“He probably said that representatives of United Nations lived there?”
“No. He didn’t say that.” Brian tried to draw a cloak of secrecy about himself, but wasn’t quite successful. “For a man on a dangerous mission—or so I understand—he brushed it off very lightly. Between ourselves, there are times when I wonder if Sir Denis is really up to his old form.”
“Please, Brian!” Lola smiled her one-sided smile. “Don’t talk Oxford. After all, you’re still an American.”
Brian grinned almost happily. Lola’s impudent criticism of his occasional traces of English idiom and speech, far from annoying, delighted him. It proved her interest, or so he argued. His cocktail arrived; he sampled it.
“Maybe I mean he’s getting too old for his job.”
Lola frowned thoughtfully, twirling her glass between sensitive fingers.
“As I haven’t met him I can’t judge, Brian. But there’s just one thing I’d like to know. The first time you saw him in Cairo did you think he had changed?”
Brian considered the question; decided that no harm could be done by telling Lola the facts.
“That makes me think, Lola. The first time I saw him in Cairo was under very peculiar circumstances. It’s quite a story.”
And he outlined the incident which had led him to take refuge on the roof of a house overlooking that of Shertf Mohammed, and told her what he had seen from there. . . .
“There was no mistake about it, dear. The way he gripped his pipe, the trick of twitching the lobe of his ear. I knew I was looking at Nayland Smith.
“How excited you must have been! And after that?”
Now well in his stride, and delighted to have Lola for an audience, Brian related how he had demanded an interview with the Sherif and what had happened there.
“So you didn’t see him,” Lola murmured. “When did you see him again?”
Brian gave her an account of Sir Denis’s secret entrance to his hotel apartment, and equally secret exit.
“Was it then, Brian, when you actually talked to him, that you began to wonder if he had outlived what you call ‘his old form’?”
“Not exactly right then, Lola——”
Brian paused, finished his cocktail. He had thought of something; and the thing, though perhaps trivial, had staggered him, chiefly because he had never thought of it before.
“Then when, dear?”
“Later, I guess. But—when Sir Denis came to see me he had a strip of surgical plaster on the bridge of his nose.”
“Had he been in a fight?”
Lola asked the question jokingly. But her grey eyes weren’t smiling.
“He’d had one hell of a time getting out of the hands of the Reds. But that’s not the point. Something which he didn’t tell me must have happened right there in Cairo. Because, when I saw him pacing around that room, and I saw him clearly, there was no plaster on his nose!”
* * *
One of the hourly reports ordered by Dr. Fu Manchu was just coming in. That solitary spark of green light glowed in the darkness. . . .
“Brian Merrick’s complete ignorance of Operation Zero confirmed.”
“He has served his purpose, and could be dispensed with. Henceforward he becomes a possible source of danger. . . . Where is he now?”
“In the Sunset Room.”
“He is covered?”
“Closely, Excellency”
“What Federal operatives are on duty there?”
“Two F.B.I, agents.”
The green light disappeared. And, invisible in the darkness, Dr. Fu Manchu laughed. . . .
* * *
In the popular but expensive Sunset Room high up in the Babylon-Lido, with its celebrated dance band and star-spangled floor show, Brian found himself transported to Paradise. With Lola in his arms, wearing an alluring dance frock, he was lost to the world, lifted above all its petty troubles—a man rapturously in love.
His frustrations, doubts and fears had dispersed like mist under the morning sun.
“Are you happy, dearest?” he whispered.
“Very happy, Brian.”
He was silent for a long time, living in a dream.
“I often wonder, Lola, in your wanderings about the world, if you ever met someone else who meant more to you than I do.”
“There’s no one who means more to me than you, Brian. But, like you, dear, I have a job to do. We’re both young enough to enjoy ourselves without spoiling it by getting serious, yet awhile.”
Brian drew a long breath, made fragrant by the perfume of her hair.
“You mean you’d rather stay with Michel than cut it out to marry me?”
Lola sighed. “I told you once before, Brian dear, that early marriages, so popular in our country, are often failures.”
“But not always.”
“Brian, we’re happy! Maybe we’ll never capture this wonderful thing again. Please don’t get serious—tonight!”
He swallowed, but found enough discretion to respect her wishes, to surrender himself to the spirit of the dance. As always, Lola was elusive—and all the more maddeningly desirable. He was silent for some time, unticlass="underline"
“There’s a man standing over by the door,” he said, “who
seems to be watching us. Do you know him?” “Which one do you mean, Brian?” “The tall, dark fellow just lighting a cigarette.” Lola laughed. “No, I don’t know him, Brian. But I’m willing to bet he’s the house detective!”
Chapter
12
Brian returned to the suite earlier than he had intended. Lola had been paged just before the star entertainer appeared, and returned, looking very wretched, to tell him that Madame Michel had taken up residence in the Babylon-Lido that night and would remain until her forthcoming dress show there took place. Madame insisted upon an immediate conference in her apartment. ...
He found Nayland Smith at the desk reading what looked like an official document, and smoking as usual, like a factory chimney. The suite was luxuriously furnished, in Babylon-Lido style, and a tall, painted Italian screen enclosed the desk, so that the limited space around it had the quality of a fog. Sir Denis looked up when Brian came in.
“Hullo, Merrick! A rumour reaches me that you were seen in the Sunset Room with a very pretty girl. Don’t apologize! You have had a dull time, I know. Glad you can find agreeable company.”
“Thanks, Dir Denis—though I can’t imagine who told you.”
Nayland Smith smiled. But, again, it wasn’t the happy smile which Brian remembered—a smile which had seemed to sweep the years aside and reveal an eager boy.
“One of the F.B.I, men detailed to keep an eye on you!”
“On me7 Why?”
Sir Denis tossed the typescript aside; stood up.
“Merrick, we’re marked men!” The smile vanished. His face became grim. “If Fu Manchu could trap either of us it would give him a lever with Washington—that he’d know how to use. I have warned you before. Trust nobody—not even a taxi driver you may pick up outside the hotel.”
“But——” A hot protest burned on Brian’s tongue, for he detected an implication that Lola was suspect; checked the words. “You suggest that this man would try to hold us?”
“And could succeed, Merrick. Remember how long I was held! He has not only the Si-Fan behind him, but the Reds as well!” He began to pace up and down. “Dr. Fu Manchu has little time left. Tomorrow night Dr. Hessian has agreed to give a demonstration!”
“Tomorrow night!”
“A committee formed by your father, and approved by the President, will be here. Not one word of this must leak out. Their visit is a top secret. . . . And Fu Manchu would stop at nothing to prevent it!”