“Why?”
“For this reason, Hepburn. Our brilliant enemy has become a slave to routine. It is now almost a habit with him to test his death-agents upon someone else, and if the result is satisfactory to try them on me . . .”
“I’m not too clear about what you mean——”
“I mean that unless I am greatly mistaken, I am about to be subjected to an attempt upon my life by Dr. Fu Manchu!”
“What! But you are forty storeys up from the street!”
“We shall see. You may remember that I deduced the arrival of certain weapons in the Doctor’s armoury from circumstances connected with the death of Richet. . .”
“I remember. But a long night’s work was wasted.”
“Part of our trade,” rapped Nayland Smith dryly. “You will notice, Hepburn—there is ample reflected light—two trunks upon the top of a chest of drawers set against the wall on your left. Climb up and hide yourself behind the trunks—I have placed a chair for the purpose. Your job is to watch the windows but not to be seen——”
“Good God!” Hepburn whispered, and clutched Smith’s arm.
“What is it?”
“There’s someone in your bed!”
“There’s no one in my bed, Hepburn, nor is there any time to waste. This job is life or death. Get to your post.”
Mark Hepburn rallied his resources: that shock of discovering the apparent presence of someone in the bed had shaken him. But now he was icily cool again, cool as Nayland Smith. He climbed on to the chest of drawers, curled up there behind the trunks, although space was limited, in such a manner that he had a view of the windows while remaining invisible from anyone in the room. This achieved:
“Where are you, Sir Denis?” he asked, speaking in a low voice.
“Also entrenched, Hepburn. Do nothing until I give the word. And now listen. . . .”
Mark Hepburn began to listen. Clearly he sensed that the menace came from the windows, although its nature was a mystery to him. He heard the hooting of taxis, the eerie wail which denotes that the Fire Department is out, the concerted whine of motor engines innumerable. Then, more intimately, these sounds becoming a background, he heard something else. . . .
It was a very faint noise but a very curious one; almost it might have been translated as the impact of some night bird, or of a bat, against the stone face of the building. . . .
He listened intently, aware of the fact that his heartbeats had accelerated. He allowed his glance to wander for a moment in quest of Nayland Smith. Presently, accustomed now to the peculiar light of the room, he detected him. He was crouching on a glass-topped bureau, set just right of the window, holding what Hepburn took to be a sawn-off shot-gun in his hand.
Then again Hepburn directed the whole of his attention to the windows.
Clearly outlined against a sullen sky he could see one of New York’s tallest buildings. Only three of its many windows showed any light; one at the very top, just beneath the cupola, and two more in the dome itself which crowned the tall, slender structure. Tensed as he was, listening, waiting, for what was to come, the thought flashed through his mind: Who lived in those high, lonely rooms—who was awake there at this hour?
Another curious light was visible from where he lay—a red glow somewhere away to the left towards the river; a constantly changing light of which he could see only the outer halo. Then a moving blur appeared far below, and a rumbling sound told him that a train was passing. . . .
Suddenly, unexpectedly, a sharp silhouette obscured much of this dim nocturne. . . .
Something out of that exotic background belonging to the man who, alone, shared this vigil to-night, had crept up between the distant twinkling lights and Mark Hepburn’s view.
Vaguely he realized that the phenomenon was due to the fact that someone, miraculously, had climbed the face of the building, or part of it, and now, as he saw, was supporting himself upon the ledge. There was a moment of tense silence. It was followed by activity on the part of the invader perched perilously outside. A light, yellow-muffled, shone into the room, its searching ray questing around, to rest finally for a moment upon the bed.
Mark Hepburn held his breath; almost, he betrayed his presence.
The appearance of the disordered bed suggested that a sleeper, sheets drawn up right over his head, lay there!
“Dr. Fu Manchu has become a slave of routine”—Nayland Smith’s words echoed in Hepburn’s mind. “It is almost a habit with him to test his death-agents upon someone else, and if the result is satisfactory to try them on me.”
The shadowy silhouette perched upon the window ledge projected some kind of slender telescopic rod into the room. It stretched out towards the bed. . . . Upon it depended what looked like a square box. The rod was withdrawn. The visitor accomplished this with a minimum of noise. Hepburn, his ears attuned for the welcome word of command, watched. An invisible line was wound in, tautened, and jerked.
Suddenly came a loud and insistent hissing, and:
“Shoot!” snapped the voice of Nayland Smith. “Shoot that man, Hepburn!”
in
The shadowy shape at the window had not moved from that constrained, crouching attitude—two enormous hands, which appeared to be black, rested on the window ledge—when Mark Hepburn fired—once, twice. . . . The sinister silhouette disappeared; that strange hissing continued; the muted roar of New York carried on.
Yet, automatic dropped beside him, fist clenched, he listened so intently, so breathlessly, that he heard it. . . .
A dull thud in some courtyard far below.
“Don’t move, Hepburn,” came Nayland Smith’s crisp command. “Don’t stir until I give the word!”
An indeterminable odour became perceptible—chemical, nauseating. . . .
“Sir Denis!”
It was the voice of Fey.
“Don’t come in, Fey!” cried Nayland Smith. “Don’t open the door!”
“Very good, sir.”
Only a very keen observer would have recognized the note of emotion in Fey’s almost toneless voice.
The hissing noise continued.
“This is terrible!” Hepburn exclaimed. “Sir Denis! What has happened?”
The hissing ceased: Hepburn had identified it now.
“There’s a switch on your right,” came swiftly. “See if you can reach it, but stay where you are.”
Hepburn, altering his position, reached out, found the switch, and depressed it. Lights sprang up. He turned—and saw Nayland Smith poised on top of the bureau. The strange weapon which vaguely he had seen in the darkness proved to be a large syringe fitted with a long nozzle.
The air was heavy with a sickly sweet smell suggesting at once iodine and ether.
He looked towards the bed . . . and would have sworn that a figure lay under the coverlet—a sheet drawn up over its face! On the pillow and beside the place where the sleeper’s head seemed to lie rested a small wooden box no more than half the size of those made to contain cigars. One of the narrow sides—that which faced him—was open.
There seemed to be a number of large black spots upon the pillow. . . .
“It’s possible,” said Nayland Smith, staring across the room, “that I missed the more active. I doubt it. But we must be careful.”
Above the muted midnight boom of New York, sounds of disturbance, far below, became audible.
“I’m glad you didn’t miss our man, Hepburn!” rapped Nayland Smith, dropping on to the carpeted floor.
“I have been trained to shoot straight,” Mark Hepburn replied monotonously.
Nayland Smith nodded.
“He deserved all that came to him. I faked the bed when I heard his approach. . . . Jump into a suit and rejoin me in the sitting-room. We shall be wanted down there at any moment. . . .”
Three minutes later they both stood staring at a row of black insects laid upon a sheet of white paper. The reek of iodine and ether was creeping in from the adjoining bedroom. Fey, at a side table, prepared whiskies imperturbably. He was correctly dressed except for two trifling irregularities: his collar was that of a pyjama jacket, and he wore bedroom slippers.