The Shadow of Fu-Manchu (26 page)

“I wish we could pin something on him.”

“I doubt if you ever will. He has courage and cunning second only to those of his distinguished chief.”

“There’s that impudent young liar who sits in the shop, too. And I have reports of a pretty girl of similar type who’s been seen around there.”

“Probably Huan Tsung’s children.”

“His
children!
” Even the gently spoken Harkness was surprised into vehemence. “But—how old is he?”

“Nearing eighty-five, I should judge. But the fecundity of a Chinese aristocrat is proverbial… Hullo! What’s this?”

The radio operator had buzzed to come through.

“Yes?” said Harkness.

“Headquarters, sir. I think it may be important.”

“What is it?” Nayland Smith asked rapidly.

“Well, sir, it comes from a point on the East River. A young officer from a ship tied up there seems to have been saying good night to a girl, by some deserted building. They heard tapping from inside a metal pipe on the wall, right where they stood. He spotted it was
Morse
—”

“Yes, yes—the message?”

“The message—it’s just reached headquarters—says: ‘
J.J. Regan here. Call police…’
There’s a party setting out right now—”

“Regan?
Regan?
Recall them!” snapped Smith. “Quickly!”

Startled, the man gave the order, and then looked back. “Well, sir?”

“The place to be covered, but by men who know their job. Anyone who comes out to be kept in view. Anyone going in to be allowed to do so. No suspicion must be aroused.”

The second order was given.

“Anything more?”

“No.” Nayland Smith was staring right ahead along the beam of light. “I am trying to imagine, Harkness, how many times the poor devil may have tapped out that message.”

C
amille’s impressions of the sortie from the house were brief, but terrifying.

That tragedy, swift, mysterious, had swept down on Falling Waters; she had known even before she ran from her room to prevent Stella Frobisher going downstairs. The arrival of Nayland Smith had struck a note of urgency absent before. Up to this moment, she had counted her confession to Morris the supreme ordeal which she must brave that night.

But, when she returned upstairs (and she knew Sir Denis had seen her), apprehension grew. She had dressed quickly. She realized that something was going to happen. Just what, she didn’t know.

Then she heard someone running across the rose garden which her window overlooked. She laid down the cigarette she was smoking, went and looked out. She saw nothing. But it was a dark night. She wondered if it would be wise to report the occurrence. But before decision was reached had come that awful cry—shots—the baying of dogs.

Stella Frobisher, evidently wide awake, had come out of her room. Camille had heard her hurrying along the corridor, had run out after her…

It had been difficult, inducing Stella to return. Camille had succeeded, at last.

But to remain locked in, whilst Morris was exposed to some mysterious but very real peril—this was a trial to which Camille was unable to submit. It was alien to all her instincts.

She felt mean for locking Stella into her own apartment, but common sense told her that Mrs. Frobisher could be only a nuisance in an emergency.

Then had come that stumbling rush in cold, clammy darkness toward the spot where, instinctively, she knew Morris to be—in danger. Whilst still a long way off, she had seen that horrifying mix-up of dogs and men. Morris was there.

Almost unconsciously she had cried his name: “Morris! Morris!”

By means of what miracle Morris heard her voice above the tumult Camille would never know—unless her heart told her; for a second disturbance had broken out not far away: shots, shouting.

But he did.

He turned. Camille saw someone else, probably the kennel man, joining in the melee. Perhaps she was outlined against lights from the house; but Morris saw her, began to run towards her. He seemed to be shouting. His behavior was wild.

Something—it felt like a damp, evil-smelling towel—was dropped suddenly over her head.

And now?

Now she lay on a heap of coarse canvas piled up in a corner of what seemed to be a large, and was unmistakably a dilapidated, warehouse: difficult to assess its extent for the reason that the only light was that of a storm-lamp which stood on the roughly paved floor close to where Camille lay.

Another piece of this evidently abundant sacking had been draped over one side of the lantern so that no light at all reached a great part of the place. There was a smell of dampness and decay with an overtone which might have been tea. It was very still, except that at the moment when she became conscious of her surroundings, Camille thought she had heard the deep warning note of a steamer’s whistle.

The impression was correct. The S.S.
Campus Rex
had just pulled out from a neighboring berth, bound for the River Plate. Her third officer was wishing he knew the result of his message to the police and wishing he could have spent one more night with his girl friend…

A scuffling sound brought Camille to her feet at a bound.

There were rats around her in the darkness!

She had physical courage such as, perhaps, few women possess. But the presence of rats had always set her heart beating faster. They terrified her.

Swaying slightly, she became aware of a nausea not due merely to fright. There was an unpleasant taste on her palate.

A sickly sweet odor lingered, too, in her disordered hair. Of course, she might have expected it. The towel, or whatever had been thrown over her head, must have been saturated with an anaesthetic.

She stood quite still for a moment, trying to conquer her weakness. The scuffling sound had ceased. In fact, she could detect no sound whatever, so that it might have been some extra sense which prompted her to turn swiftly.

Half in the light from the storm-lamp and half in shadow, a tall man stood watching her.

Camille stifled a cry almost uttered, and was silent.

The man who stood there wore a long, loose coat with a deep astrakhan collar. A round cap, of Russian type, and of the same close black fur, was on his head. His arms were folded, but the fingers of his left hand remained visible. They were yellow, slender fingers, prolonged by pointed fingernails meticulously manicured.

His features, lean, ascetic, and unmistakably Chinese, were wholly dominated by his eyes. In the lantern light they gleamed like green jade.

“Your sense of hearing is acute,” he said, his harsh voice subdued. “I thought I moved quite noiselessly.”

And, as he spoke, Camille knew that this was the man who had haunted her dreams.

“Who are you?” She spoke huskily. “What am I doing here?”

“You asked me a similar question not long ago. But you have forgotten.”

“I have never seen you in my life before—as you are now. But I
know
you! You are Dr. Fu-Manchu!”

“Your data are inaccurate. But your inference is correct. What are you doing here, you say? You are suffering the inconvenience of one who interferes with my plans. I regret the crude measures used by Koenig to prevent this interference. But his promptitude saved the situation.”

“Where is Dr. Craig?” Camille demanded breathlessly. “What have you done to him?”

He watched her through narrowed eyes and unfolded his clasped arms before he replied:

“I am glad your first, your only, concern is for Dr. Craig.”

“Why?”

“Presently, you shall know.”

And something in that expression, “You shall know,” brought sudden revelation to Camille.

“You are the man who called himself Professor Hoffmeyer!”

“I congratulate you. I had imagined my German-English to be above reproach. I begin to wonder if you cannot be of use to me. As Professor Hoffmeyer, I have been observing the life of Manhattan. I have seen that Manhattan is Babylon reborn—that Manhattan, failing a spiritual revolution, must fall as Babylon fell.”

“Where is Dr. Craig?” Camille repeated, mechanically, desperately. “Why have I been brought
here?
”

“Because there was no other place to which they could bring you. It surprises me, I confess, that a woman of such keen perceptions failed to learn the fact that Michael Frobisher was a Communist.”

“A Communist? Mr. Frobisher? Oh, no—he is a Socialist—”

“Socialism is Communism’s timid sister. Michael Frobisher is an active agent of the Soviet Union. Before his marriage, he spent many years in Moscow. Dr. Craig’s invention was financed by the Kremlin. Had Frobisher secured it for them, he was promised a post which would have made him virtual dictator of the United States.”

Even in her desolation, despair, this astounding fact penetrated to Camille’s mind.

“Then he was clever,” she murmured.

“Communism
is
clever. It is indeed clever to force the world’s workers to toil and sweat in order that their masters may live in Oriental luxury.”

“Why do you tell me all this? Why do you talk to me, torture me, but never answer my question?”

“Because, even now, at this eleventh hour, I hope to convert you. You heard me, as Professor Hoffmeyer (the professor, himself, is at work in one of our research centers), outline a design for world harmony. To the perfecting of this design I have given the labor of a long life.”

He paused. A soft, weird cry came from somewhere near. Its effect upon Camille was to shatter her returning composure. To her it portended a threat of death. Had Nayland Smith heard it, he would have recognized the peculiar call of a dacoit, one of that fraternity of Burmese brigands over whom Dr. Fu-Manchu exercised a control hitherto unexplained.

“What was it?”

Camille breathed, rather than spoke, the words.

“A warning. Do not allow it to disturb you. My plans are complete. But my time is limited. You are anxious concerning Dr. Craig. I, too, am anxious. For this reason alone I have talked to you so long. I hope you can induce him to accept the truth. You may succeed where I have failed.”

He turned and walked away. Camille heard the creak of an opening door.

* * *

The warning which Camille had construed as a message of evil omen had been prompted by something occurring on the nearby river front.

To any place, the wide world over, where men go down to the sea in ships, night brings no repose. So that, even at this hour, Manhattan danced on. Winches squealed. Anchor chains rattled. Sea boots clattered along decks. Lights moved hither and thither. Hoarse orders were shouted. Tugboats churned the muddy river. And the outgoing tide sang its eternal song of the ocean, from which it had come, to which it returned.

But no one had time to pay attention to a drunken sailor who came reeling along past deserted dock buildings, blacked-out warehouses, stumbling often, rebuking himself in an alcoholic monotone. He steadied up every once in a while against a friendly doorway, a lamp standard, or a stout pipe.

One such pipe seemed to give him particular satisfaction. Perhaps because it ran down the wall of a building marked for demolition upon the doors of which might still be read the words: “Shen Yan Tea Company.”

This pipe he positively embraced, and, embracing it, sank ungracefully to the sidewalk, and apparently fell asleep.

A few minutes later he had established contact with Regan. He, too, was a Morse expert.

“Yes. John Regan here. Huston Electric. Who are you?”

“Brandt. Police officer. Where are you?”

“Old strong room. Basement. Don’t know what building.”

“Shout. I may hear you.”

“Dumb.”

This message shook Brandt.

“How come?”

“Injection. Attacked in lab Friday night. Get me out.”

“Starving?”

“No. But food and water finished.”

“Any movement overhead right now?”

“Yes. Someone up there.”

“Hang on. Help coming.”

The drunken sailor woke up suddenly. He began to strike matches and to try to light a cigarette. He remained seated beside the pipe. These matches attracted the attention of a patrolman (who had been waiting for this signal) and who now appeared from somewhere, and approached, swinging his club.

But the matches had also attracted the attention of another, highly skilled observer. So that, as the police officer hauled the drunk to his feet and led him off, the call of a dacoit was heard in the empty warehouse.

* * *

“This was formerly the office of a firm of importers known as the Shen Yan Tea Company,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu. “An old friend of mine had an interest in that business.”

Morris Craig swallowed—with difficulty. He had by no means recovered from the strangling grip of those unseen fingers. He would have liked to massage his bruised throat. But his wrists were secured by metal clamps to the arms of his chair, a remarkable piece of furniture, evidently of great age; it had a curious, domed canopy which at some time might have been gilded. He was helpless, mad with anxiety about Camille, but undaunted.

“Strange coincidence,” he replied huskily. “No doubt this attractive and comfortable rest-chair has quite a history, too?”