“But that’s Dr. Hessian’s invention!” Brian broke in.
Nayland Smith relighted his pipe. It had gone out while he was talking.
“Unless my deductions are wide of the mark, Merrick, the man you know as Otto Hessian is Dr. Fu Manchu!”
A faint buzzing reached them from the living-room.
“That’s the penthouse!” Brian spoke breathlessly.
“Then I had better answer.”
“But what are you going to do?”
Nayland Smith turned in the act of opening the door. “Whatever the late Nayland Smith the Second was expected to do... .”
* * *
As the door was left open, Brian could overhear Nayland Smith when he spoke on the penthouse line. The conversation was a short one. He came back, his expression grim; reclosed the door.
“Tell me, Merrick—is there anything, any trifle, about my appearance which strikes you as different from—his?”
Brian studied the clean-cut features, thinking hard.
“His skin maybe was artificially sunburned. It didn’t look quite natural.”
“Nothing to be done about that. What else?”
“Well, something had happened to the bridge of his nose. He wore plaster the first time I saw him. There was no scar, except when he smiled. Then, there was a faint wrinkle where the plaster had been.”
“That may explain what was found in a sort of studio in the Sherif’s house: a wonderful clay model of my head! These people must have got out in a desperate hurry. The studio adjoined a small operating theatre. It seems likely that my double had undergone plastic surgery ... H’m! Avoid smiling!”
“What was the phone message, Sir Denis?”
“In thirty minutes, I’m bidden to a conference with Dr. Fu Manchu, and probably my life hangs on not arousing his suspicion. The odds are in my favour. But my opponent——”
“Where are you to meet?”
“Up in the penthouse.”
“You mean Fu Manchu really lives there?”
“It’s his base of operations. I don’t wonder it staggers you. But let me bring you up to date. One day, in Cairo, there was considerable disturbance in the Sherif’s household. I sensed that something unusual was going on. Of course, it was the departure of Fu Manchu and most of his unsavoury crew for the United States. Don’t ask me how he travels, unless he has a magic carpet, or avoids being identified, because I don’t know.”
“That time, Sir Denis, if I’m not wrong, he travelled with me (and your double), posing as Dr. Hessian, in a plane provided by the British government!”
Nayland Smith laughed out loud. “You’re not wrong, Merrick. Thanks for the information. You see, I know his impersonation of an eccentric German scientist. He has worked it before. He’s a master of numberless languages and dialects. To the Western idea, he isn’t typically Chinese. He’s at least as tall as I am, has fine, ascetic features and a splendid head. His eyes, alone, and his hands, betray the Asiatic.”
“But the real Dr. Hessian?”
“If he’s alive—which I doubt—Otto Hessian is probably in Siberia. He disappeared behind the Iron Curtain three years ago. Well, as I said, there was a disturbance in the household—and an unpleasant change for me. I was transferred to a room in the cellar. Unmistakably a dungeon, belonging to the days when the old house had been the palace of some wealthy pasha!
“Merrick! I all but lost hope! Two ofFu Manchu’s thugs had been left behind to guard me, and I expected from hour to hour they would get word to finish me off! My only exercise was walking about the cellar. And the nights were dreadful. I suspected, but couldn’t confirm the suspicion, that some kind of murder machine was installed in my cell.
“Then, one night a queer thing happened. I was roused by a faint noise outside my locked door. I thought my time had come! Alight shone through the grille, and I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ The light vanished. Complete silence. Nothing happened . . . until the next day.
“Neither of the assassins brought me my breakfast. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. Hours passed. No one came. I asked myself was I doomed to starve to death! But early next morning a party of Egyptian police, accompanied by Nigel Richardson of the British Embassy, and Lyman Bostock, his American opposite number, burst into the cellar.”
“How had they traced you?” Brian demanded excitedly.
“Top marks to your F.B.I., Merrick. My understudy (then arrived in New York), had excited the suspicion of one of their brightest under-cover agents. A code message reached Bostock. It asked for a secret examination to be made of the house of the Sherif—not neglecting the cellars! A tall order. How the devil they arranged it I don’t know; and they both laughed when I asked them. But I remembered the light through the grille of my cell. Anyway, they succeeded in getting a search warrant. And I can assure you that getting that warrant must have taken a lot of doing! . . . The place was deserted. Not a soul in the building . . . except myself! The Sherif had got wind of the thing and pushed off in a hurry with his entire household, including, I was told, several ladies and a fat eunuch. When I heard of the astonishing deception to which Richardson and Bostock had been made parties I knew that not another hour must be wasted. Both wanted the impostor arrested by the New York police at once. I disagreed.
“I made them see that the arch-conspirator would slip through our fingers. We must find out first the purpose of this amazing plot—which was what the F.B.I, wanted to know, too. Then, we’d have the whole gang in the bag.”
“What I don’t understand,” Brian declared, “is why they left you alive.”
Nayland Smith smiled grimly. “Because somebody blundered—or got cold feet. My cell (as I suspected) was fitted with the brain-blasting equipment, and for purposes of concealing evidence, there was a man-sized bath of curious construction in another room which was intended to contain acid:
something had thrown the gang into a panic, and these little arrangements, by the mercy of Providence, were overlooked at the last moment.”
“Tell me one thing, Sir Denis. By what accident did I get into the picture and why?”
“Not by accident, I assure you! Fu Manchu already had me in his hands, and no doubt his agents were combing likely spots for a young, unemployed American with an influential background, to make doubly sure of my understudy’s acceptance. You were the very man. The F.B.I, had operatives in London (I don’t know why), and they found out that you had been employed by a Communist group, but were ordered not to interfere. Washington had no idea what was brewing, but thought that you, as an innocent accomplice, might come up later with some useful information.”
“You mean”—Brian flushed indignantly—”that I was allowed to walk blindfolded into this thing?”
“I mean that, yes. And don’t glare at me! I had nothing to do with it. What’s more, it’s been done before. You see, Merrick, if you had known, you’d have betrayed yourself. Under-cover espionage isn’t your metier. How well it has worked out you can see for yourself. They are quite sure of you, and so we have the game in our hands.”
Brian lighted a cigarette, but said nothing.
“Well,” Nayland Smith went on, ‘I got my own way and was smuggled out of Cairo. I travelled as Major S. D. Smith, wore a toothbrush moustache and a monocle. Not a word was allowed to leak out about the raid on the Sherif’s house. All the same, the Si-Fan got the news. When I arrived at Idlewild, at five-thirty this afternoon, I was met by the F.B.I. Their star operative, already a member of the Communist party, had managed, by what I can only call a stroke of genius, to become a top executive of the Si-Fan! Every detail of my projected execution was known!