“What was it?”
Camille breathed, rather than spoke, the words.
“A warning. Do not allow it to disturb you. My plans are complete. But my time is limited. You are anxious concerning Dr. Craig. I, too, am anxious. For this reason alone I have talked to you so long. I hope you can induce him to accept the truth. You may succeed where I have failed.”
He turned and walked away. Camille heard the creak of an opening door.
* * *
The warning which Camille had construed as a message of evil omen had been prompted by something occurring on the nearby river front.
To any place, the wide world over, where men go down to the sea in ships, night brings no repose. So that, even at this hour, Manhattan danced on. Winches squealed. Anchor chains rattled. Sea boots clattered along decks. Lights moved hither and thither. Hoarse orders were shouted. Tugboats churned the muddy river. And the outgoing tide sang its eternal song of the ocean, from which it had come, to which it returned.
But no one had time to pay attention to a drunken sailor who came reeling along past deserted dock buildings, blacked-out warehouses, stumbling often, rebuking himself in an alcoholic monotone. He steadied up every once in a while against a friendly doorway, a lamp standard, or a stout pipe.
One such pipe seemed to give him particular satisfaction. Perhaps because it ran down the wall of a building marked for demolition upon the doors of which might still be read the words:
“Shen Yan Tea Company.”
This pipe he positively embraced, and, embracing it, sank ungracefully to the sidewalk, and apparently fell asleep.
A few minutes later he had established contact with Regan. He, too, was a Morse expert.
“Yes. John Regan here. Huston Electric. Who are you?”
“Brandt. Police officer. Where are you?”
“Old strong room. Basement. Don’t know what building.”
“Shout. I may hear you.”
“Dumb.”
This message shook Brandt.
“How come?”
“Injection. Attacked in lab Friday night. Get me out.”
“Starving?”
“No. But food and water finished.”
“Any movement overhead right now?”
“Yes. Someone up there.”
“Hang on. Help coming.”
The drunken sailor woke up suddenly. He began to strike matches and to try to light a cigarette. He remained seated beside the pipe. These matches attracted the attention of a patrolman (who had been waiting for this signal) and who now appeared from somewhere, and approached, swinging his club.
But the matches had also attracted the attention of another, highly skilled observer. So that, as the police officer hauled the drunk to his feet and led him off, the call of a dacoit was heard in the empty warehouse.
“This was formerly the office of a firm of importers known as the Shen Yan Tea Company,” said Dr. Fu Manchu. “An old friend of mine had an interest in that business.”
Morris Craig swallowed—with difficulty. He had by no means recovered from the strangling grip of those unseen fingers. He would have liked to massage his bruised throat. But his wrists were secured by metal clamps to the arms of his chair, a remarkable piece of furniture, evidently of great age; it had a curious, domed canopy which at some time might have been gilded. He was helpless, mad with anxiety about Camille, but undaunted.
“Strange coincidence,” he replied huskily. “No doubt this attractive and comfortable rest-chair has quite a history, too?”
“A long one. Dr. Craig. I came across it in Seville. It dates from the days of the Spanish Inquisition, when it was known as the Chair of Conversion. I regret that of all those treasured possessions formerly in the Woolton Building, this one must be left behind.”
“Seems a great pity. Cozy little piece.”
Fu Manchu stood watching him, his long narrow eyes nearly closed, his expression indecipherable. There was that about the tall, fur-capped figure which radiated power. Craig’s nonchalance in the presence of this formidable and wholly unpredictable man demanded an immense nervous effort.
“It may be no more than a national trait. Dr. Craig, but your imperturbable facade reminds me of Sir Denis.”
“You flatter me.”
“You may not know, but it will interest you to learn, that your capture, some hours ago, was largely an accident.”
“Clearly not my lucky day.”
“I doubt if the opportunity would have arisen but for the unforeseen appearance of Miss Navarre. In running to join her, you ran, almost literally, into the arms of two of my servants who were concerned only in retiring undetected.”
“Practically left the poor fellows no choice?”
“Therefore they brought you along with them.”
‘“Friendly thought.”
Dr. Fu Manchu turned slowly and crossed the office. Like the adjoining warehouse, it was lighted only by a partly draped lantern which stood on a box beside the Spanish chair. The floor, in which were many yawning gaps, was littered with rubbish. Aboarded-up window probably overlooked a passage, for there was no sound to suggest that a thoroughfare lay beyond.
Directly facing Craig, a long, high desk was built against the cracked and blackened wall. In this wall were two other windows, level with the top of the desk, and closed by sliding shutters. And on the desk Craig saw a metal-bound teak chest.
Very deliberately Dr. Fu Manchu lifted this chest, came back, and set it on the box beside the lantern. His nearness produced a tingling nervous tension, as if a hidden cobra had reared its threatening hood.
“Amongst those curious possessions to which I referred,” he continued in his cold, conversational manner (he was unlocking the chest), “is the mummied head of Queen Taia known to the Egyptians as the ‘witch queen.’ Her skull posesses uncommon characteristics. And certain experiments I am carrying out with it would interest you.”
“Not a doubt of it. My mother gave me a mummy’s head to play with when I was only four.”
“The crystal sets we use in our system of private communication also accompany me to headquarters. This”—he opened the chest— “which I borrowed from there, must never leave my personal possession until I return it.”
Morris Craig’s hands—for only his wrists were constrained— became slowly clenched. Here, he felt, came the final test; this might well be the end.
What he expected to happen, what he expected to see, he could not have put into words. What he did see was an exquisitely fashioned model of just such an equipment as that which had been destroyed in the Huston Building!
The top, front, and sides of the chest were hinged, so that the miniature plant, mounted on its polished teak-base, lay fully open to inspection. Wonder reduced Morris Craig to an awed silence. Apart from the fact that there were certain differences (differences which had instantly inflamed his scientific curiosity), to have constructed this model must have called for the labor of months, perhaps of years.
“I don’t understand.” His voice sounded unfamiliar to him.
“I don’t understand at all!”
“Only because,” came in cold, incisive tones, “you remain obsessed with the idea that you invented, this method of harnessing primeval energy. The model before you was made by a Buddhist monk, in Burma. I had been to inspect it at the time that I first encountered Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Detailed formulae for its employment are in my possession. You, again, after a lapse of years, have solved this problem. My congratulations. Such men were meant to reshape the world—not to destroy it.”
Dr. Fu Manchu began to reclose the chest.