“No. It’s nothing on the order of curari. And there are no tetanus symptoms. He’s just completely unconscious, and slowly dying. I suppose I should feel indebted to Dr. Fu Manchu. It’s evidently a painless death.”
“Good God, Smith! You make me shudder. What kind of man is this?”
“A genius, Craig. He is above ordinary emotions. Men and women are just pieces on the board. Any that become useless, or obstructive, he removes. It’s quite logical.”
“It may be. But it isn’t human.”
“You are not the first to doubt if Dr. Fu Manchu is human, in the generally accepted sense of the word. Certainly he has long outlived man’s normal span. He claims to have mastered the secret of prolonging life.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I can’t doubt it. He was elderly from all accounts when I first set eyes on him, in a Burmese forest. He nearly did for me, then—using the same method—as he has done for poor Moreno, now. And that was more years ago than I care to count.”
“Good heavens! How old is he?”
“God knows. Come on. Let’s get some dinner. We have a lot to talk about.”
As they entered the restaurant, to be greeted by a maitre d’hotel who knew Nayland Smith, Craig saw the steely eyes turning swiftly right and left. With the ease of one who has been a target for criminals all over the world, Smith was analyzing every face in the room.
“That table by the wall,” he rapped, pointing.
“I am so sorry, Sir Denis. That table is reserved.”
“Reserve another, and say you made a mistake.”
A ten-dollar bill went far to clinch the matter. There was some running about by waiters, whispering and side glances, to which Nayland Smith paid no attention. As he and Craig sat down:
“You note,” he explained tersely, “I can see the entrance from here. Adjoining table occupied. People harmless . . .”
Whilst Morris Craig attacked a honeydew melon, Smith covertly watched him. and then:
“Highly attractive girl, that secretary of yours,” he jerked casually.
Craig looked up.
“Quite agree. Highly competent, too.”
“Remarkable hair.”
“Ah, you noticed it! Pity she hides it like that.”
“Hides her eyes, too,” said Smith drily.
But Craig did not reply. He had been tempted to do so, and then had changed his mind. Instead he studied a wine list which a waiter had just handed to him. As he ordered a bottle of Chateau Margaux, he was thinking, “Has Camille gone out? Where has she gone? Is she doing herself well?” Yes, Camille had remarkable hair, and her eyes— For some obscure reason he found himself wondering who could have coughed in the office just before he left, and wondering, too, in view of the fact that, failing Sam, it was quite unaccountable, why he had dismissed the incident so lightly.
“The devil of it is, Craig,” Nayland Smith was saying, “that Fu Manchu, who has come dangerously near to upsetting the order of things more than once, is no common criminal.”
“Evidently”
“He doesn’t work for personal gain. He’s a sort of cranky idealist. I said tonight that I prayed you might never meet him. The prayer was a sincere one. The force which Dr. Fu Manchu can project is as dangerous, in its way, as that which you have trapped in your laboratory. Five minutes in his company would convince you that you stood in the presence of a phenomenal character.”
“I’m prepared to believe you. But I don’t understand how such a modern Cesare Borgia can wander around New York and escape the police!”
Nayland Smith leaned across the table and fixed his steady gaze on Craig.
“Dr. Fu Manchu,” he said deliberately, “will never be arrested by any ordinary policeman. In my opinion, the plant on top of the Huston Building should be smashed to smithereens.” His speech became rapid, rattling. “It’s scientific lunatics like you who make life perilous. Agents of three governments are watching you. I may manage the agents—but I won’t make myself responsible for Dr. Fu Manchu.”
* * *
Could Morris Craig have seen the face of the Chinese doctor at that moment, he might better have appreciated Nayland Smith’s warning.
In his silk-lined apartment in Pell Street, old Huan Tsung was contemplating the crystal as a Tibetan devotee contemplates the Grand Lama. Mirrored within it was that wonderful face, dominated by the blazing green eyes.
“I am served,” came sibilantly in Chinese, “by fools and knaves. We, of the Seven, are pledged to save the world from destruction by imbeciles. It seems that we are children, and blind ourselves.”
Huan Tsung did not speak. The cold voice continued.
“We betray our presence, our purpose, and our methods, to the common man-hunters. Had this purpose been achieved, we should have been justified. We need so short a time. Interference, now, can be fatal. But the method employed was clumsy. This victim of your blundering must not die.”
“Compassion, Excellency, is an attribute of the weak.”
The compelling eyes remained fixed upon him.
“Rejoice, then, that I entertain it for you. Otherwise you would have joined your revered ancestors tonight. I am moved by expediency—which is an attribute of the wise. In the death of a police officer the seed of retribution is sown. I must remain here until my work is done. If he dies, I shall be troubled. If he survives, the affair becomes less serious. In one hour from now he will be dead—unless we act. I am preparing the antidote. It is for you to find means to administer it . . . Take instant steps.”
The light in the crystal faded.
As a result of this conversation, just as Craig had begun on the sweet, Nayland Smith was called to the phone.
He was not away long. But when he came back, his face wore a curious expression. In part, it was an expression of relief—in part, of something else. As he sat down:
“A miracle has been performed in Manhattan,” he said.
Craig stared. “What do you mean?”
“What! Professor Lowe has won, after all?”
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“No. Professor Lowe was beaten. But some obscure practitioner, instructed by Moreno’s father, insisted upon seeing the patient. As the case was desperate, and the unknown doctor—who had practised in the tropics—claimed to recognize the symptoms, he was given permission to go ahead. Moreno would have died, anyway.”
“But he didn’t?”
“On the contrary. He recovered consciousness shortly after the injection which this obscure doctor administered. He is already off the danger list.”
“This was a brilliant bird. Smith! He doesn’t deserve to be obscure.”
Nayland Smith tugged reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
“He must remain so. The physician whose name he gave is absent in Philadelphia. Officer Moreno’s father was not even aware of his son’s illness.”
Huan Tsung had taken instant steps. But Craig laid his spoon down in bewilderment.
“Then—I mean to say—if he was an impostor—what the devil’s it all about?”
“Perfectly simple. For some deep reason we can’t hope to fathom, Dr. Fu Manchu has decided that Moreno must live. I fear he has also decided that I must die. Granting equal efficiency, what are my chances?”
Chapter V
Sam was free until nine forty-five. He studied the menus displayed outside a number of restaurants suitable for one of limited resources, before making a selection. His needs were simple, it seemed, and having finished his dinner, he moved along to a bar, mounted a stool, and ordered himself a bourbon.
Seated there, in his short leather jacket, a cap with a very long peak pushed to the back of his bullet head, he surveyed the scene through his spectacles whilst lighting a cigarette.