A car going in the opposite direction, its Nubian chauffeur tooting remorselessly, forced a way through the outskirts of the audience and passed on. Brian had a glimpse of the solitary passenger.
It was Mr. Ahmad!
Those suspicions concerning this man, never far from his mind, awoke again. Was Ahmad going to the shop which he, himself, had just left? Even so, he might be going only to buy cigarettes. But Brian reviewed the chain of events which linked old Achmed with the girl who had followed him, and joined up with that ragged beggarman who had undoubtedly been waiting for him outside the building which accommodated the Aziza Cigarette Company.
He wondered if he should speak to Nayland Smith about it, but he hesitated for fear of giving Sir Denis the impression that he was inclined to form wild theories which lacked any basis in proven fact.
A time was to come when he would regain confidence in his instincts. But that time was not yet. . . .
* * *
The call came just after two o’clock. Brian had dispatched a radiogram to Lola and was crossing the lobby when Nayland Smith burst in.
“Baggage down, Merrick? Got the passports and entry papers? Good. Everything will be settled up here. We’re off!”
Sir Nigel Richardson’s chauffeur was standing outside to dispose of Brian’s luggage in the big Embassy car. Four motorcycle police were lined alongside and a number of spectators had gathered, curious to get a glimpse of the distinguished visitor. They probably expected to see a Hollywood celebrity, and were plainly disappointed when Brian and Sir Denis came out and got into the car. Brian found another passenger inside, a tall, stooping man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and dark sun-glasses, his chin buried in the upturned collar of his light topcoat.
As the car swept smoothly away with its escort:
“Oh, Merrick,” Nayland Smith said in his jerky fashion. “I want you to meet our fellow traveller, Dr. Otto Hessian. This is Mr. Brian Merrick, Junior, Doctor.”
The doctor acknowledged this introduction by nodding slightly.
During the drive out to the airport, Dr. Hessian never spoke a word, and rarely moved. Sir Denis, in a low voice, explained the situation to Brian:
“Dr. Hessian has been under medical care since I smuggled him into Cairo. He was in even worse shape than I was. But he went ahead with his work. We had to leave all his apparatus behind of course. Smashed it. But the man has a majestic brain. Memorized every detail. The whole thing is ready again, in blueprint, for setting up directly we reach New York.”
“That’s a wonderful job, Sir Denis.”
“He’s a wonderful man. Hasn’t much English, but loads of science. We’re not sure if the enemy has traced him here. Hence the precautions. Once we’re airborne our troubles are over. Detailed instructions have been sent ahead in code. Hessian expects to find all the necessary equipment on hand when we get there.”
And so for the second time Brian found himself speeding along the tree-lined road to the airport—and this time leaving Cairo behind.
He would dearly have loved to stay longer, for he had seen little more of the ancient Oriental city than is seen by a cruise passenger. He wondered if he would have a chance to return one day—and he wondered if he had treated Zoe badly. . . .
A surprise awaited him when they came to the airport.
Sir Nigel Richardson and Captain Arkwright were waiting to see them off... and they were talking to Mr. Ahmad!
Mr. Bostock came up while Dr. Hessian was being presented. He shook hands with the doctor and made some complimentary remarks in German. Dr. Hessian nodded and hurried aboard the plane. He was clearly a man so completely wrapped up in his studies that he had neither time nor inclination for the social amenities. Nayland Smith drew Brian aside with Ahmad.
“I thought, Merrick, there might be some last-minute com missions to carry out. Mr. Ahmad is at your service. He will see to it that any correspondence which may arrive for you after we leave will be air-mailed to New York.”
“Thanks a lot.” Brian found himself forced once more to reconsider his views of Mr. Ahmad. “Although I don’t expect anything. And I can think of nothing else.”
“If you do, Mr. Merrick”—Ahmad gave his glittering smile—”don’t hesitate to notify me, at any time.”
Five minutes later the plane took off on the first leg of its long journey. . ..
Chapter
9
Brian stared from a window of the suite in the Babylon-Lido Hotel which he shared with Nayland Smith. Sir Denis, he knew, had been retained by Washington, and certainly they had done him royally in the matter of accommodation. Their suite was on the top floor, and from where he stood the view stretched right out to the Statue of Liberty. There was a penthouse apartment on the roof above them, occupied by Dr. Hessian. One room, he understood, was equipped as a laboratory.
Throughout the journey from Cairo he had never succeeded in getting a single word out of that distinguished but silent physicist; nor had the doctor once removed the dark glasses in his presence.
Brian had no excuse to complain about his living quarters, and his salary was princely. All the same, he wasn’t happy. From the hour when he had signed on in London for this strange job up to the present moment he had been called upon to do exactly nothing, had been left entirely to his own devices!
Only that morning he had tackled Nayland Smith on the subject.
And Nayland Smith had replied, “Cultivate patience, Merrick. There are long spells of idleness in a soldier’s life, too. But when war starts he has his hands full. We’re in just that position. I might have had desperate need of you in Cairo. As it chanced, I didn’t. We got Hessian away without a hitch. But Dr. Fu Manchu’s forces are here, in Manhattan!”
“What!”
“They are here—a group of thugs pledged to stop Hessian’s work! How they’ll operate I don’t know. I can’t tell you if I’ll need your brawn or your brain. But I can assure you that you’ll be an essential figure in the picture. This is by far the biggest thing I ever took on, and if it breaks me and Fu Manchu wins, it means the end of all we stand for.”
Before he went out that morning, Sir Denis drew Brian’s attention to a portable phone in the living-room. It was connected with the penthouse above.
“By arrangement with the management, Merrick, the elevator goes no higher than this floor. Visitors to the penthouse must use the stair. But the door is locked from the inside. You’ll see a typed notice on it which says: ‘Apply No. 420 B.’
That’s this apartment. If anyone applies, take particulars and call Dr. Hessian. His secretary will answer. She’s a young lady supplied by the F.B.I.”
And so Brian realized that whenever Nayland Smith was out, he had to stay in. He was on a kind of sentry duty.
Many hours had passed since then. But no one had applied for permission to visit Dr. Hessian. He had ordered his lunch from Room Service and written a long letter to Senator Merrick, walked along a corridor and dropped it in the letter chute.
As he returned, he had an odd impression that the door to the penthouse stair had been slightly opened, that someone had looked out and then quickly drawn back. Before going in to the suite, he stood for a moment looking at the mysterious door. He could see a sheet of paper pinned to it, and beyond doubt the door was closed. He concluded that he had been mistaken.
And now he had nothing to do but to stare out of a window.
He was watching smoke from a distant steamer, hull-down on the skyline, when the penthouse phone buzzed. This was so unexpected that it startled him. He took it up.
“Hullo!”
“Nayland Smith here,” came the snappy voice. “Any visitors?”