In three minutes or less, the abbot proved (using Nayland Smith’s statistics) that over the period with which he dealt, alone, some twenty million dollars had been expended in the country through various activities of the league which, even admitting the possibility of anonymous donations from wealthy supporters, could not have come out of national funds!
“You may say, and justly so: This is good: it means that unearned wealth is coming into the United States. I ask you to pause—to think . . . Is there such a thing as unearned wealth? Even a heritage carries its responsibilities. What are the responsibilities you are incurring by your acceptance of these mysterious benefits? I will tell you:
“You are being bought with alien money!” the abbot cried, “you are becoming slaves of a cruel master. You are being gagged with gold. The league and all its pretensions is a chimera, a hollow mockery, a travesty of administration. You are selling your country. Your hardships are being exploited in the interests of an alien financial genius who plans to control the United States. And do you know the nationality of that man? He is a Chinaman!”
Lola’s jewelled fingers were twitching nervously upon the cushions, her big eyes were very widely opened. Marie, uninvited, had taken a seat upon a chair just inside the door. This was the most damning attack which anyone had delivered: its horrible consequences outsped the imagination. . . .
“Who is this man who to-night attempted to murder me in my own room? This callous assassin, this ravisher of a nation’s liberty? By the mercy of God my life was spared that I might speak, that I might tell you. He is an international criminal sought by the police of the civilized world; a criminal whose evil deeds dwarf those of any home-grown racketeer. His name will be known to many who listen: it is Dr. Fu Manchu. My friends, Dr. Fu Manchu is in America—Dr. Fu Manchu to-night attempted my assassination—Dr. Fu Manchu is the presiding genius of the League of Good Americans!”
A moment he paused, then:
“This is the invisible President whom you are being bribed to send to the White House!” he said in a low, tense voice, “not in his own person but in the person of his servant, his creature, his slave—Paul Salvaletti! Paul Salvaletti who stands upon the bloody corpse of Harvey Bragg . . . for I am going to tell you something else which you do not know: Harvey Bragg was assassinated to make way for Paul Salvaletti.”
Even in the silence of that room where Lola Dumas crouched among the cushions it was possible to imagine the sensation which from coast to coast those words had created.
“The wedding of the man Salvaletti promises to be an international event, a thing for which distinguished people are assembling. I say it would be an offence for which this country would never be forgiven,” he thundered, “to permit that sacrilegious marriage to take place! I say this for three reasons: first, that Paul Salvaletti is merely the shadow of his Chinese master; second, that Paul Salvaletti is an unfrocked priest; and third, that he is already married.”
Lola Dumas sprang to the floor and stood rigidly upright.
“He married an Italian girl—she was just sixteen— Marianna Savini, in a London registry office on March the 25th, 1929. She accompanied him secretly when he came to the United States; she has been with him ever since—she is with him now. . . .”
Ill
“It was a good shot,” said Captain Kingswell, “although at such close range that row of lighted windows offered a fine target. But it isn’t the gunner, it’s the pilot I want to meet. The way he dipped to the tower was pretty work.”
“Very pretty,” said Nayland Smith. “As I happened to be inside the tower, I fully appreciated its excellence. You were chasing this plane, I gather?”
Captain Kingswell, one of many army aviators on duty that night, nodded affirmatively.
“I should have caught him! It was the manoeuvre by the tower that tricked me. You see, I hadn’t expected it.”
The big armoured car sped through the night, its headlights whitening roads and hedges.
“It is certain that they were driven down?”
“Lieutenant Olson, who was covering me on the left, reports he forced the ship down near the river somewhere above Tonawanda.”
“Is there any place around there,” Mark Hepburn asked slowly, “where they might have landed?”
“I may as well say,” the pilot replied, smiling, “it’s a section I don’t pretend to be familiar with. Landing at night is always touch and go, even if the territory is familiar. It’s only halfway safe on a proper flying ground. Hullo! There’s Gillingham!”
The headlights picked up a distant figure, arms outstretched, wearing army air uniform. This was an agricultural district where folks were early abed; the country roads were deserted. As the car pulled up the aviator ran to the door:
“What news, Gillingham,” cried Captain Kingswell.
“We’re shorthanded to surround the area where they crashed,” replied Gillingham, a young fresh-faced man, immensely excited; “at least, it’s ten to one they crashed. But I’ve done my best, and search parties are working right down to the river-bank.”
“How far to the river?” jerked Nayland Smith.
“As the crow flies, from this spot a half mile.”
Smith jumped out, followed by Hepburn. A crescent moon swam in a starry sky. Directly above their heads as they stood beside the car outflung branches of two elms, one on either side of the narrow, straight road, met and embraced, to form a deep stripe of shadow.
“This is the frontier?”
“Yes, the opposite bank’s in Canada.”
Through the silence, from somewhere far off, came a sound like that of a ceaseless moan; at times, carried by a light breeze, it rose weirdly on the night, as though long-dead gods of the Red man, returning, lamented the conquest of the white.
Nayland Smith, his eyes bright in the ray of the headlamp, turned to Hepburn questioningly.
“The rapids,” said Mark. “The wind’s that way”
As the breeze died, the mournful sound faded into a sad whisper. . . .
“Hullo!” Smith muttered, “what are those lights moving over there?”
“One of our search parties,” Gilligham replied. “We expect to locate the wreck pretty soon. . . .”
But half an hour had elapsed before the mystery plane was found. It lay at one end of a long, ploughed field: the undercarriage had been damaged, but the screw, wings and fuselage remained intact. Again the work of a clever pilot was made manifest. There was no sign of the occupants.
“This is a Japanese ship,” said Captain Kingswell, on a note of astonishment. “Surely can’t have crossed right to here in the air? Must have been reassembled somewhere. Looks like it carried four of a crew: a pilot, a reserve (maybe he was the gunner) and two others.”
He had climbed up and was now inside.
“Here’s a queer torpedo outfit,” he cried, “with three reserve tubes. This is a fighting ship.” He was prowling around enthusiastically, torch in hand. “We’ll overhaul every inch of it. There may be very interesting evidence.”
“The evidence I’m looking for,” rapped Nayland Smith irritably, “is evidence to show which way the occupants went. But all these footprints”—he flashed his torch upon the ground— “have made it impossible to trace.”
He turned and stared towards where a red glow in the sky marked a distant town. Away to the east, half masked by trees, he could see outbuildings of what he took to be a farm.