A tall man had just come out of Huan Tsung’s. He wore a dark topcoat, a white scarf, and a neat black hat. He carried a leather case. Moreno, in the first place, hadn’t seen this man go in, therefore he instantly focussed the glasses on his face. And, as he did so, his hands shook slightly.
It was the first face he had seen when he had opened his eyes in the hospital.
The man was “Dr. Malcolm”!
Moreno was hurrying downstairs when Huan Tsung’s time-honored Ford returned, and the shopman came out to aid a darkcoated figure to alight. It had been driven away before Moreno reached the street—and Dr. Malcolm had disappeared.
* * *
“My mission,” said Fu Manchu, “is to save the world from the leprosy of Communism. Only I can do this. And I do it, not because of any love I have for the American people, but because if the United States fall, the whole world falls. In this task. Sir Denis, I shall brook no interference.”
Nayland Smith made no reply. He was listening, not only to the sibilant, incisive voice, but also to certain vague sounds which penetrated the cellar. He was trying to work out where the place was located.
“Morris Craig, a physicist touched with genius, is perfecting a device which, in the hands of warmongers, would wreck those fragments of civilization which survive the maniac. Hitler. News of this pending disaster brought me here. I am inadequately served. There has been no time to organize a suitable staff. My aims you know.”
Nayland Smith nodded. From faint sounds detected, he had deduced the fact that the cellar lay near a busy street.
“I appreciate your aims. I don’t like your methods.”
“We shall not discuss them. They are effective. Your recent visit to Teheran (I regret that I missed you there) failed to save Omar Khan. He was the principal Soviet agent in that area. Power is strong wine even for men of culture. When it touches the lips of those unaccustomed to it, power drives them mad. Such a group of power-drunk fools threatens today the future of man. One of its agents is watching Craig’s experiments. He must be silenced.”
“Why don’t you silence him?”
The brilliant green eyes almost closed, so that they became mere slits in an ivory mask. It is possible that Nayland Smith was the only man of his acquaintance who assumed, although he didn’t feel, complete indifference in the presence of Dr. Fu Manchu.
“I have always respected your character. Sir Denis.” The words were no more than whispered. “It has that mulish stupidity which won the Battle of Britain. The incompetents who serve me have failed, so far, to identify this agent. I still believe that if you could appreciate my purpose, you would become of real use to a world hurtling headlong to disaster. I repeat—I respect your character.”
“It was this respect, no doubt, which prompted you to attempt my murder?”
“The attempt was clumsy. It was undertaken contrary to my wishes. You can be of greater use to me alive than dead.” And those softly spoken words were more terrifying to Nayland Smith than any threat.
Had Fu Manchu decided to smuggle him into his far eastern base, by that mysterious subway which so far had defied all inquiry?
As the dreadful prospect flashed to his mind, Fu Manchu exercised one of his many uncanny gifts, that of answering an unspoken question.
“Yes—such is my present intention. Sir Denis. I have work for you to do. This cellar is shared by several Asiatic tradesmen, one of whom is an importer of Chinese coffins. A death has occurred in the district, and the deceased—a man of means—expressed a wish to be buried in his birthplace. When his coffin is sent there, via Hong Kong—he will not be in it . . .”
There was an interruption.
Heralded by the sound of an opening door, two stockily built, swarthy figures entered. One of them limped badly. Between them they carried an ornate coffin. This they set down on the concrete floor, and saluted Dr. Fu Manchu profoundly.
Nayland Smith clenched his fists, straining briefly but uselessly, at the slender, remorseless strands which held him. The men were Burmese ruffians of the dacoit class from which Fu Manchu had formerly recruited his bodyguard. One of them—the one who limped and who had a vicious cast in his right eye—spoke rapidly.
Fu Manchu silenced him with a gesture. But Nayland Smith had heard—and understood. His heart leapt. Hope was reborn. But Fu Manchu remained unmoved. He spoke calmly.
“The preparation for your long journey,” he said, “is one calling for time and care. It must be postponed. In the past, I believe, you have had opportunities to study examples of that synthetic death (a form of catalepsy) which I can induce. I hope to operate in the morning. This”—he emended a long-nailed forefinger in the direction of the coffin—”will be your wagon-lit. You will require no passport . . .”
Nayland Smith detected signs of uneasiness in the two Burmese. The one who limped and squinted was watching him murderously—for this was the man upon whom he had registered a kick the night before. Faintly he could hear sounds of passing traffic, but nothing else. The odds against his survival were high.
Dr. Fu Manchu signalled again—and the two Burmese stepped forward to where the helpless prisoner sat watching them . . .
The life of Chinatown apparently pursued its normal midnight course. Smartly dressed Orientals, inscrutably reserved, passed along the streets, as well as less smartly dressed Westerners. Some of the shops and restaurants continued to do business. Others were closing. There was nothing to indicate that Chinatown was covered, that every man and woman leaving it did so under expert scrutiny.
“If Nayland Smith’s here,” said the grim deputy commissioner, who had arrived to direct operations in person, “they won’t get him out—alive or dead.”
He spoke with the full knowledge which experience had given him, that practically every inhabitant knew that a cordon had been thrown around the whole area.
When Police Captain Rafferty walked into Huan Tsung’s shop, he found a young Oriental there, writing by the poor light of a paper-shaded lamp. He glanced up at Rafferty without apparent interest.
“Where’s Huan Tsung?’
“Not home.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“Don’t know.”
“When did he go?”
“Ten minute—quarter hour.”
This confirmed reports. The Ford exhibit had appeared again. Old Huan Tsung had sallied forth a second time.
“When’s he coming back?”
“Don’t know.”
“Suppose you try a guess, Charlie. Expect him tonight?”
“Sure.”
The shopman resumed his writing.
“While we’re waiting,” said Police Captain Rafferty “we’ll take a look around. Lead the way upstairs. You can finish that ballad when we come down.”
The young shopman offered no protest. He put his brush away and stood up.
“If you please,” he said, and opened a narrow door at the back of the counter.
At about the time that Rafferty started upstairs, a radio message came through to the car which served the deputy commissioner as mobile headquarters. It stated that Huan Tsung’s vintage Ford was parked on lower Fifty Avenue just above Washington Square.
Inquiries brought to light the fact that it stood before an old brick house. The officer reporting didn’t know who occupied this house.
Huan Tsung had called there earlier that night and had returned to Pell Street. He was now presumably there again.
“Do I go in and get him?” the officer inquired.
“No. But keep him covered when he comes out.”
This order of the deputy commissioner’s was one of those strategic blunders which have sometimes lost wars . . .
Police Captain Rafferty found little of note in the rooms above the shop. They resembled hundreds of such apartments to be seen in that neighborhood. The sanctum of Huan Tsung, with its silk-covered walls and charcoal brazier, arrested his attention for a while. At the crystal globe he stared with particular interest, then glanced at his guide, whose name (or so he said) was Lao Tail.