“Well”—Sam shook his head thoughtfully—”I’m mostly around by eight, on account of Mr. Shaw or Mr. Regan come off night watch then. I might easy be wanted—see?”
“Yes,1 see. Reason I ask is I thought I saw you tailing me as I came along. If this impression was chimerical, correct me. But it isn’t the first time I have had it.”
Sam’s eyes, behind his spectacles, betrayed childish wonder.
“Me tail you, Doctor! Listen. Wait a minute —”
“I am listening, and I am prepared to wait a minute. But I want an answer.”
“Well”—Sam pulled his eye-shade lower—”sometimes it happens maybe I’m on an errand same time you happen to be going my way—”
“Enough! I understand. You are my Old Man of the Sea, kindly supplied by Nayland Smith. If Mr. Frobisher knew how you wasted time you owe to Huston Electric, he’d fire you. But I’ll have it out with Smith, when I see him.”
A curious expression crossed Sam’s face as Craig spoke, but was gone so quickly that, turning away, he didn’t detect it.
As Sam went out, Craig stood studying the detail on the drawing board, but found himself unable to conquer that spirit of unrest, an unhealthy sense of impending harm, which had descended upon him. Particularly, he was troubled by forebodings about Smith. And although Morris Craig would have rejected such a theory with scientific scorn, it is nevertheless possible that these were telepathic . . .
Less than nine hours before, police headquarters had become a Vesuvius.
Nayland Smith’s wallet had been handed in by the frightened patrolman to whom he had passed it. He had given a detailed description of the man posing as “Dr. Malcolm.” It was recognized, at Centre Street, to correspond to that of the bogus doctor who had saved the life of Officer Moreno!
Wires had hummed all night. The deputy commissioner had been called at his home. So had the district attorney. All cars in the suspected area were radioed. Senior police officers took charge of operations. What had been regarded, in certain quarters, as an outbreak of hysteria in the F.B.I, suddenly crystallized into a present menace, when the news broke that a celebrated London consultant had been swept off the map of Manhattan.
Prom the time that “Dr. Malcolm” had left with his supposed patient, nothing more was known of his movements. His identity remained a mystery. Feverish activity prevailed. But not a solitary clue came in.
An internationally famous criminal investigator had been spirited away under the very eyes of the police—and no one knew where to look for him!
But Manhattan danced on . .
Craig’s uneasiness grew greater as the day grew older. It began seriously to interfere with concentration. His lunch consisted of a club sandwich and a bottle of beer sent up from the restaurant on the main floor, below. The nearer that Shaw’s work came to completion in the laboratory, the further Craig seemed to be from contributing those final elements which would give it life. The more feverishly he toiled the less he accomplished.
Early in the afternoon he spoke to the manager of Nayland Smith’s hotel.
He learned that Smith had gone out, the evening before, at what exact time the manager didn’t know. He had not returned nor communicated. There had been many callers, and a quantity of messages, mail, and cables awaited him. The manager could give no further information.
Craig wondered if he should call police headquarters, but hesitated to make himself a nuisance. After all, the nature of Smith’s business in New York would sufficiently account for long absences. But Craig recalled, unhappily, something he had said on the night they dined together: “I fear that he” (Dr. Fu Manchu) “has decided that I must die . . . What are my chances?”
He tried again to tackle his work, but found the problems which it presented so bewildering that he was not resentful, rather grateful, when Michael Frobisher burst into the office.
“Hullo, Mr. Frobisher!”
Craig swung around and faced his chief, who had dropped into one of the armchairs.
“Hello, Craig. Thought I’d just look in. Don’t expect to be in town again this week. Picking up Mrs. F., who’s having a treatment, and driving right out. How’s the big job shaping?”
Frobisher pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, and Craig noted that his hand was unsteady. The florid coloring had undertones of grey. Sudden recognition came to him that Frobisher was either a sick man or a haunted one.
“Fairly bright,” he replied in his most airy manner. “Time you saw the setup in the lab again.”
“Yes—I must.”
But Craig knew that he would avoid the visit, if possible. The throbbing monster which had its being in the laboratory frightened Michael Frobisher, a fact of which Craig was aware.
“Getting quite a big boy now.”
Frobisher snipped off the end of his cigar. “What are the prospects of finishing by week-end?”
“Fair to medium. Mental functions disturbed by grave misgivings.”
Frobisher glanced up sharply. His eyes, under drawn black brows, reminded Craig, for some reason, of smouldering fires in two deep caves.
“What misgivings?” he growled, and snapped up his lighter, which had a flame like a burning oil well.
Craig, facing Frobisher, dropped the stub of a cigarette and began to grope behind him for a packet which he had put somewhere on the desk.
“I’m a sort of modern Frankenstein,” he explained. “Hadn’t grasped it before, but see it now. In there”—he waved towards the laboratory door—”is a pup of a thing which, full grown, could eat up New York City at one gulp. This brute frightens me.”
“Forget it.” Frobisher lighted his cigar.
“Imposs. The thought hangs on like a bulldog. How this beast can be tamed to perform domestic duties escapes me at the moment. Like training a Bengal tiger to rock baby’s cradle. Then, there’s something else.”
“Such as what?”
“My love child, the horror begotten in that laboratory, is coveted by the governments of the United States, of England, and of Russia.”
Michael Frobisher stood up. His craggy brows struggled to meet over a deep vertical wrinkle.
“Who says so?”
“I say so. Agents of all those governments are watching every move we make here.”
“I knew there was a leak! Do you know those agents?”
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith has arrived from London.”
“Who in hell is Sir Denis Nayland Smith?”
“An old friend of mine. Formerly a commissioner of Scotland Yard. But I don’t know the Washington agent and I don’t know the Soviet agent. I only know they’re here.”
“Oh!” said Michael Frobisher, and sat down again. “Any more troubles?”
“Yes.” Craig found his cigarettes and lighted one. “Dr. Fu Manchu.”
Silence fell between them like a curtain. Craig had turned again to the desk. He swung back now, and glanced at Frobisher. His expression was complicated. But fear was in it. He looked up at Craig.
“You are sure there is such a person?”
“Yes—moderately sure.”
For some reason this assurance seemed to bring relief to Frobisher. A moment later an explanation came.
“Then I’m not crazy—as that damned Pardoe thinks! Those Asiatic snoopers really exist. They seem to have quit tailing me around town, but queer things happen out at Falling Waters. Whoever went through my papers one night away back must have been working with inside help—”
“But I thought you told me that some yellow character—”
“He was outside. Saw him from my dressing-room window. No locks broken. Then, only last night, my private safe was opened!”
“What’s that?”
“Plain fact. I was awake. Sleep badly. Guess I interrupted him. But the door of the safe was wide open when I got down!”