“Dr. Fu Manchu left by road a few minutes ago, before I and my party could intercept him.”
“Damnation!” Nayland Smith drove his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Too late—always too late!”
“He was heading for New York. Every possible point en route is watched. I returned by air to meet you.”
“However disguised,” said Smith, “his height alone makes his a conspicuous figure. Tell me where to drop you. Keep in touch with Regal.”
A police car preceded them on the lonely road and another brought up the rear. But a third car, showing no lights and travelling at sixty-five to seventy, passed.
A torrent of machine-gun bullets rained upon them! A violent explosion not five yards behind told of a wasted bomb!
The murder party roared away ahead—a Z-car, with Rolls engines built for two hundred miles per hour. . . .
The heavy windows had splintered in several places—but not one bullet had penetrated!
Johnson sprang out on to the roadside as they pulled up.
“Everything right in front?”
“O.K., sir.”
Men were running to them from the leading car and jumping out of that which followed, when, leaning from the open door:
“Back to your places!” Nayland Smith shouted. “We stop for nothing. . . .”
In the covered car park of the Regal-Athenian Smith alighted and ran in. The door was still swinging when Wyatt, a government man, came out from the reception office.
“I have a message from Captain Hepburn,” he said.
Nayland Smith, already on his way to the elevator, paused, turned.
“What is it?”
“He does not expect to be here at the time arranged, but asks you to wait until he calls you.”
Upstairs, in their now familiar quarters, Fey prepared a whisky.
“What’s detaining Captain Hepburn?” Nayland Smith demanded. “Do you know?”
“I don’t, sir, but I think it’s something to do with the lady.”
“Mrs. Adair?”
“Yes, sir. Mary Goff—a very excellent woman who has called here before—brought a note for Captain Hepburn this morning, just after you left, sir. Captain Hepburn has been out all day, but he returned an hour ago, collected up some things from his laboratory, and went out again.”
Nayland Smith set down his glass and irritably began to load his pipe.
This was a strange departure from routine. Smith did not understand. Admittedly he was ahead of time, but he had counted upon finding Hepburn here. In such an hour of crisis as this, the absence of his chief of staff was more than perturbing. Every minute, every second, had its value. Dr. Fu Manchu had thwarted them at point after point. Despite their sleepless activity that cold, inexorable genius was carrying his plans to fruition. . . .
The phone bell rang. Fey answered. A moment he listened, then, looking up:
“Captain Hepburn, sir,” he said.
in
How is he, Dr. Burnett?”
Moya’s voice was breathlessly anxious—her eyes were tragic. Dr. Burnett, a young man with charming manners and a fashionable practice, shook his head, frowning thoughtfully.
“There’s really nothing to worry about, Mrs. Adair,” he replied. “Nevertheless I am not entirely satisfied.”
Moya turned as Mark Hepburn came into the sitting-room. His intractable hair was more than normally untidy. He was acutely conscious of the danger of the situation, for he knew now that his presence would be reported by those mysterious watchers whose eyes missed nothing. He had made a plan, however. If Moya should be in peril, he would declare himself as a Federal agent who had forced his way in to interrogate her.
“Dr. Burnett,” said Moya, “this is”—for the fraction of a second she hesitated—”Dr. Purcell, an old friend. You don’t mind if he sees Robbie?”
Dr. Burnett bowed somewhat frigidly.
“Not at all,” he replied; “in fact, I was about to suggest another opinion—purely in the interests of your peace of mind, Mrs. Adair. I had thought of Dr. Detmold.”
Dr. Detmold had the reputation of being the best consulting physician in New York, and Mark Hepburn, as honest with himself as with others, experienced a moment of embarrassment. But finally:
“The boy’s asleep,” said Dr. Burnett, “and I am anxious not to arouse him. But if you will come this way, Dr.—er—Purcell, I shall be glad to hear your views.”
In the dimly-lighted bedroom, Nurse Goff sat beside the sleeping Robbie; her appearance indicated, correctly, that she had known no sleep for the past twenty-four hours. She looked up with a gleam of welcome in her tired, shrewd eyes as Hepburn entered.
He beckoned her across to the open window, and there in a whisper:
“He looks very white, nurse. How is his pulse?”
“He’s failing sir! The poor bairn is dying under my eyes. He’s choking—he can swallow nothing! How can we keep him alive?”
Mark Hepburn crossed to the bed. Gently he felt the angle of the boy’s jaw: the glands were much enlarged. Slight though his touch had been, Robbie awoke. His big eyes were glassy. There was no recognition in them.
“Water,” he whispered. “Froat. . .so sore!”
“Poor bonnie lad,” murmured Mary Goff. “He’s crying for water, and every time he tries to swallow it I expect him to suffocate. Oh, what will we do! He’s going to die!”
Hepburn, who had hastily collected from the Regal those indispensable implements of his trade, a stethoscope, a thermometer and a laryngeal mirror, began to examine the little patient. It was a difficult examination, but at last it was completed. . . .
Although painfully aware of her danger, he hadn’t the heart to deter Moya when, her face a mask of sorrow, she crossed to the boy’s bed. He beckoned to Dr. Burnett, and outside in the sitting-room:
“I fear the larynx is affected,” he said; “I am not equipped for a proper examination in this light. But what is your opinion?”
“My opinion is, Dr. Purcell, that the woman Goff, although she is a trained nurse, has a sentimental attachment to the patient and is unduly alarming Mrs. Adair. The action of the antitoxin, admittedly, has been delayed, but if normal measures are strictly carried out I can see no cause for alarm.” Mark Hepburn ran his fingers through his untidy hair. “I wish I could share your optimism,” he said. “Do you know Dr. Detmold’s number? I should like to speak to him.”
IV
“The human equation—forever incalculable,” muttered Nayland Smith.
He hung up the telephone and crossing, stared out of the window.
The night had a million eyes: New York’s lights were twinkling. . . Admittedly the situation was difficult; he put himself mentally in Hepburn’s place and Hepburn had asked only to be allowed to remain until the famous consultant arrived.
Nayland Smith stared at the decapitated trunk of the Stratton Building. There were lighted rooms on the lower floors, but the upper were in darkness. The great explosion at the summit had wrought such havoc that even now it was possible the entire building would be condemned. That explosion had been the personal handiwork of Dr. Fu Manchu!
Their escape from the catastrophe prepared for them fell nearly within the province of miracles. Yet to this very hour Dr. Fu Manchu remained at large, his wonderful brain weaving schemes beyond the imagination of normal men. . . .
Could anything, short of the destruction of that apparently indestructible life, prevent the triumph of Paul Salvaletti? The Americans began frankly to assume the dimensions of a Fascist! movement, with the dazzling personality of Salvaletti at its head. On Wednesday next, at eight o’clock (if he lived), Abbot Donegal would tell the country the truth. What would the reaction be?
Dr. Fu Manchu was buying the United States with gold!
Once, in Nayland Smith’s presence, he had said:
“Gold! I could drown mankind in gold!”
That secret, to the discovery of which so many alchemists had devoted their lives, was held by the Chinese Doctor. Smith had known for a long time that gigantic operations in gold were being carried on. Indeed, although few had even suspected, it was these secret operations which had created the financial chaos from which every nation of the world suffered to this day.