“It’s not as bad as that, lady. I’ll tell you what you do. I don’t think it’s meant for a young lady like you to be inconvenienced. So go back to your apartment and call the manager like you said. Ask him to speak to the officer in charge, and——”
She turned away impulsively. “It is preposterous! All this trouble! . . . Ah! mon Dieu!” She stumbled, turned back, clutched Sergeant Ruppert. “I twist my ankle!”
Her slender hands—he noted a great violet ring (the colour of her eyes!) on one white finger—slipped around his neck. Her touch made him tremble. And this moment of emotion was the last thing he remembered. . . . She had turned the bezel.
He experienced a sensation as though he had been clubbed on the back of his head—and knew no more.
She had carried out her last task—for she couldn’t afford to fail. In a fractional moment she reversed the bezel—a miniature receiver, tuned to pick up the lethal note from the transmitter in the penthouse. But as the big, good-looking policeman pitched forward and fell on his face, tears dimmed her eyes. She raised the jewelled wrist-watch. Her hands trembled when she adjusted the cunning radio mechanism.
“It is done!” she whispered.
“Good. Do not return to your apartment. Whatever you leave behind there shall be recovered or replaced. Walk down one more floor. Then use the elevator. You have money with you?”
“As you ordered, Doctor.”
“Avoid observation going out. Use a side entrance. Take a taxi to East 74th Street at Park Avenue. A man will be standing outside the drug store on the corner. He will wear evening dress and a red rose in his buttonhole. Say ‘Si-Fan’ and he will make all arrangements. Your life is your own. . . .”
Chapter
18
Brian’s vigil at the stair-head proved something of a tax on his nerves.
If the strange and oddly sinister figure who had dominated the meeting in the penthouse was none other than Dr. Fu Manchu then his uneasy feeling in the presence of the man he had accepted as Otto Hessian called for no further explanation. During the journey from Egypt he had had a strong inclination to avoid him, and, as he now recalled clearly, the bogus Nayland Smith had encouraged him to do so, saying, “He has the brains of a genius but the manners of a gorilla. . . .”
And now, the fabulous Dr. Fu Manchu was near, on the defensive, at bay!
Already he had spirited away a physically powerful police officer, armed and keenly alert to danger. . . .
In the long, lighted corridor there was unbroken silence. Guests occupying the several apartments were probably away for the evening, he assumed—unless (a disturbing thought) there were other apartments as well as that adjoining their own which harboured servants of the Chinese doctor. He saw again, mentally, the two Asiatic assassins dragging away the body of the unfortunate double.
Perhaps they had strangled Sergeant Ruppert!
He changed his position slightly, so that he had his back to a wall; tried to blot out a ghastly memory of the dead man’s face, and to call up the image of Lola.
What had happened to her? He seemed to have lived through another life since that wonderful hour in her room. In fact, during this one day he had experienced every emotion of which humanity is capable. Love, when he held Lola in his arms; horror, and a great fear, when he saw Nayland Smith lying dead on the floor. And fear had come again—fear that he was insane—when another Nayland Smith had appeared.
The belief, the conviction, that Lola was nothing more than a decoy of Dr. Fu Manchu’s had brought a sorrow such as he had never known. . . . And now when he knew the truth—she had gone!
A faint sound broke the silence of the corridor.
Brian stood, tense, almost holding his breath, listening.
The sound came from the stair.
He pulled out the big revolver, readied it for action, and slightly turned his head, looking down. Soft footsteps were mounting the stair. He raised the barrel, sighting it on the bend at which the person coming up would appear.
No one appeared. But a snappy voice came:
“Don’t shoot, Merrick!”
It was Nayland Smith. A moment later he stood beside Brian. “Phew!” Brian felt hot all over. “Glad you spoke!”
“So I see,” Sir Denis commented dryly. “But don’t relax your vigilance. We have the situation in hand, if——”
“If what?”
“If we’re not too late.” Nayland Smith spoke in a low tone. “First, we go to our own apartment. Don’t open your mouth while I try to call the penthouse. Remember, the room has been wired.”
Brian nodded, and they walked along to 420B. Nayland Smith unlocked the door, stood for a moment listening, and then went in. He crossed straight to the penthouse phone, lifted the receiver, held it to his ear awhile and then put it back. He frowned grimly; beckoned Brian to follow and went out of the apartment.
“Step as nearly like a cat as you can,” he whispered. “I’m going up to listen at the door. If I hear anything we won’t go in alone. We’ll wait for reinforcements.”
Fighting down a growing excitement (for Lola might be a prisoner there!), Brian watched while Sir Denis quietly unlocked the door to the penthouse stair.
They stole up.
The stair opened on a landing, and the door was nearly opposite, as Brian remembered. To their right was the elevator which normally served the penthouse, and beyond, a second door.
Nayland Smith tiptoed forward, apparently with the intention of pressing his hear to a panel—then paused. Closer contact was unnecessary.
A voice was speaking, muffled by the intervening door, but still audible—a strident, sibilant voice: “Do you imagine,” it said scornfully, “that your puny interference can check the wheels of the Inevitable? The dusk of the West has fallen. The dawn of the East has come. . . .”
Nayland Smith turned, a triumphant grin on his lean face;
pointed to the stair. Brian followed him down. Sir Denis partly closed the door below.
“You heard him, Merrick—you heard him?” he whispered. “One of his favourite slogans. How often have I listened to it! That’s Dr. Fu Manchu!”
Brian’s heart jumped uncomfortably.
“Who is he talking to?”
“I fear—to Lola Erskine. . . .”
* * *
Brian went through hours of torture in the few minutes that it took to muster the party. Harkness had a search-warrant, and two of the plain-clothes men came from Homicide;
for there was evidence to show that a murder had been committed on the top floor of the towering wing of the Babylon-Lido.
When duties had been allotted, Harkness and another F.B.I, man joined Brian and Nayland Smith, and all four went up to the penthouse. Harkness and his assistant—his name was Dakin—were to deal with the kitchen entrance; Brian and Sir Denis concentrated on the other door.
They stood for a moment, listening.
Complete silence.
“Get the door open!” Brian gasped, quivering with suspense. “For God’s sake, open it!”
Nayland Smith, very grim-faced, put the key in the lock— but never turned it.
“No, no!” A stifled scream came from inside. “Don’t open that door! It’s the end of all of us if you do! Break in at the other end. But don’t open that door!”
Lola!
Sir Denis grasped Brian’s arm in a grip that hurt. He withdrew the key.
“I don’t know what this means, Merrick, but we must do as she directs. Come on!” They ran to join Harkness. “In through the kitchen!”
Harkness unlocked the door. The door swung open.
Brian tried to hurl himself in. Nayland smith grabbed him.
“Go easy, Merrick! We can’t be sure. This is my pidgin.”