* * *
Sleep didn’t come easily to Brian that night. Between uneasy dozes, he found himself trying to figure out if Lola really had been called to attend upon “Madame”, or if she was avoiding being left alone with him, and trying to convince himself that Dr. Hessian’s invention was not a mirage, the dream of a mad scientist, but all that Nayland Smith believed it to be. He drove himself near to a mental frenzy.
That Sir Denis deliberately kept him in the dark concerning certain vital facts of the business was beyond dispute. Why? Didn’t he trust him?
Crowning mystery—which he had never been able to fathom—for what possible reason had he been employed? Those qualifications stipulated in The Times advertisement, all of which he possessed, had never been called upon. For all that had happened to date, almost anybody, graduate or coal miner, athlete or cripple, would have done as well!
He switched on the bedside lamp, saw that the time was 2 a.m., and got up to get a drink. He didn’t want whisky; he was really thirsty; and there was beer in the icebox. He made his way to the kitchenette and opened a can.
As he poured out the cold beer, he wondered if Nayland Smith had gone to sleep, and, carrying the glass in his hand, walked bare-footed to Sir Denis’s door to find out.
His door was open—and even in the dim light Brian could see that the bed was unoccupied. There was no light in the living-room.
He stood for a moment, hesitating. Then went out to the lobby.
The door of the suite was unlocked!
In view of what Nayland Smith had told him earlier that night, and of Sir Denis’s insistence that the door must always be locked and bolted at night, this was more than puzzling. . ..
“We’re marked men! IfFu Manchu could trap either of us——”
He remembered the very words.
What was he to think?
Brian knew that he had dozed more than once, but if there had been any struggle it couldn’t have failed to arouse him.
And while he stood there in a state of hopeless indecision a sound came which confirmed all his fears. It came from the penthouse.
A pistol shot! ... A second ... a third! Then—a muffled explosion, which shook the apartment!
Brian ran back to the living-room, spilling beer as he went.
He switched the light on, set the glass down and crossed to the penthouse phone. . . . Before his hand touched it the instrument began to buzz!
As he took it up: “That you, Merrick?” came Nayland Smith’s snappy voice.
“Yes. What’s happened? Shall I come up?”
“No. Stay where you are. Dr. Hessian called me an hour ago. He had decided upon a test experiment. It was successful. Probably have most of the residents of the Babylon-Lido phoning like mad! Turn in. All’s well.”
And Sir Denis hung up.
Brian wondered if he should obey orders and lock the outer door; decided against it, and went back to bed. . . .
* * *
He woke early in the morning, vaguely aware of disturbed dreams in which Nayland Smith had become transformed into a sort of prehistoric monster about to devour him and had then vanished in a cloud of smoke.
Wondering why he felt so jaded, he gave an order for coffee and went into the bathroom. If Sir Denis had returned or not he didn’t know, and for some reason didn’t care. There was no sound in the suite. He was finishing up with an ice-cold shower when the waiter came into the living-room.
Brian called out, “Leave my coffee in there, waiter.”
“All ready.” But the man lingered, drew nearer to the open bathroom door. . . . “Explosion upstairs last night, I hear. Did it wake you?”
Brian hesitated, towel in hand. He must be cautious.
“Yes, it did. Any damage?”
“Not that I’ve heard. One of those pressure cookers blew up, I’m told. But nobody hurt.”
“Lucky. I wondered what had happened. . . .”
He was drinking coffee and glancing over the morning newspapers which the man had brought up when Sir Denis burst in. He was dressed in one of his well-cut and well-worn tweed suits, so that evidently he, too, had been an early riser.
“Good morning, Merrick. Sorry about last night. Started a lot of rumours. Not good for us. One thing certain. Hessian is a genius compared with whom Einstein was a beginner! I want you with me up there tonight—and you’re going to see a miracle. . . .”
When, soon afterwards, Nayland Smith dashed out again, saying that he had an important conference at police headquarters, Brian was left as much in the dark as he had been before Sir Denis dashed in. Mingled with the promised excitement of what the night had in store was a growing resentment at being treated like a figure of no consequence where the big issues at stake were concerned.
Irritably, Brian looked at his watch, and decided that it wasn’t too early to call Lola. He asked to be put through to her apartment. She answered almost at once.
“Did I wake you, dear?”
“No, Brian. I’m all ready to go out. A long day ahead at Michel’s, and I was up so late last night. Heaven only knows when I’ll be through. This was the job I was brought here to do. I have to pass all the models who’ll display Michel’s creations at the show!”
“Poor darling! Any hope for lunch?”
“Not a shadow. It will be sandwiches and coffee on Fifth Avenue. If I can make it between seven and eight for a quick drink I’ll call you.”
Brian’s spirits sank to zero. The Washington committee, headed by his father, was due at eight o’clock.
“I’m afraid I may be tied up by then, Lola. But call all the same. We might fix something later. . . .”
It was a seemingly interminable morning. Around one o’clock Sir Denis called to say that Brian could leave the suite for his lunch provided he didn’t leave the building. . .. “Acting on your advice, I have made other arrangements to safeguard the penthouse. But in case I’m delayed, stand by to receive your father’s party from seven on.”
Brian lingered over his lunch and then wandered about the huge hotel hoping to find somebody he knew; but, as happens on such occasions, without success. Merely to kill time, he dropped into a lounge in one of the public rooms and ordered coffee.
A strange-looking man sauntered by. He was young, dark-complexioned and handsome in a sinister way, with large, black and brilliant eyes. Otherwise conventionally dressed in European fashion, he wore a blue turban. He seemed to take an unwholesome interest in the younger women present.
Just then, the waiter brought Brian’s coffee, and:
“Is the character in the blue turban staying here, waiter?” Brian asked.
The waiter nodded. “Sure he is, sir. They tell me he’s an Indian prince. All I know is he has a servant with him that looks like a gorilla. I’ve taken orders to their apartment.”
Finally, Brian bought a bundle of newspapers and magazines and went upstairs to try to amuse himself until the committee arrived. It was important that he should distract his thoughts from hazy doubts and misgivings that crowded upon him. . . .
Almost on the stroke of seven, his father arrived—alone.
“This is a very wonderful occasion, my boy,” he declared;
“and you’re entitled to be proud that you’ve been chosen to take part in it. The Secretary for Foreign Affairs is coming, General Jenner, General Dowson of the Air Force, and Admiral Druce, representing the Navy. Last, but not least, Dr. Jurgonsen, the physicist and the President’s personal adviser on development of atomic projects. Where is Sir Denis? With Dr. Hessian, I suppose?”
“I don’t know, Father,” Brian confessed. “But he warned me that he might be detained.”
Brian Merrick Senior nodded. “A man carrying a heavy load of responsibility on his shoulders.”
The party assembled in ones and twos, Nayland Smith last except for Dr. Jurgonsen. Sir Denis looked physically exhausted—or so Brian thought. The three Service officers (all of them in mufti) were so typical of their services as to be without individual characteristics. They showed one trait in common; a reserved but unmistakable hostility for each other.