They were in a curious, octagonal room in which, facing south, were three windows. There were indications that furniture at some time had stood against the walls. Now the room was bare.
“I guess we’ll push right on to the top,” said Hepburn.
Mr. Schmidt studied the rough plan which he carried.
“The door is on this side, I think,” he said vaguely. “One of the late Mr. Stratton’s eccentricities.”
He walked to a point directly opposite the central window, stood fumbling there awhile, and then inserted a key in a lock and opened the hitherto invisible door.
“This way”
They went up an uncarpeted staircase at the top of which another door was opened. They entered a second octagonal room appreciably smaller than that which they had just quitted, but also destitute of any scrap of furniture; there was an empty alcove on one side.
“You see,” said Schmidt, flashing his light about, “there’s a balcony to this room, outside the french windows there. . . .”
“I see,” muttered Nayland Smith, staring keenly about him.
“From that gallery,” said Mark Hepburn in his monotonous voice, “it is possible I could see the cable to the flagstaff.”
“The window,” Schmidt replied, “appears to be bolted only. I think you can get out there without any difficulty.
Nayland Smith turned suddenly to the speaker.
“There is still another floor above?”
Mark Hepburn had shot back a bolt and opened one of the heavy windows.
“Yes, so I understand. A small domed room immediately under the flagstaff. The door, I believe”—he hesitated—”is directly facing the windows, again. Let us see if I can open it.”
He crossed as Hepburn stepped out on to the gallery—that gallery which Professor Morgenstahl had paced so often in the misery of his captivity. . . .
“Here we are!” Schmidt cried triumphantly.
“I see,” said Nayland Smith, regarding the newly-opened door. “I should be obliged, while we complete our inspection, if you would step down and tell the fireman on duty that he is not to leave without my orders.”
“Certainly, Mr. Englebert; then I’ll come right back.”
Mr. Schmidt crossed and might be heard descending the stair.
As he disappeared:
“Hepburn!” Nayland Smith called urgently.
Hepburn came in from the balcony.
“This place has been hurriedly stripped—and only a matter of hours ago! But, all the same, our last hope is the top floor!”
He led the way, shining light ahead. It was a short stair— and the door above was open. Small, domed, and surrounded by curious amber paned Gothic windows which did not appear to communicate with the outer air, it was stripped— empty!
“We are right under the flagstaff,” said Hepburn quite tone-lessly. “He’s been too clever for us. I was marked on my first visit.”
Nayland Smith’s hands fell so that the ray from his torch shone down upon the floor at his feet.
“He wins again!” he said slowly. “That baize door has been covered all day. There’s another way in—and another way out: the cunning, cunning devil.” And now, his diction changed as that dauntless spirit recovered from the check:
“Come on, Hepburn, downstairs again!” he snapped energetically.
But in the apartment below, with its bedroom alcove and tiny bathroom, formerly the quarters of the eccentric millionaire who had lived in semi-seclusion here, Nayland Smith stared about him in something like desperation.
“We have clear evidence,” he said, “that this room certainly was occupied forty-eight hours ago. We are not defeated yet, Hepburn.”
“I am anxious to study the view from the balcony,” Hepburn replied.
“I know why you are anxious.”
Undeterred by the note of raillery perceptible in Nayland Smith’s voice, Mark Hepburn stepped out on to the iron-railed balcony: Smith followed.
“Where does the boy live, Hepburn?”
“I am trying to identify it. Wait a moment—I have seen these windows lighted from our own apartment. So first let’s locate the Regal-Athenian.”
“Easily done,” rapped Nayland Smith, and pointed, “There’s the Regal Tower, half-right.”
“Then the penthouse lies somewhere west of where we stand. It must, because I know it isn’t visible from our windows.”
“That’s a pity,” said Nayland Smith drily.
“I’m not thinking the way you believe, Smith, at all. I’m trying to work out a totally different idea. It seems to me. . . .”
The sound which checked his words was a very slight sound, yet clearly audible up there where the Juggernaut hymn of New York was diminished to a humming croon, the song of a million fireflies dancing far below.
Nayland Smith turned as though propelled by a spring.
The open french window had been closed and bolted. Visible in the eerie light of a clouded moon, Dr. Fu Manchu stood inside watching them!
He wore a heavy coat with an astrakhan collar, an astrakhan cap upon his head. His only visible protection was the thickness of the glass. . . .
“Hepburn!” Nayland Smith reached for his automatic. “Don’t look into his eyes!”
Those strange eyes glittered like emeralds through the panes of the window.
“A shot would be wasted, Sir Denis!” The cold, precise voice reached them out there upon the balcony as though no glass intervened. “The panes are bulletproof—an improvement of my own upon the excellent device invented by an Englishman.”
Nayland Smith’s finger faltered on the trigger. He had never known Dr. Fu Manchu to tell a lie. But this was a crisis in the Doctor’s affairs. He took a step back and fired obliquely.
The bullet ricocheted as from armour plate, whistling out into space! Dr. Fu Manchu did not stir a muscle.
“My God!” (and it sounded like a groan) came from Mark Hepburn.
“You can hear me clearly through the ventilators above the window,” the Asiatic voice continued. “I regret that I should have given you cause, Sir Denis, to doubt my word.”
Hepburn turned aside; he was trying desperately to think coolly. He stared downward from the balcony. . . .
“You are one of the few men whom I have encountered in a long life,” Dr. Fu Manchu continued, “of sufficient strength of character to look me in the eyes. For this I respect you. I know by what self-abnegation you have achieved this control, and I regret the necessity which you have thrust upon me. Our association, if at times tedious, has never been dishonourable.”
He turned aside, placing a small globular lamp upon the bare floor of the room: within it a bright light sprang up. He took a step back towards the window.
“I am not prepared to suffer any human hindrance in this hour of destiny. I have chosen Paul Salvaletti to rule at the White House. Here, in the United States, I shall set up my empire. Time and time again you have checked me—but this time, Sir Denis, you arrive too late. You are correct in your surmise that there is another means of entrance to these apartments, formerly occupied by Professor Morgenstahl (whose name will be familiar to you) and myself.”
“Smith,” Hepburn whispered—”there’s one chance . . .”
But Nayland Smith did not turn; he was watching Dr. Fu Manchu. The superhuman Chinaman was winding what appeared to be a watch. He placed it on the floor beside the lamp, turned, and spoke:
“I bid you good-bye, Sir Denis; and—I speak with sincerity—not without regret. Your powers of pure reasoning are limited: your gifts of intuition are remarkable. In this respect I place you among the seven first-class brains of your race. Captain Hepburn has excellent qualities. He is a man I should be glad to have in my service. However, he has chosen otherwise. The small apparatus which I have placed upon the floor (a hobby of the late Lord Southery, a talented engineer whom I believe you knew) contains a power which, expanding from so small a centre, will, I am convinced, astound you. I have timed it to explode in one hundred and twenty seconds. Its explosion will entirely obliterate the dome of the Stratton Building. I must leave you.”