the conditions will be onerous . . . but you must accept them. I will add to your knowledge of this cast conspiracy. You alone, can stem the tide. I will give you names. Upon the result our final success depends.”
“Success or failure in human affairs invariably hangs upon a thread,” the abbot replied. “The engagement of Paul Salvaletti and Lola Dumas has been given publicity greater than any royal wedding in the Old World ever obtained in America. In this the satanic genius who aims to secure control of the United States proves himself human—for it is human to err.”
“I see!” snapped Nayland Smith; his eyes glittered with repressed excitement. “You have information touching the private life of Salvaletti?”
“Information, Sir Denis, which my conscience demands I should make public. . . .”
Chapter 35
THE LEAGUE OF GOOD AMERICANS
“It is essential, my friend, to our success, even at this hour,” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “indeed essential to our safety, that we silence this pestilential priest.”
The room in which he sat appeared to contain all those appointments which had characterized his former study at the top of the Stratton Building. The exotic tang of incense was in the air, but windows opened on to a veranda helped to sweeten the atmosphere. Beyond a patch of lawn, terminated by glass outbuildings, a natural barrier of woods rose steeply to a high skyline. The trees, at the call of Spring, were veiling themselves in transparent green garments, later magically to be transformed into the gorgeous vestments of Summer. The Doctor’s ever-changing headquarters possessed the virtue of variety.
From the point of view of the forces controlled by Nayland Smith, he had completely disappeared following the explosion at the Stratton Building. The cave of the seven-eyed goddess had given up none of its secrets. Sam Pak, the much sought, remained invisible. A state-to-state search had failed to produce evidence to show that Dr. Fu Manchu was still in the country.
Only by his deeds was his presence made manifest.
Salvaletti was the idol of an enormous public. His forthcoming marriage to Lola Dumas promised to be a social event of international importance. An almost frenzied campaign on the part of those saner elements who recognized that the League of Good Americans was no more than a golden bubble, was handicapped at every turn. Men once hopeless and homeless who find themselves in profitable employment are not disposed to listen to criticisms of their employees. A policy of silence had been determined upon as a result of many anxious conferences in Washington. It was deemed unwise to give publicity to anything pointing to the existence of an Asiatic conspiracy behind the league. Substantial evidence in support of such a charge must first be obtained, and despite the feverish activity of thousands of agents all over the country, such evidence was still lacking. The finances of the league could not be challenged; they stood well with the Treasury:
there were no evasions. Yet, as Sir Denis had proved to a group of financial experts, the League of Good Americans, at a rough estimate, must be losing two million dollars a week!
How were these losses made good?
He knew. But the explanation was so seemingly fantastic that he dared not advance it before these hard-headed business men whose imaginations had been neglected during the years that they concentrated upon solid facts.
Then, out of the blue, had come the Voice of the Holy Thorn. It had disturbed the country, keyed up to almost hysterical tension, as nothing else could have done. Long-awaited, the authoritative voice of the abbot had spoken at last. Millions of those who had awaited his call had anticipated that despite his known friendship for the old regime he would advocate acceptance of the new.
That Paul Salvaletti’s programme amounted to something uncommonly like dictatorship Salvaletti had been at no pains to disguise. His policy of the readjustment of wealth, a policy which no honest man in the country professed to understand, nevertheless enjoyed the cordial support of all those who were benefited by it. The agricultural areas were becoming more and more thickly dotted with league farms. Their produce was collected and disposed of by league distributors: there were league stores in many towns. And this was no more than the skeleton of a monumental scheme which ultimately would give the league control of the key industries of the country.
Salvaletti had realized some of the promises of Harvey Bragg—promises which had been regarded as chimerical. . . .
Where a ray of sunlight touched his intricately wrinkled face, old Sam Pak crouched upon a stool just inside the windows, his mummy-like face grotesque against the green background of the woods.
“What has this priest learned, Master, which others had not learned before? Dr. Orwin Prescott knew of our arrival in the country. . . .”
“His source of information was traced—and removed. . . . Orwin Prescott served his purpose.”
“True.”
No man could have said Sam Pak’s eyes were open or closed as the shrivelled head was turned in the direction of that majestic figure behind the table.
“Enemy Number One has been unable to obtain evidence which would justify his revealing the truth to the country.” Dr. Fu Manchu seemed to be thinking aloud. “He has hindered us, harried us, but our great work has carried on and is nearing its triumphant conclusion. Should disaster come now—it would be his gods over ours. For this reason I fear the priest.”
“The wise man fears only that which he knows,” crooned old Sam Pak, “since against the unknown there can be no defence.”
Dr. Fu Manchu, long ivory hands motionless upon the table before him, studied the wizened face.
“The priest has sources of information denied to the Secret Service,” he said softly. “He has a following second only to our own. Salvaletti, whom I have tended as the gardener tends a delicate lily, must be guarded night and day.”
“It is so, Marquis. He has a bodyguard five times as strong as that which formerly surrounded Harvey Bragg.”
Silence fell for some moments. Dr. Fu Manchu, from his seat behind the lacquer table, seemed to be watching the woodland prospect through half-closed eyes.
Some reports indicate that he evades his guards.” Fu Manchu spoke almost in a whisper. “These reports the woman, Lola Dumas, has confirmed. My Chicago agents are ignorant and obtuse. I await an explanation of these clandestine journeys.”
Sam Pak slowly nodded his wrinkled head.
“I have taken sharp measures, Master, with the Number responsible. He was the Japanese physician, Shoshima.”
“He was?”
“He honourably committed hara-kiri last night. . . .”
Silence fell again between these invisible weavers who wrought a strange pattern upon the loom of American history. This little farmstead in which, unsuspected, Dr. Fu Manchu pursued his strange studies, and from which he issued his momentous orders, stood remote from the nearest main road upon property belonging to an ardent supporter of the League of Good Americans. He was unaware of the identity of his tenant, having placed the premises at the disposal of the league in all good faith.
Dr. Fu Manchu sat motionless in silence, his gaze fixed upon the distant woods. Sam Pak resembled an image: no man could have sworn that he lived. A squirrel ran up a branch of a tree which almost overhung the balcony, seemed to peer into the room, sprang lightly to a higher branch, and disappeared. The evensong of the birds proclaimed the coming of dusk. Nothing else stirred.
“I shall move to Base 6, Chicago,?” came the guttural voice at last. “The professor will accompany me; his memory holds all our secrets. It is essential that I be present in person on Saturday night.”
“The plane is ready, Marquis, but it will be necessary for you to drive through New York to reach it.”