“IfFu Manchu already knows the secret of this sound cover, what on earth is he doing here?”
Nayland Smith laughed dryly. “What Fu Manchu, himself, described to me as the ‘so-called Hessian Sound Zone’ he really meant to place in the hands of the United States! He had no intention of following his Red instructions. These were designed simply to prevent the President signing an order to Chiefs of Staff which would have upset certain of their plans. It involved an urgent telephone call from the White House, a mouthpiece which ejected an odourless gas, and some other details which Fu Manchu could undoubtedly have provided.”
“But why such an elaborate set-up?”
Nayland Smith began to fill his pipe, glancing aside at Merrick.
“Have you ever thought how hard it would be to get the President of the United States alone? Had the Red plan been carried out, he would have been struck down by what any physician would have diagnosed as a heart attack, and been incapable of transacting any business for a long time!”
“Good God! What a villainous plot!”
“But child’s play for Dr. Fu Manchu. That’s why he was employed.”
“Then the Hessian Sound Zone is just an illusion—a hoax?”
Nayland Smith dropped his pouch back into his pocket;
struck a wooden match.
“Not a bit of it. The Sound Zone is Dr. Fu Manchu’s invention. He’s a scientific genius. The thing is an astounding reality!”
“Astounding’s an understatement.”
“It would give complete immunity from blast. No projectile could penetrate it. The nuclear fall-out would be dispersed over a wide area of the upper atmosphere. This, if such horrible weapons are ever used, is unavoidable. The consequences would depend upon the direction of the wind over which no man, not even Dr. Fu Manchu, has control.”
“Then why not let bygones be bygones, if Fu Manchu has really come clean?”
“Because, to mention one reason, its adoption, whilst making America, and I suppose the other Western allies, immune to direct air attack, would also give the Si-Fan absolute control of the Near and Far East.”
“But if it’s real——”
“Just so, Merrick.” Sir Denis lighted his pipe. “That’s why we have to hold the candle to the devil. That’s why we can’t arrest the two assassins next door, and produce the body which, I suppose, is hidden there. That’s why I don’t know what to report.”
Brian was dumbfounded. “You mean that, after what happened tonight, Fu Manchu will still go ahead with his project?”
Nayland Smith nodded; dropped the match-end in a tray.
“It’s his master-plot. He won’t resign it easily.”
The smell of tobacco-smoke spurred Brian to light a cigarette; to put himself in the background; concentrate on these vast issues at stake.
“This master-plot may be clear to you, Sir Denis, but I can’t get it. Why would the fact (and I accept your word it is a fact), that the West was safe from air attack, help this amazing man to take over the East?”
“Because the Reds, helpless to retaliate, could be blasted into submission, or unconditional surrender. And the vast underground movement throughout the East, which he has developed, would seize power. There’d be no holding him! I assure you, Merrick, that Hitler and Stalin were babes and sucklings compared to Dr. Fu Manchu!”
Nayland Smith continued his usual promenade. Brian was deep in thought.
“His cutting-in with a double for yourself,” he admitted, “wasn’t far short of criminal genius. His preparations to handle the thing if you happened to be alive were masterly.”
“Dragging the son of a prominent Senator and friend of the President into his programme also had elements of talent,” Sir Denis remarked dryly. “Never underestimate Dr. Fu Manchu. If he hadn’t been bitten by the bug called Power he would be honoured today as one of the world’s greatest intellects. Fortunately (in this case) like many men of genius, he’s more than slightly mad.”
“But what are you going to do?” Brian demanded. “The F.B.I, know, now, that Dr. Hessian isn’t the real man——”
“They don’t!” Nayland Smith rapped. “I haven’t told them. They accepted my double and Hessian as authentic. They began to worry about Nayland Smith the Second. Thought I had been brain-washed or something; but, all through, never doubted Hessian. They know now that my understudy wasn’t Nayland Smith; but they believe that Hessian is Hessian and that the purpose of the plot is to steal his invention.”
“Then why keep them in the dark?”
“Because, as he believes that I am his own man (I hope), Fu Manchu still plans to meet the President tonight and to hand over his system to the United States! The late Nayland Smith the Second was an actor called William Hailsham, an active member of the Communist Party. My orders are to tell the committee that the impostor attempted to kill me and that in self-defence I strangled him!”
“But are you really going to do it?”
Nayland Smith twitched the lobe of his ear. “I don’t know. I’m thinking hard. . . .”
* * *
This remarkable conversation was still going on in Brian’s room in Suite 420B when a tall, spare figure wearing a long black coat and a wide-brimmed black hat rapped in a peculiar manner on the door of Suite 420C.
The door was opened immediately by the slender man who wore a blue turban.
He salaamed deeply. “Master!”
Dr. Fu Manchu walked in with his majestic yet curiously feline step, and in the main room, which, although richly furnished, was smaller than that in the adjoining suite, faced the second occupier—whose apelike ugliness had so appalled Brian when he had seen him through a hole in the screen.
He, too, saluted the doctor as one doing reverence to a pagan god.
“Everything found in his possession,” Fu Manchu demanded, speaking Hindustani. “Quickly. Show me.”
The thickset man ran to an open suit-case, took out a parcel and spread all it contained on a table. “Here is everything, Master.”
Fu Manchu examined the exhibits found on the person of the dead man, one by one. A silver disk stamped with a number and a curious design seemed to excite him strangely. His eyes, when he raised them, gleamed with a light of madness.
He turned, pointed to an outsize wardrobe trunk standing against the wall. On it was painted “Prince Ranji Bhutan!.”
“Unlock it!” he commanded.
His voice, which ranged at times from the guttural to a sort of menacing hiss, was no more than audible.
The younger man, his handsome but sinister features registering intense alarm, produced a bunch of keys and, not without difficulty, unlocked the big trunk.
Upright inside, and secured with leather straps, the double of Nayland Smith stood, his head drooping so that the swollen features were in shadow. Dr. Hu Manchu stepped forward and tilted the head upward—no easy matter, for the neck muscles were already stiff.
From a pocket of his black coat he took out a lens and, peering closely, examined the nose of the victim.
He replaced the lens, turned, and struck the long-armed thug a flat-handed blow across his face. The younger killer fell to his knees, clasping his hands.
“Master!”
“Fools!” Fu Manchu’s features were contorted; his expression was that of a dangerous maniac. “You have killed the wrong man!” . . . By a stupendous effort of will, he recovered his usual calm. “Relock the trunk. Remain here until further orders reach you.”
With his silent, catlike walk, Dr. Fu Manchu turned away, opened the door, and went out. He passed the suite occupied by Nayland Smith, and went up to the penthouse. In the dark room which adjoined that equipped for the demonstration he seated himself at the radio switchboard and made an adjustment.