“Who’s gone out,” the detective demanded, “in the last five minutes? Anybody?”
But even as the startled man began to answer, the Lotus cab was speeding along almost deserted streets, and Dr. Fu Manchu, lying back in the corner, relaxed after a dangerous and mentally intense effort which he had every reason to believe would result in the removal of Enemy Number One. Nayland Smith’s activities were beginning seriously to interfere with his own. The abandonment of the Chinatown base was an inconvenience, and reports received from those responsible for covering the Stratton Building suggested that further intrusion might be looked for. . . .
Chapter 30
PLAN OF ATTACK
Grey morning light was creeping into the sitting-room.
“Last night’s attempt,” said Nayland Smith (he wore a dressing-gown over pyjamas), “is not uncharacteristic of the Doctor’s methods.”
“Poor consolation for me,” Hepburn replied, speaking from the depths of an armchair in which, similarly attired, he was curled up.
“Don’t let us worry unduly,” said Nayland Smith. “I have known others to suffer from the insidious influence of Fu Manchu; indeed, I have suffered myself. Physical fear has no meaning for the Doctor. Undoubtedly he was here in person, here in the enemy’s headquarters. He walked out under the very noses of the police officers I had dispatched to intercept him. He is a great man, Hepburn.”
“He is.”
“There is no evidence that you were drugged in any way last night, but we cannot be sure, for the Doctor’s methods are subtle. That he influenced your brain while you were sleeping is beyond dispute. The dream of the interminable labyrinth, the conviction that my life depended upon your escape—all this was prompted by the will ofFu Manchu. You were dreaming, although even now you doubt it, when you thought you awoke. He only made one mistake, Hepburn. He postulated a hypodermic syringe which was not in your possession!”
“But I loaded a fountain pen with some pretty deadly drugs which now it is impossible to identify.”
“You carried out your hypnotic instructions to the best of your ability. The power of Fu Manchu’s mind is an awful thing. However, by an accident, a pure accident, or an oversight, he failed—thank God! Let us review the position.”
Mark Hepburn reached out for a cigarette; his face was haggard, unshaven.
“We are beginning to harass the enemy.” Nayland Smith, pipe fuming furiously, paced up and down the carpet. “That there is a staircase below Wu King’s with some unknown exit on the street is certain. At any moment I expect a report that the men have broken in there. It’s construction has been carried out from the point that I call the water-gate; hence Finney’s ignorance of its existence. Once we have reached it, with the equipment at our disposal we can break through. It doesn’t matter how many iron doors obstruct us. The entrance from the sewers we have been unable to trace. But penetration to the Chinatown base is only a question of time.”
He puffed furiously, but his overworked pipe had gone out. He laid it in an ash-tray and continued to walk up and down. Mark Hepburn, labouring under a load of undeserved guilt, watched him fascinatedly.
“What Mrs. Adair knows which would be of value to us is problematical. According to Lieutenant Johnson’s report, it would seem to be perfectly feasible to obtain possession of the boy, Robbie, during one of his visits to Long Island.”
“The owner of the house and his family are at the coast,” Mark Hepburn said monotonously. “He is, as you will have noted, a co-director with the late Harvey Bragg of the Lotus Transport Corporation.”
“I had noted it,” Smith said drily; “but he may nevertheless be innocent of any knowledge of the existence of Dr. Fu Manchu. That’s the devilish part of it, Hepburn. The other points are: (a) Can Mrs. Adair afford us any material assistance; (b) Is it safe to attempt it?”
“The negro chauffeur,” Hepburn replied, “may have orders, for all we know to the contrary, to shoot the boy in the event of any such attempt. Frankly, I don’t feel justified.”
“Assuming we succeeded. . . .”
“Her complicity would be fairly evident—she would suffer?”
Nayland Smith paused in his promenade and, turning, stared at Hepburn.
“Unless we kidnapped her at the same time,” he snapped.
Mark Hepburn stood up suddenly, dropping his recently lighted cigarette in a tray.
“By heavens, Smith,” he said excitedly, “that may be the solution!”
“It’s worth thinking about, but it would require a very careful plan. I am disposed at the moment—without imperilling the lives of Mrs. Adair and her son—to concentrate upon the Stratton Building. Your experience there was definitely illuminating.”
He crossed to the big desk above which the maps were pinned, and looked down at a number of clay fragments which lay there.
“I feel disposed, Hepburn—if necessary with the backing of the Fire Department—to pursue your enquiry into the flaw in the lightning conductors. An examination could be arranged after office workers had left. But I think it would be unwise to give any warning to this Mr. Schmidt whom you have mentioned, of our intention. Do you agree with me?”
“Yes,” Hepburn replied slowly; “that is what I had planned myself. But, Smith. . . .”
Smith turned and regarded him.
“Do you realize how I feel? In the first place you know—I haven’t disguised it—that I am becoming really fond of Moya Adair. That’s bad enough—she’s one of the enemy. In the second place, it seems that I am such a poor weakling that this hellish Chinaman can use me as an instrument to bring about your murder! How can you ever trust me again?”
Nayland Smith stepped up to him, grasped both his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
“I would trust you, Hepburn,” he said slowly, “as I would trust few men. You are human—so am I. Don’t let the hypnotic episode disturb your self-respect. There is no man living immune from this particular power possessed by Dr. Fu Manchu. There’s only one thing: Should you ever meet him again—avoid his eyes.”
“Thank you,” said Mark Hepburn; “it’s kind of you to take it that way.”
Smith grasped the outstretched hand, clapped Hepburn on the shoulder and resumed his restless promenade.
“In short,” he continued, “we are beginning to make a certain amount of headway. But the campaign, as time goes on, grows more and more hectic. In my opinion our lives, as risks, are uninsurable. And I am seriously worried about the Abbot of Holy Thorn.
“In what way?”
“His life is not worth—that!”
He snapped his fingers.
“No.” Mark Hepburn nodded, selecting a fresh cigarette and staring rather haggardly out of the window across the roofs of a grey New York. “He is not a man one can gag indefinitely. Dr. Fu Manchu must know it.”
“Knowing it,” snapped Nayland Smith, “I fear that he will act. If we had a clear case, I should be disposed to act first. The thing is so cunningly devised that our lines of attack are limited. Excluding an unknown inner group surrounding the mandarin, in my opinion not another soul working for the League of Good Americans has the remotest idea of the ultimate object of that League, or of the sources of its revenues! All the reports—and I have read hundreds—point in the same direction. Many thousands of previously workless men have been given employment. Glance at the map.” He pointed. “Every red flag means a Fu Manchu advance! They are working honourably at the tasks alloted to them. But every one, when the hour comes, will cry out with the same voice: every one, north, south, east and west, is a unit in the vast army which, unknowingly, is building up the domination of this country by Dr. Fu Manchu, through his chosen nominee——”