A subdued clatter of teacups became audible from the kitchenette to which Fey had retired, as Nayland Smith extracted the letter from the envelope. Sarah Lakin watched Sir Denis intently. He fascinated her. Brief though her acquaintance with him had been, her own fine nature had recognized and welcomed the keen, indomitable spirit of this man, who in an emergency personal and national, had thrown the weight of his trained powers into the scale.
He studied the letter silently, reading it once, twice. He then read it aloud:
“dear sarah,
This is to relieve your anxiety. By this time you will know that I am the victim of a plot; but I have compromised with the enemy, pax in hello, and I congratulate you and those associated with you upon the manner in which you have succeeded in restraining the newspapers from reference to the subject of my temporary disappearance. I have instructed Norbert, who will communicate with you. The experience has been unpleasant and even now I am not wholly my own master. Please conduct yourself as though you were ignorant of this misadventure, but have no fears respecting my appearance at Carnegie Hall. I shall be there. I dislike seeming to mystify, but it would be to my best interests if you make no attempt to communicate with me until the night of the debate. It is unnecessary that I should tell you to have courage.
Always affectionately yours,
orwin.”
“No date,” Nayland Smith commented. “No address. A sheet torn from a common type of writing-block. The envelope, also, is of a very ordinary kind, bearing a New York postmark. H’m . . . !”
He dropped letter and envelope upon the desk and, taking up a tobacco pouch, began to load his pipe. Fey entered with a tea tray which he placed upon a small table before Miss Lakin.
“Cream or milk?”
“Milk, and one piece of sugar, thank you.”
Except for a certain haggardness visible on the face of Nayland Smith and the strangeness of his attire in one obviously trained to conform to social custom, there was little in the atmosphere of this room high above the turmoil of New York to suggest that remorseless warfare raged about the pair who faced one another across the tea-table.
“I am entirely at a loss what to do, Sir Denis.”
As Fey withdrew, the deep voice of Miss Lakin broke the silence; her steady eyes were fixed upon Nayland Smith. He lighted his pipe, paused, looked down at her, and:
“A very foul briar is unusual at tea-time,” he snapped, and dropped his pipe in an ash tray. “Please forgive me. I am up against the greatest and perhaps the last problem of my life.”
“Sir Denis . . .” Miss Lakin bent forward, took up the charred pipe from the tray and extended it towards him. “Surely you know that I understand. I have lived in a wider world than Connecticut, and I want your advice badly. Please concentrate upon the problem in your own way. What should I do? What do you advise me to do?”
Nayland Smith stared hard at those grave eyes of the speaker; then, pipe in hand, began to walk up and down the room, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. They were forty floors above the streets of New York, and yet the ceaseless bombila-tion of those amazing thoroughfares reached them through such windows as were open: the hooting of lorry horns, the roar often thousand engines, the boom of a distant train rumbling along the rails, the warning siren of a tug-boat on East River. The city was around them, throbbing, living, an entity, a demi-god, claiming them—and as it seemed in this hour, demanding their destruction.
“Is the phrasing characteristic of your cousin’s style?” Nayland Smith demanded.
“Yes, broadly”
“I understand. It struck me as somewhat pedantic.”
“He has a very scholarly manner, Sir Denis, but as a rule it is not so marked in his intimate letters.” “Ah. . . . Who is Norbert?” “Maurice Norbert is Orwin’s private secretary.” “I see. May I take it, Miss Lakin, that in this fight for domination of the United States your cousin did not actually aim at the Presidency?”
“He did not even desire it, Sir Denis. He is what our newspapers term a hundred-per-cent American, but in the best sense of the phrase. He hoped to break the back of Harvey Bragg’s campaign. His aims were identical with those of the Abbot Donegal. His disappearance from the scene at this time would be fatal.”
“I agree! But it seems that he is not going to disappear.” “Then do you believe that what he says is true?” “I am disposed to believe it, Miss Lakin. My advice is to conform strictly to the letter and spirit of his request.” Miss Lakin was watching him intently, then:
“I am afraid I don’t agree with you, Sir Denis,” she said. “Why?” He turned and faced her.
“That Orwin was kidnapped we know. Thank God he is alive! Surely he was forced to write this letter by the kidnapers. They are playing for time. Surely you can see that they are playing for time!”
Chapter 14
THE SCARLET BRIDES
In a small, book-lined room, high above New York City, dimly lighted and pervaded by a faint smell of incense, Dr. Fu Manchu, wearing a yellow robe but with no cap crowning his massive skull, sat behind a large lacquered table, his eyes closed. From a little incense burner on one comer of this table a faint spiral of smoke arose-some might have ascribed this to a streak of effeminacy in an otherwise great man, but one who knew the potency of burning perfumes as understood in the ancient Orient would have placed a different construction upon the circumstances. The Delphic Oracle was so inspired; incense cunningly prepared, such as the khyfi of the ancient Egyptians, can exalt the subconscious mind. A voice was speaking as though someone stood in the room, although except for the presence of the majestic Chinaman it was empty.
Dr. Fu Manchu pressed a button, the voice ceased, and there was silence in the incense-laden place. For two, three, five minutes the Chinaman sat motionless, his lean, long-fingered hands resting upon the table before him, his eyes closed.
“I am here, Master,” said a feeble voice speaking in Chinese.
“Listed carefully,” Dr. Fu Manchu replied in the same language. “It is urgent How many of our Scarlet Brides from New Zealand have you in reserve?”
“Fifteen, Master. I sacrificed five in the case of the man James Richet, fearing that some might not survive the cold.”
“It is reported that Danger Number One—I hear you hiss, my friend—invariably sleeps with his windows open. Sacrifice ten more of our little friends. See that he does not sleep alone to-night.”
“My lord, I have no one who could undertake the work. If I had Alt Khan or Quong Wah, or any one of our old servants. But I have none. What can I do in this uncivilized land to which my lord has exiled me?”
Several moments of silence followed. The long ivory hands with their incredible nails, beautiful even in their cruelty, rested motionless upon the table, then:
“Await orders,” said the imperious, guttural voice.
Another button was depressed and there was silence. The pencil of smoke rising from the incense burner was growing more and more faint. Dr. Fu Manchu opened his eyes, staring straight before him; his eyes were green as emeralds, glittering gems reflecting an inexorable will. His right hand moved to a small switchboard. He inserted a plug, and presently a spot of red light indicted that he was connected.
“Is that’A’New York?”
“Kern Adier here.”
“You know to whom you are speaking?”
“Yes. What can I do for you, President?”
The voice was unctuous but nervous.
“We have not yet met,” the imperious tone continued, “but I assume, otherwise I should not have appointed you, that you can command the services of the New York underworld?”
There was a perceptible pause before Kern Alder replied.
“If you would tell me, President, exactly what you want, I should be better able to answer.”