Exactly. It’s only a small gadget. Shaw could make all three of ’em in a few hours. But if it works, Mr. Frobisher, and I
know
it will, we shall have at our command a force, cheaply obtained, which could (a) blow our world to bits, or (b) enable us to dispense with costly things like coal, oil, enormous atomic plants, and the like, forever. I am beginning to see tremendous possibilities.”

“Fine.”

Michael Frobisher was staring out of the window. His heavy face was transfigured. He, too, the man of commerce, the opportunist, could see those tremendous possibilities. No doubt he saw possibilities which had never crossed the purely scientific mind of Morris Craig.

“So,” said Craig, picking up the diagram and the notes, “I propose that I retire to my cubicle and busy myself until cocktails are served. Agreed?”