She dropped down onto the settee as he crossed, moving with that lithe, feline tread, and resumed his place behind the black table. When he spoke again he seemed to be thinking aloud . . .
“There are only a certain number of nature’s secrets which man is permitted to learn. A number sufficient for his own destruction.”
A high, wailing sound came from somewhere beyond the room. It rose, and fell, rose, and fell—and died away. But for Camille it was almost the last straw.
Clasping her hands, she sprang up, threatened now by hysteria.
“My God! What was it?”
Dr. Fu Manchu rested his chin on interlaced fingers.
“It was Bast—my pet cheetah. She thinks I have forgotten her supper. These hunting cats are so voracious.”
“I don’t believe you . . . It sounded like . . .”
“My dear Miss Navarre, I resent the implication. Sir Denis Nayland Smith would assure you that lying is not one of my vices.”
Delicately he took a pinch of snuff from a silver box. Camille sat down again, struggling to recover her lost poise. She forced herself to meet his fixed regard.
“What is it you want? Why do you look at me like that?”
“I am admiring your beautiful courage. To destroy that which is beautiful is an evil thing.” He stood up. “You wish for the peace of the world. You have said so. You fear cruelty. You flinched when you heard the cry of a cheetah. You have known cruelty— for there is no cruelty like the cruelty of war. If your wish was sincere, only I can hope to bring it true. Will you work with me, or against me?”
“How can I believe—”
“In Dr. Fu Manchu? In an international criminal? No—perhaps it is asking too much, in the time at my disposal—and the very minutes grow precious.” He opened his eyes widely. “Stand up, Camille Navarre. What is your real name?”
And Camille became swept again at command of the master hypnotist into that grey and dreadful half-world where there was no one but Dr. Fu Manchu.
“Camille Mirabeau,” she answered mechanically—and stood up. “Navarre was the name by which I was known to the Maquis.”
The green eyes were very close to hers.
“Why were you employed by Britain?”
“Because of my success in smuggling Air Force personnel out of the German zone. And because I speak several languages and have had science training.”
“Were you ever married?”
“No.”
“How many lovers have you had?”
“One.”
“How long did this affair last?”
“For three months. Until he was killed by the Gestapo.”
“Have you ceased to regret?”
“Yes.”
“Does Morris Craig attract you?”
“Yes.”
“He will be your next lover. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“You will make him take you away from the Huston Building not later than half past nine. He must not return to his office tonight. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Does he find you attractive?”
“Yes.”
The insistent voice was beating on her brain like a hammer. But she was powerless to check its beats, powerless to resist its promptings; compelled to answer—truthfully. Her brain, her heart, lay on Dr. Fu Manchu’s merciless dissecting table.
“Has he expressed admiration?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“He has asked me not to wear glasses, and not to brush my hair back as I do.”
“And you love him?”
Camille’s proud spirit rose strong in revolt. She remained silent.
“You love him?”
It was useless. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Tonight you will seduce him with your hair. The rest I shall leave to Morris Craig. I will give you your instructions before you leave. Sleep . . .”
There came an agonized interval, in which Camille lay helpless in invisible chains, and then the Voice again.
“I have forgotten all that happened since I left my office in the Huston Building. Repeat.”
“I have forgotten all that happened since I left my office in the Huston Building.”
“When I return I shall remember only what I have to do at nine-fifteen—nine-fifteen by the office clock.”
“When I return I shall remember only what I have to do at nine-fifteen, by the office clock.”
“At nine-thirty Dr. Fu Manchu will call me: repeat the time.”
“Nine-thirty.”
“The fate of the world rests in my hands.”
Camille raised her arms, clutched her head. She moaned . . . “Oh! . . . I . . . cannot bear this—”
“Repeat my words.”
“The fate . . . of the world . . . rests . . . in . . . my hands . . .”
Chapter XIII
Morris Craig came back, “under convoy” from Nayland Smith’s “quiet restaurant.” Standing before the private door:
“Your restaurant was certainly quiet,” he said. “But the check was a loud, sad cry. Come up if you like. Smith. But I have a demon night ahead of me. I must be through by tomorrow. Thanks for a truly edible dinner. Most acceptable to my British constitution. The wine was an answer to this pagan’s prayer.”
Nayland Smith gave him a long, steely-hard look.
“Have I succeeded in making it quite clear to you, Craig, that the danger is now, tonight, and for the next twenty-four hours?”
“Septically clear. Already I have symptoms of indigestion. But if I work on into the grey dawn I’m going to get the job finished, because I am bidden to spend the week-end with the big chief in the caves and jungles of Connecticut.”
Nayland Smith, a lean figure in a well-worn tweed suit, for he had left his topcoat in the car, hesitated for a moment; then he grasped Craig firmly by the arm.
“I won’t make myself a nuisance,” he said. “But I want to see you right back on the job before I leave you. The fact is—I have a queer, uneasy feeling tonight. We must neglect no precaution.”
And so they went up to the office together, and found it just as they had left it. Craig hung up hat and coat, grinning at Smith, who was lighting his pipe.
“Don’t mind me. Carry on as if you were in your own abode. I’ll carry on as if I were in mine.”
He crossed to unlock the safe, when:
“Wait a minute,” came sharply. “I’m going to make myself a nuisance after all.”
Craig turned. “How come?”
“The duplicate key is in my topcoat! You will have to let me out.”
“Blessings and peace,” murmured Craig. “But I promise not to go beyond the street door. There will thus be no excuse for my being escorted upstairs again. Before we start, better let Regan know I’m back.”
He called the laboratory, and waited.
“H’m. Silence. He surely can’t have gone to sleep . . . Try again.”
And now came Regan’s voice, oddly strained.
“Laboratory . . . Regan here.”
“That’s all right, Regan. Just wanted to say I’m back. Everything in order?”
“Yes . . . everything.”
Craig glanced at Nayland Smith
“Sounded very cross, didn’t he?”
“Don’t wonder. Is he expected to work all night too?
“No. Shaw relieves him at twelve o’clock.”
“Come on, then. I won’t detain you any longer.”
They went out.
That faint sound made by the elevator had just died away, when there came the muffled thud of two shots . . . The laboratory door was flung open—and Regan hurled himself down the steps. He held an automatic in his hand, as he raced towards the lobby.