Chapter XXI
Camille’s impressions of the sortie from the house were brief, but terrifying.
That tragedy, swift, mysterious, had swept down on Falling Waters, she had known even before she ran from her room to prevent Stella Frobisher going downstairs. The arrival of Nayland Smith had struck a note of urgency absent before. Up to this moment, she had counted her confession to Morris the supreme ordeal which she must brave that night.
But, when she returned upstairs (and she knew Sir Denis had seen her), apprehension grew. She had dressed quickly. She realized that something was going to happen. Just what, she didn’t know.
Then she heard someone running across the rose garden which her window overlooked. She laid down the cigarette she was smoking, went and looked out. She saw nothing. But it was a dark night. She wondered if it would be wise to report the occurrence. But before decision was reached had come that awful cry— shots—the baying of dogs.
Stella Frobisher, evidently wide awake, had come out of her room. Camille had heard her hurrying along the corridor, had run out after her . . .
It had been difficult, inducing Stella to return. Camille had succeeded, at last.
But to remain locked in, whilst Morris was exposed to some mysterious but very real peril—this was a trial to which Camille was unable to submit. It was alien to all her instincts.
She felt mean for locking Stella into her own apartment, but common sense told her that Mrs. Frobisher could be only a nuisance in an emergency.
Then had come that stumbling rush in cold, clammy darkness towards the spot where, instinctively, she knew Morris to be—in danger. Whilst still a long way off, she had seen that horrifying mix-up of dogs and men. Morris was there.
Almost unconsciously she had cried his name: “Morris! Morris!”
By means of what miracle Morris heard her voice above the tumult Camille would never know—unless her heart told her; for a second disturbance had broken out not far away: shots, shouting.
But he did.
He turned. Camille saw someone else, probably the kennelman, joining in the melee. Perhaps she was outlined against lights from the house; but Morris saw her, began to run towards her. He seemed to be shouting. His behavior was wild.
Something—it felt like a damp, evil-smelling towel—was dropped suddenly over her head . . .
And now?
Now she lay on a heap of coarse canvas piled up in a corner of what seemed to be a large, and was unmistakably a dilapidated, warehouse: difficult to assess its extent for the reason that the only light was that of a storm-lamp which stood on the roughly paved floor close to where Camille lay.
Another piece of this evidently abundant sacking had been draped over one side of the lantern, so that no light at all reached a great part of the place. There was a smell of dampness and decay with an overtone which might have been tea. It was very still, except that at the moment when she became conscious of her surroundings, Camille thought she had heard the deep, warning note of a steamer’s whistle.
The impression was correct. The S.S. Campus Rex had just pulled out from a neighboring berth, bound for the River Plate. Her third officer was wishing he knew the result of his message to the police and wishing he could have spent one more night with his girl friend . . .
A scuffling sound brought Camille to her feet at a bound.
There were rats around her in the darkness!
She had physical courage such as, perhaps, few women possess. But the presence of rats had always set her heart beating faster. They terrified her.
Swaying slightly, she became aware of a nausea not due merely to fright. There was an unpleasant taste on her palate. A sickly sweet odor lingered, too, in her disordered hair. Of course, she might have expected it. The towel, or whatever had been thrown over her head, must have been saturated with an anaesthetic.
She stood quite still for a moment, trying to conquer her weakness. The scuffling sound had ceased. In fact, she could detect no sound whatever, so that it might have been some extra sense which prompted her to turn swiftly.
Half in the light from the storm-lamp and half in shadow a tall man stood watching her.
Camille stifled a cry almost uttered, and was silent.
The man who stood there wore a long, loose coat with a deep astrakhan collar. A round cap, of Russian type, and of the same close black fur, was on his head. His arms were folded, but the fingers of his left hand remained visible. They were yellow, slender fingers, prolonged by pointed fingernails meticulously manicured.
His features, lean, ascetic, and unmistakably Chinese, were wholly dominated by his eyes. In the lantern light they gleamed like green jade.
“Your sense of hearing is acute,” he said, his harsh voice subdued. “I thought I moved quite noiselessly.”
And, as he spoke, Camille knew that this was the man who had haunted her dreams.
“Who are you?” She spoke huskily. “What am I doing here?”
“You asked me a similar question not long ago. But you have forgotten.”
“I have never seen you in my life before—as you are now. But I know you! You are Dr. Fu Manchu!”
“Your data are inaccurate. But your inference is correct. What are you doing here, you say? You are suffering the inconvenience of one who interferes with my plans. I regret the crude measures used by Koenig to prevent this interference. But his promptitude saved the situation.”
“Where is Dr. Craig?” Camille demanded breathlessly “What have you done to him?”
He watched her through narrowed eyes and unfolded his clasped arms before he replied:
“I am glad your first, your only, concern is for Dr. Craig.”
“Why?”
“Presently, you shall know.”
And something in that expression, “You shall know,” brought sudden revelation to Camille.
“You are the man who called himself Professor Hoffmeyer!”
“I congratulate you. I had imagined my German-English to be above reproach. I begin to wonder if you cannot be of use to me. As Professor Hoffmeyer, I have been observing the life of Manhattan. I have seen that Manhattan is Babylon reborn—that Manhattan, failing a spiritual revolution, must fall as Babylon fell.”
“Where is Dr. Craig?” Camille repeated, mechanically, desperately. “Why have I been brought here7”
“Because there was no other place to which they could bring you. It surprises me, I confess, that a woman of such keen perceptions failed to leam the fact that Michael Frobisher was a Communist.”
“A Communist? Mr. Frobisher? Oh, no—he is a Socialist—”
“Socialism is Communism’s timid sister. Michael Frobisher is an active agent of the Soviet Union. Before his marriage, he spent many years in Moscow. Dr. Craig’s invention was financed by the Kremlin. Had Frobisher secured it for them, he was promised a post which would have made him virtual dictator of the United States.”
Even in her desolation, despair, this astounding fact penetrated to Camille’s mind.
“Then he was clever,” she murmured.
“Communism is clever. It is indeed clever to force the world’s workers to toil and sweat in order that their masters may live in oriental luxury.”
“Why do you tell me all this? Why do you talk to me, torture me, but never answer my question?”
“Because, even now, at this eleventh hour, I hope to convert you. You heard me, as Professor Hoffmeyer (the professor, himself, is at work in one of our research centers), outline a design for world harmony. To the perfecting of this design I have given the labor of a long life.”
He paused. A soft, weird cry came from somewhere near. Its effect upon Camille was to shatter her returning composure. To her it portended a threat of death. Had Nayland Smith heard it, he would have recognized the peculiar call of a dacoit, one of that fraternity of Burmese brigands over whom Dr. Fu Manchu exercised a control hitherto unexplained.