Clutching at the hook he fired in the direction of the curtained doorway. . . and the flash showed it to be empty. Further shots would be wasted. He craned downward.
“Pass the word there’s a ropeway across the street. This damnable fog has helped them. Have the house opposite covered and searched.”
Now came shouted orders, sounds of running, muffled cries from the police below. . . .
“Arrest everyone in Wu King’s. Search the place from roof to cellar.”
He fired again in the direction of the distant window, aiming over the heads of the Chinamen. Craning forward, he heard scurrying footsteps; then came silence. Perilously, but aided by a high exaltation which had come to him in the moment when he knew that he actually stood in the presence of the all but fabulous Dr. Fu Manchu, he found his foothold on the ladder and descended to the roof. Finney, one arm thrown out, hauled him back from the parapet upon which the ladder was poised, and:
“What’s up there, Captain?” he demanded hoarsely. “I feel glued down here to the ladder.”
“A getaway across the street. Get busy. We must hurry.”
But already, delegating to a competent junior the matter of Wu King’s and of those inside it, Lieutenant Johnson had entered the building indicated.
It consisted of a dry-goods store which had been closed half an hour before, and of apartments above. (Investigations were to prove that the landlord was none other than Wu King.) Employing those methods peculiar to the police responsible for the good conduct of Chinatown, entrance was forced to every apartment and every room right to the top. Here a hitch occurred.
On the top storey was a lodge of the Hip Sing Tong. No key was forthcoming, and the door defied united attack.
As a precautionary measure every man, woman and child found in the building had been arrested. Laden police wagons were taking them to the Tombs when Hepburn came racing up to the landing. The work of the demolition of the door of the Tong temple had commenced. It was proving a tough job when a cry came:
“Make way there!”
A grim-faced policeman appeared from below, holding an elderly Chinaman by the scruff of the neck.
“He’s got the key,” he explained laconically.
A moment later the door was thrown open. Light was searched for and found, and the garishly decorated place revealed.
It was permeated by a curious odour of stale incense wafted in their direction by a draught from a window overhanging the street. Tackle lay upon the floor; a pulley had been rigged to one of the beams which crossed the ceiling. It was to this spot that escape had been made from the top story of Wu King’s building.
The Tong temple was empty from wall to wall. . . .
Chapter 26
THE SILVER BOX
In his tower study Dr. Fu Manchu spoke softly. Two points of light glowed upon the switchboard on the table.
“It was well done, my friend, but the rest is merely a question of time. Base 3 must be vacated. It is regrettable that the representative from Egypt should have been arrested, but steps have been taken to ensure his release. Of Wu Chang’s silence we are certain; other representatives are safe. You are short of helpers, therefore many splendid specimens must be sacrificed. But make good your own escape, leaving nothing behind that might act as a clue for the enemy,”
“I hear, Master,” the voice of old Sam Pak replied as though he stood in the room. “I shall see to these matters.”
“Instinct is greater than wit” the guttural voice of Dr. Fu Manchu continued. “By instinct Enemy Number One has smelled us out. I hear you hiss, my friend. We shall see. I have a plan.”
“Do you desire, Marquis, that the way be made easy?”
“Such is my wish. Give them this hollow triumph: it will blind their eyes. Base 3 is of no further service: move in this matter, my friend.”
Long fingers manipulated switches. Two lights became extinguished, but another appeared upon the board.
“Report,” Dr. Fu Manchu directed, “of Number covering Base 3.”
“Report to hand,” the Teutonic tones of the Memory Man replied, “timed 11.36. Wu King’s Bar was raided at 11.05 and everyone on the premises, including Wu King and members of his family, arrested by police. Emergency exit is also in their hands; many other arrests—some forty in all. The barricades have been raised, and everything is normal except that the area is being heavily patrolled. Government agent in charge of operations to-night identified as Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C. Captain Hepburn has left the area—covered. Report ends. From Number 37.”
There was a moment of silence; the long fingers resting upon the lacquered table were so still that they might have been wrought of smoked ivory.
“Report,” the voice directed, “of Number responsible for protection of representatives.”
“Report of Protection Bureau to hand,” the Memory Man replied, “timed 11.50. All are safely returned to their hotels or places of residence, with the exception of Egyptian representative. He was arrested at Entrance 4 together with one Wu Chang who was in his company. This arrest was the subject of an earlier report.”
“Latest report of Number covering Exit 4.”
“To hand, time 11.38. The raiding party believed to be in charge of Police Captain Corrigan has withdrawn, leaving men estimated at seven to nine covering the point. Report ends. This from Number 49.”
“Prepare coast-to-coast reports. I shall require you to relay them in the order received, in one hour.”
Amber light prevailed again in the domed room where the man of miraculous memory worked upon his endless task of fashioning that majestic Chinese head. And at the moment that the light reappeared, the long bony fingers of Dr. Fu Manchu reached out to the silver box. Raising the lid, he extracted the delicate equipment for opium smoking which this receptacle contained.
“What’s the idea, Hepburn?” rapped Nayland Smith. The New York Times propped up against a coffee-pot, he was sitting at a frugal breakfast as Hepburn came into the sitting-room. Save for a suggestion of shadows beneath his keen eyes, there was little in that bronzed face to show the state of sustained nervous tension in which Nayland Smith had been during the past forty-eight hours. Automatically filling his pipe, he stared at Hepburn.
The moustache and beard had vanished. Mark Hepburn was again his clean-shaven self. He smiled in his almost apologetic way.
“Wasn’t it your friend Kipling who said that women and elephants never forget?” he asked. “I guess he might have included Dr. Fu Manchu. Anyway, I was shot at twice last night!”
Nayland Smith nodded.
“You’re right,” he said rapidly; “I had forgotten momentarily that he saw you at the window. Yes, the bearded newspaperman must disappear.”
Fey entered from the kitchenette bearing silver-covered dishes upon a tray; an appetizing odour accompanied him. Fey’s behaviour was that of a well-trained servant in a peaceful English home.
“I am making fresh coffee, sir,” he said to Hepburn. “It will be ready in a moment.”
He uncovered the dishes and withdrew.
“I am rapidly coming to the conclusion,” said Nayland Smith while Hepburn explored under the covers, “that we have outstayed our welcome under the covers, “that we have outstayed our welcome here. It’s only a question of time for one or both of us to be caught either going out or coming in.”
Hepburn did not reply. Nayland Smith struck a match, lighted his pipe and continued:
“So far we have been immoderately lucky, although both of us have had narrow squeaks. But we know that this place is covered night and day. It would be wise, I think, if we made other arrangements.”
“I am disposed to agree with you,” said Mark Hepburn slowly.
“The papers”—Nayland Smith indicated a score of loose sheets upon the carpet beside him—”are reticent about our abortive raid. A washout, Hepburn! Impossible to hold either of the prisoners. We have no evidence against them.”