Kelly went out again, with the empty stretcher. A murmur of voices met him.
“I know Dr. Pardoe’s number,” said the gardener, a youthful veteran whose frightened blond hair had never lain down since the Normandy landing. “Shall I call him?”
His voice quavered.
“Yes,” rapped Smith. “Tell him it’s urgent.”
As the man hurried away to the phone in the back premises:
“Nothing on him?” Sam asked.
“Not a thing! Yet he was alone—with the dogs. God help him! I believe he was running for his life. Perhaps from that monstrosity I had a glimpse of when I first arrived.”
“That’s when he lost the plans!” said Sam excitedly. “He must have broken away from—whatever it was, and tried to cross the track. Lord knows what was after him, but I guess he was crazy with fright. Anyway, he figured the dogs were locked up—”
“When, in fact, they were right on top of him! Failing Kelly’s arrival, I could have done nothing. Rouse somebody up. Get hot water, lint, iodine. Rush.”
As Sam ran to obey, Raymond Harkness stepped in through the open window. He wore a blue rainproof, a striped muffler, and a brown hat. He was peeling off a pair of light suede gloves. He looked like an accountant who had called to advise winding up the company.
“It’s not clear to me. Sir Denis, just what happened out there tonight—I mean what happened to Frobisher.”
“You can see what happened to him!” said Smith drily.
“Yes—but how? Sokolov was waiting to meet him, but he never got there—”
“Somebody else met him first!”
“Sokolov’s thugs made the mistake of opening fire on our party.” Harkness put his gloves in his pockets.
“Otherwise I’m not sure we should have had anything on Sokolov—”
The wounded man groaned, momentarily opened his eyes, clenched his injured hands. He had heard the sound of someone beating on a door, heard Stella’s moaning cry:
“Let me out! Mike!”
“Don’t,” Frobisher whispered . . . “allow her . . . to see me.”
As if galvanized, Nayland Smith turned, exchanged a glance with Harkness, and went racing upstairs.
“Mrs. Frobisher!” he called. “Mrs. Frobisher—where are you?”
“I’m hereV came pitifully.
Smith found the locked door. The key was in the lock! He turned it, and threw the door open.
Stella Frobisher, on the verge of nervous collapse, crouched on a chair, just inside.
“Mrs. Frobisher! What does this mean?”
“She—Camille—locked me in! Oh, for heaven’s sake, tell me: What has happened?”
“Hang on to yourself, Mrs. Frobisher. It’s bad, but might be worse. Please stay where you are for a few minutes longer. Then I am going to ask you to lend us a hand. Will you promise? It’s for the good of everybody.”
“Oh, must I? If you say so, I suppose—”
“Just for another five minutes.”
Smith ran out again, and down to the library. His face was drawn, haggard. In the battle to save Frobisher from the dogs, with the added distraction of a fracas between F.B.I, men and Sokolov’s bodyguard at the lower gate, he had lost sight of Craig! Camille he had never seen, had never suspected that she would leave Mrs. Frobisher’s room. Standing at the foot of the stair:
“Harkness,” he said. “Send out a general alert. Dr. Fu Manchu not only has the plans. He has Camille Navarre and the inventor, also . . .”
* * *
The police car raced towards New York, casting a sword of light far ahead. Against its white glare, the driver and a man beside him, his outline distorted by the radio headpiece, were silhouettes which reminded Nayland Smith of figures of two Egyptian effigies. The glass partition cut them off completely from those in the rear. It was a special control car, normally sacred to the deputy commissioner . . .
“We know many things when it’s too late,” Nayland Smith answered. “I knew, when I got back tonight, that Michael Frobisher was an agent of the Soviet, knew the Kremlin had backed those experiments. I knew Sokolov was waiting for him.
His crisp voice trailed off into silence.
Visibility in the rear was poor. So dense had the fog become, created by Smith’s pipe, that Harkness experienced a certain difficulty in breathing. Motorcycle patrolmen passed and repassed, examining occupants of all vehicles on the road.
“That broken-down truck wasn’t reported earlier,” Harkness went on, “because it stood so far away from any gate to Falling Waters. What’s more, it hadn’t been there long.”
“But the path through the woods has been there since Indian times,” Smith rapped. “And the truck was drawn up right at the point where it reaches a highway. How did your team come to overlook such an approach?”
“I don’t know,” Harkness admitted. “It seems Frobisher didn’t think it likely to be used, either. It doesn’t figure in the alarm plan.”
“But it figured in Fu Manchu’s plan! We don’t know—and we’re never likely to know—the strength of the party operating from that truck. But those who actually approached the house stuck closely to neutral zones! His visit today—a piece of dazzling audacity—wasn’t wasted.”
Traffic was sparse at that hour. Points far ahead had been notified. Even now, hope was not lost that the truck might be intercepted. Both men were thinking about this. Nayland Smith first put doubt into words.
“A side road, Harkness,” he said suddenly. “Another car waiting. Huan Tsung is the doctor’s chief of staff—or used to be, formerly. He’s a first-class tactician. One of the finest soldiers of the old regime.”
“I wish we could pin something on him.”
“I doubt if you ever will. He has courage and cunning second only to those of his distinguished chief.”
“There’s that impudent young liar who sits in the shop, too. And I have reports of a pretty girl of similar type who’s been seen around there.”
“Probably Huan Tsung’s children.
“His children’.” Even the gently spoken Harkness was surprised into vehemence. “But—how old is he?”
“Nearing eighty-five, I should judge. But the fecundity of a Chinese aristocrat is proverbial . . . Hullo! what’s this?”
The radio operator had buzzed to come through.
“Yes?” said Harkness.
“Headquarters, sir. I think it may be important.”
“What is it?” Nayland Smith asked rapidly
“Well, sir, it comes from a point on the East River. A young officer from a ship tied up there seems to have been saying good night to a girl, by some deserted building. They heard tapping from inside a metal pipe on the wall, right where they stood. He spotted it was Morse—”
“Yes, yes—the message?”
“The message—it’s just reached headquarters—says:’]. ]. Regan here. Call police . . .’ There’s a party setting out right now—”
“Regan? Regan? Recall them!” snapped Smith. “Quickly!”
Startled, the man gave the order, and then looked back. “Well, sir?”
“The place to be covered, but by men who know their job. Anyone who comes out to be kept in view. Anyone going in to be allowed to do so. No suspicion must be aroused.”
The second order was given.
“Anything more?”
“No.” Nayland Smith was staring right ahead along the beam of light. “I am trying to imagine, Harkness, how many times the poor devil may have tapped out that message . . .”