* * *
Brian watched Lola’s taxi weaving its way into the traffic torrent and finally becoming lost to view, with a sense of desolation. She had her troubles, too, he knew, although they didn’t involve millions of human destinies but only the vanity of a few wealthy women who bought their dresses at Michel’s.
He started away at a brisk pace towards Central Park. An hour’s walk in fresh air might help him to shake off that appalling sense of gloom, which Huckleberry Finn called then fantods.
From the moment that he entered the Park he hardly noticed where he was going, but evening was drawing in when he found himself passing behind the Museum and pulled up to check the time. He decided to turn back, swung around, and saw that the only other pedestrian in sight, a man walking twenty yards behind him, had done the same.
He thought nothing of this at the moment. Returning along the same path, he saw the man ahead turn to the left for a gate on Fifth Avenue. Brian passed on, nervously considering the night’s programme, wondering why the mere approach of Dr. Fu Manchu had so shattered Nayland Smith’s courage and what it could be that Sir Denis feared. . . . Did he seriously believe the President’s life to be in danger? And did he doubt his own ability to protect him?
Something—perhaps a subconscious urge—prompted Brian to pause and look behind. . . .
The man he supposed to have left the Park was following him again!
Anger came first; then, an unpleasant chill.
His follower might be an agent of Dr. Fu Manchu, or he might be one of the F.B.I, men detailed, according to Sir Denis, to keep him under observation. In any case, it was getting dark, the Park seemed deserted, and Brian went out by the 72nd Street gate and hailed a taxi.
In the main entrance to the Babylon-Lido he looked at his watch.
Twenty minutes to seven.
He turned away and walked around the corner. He had noticed a little bar almost directly facing the trade entrance to the hotel and decided that he could pass the time there over a drink and a smoke. It was better than walking about; he was tired of walking, now, and feeling thirsty.
Taking a corner stool just inside the door, he ordered a drink, lighted a cigarette; settled down to wait for seven o’clock.
For what possible reason had Nayland Smith banished him from the Babylon-Lido until that hour? It was incomprehensible. Unless, which seemed probable, he was followed by a Federal agent wherever he went, why was Sir Denis’s warning “never to go out alone” apparently forgotten?
Either he had become a mere cipher in the game, or Nayland Smith had thrown his hand in and didn’t care what happened.
Brian started a fresh cigarette, looked at his watch. Ten minutes to wait.
With some unknown menace, embodied in the name Dr. Fu Manchu, hanging over the party assembling—a party to include the President tonight—this enforced inertia was almost unendurable. Brian found it nearly impossible to remain still. Although he did his best to retain control, he saw the bartender glancing in his direction suspiciously.
Brian stared out of the window—and became very still indeed; so still that he might have been suddenly frozen to his seat. . ..
Lola was standing in the trade entrance to the Babylon-Lido talking to Nayland Smith!
Her face was in shadow, but she was dressed as he had left her at five o’clock. This time there could be no room for doubt. Nor could he be wrong about the man. It was Sir Denis. The coat, the soft-brimmed hat, his poise—all were unmistakable. He saw them go in.
In half a minute he had paid for his drink, and dashed recklessly across the street, ignoring traffic lights.
He had never been in this warren of stores-cellars and kitchens before, but somehow made his way through and at last penetrated to the vast but now familiar lobby. His heart was beating fast; for his world had turned topsy-turvy. What had Lola to do with Nayland Smith? She had told him only that afternoon that she had never met Sir Denis!
The clock over the reception desk recorded five minutes to seven.
People buzzed about in a state of perpetual motion. They all appeared to be in a hurry. Smart women in gay evening gowns who couldn’t find their men. Eager-eyed young men rushing around looking for their girl friends. Pages carrying flowers. The scene seemed to swim before Brian like a colour film out of focus. It was a ballet inspired by a mad director.
But the two figures he was looking for were not to be seen.
He debated with himself, looking again at the clock. He could endure this suspense no longer. He must know the truth, orders or no orders. To wait to be paged in his present frame of mind was out of the question. He turned and hurried off to the corridor where the express elevators were situated. The man on duty knew him and smiled a greeting as Brian stepped in.
“Sir Denis has just gone up, sir,” he reported.
Brian experienced a fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Was he alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
The elevator began its dizzy ascent. Nayland Smith, Brian reflected, must have gone out to meet Lola. They had evidently parted on entering the hotel. But why had they come in by the trade entrance? He could only conclude that the meeting had been a clandestine one.
When he arrived at the top floor he stood for a moment to get a grip on himself.
Then, he walked along to the ‘door of Suite 420B. The “Do Not Disturb” card had gone; and he pulled up, trying further to compose his ruffled nerves.
At last he quietly slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
Dusk had fallen now and he saw that lights were on in the living-room. There was no sound.
He walked in quietly. . . . Then gulped, and stood quite still.
Flat on his back on the floor, his knees drawn up, his fists clenched, Nayland Smith lay. His face was purple, his teeth were bare, and his eyes bulged from his head. . . .
He had been strangled!
Chapter
15
The horror of his discovery quite literally paralysed Brian. His senses were numbed. He stood speechless, incapable of movement, of thought; aghast.
A slight sound in the room roused him, bringing swift realization of his own danger. He turned to the big desk, for from there the sound had come, and . . . his brain reeled. He was gripped by the agonizing certainty that the murder of Nayland Smith had disturbed his reason—had driven him mad.
Standing beside the tall, painted screen, a finger on his lips, urgent command in his eyes, and beckoning Brian to join him, he saw Nay land Smith!
Brian clenched his fists, glancing from the dead man to this phantom of the living.
And the living Sir Denis was beside him in three strides; gripped his arm, speaking softly into his ear:
“Not a word! Behind the screen, Merrick—for your life— and for mine!”
There was nothing ghostly in the grip of those sinewy fingers, nothing but vital necessity in the whispered orders.
Brian found himself in shadow behind the screen. One spear of light shone through a hole in the parchment, and still half stupefied in this gruesome and almost incredible situation, he saw Nayland Smith jab his thumb through another panel in the screen and make a second hole.
“Look!” came a whisper in his ear. “Do nothing. Say nothing. . . .”
Silence.
Peering through the slot in the parchment, Brian’s gaze automatically became focussed on the dead man. For all that agonized expression, swollen features, protruding eyes, he was prepared to take oath and swear that it was Sir Denis who lay there.
But another Sir Denis—very much alive—stood beside him, and continued to grip his arm!
He felt suddenly sick, wondered if he was going to make a fool of himself—and then noticed something he hadn’t noticed before .... A door which communicated with the next suite, normally locked, stood partly open. The room beyond was in darkness.