To-night the end seemed to him inevitable. There, alone, staring out at the lights of New York, Nayland Smith fought a great fight.
Could he hope to check this superman who fought with weapons not available to others; who had the experience of unimaginable years ; who wielded forces which no other man had ever controlled? There was one certain way, and one only:
that which Dr. Fu Manchu himself doubtless would have chosen.
The death of Paul Salvaletti would bring this mighty structure crashing to the earth. . . .
But, even though the fate of the country, perhaps of the Western world, hung in the scales, assassination was not a weapon which Nayland Smith could employ.
There was perhaps another way: the destruction of Dr. Fu Manchu. That subtle control removed, the gigantic but fragile machine would be lost; a rudderless ship in a hurricane.
A bell rang. Fey came in and crossed to the telephone.
“Lieutenant Johnson, sir.”
Nayland Smith took up the receiver.
“Hullo, Johnson.”
“Touch and go again!” came Johnson’s voice on a note of excitement. “Dr. Fu Manchu was recognized by one of our patrols, but his car developed tremendous speed, and our men couldn’t follow. They called through to the next point. The car was intercepted. It was empty—except for the driver! We’ve got the driver.”
“Anything more?”
“Yes: a report that two men were seen to change cars in Greenwich. Descriptions tally. Second car sighted just over the line. But description now passed on to all patrols. Speaking from Times Building.”
“Standby I’ll join you.”
Nayland Smith hung up.
“Fey!” he shouted.
Fey reappeared silently.
“Captain Hepburn is at the second address under the name ofAdair in the notebook on the telephone table. We have no number for this address. If I want him you will send a messenger.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I shall keep in touch. I am going out now.”
“As you are, sir?”
“Yes,” Nayland Smith smiled grimly. “My attempted change of residence was a fiasco, and I don’t propose to give further amusement to the enemy by wearing funny disguises.”
Chapter 37
THE GREAT PHYSICIAN
“I have called Dr. Detmold,” said Mark Hepbum, “and have told him to bring——” he hesitated—”the necessary remedies.”
Moya clutched him convulsively. For the first time in their strange friendship he found her in his arms.
“Does that mean—” she was watching him with an expression which he was never to forget—”that——”
“Don’t worry, Moya—my dear. It will be all right. But I’m glad I came.”
“Mark,” she whispered, “I never realized until now how I wanted—someone I could count on.”
Mark Hepburn stroked her hair—as many times he had longed to do.
“You know you can count on me?”
“Yes—I know I can.”
Hepburn tried to conquer the drumming in his ears, which was caused by the acceleration of his heart. When he spoke, his voice was even more toneless than normally.
“I’m not a very wonderful bargain, Moya; but when all these troubles are past—because it isn’t fair to ask you now . . .”
Moya raise her eyes to his: they were bright with stifled tears. But in them he read that which made further, inelo-quent words needless.
All the submerged poetry in his complex character expressed itself in that first ecstatic kiss. It was a passionate statement. As he released Moya he knew, deep in his buried self, that he had found his mate.
“Moya, darling.”
Her head rested on his shoulder. . . .
“Mark, dear, messages from this apartment are tapped.” She said. “It’s quite possible that your conversation with Dr. Detmold will be reported elsewhere.”
“It doesn’t matter. If your—employers catch me here, I shall declare myself and put you all under arrest.”
Moya gently freed herself and stepped away as Dr. Burnett joined them.
“In certain respects” said Burnett, “the patient’s condition, admittedly, is not favourable. My dear Mrs. Adair”—he patted her shoulder—”he is in very good hands. Dr. Detmold is coming?”
“Yes,” Hepbum replied.
“I am sure he will endorse my opinion. The symptoms are not inconsistent with the treatment which I have been following.”
Mark Hepburn entirely agreed. Robbie’s survival of the treatment was due to a splendid constitution.
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” he muttered, “I should like to look at the patient.”
In the silence of the sick room he bent over Robbie. There was agony now in the eyes of Nurse Goff. The boy had had a choking fit in which he had narrowly escaped suffocation. He was terribly exhausted. His fluttery pulse was alarming. Walking on tiptoe, Hepburn crossed to the open window, beckoning Nurse Goff to follow him.
There he held a whispered consultation. Presently the door opened and Dr. Burnett came in with Moya; the reassuring tone of his voice died away as he entered the room. He looked in a startled manner at his patient.
A change for the worse, which must have been apparent even to a layman, had taken place. Dr. Burnett crossed to the bed. There came a sound of three dull blows on the outer door, as if someone had struck it with a clenched hand. . . .
“Dr. Detmold!” Moya whispered brokenly, and ran out.
The two men were bending anxiously over the little sufferer when a suppressed cry from the vestibule, a sound of movement, bought Hepburn upright. He turned at the moment that a tall figure entered the bedroom.
It was that of a man in a long black overcoat having an astrakhan collar, who wore an astrakhan cap of a Russian pattern. Mark Hepburn’s heart seemed to miss a beat—as he found himself transfixed by the glance of the green eyes of Dr. Fu Manchu!
For a moment only he was called upon to sustain it. The situation found him dumbfounded. Dr. Fu Manchu removed his cap and, throwing it upon a chair, turned to Dr. Burnett.
“Are you attending the patient?”
He spoke in a low voice, sibilant but imperative.
“I am. May I ask who you are, sir?”
Dr. Burnett glanced at a leather case which the speaker had placed upon the floor. Ignoring the inquiry, Dr. Fu Manchu bent over Robbie for a moment, then stood upright, and turned as Moya came in.
“Why was I not notified earlier?” he demanded harshly.
Moya clutched at her throat; she was fighting back hysteria.
“How could I know, President,” she whispered, “that——”
“True,” Dr. Fu Manchu nodded. “I have been much preoccupied. Perhaps I am unjust. I should have prohibited the boy’s last visit. I was aware that there was diphtheria in that neighbourhood.”
Something in his unmoving regard seemed to steady Moya.
“Your only crime is that you are a woman,” said Dr. Fu Manchu quietly. “Even to the last you have done your duty by me. I must do mine. I guaranteed your boy’s safety. I have never failed to redeem my word. From small failures great catastrophes grow.”
“And I must protest,” Dr. Burnett interposed, speaking indignantly but in a low voice. “At any moment we are expecting Dr. Detmold.
“Detmold is a dabbler,” said Dr. Fu Manchu contemptuously, and crossing to the bed he seated himself in a chair, staring down intently at Robbie. “I have cancelled those instructions.”
“This is preposterous,” Burnett exclaimed. “I order you to leave my patient.”
Dr. Fu Manchu moved a gaunt yellow hand in a fan-like movement over Robbie’s forehead, then, stooping, parted his lips with the second finger and the thumb of his left hand, and bent yet lower.