“Yes, a cellar built, I believe, in the foundations of the laboratory.”
“Which you can identify?”
“I think so.”
The bungalow, when we reached it, was so like a thousand and one inquiry offices at entrances to works, that again, as had occurred many times before, the idea seemed fabulous that anything sinister lurked behind a facade so commonplace. Lightning blazed, and cast ebony shadows of palm trunks bordering the drive, shadows like solid bars, across to the spot where we stood. There was a brass plate on the door, inscribed: “The San Damien Sisal Corporation.” A light shone from a window.
Smith pressed the bell, and a sort of tingling excitement possessed me as I stood there waiting to see who would open the door. We had not long to wait.
A Haitian, his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a lanky fellow smoking a corncob pipe, looked at us with sleepy eyes. In the office I saw a cane armchair from which he had evidently just risen, a newspaper on the floor beside it. There was a large keyboard resembling that of a hotel hall porter. At the moment that I observed this the man’s expression changed.
“What do you want?” he asked sharply. “You do not belong here.”
“I want to see the manager,” snapped Smith. “It is urgent.”
“The manager is in bed/’
“Someone must be on duty.”
“That is so ~ I am on duty.”
“Then go and wake the manager, and be sharp about it. I represent the Haitian Government, and I must see Mr. Horton at once. Go and rouse him.”
Smith’s authoritative manner was effective.
“I have to stay here,” the man replied, “but I can call him.”
He went inside and took up a telephone which I could not see; but then I heard him speaking rapidly in Haitian. Then came a tinkle as he replaced the receiver. He returned.
“Someone is coming to take you to the manager,” he reported.
Apparently regarding the incident as closed, he went in and shut the door.
I stared, at Smith.
“One of the Corporation staff,” he said in a low voice. “I doubt if he knows anything. However—wait and see.”
We had not waited long before a coloured boy appeared from somewhere.
“You two gentlemen want to see Mr. Horton?”
“We do,” said Smith.
“Come this way.”
As we moved off behind the boy I glanced back over my shoulder and saw Finlay raise his hand and turn, then flash a light in the darkness behind him. We were being closely covered.
The boy led along the back of those quarters in which for a time I had occupied an apartment. I saw no lights anywhere. Just beyond, and fronting on the big quadrangle, was a detached bungalow. Some of the windows were lighted and a door was open. The coloured boy rapped upon the door, and James Ridgwell Horton came out, holding reading glasses in his hand and having a book under his arm. The storm seemed to be moving into the east, but dense cloudbanks obscured the moon and the night was vibrant with electric energy. He peered at us in a bewildered way.
“You want to see me?”
At which moment the reflection of distant lightning showed us up clearly.
“We do,” said Smith.
“Why, Mr. Kerrigan! Sir Denis Nayland Smith!” Horton exclaimed, and fell back a step. “Mr. Kerrigan!”
“May we come in?” asked Smith quietly. “Certainly. This is . . . most unexpected.” We went into a room furnished with tropical simplicity; the night was appallingly hot, and Horton had evidently been lying in a rest chair, reading. In the rack was an iced drink from which two straws protruded. I noticed with curiosity that illumination was by an ordinary standard lamp. Horton stared rather helplessly from face to face .
“Does this mean—?” he began.
“It means,” said Smith rapidly, “as the presence of Kerrigan must indicate, that the game’s up. Do exactly as I tell you, and you will come to no great harm. Try to trick me, and the worst will happen.”
Horton made an effort to recover himself.
“In the first place, sir, I cannot imagine—”
“Imagination is unnecessary. Facts speak for themselves. I am here on the behalf of the Government of the United States.”
“Oh!” murmured Horton.
“I am accompanied by a number of Federal officers. The entire premises are surrounded by armed troops. This, for your information.”
“Yes, I see,” murmured Horton; and I saw him clench his hands. “In spite of this—and I speak purely in your own interest—I fear that steps will be taken against you of a character which you may not anticipate. I strongly urge you—”
“It is my business to take risks,” snapped Smith. “You may regard yourself as under arrest, Mr. Horton. And now, be good enough to lead the way to Dr. Fu Manchu.”
A moment Horton hesitated, then stretched his hand out to a telephone.
“No, no!” said Smith, and grasped his arm. “I wish to see him—not to find him gone.”
“I cannot answer for the consequences. I fear they will be grave—for you.”
“Be good enough to lead the way.”
I was now riding a high tide of excitement; and when, walking dejectedly between us, Horton crossed the quadrangle in the direction of that large building without windows which I remembered so well, which I should never forget, I confess that I tingled with apprehension. There was no one in sight anywhere, but glancing back again I saw that a number of armed men had entered from the drive and were spreading out right and left so as to command every building in the quadrangle. Two who carried sub-machine guns were covering our movements.
Before the door of that lobby in which I had changed into rubber shoes, Horton paused.
“If you will wait for a moment,” he said, “I will inquire if the Doctor is here.”
“No, no!” rapped Smith. “We are coming with you.”
Horton selected a key from a number on a chain and opened the door. We went into the lobby—and there were the rows of rubber shoes.
“You must change into these,” he said mechanically.
I nodded to Smith and we all went through that strange ritual.
“Open this other door,” said Smith.
The men armed with sub-machine guns were already inside.
“I have no key of this door; I can only ring for admittance.”
“Ring,” said Smith. “I have warned you.”
Horton pressed a button beside the massive metal door, and my excitement grew so tense that my teeth were clenched. For perhaps five seconds we waited. Smith turned to the G-men.
“When this door opens, see that it stays open,” he ordered. “Pull those rubber things over your shoes. I don’t know what for—but do it.”
The door opened. I became aware of that throbbing sound which I had noted before, and there, before me, wearing his white surgical Jacket, wasDr. Marriot Doughty!
“Kerrigan!” he exclaimed: “Kerrigan!”
His naturally sallow face grew deathly white. The short van-dyke beard seemed to bristle.
“My name is Nayland Smith,” said my friend. “I am here to see Dr. Fu Manchu. Stand aside if you please.”
Entering, out of darkness broken only by gleams of lightning, into that vast and strange laboratory was very startling. One came from night into day. Whereas, when I had seen it before, the place had been but dimly illuminated, now, the Ferris Globe shone as though it were molten and the effect was as that of daylight. Standing behind one of the glass-topped benches at the other end of the laboratory—a bench upon which some experiment seemed to be in progress—and still wearing a long white jacket and black skull-cap as I remembered him, was Dr. Fu Manchu!
“There’s your man!” said Smith, aside.
“Hands up!” rasped one of our bodyguard. Both raised their machine-guns. We all moved forward.