Nayland Smith was racing into a trap. In a matter of minutes he would be here, A curious, high bell note broke the complete silence of the room.
Dr Fu Manchu stood up, put the folio volume under his arm and, opening one of the doors, went out.
As the door closed behind the Chinese doctor, Gregory, risking everything, grabbed the phone and dialled Nayland Smith's number.
There was no reply.
But no one had disturbed him; none of the doors had opened. He went to one at random, could find no means of opening it. He tried another, worked on it frantically. It was immovable. He stepped back and put his shoulder to the lacquer. Nothing happened.
Then, with a tearing crash, the silence was broken. The door by which Dr Fu Manchu had gone out burst open, and the dark man in the white raincoat stared into the room.
Gregory counted himself lost, when the man turned and shouted back over his shoulder: "This way, sir! Here he is!" He stepped into the room. "Glad to see you still alive. Doctor."
And Nayland Smith ran in behind him.
"You caught me only just in time. Alien," Nayland Smith assured him. "Sergeant Ridley here—" he nodded to the man in the white coat — "has been shadowing you for nearly a week. You see, I knew you were trying to get in touch with the little redhead, and his orders were, if you succeeded, to transfer all his attention to the girl when she left you. He did so tonight and had no idea you were somewhere behind. He reported to me that Mignon had just gone into Ruskin Street."
Gregory forced a smile. "Thank you. Sergeant," he said.
"Scotland Yard's crime map has a red ring drawn around this area," Nayland Smith explained. "We have suspected that Fu Manchu had a hideaway here. The Japanese artist who reconstructed this place disappeared six months ago, and a certain Dr Gottfeld took it over, though the name of Dr Steiner appears on the plate."
"Of course," Gregory broke in. "Gottfeld was the name the hotel manager called Fu Manchu when they came to my suite. Have you got him?"
Nayland Smith shook his head. "I'm afraid he has done another of his vanishing tricks. The raid squad I brought along is searching. But my guess is that Fu Manchu has slipped away to one of his old haunts near Limehouse."
He motioned to the Sergeant, who brought in a man of perhaps fifty whose eyes had the peculiar glaze which showed he had been under Fu Manchu's hypnotic spell. "But at least we've rescued a man who may be able to give us a great deal of information about Fu Manchu's operations. Dr Alien, this is Dr Gaston Breon. Besides being a famous French entomologist, he is Mignon's father."
"Thank God you've saved him!" Gregory said, as he gripped the scientist's limp hand. "But Smith, have you rescued Mig-non?"
Nayland Smith slapped him on the shoulder. "We got her with two of Pu Manchu's henchmen who were trying to force her into a motor launch. I had her taken to my place." As Gregory looked at him gratefully, he smiled that boyish grin. "She's your responsibility now."
Ten minutes later Gregory walked past a guard and into Nayland Smith's large booklined study. Mignon sprang up from a chair near the window and ran to him, her eyes wild with terror.
"Gregory! You must compel them to let me go!" she cried. "Fu Manchu will kill my father if I do not return to him."
She stared at Gregory in bewilderment. "Why do you smile?"
But Gregory was looking beyond her to the door, and Mignon turned. A sigh of joy escaped her as she ran to her father. "My child, my child," Dr Breon muttered, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "The nightmare is finished, Mignon."
"Oh, what they've done to you these past two years, my father," she whispered.
Gregory crossed the room and stood at her side, his arm around her shoulders. "We'll have him right in no time," he promised. "All he needs is rest and the care we'll give him."
Mignon's head came back, and the tears were gone. What was more, the look of infinite sadness he remembered from their first meeting was gone, too. In its place there was a sparkle that danced in the light of the lamps with swift invitation.
"I think it is quite safe for you now to love me, Gregory," she said.
He took her into his arms.
The Word of Fu Manchu
Malcolm glanced aside at his companion, who drove the Jaguar both deftly and quickly. He studied the tall, lean man at the wheel, a clean shaven man, whose tanned skin and crisp, dark hair gave startling emphasis to the silver at his temples: he was sucking a briar pipe.
"I know what you're thinking, Forces." The words were rapped out. "When I was a Commissioner at Scotland Yard, speed limits never troubled me. I formed bad habits."
"Is there so much hurry. Sir Denis?"
Sir Denis Nayland Smith grunted and swung out to pass a taxi, then:
"There is!" he snapped. "I asked you to join me tonight because I want someone with me where we're going. Also, as a young freelance journalist, you may be on the big story Fleet Street is waiting for."
"What's the story?"
"Dr Fu Manchu. We're going to see Sergeant Jack Kenealy, of the CID. He's been on the case best part of the year. We have kept in touch. He called me an hour ago; said he had things to tell me which he couldn't put on paper. Rather alarming. Hence the speed."
"You think—"
"Nothing to think about until we get there."
And Malcolm knew that Sir Denis didn't want any further conversation to interfere with his urgent journey.
Ten minutes later they were skirting the north side of Clap-ham Common, a place of mysterious shadows this moonless night. He became aware of bottled-up excitement as Nayland Smith parked the car at a garage and took Malcolm's arm.
"This is where we walk," he announced.
They set out on the side opposite the Common. Sir Denis was silent, but Malcolm noted that he often glanced across at the shadowy expanse, as if, during his long battle against the Chinese genius who dreamed of becoming master of the world, he had learned that Fu Manchu was a superman who might materialise from space anywhere, at any time. Malcolm's excitement increased. They came to the next corner.
At which moment Nayland Smith, in the act of turning in, grabbed his arm again in a grip that hurt.
"Forbes, we're too late. Look!"
They had not passed a single pedestrian so far. But now — this side street was crowded.
The crowd had assembled in front of a house not far from the comer. Malcolm recognised the magnet which had drawn it together — two police cars, an ambulance, and uniformed men on duty before the door.
"Is that where Kenealy lives, Sir Denis?"
Nayland Smith nodded grimly, and began to hurry.
They forced a path through the group of curious onlookers. Then, a police sergeant barred the way.
"No one can go in, sir."
"Who's in charge?" Nayland Smith snapped.
"Inspector Wensley is here. But—"
"Wensley? My name is Nayland Smith — Sir Denis Nayland Smith."
"Sorry, Sir Denis," the sergeant answered. "I didn't recognise you, sir. Go ahead."
Sir Denis and Malcolm went up the short path to the open front door. Inside an elderly woman was trying to pacify a girl who was weeping in her arms: "There, there dear, I know how you feel. But orders are orders, and they have orders to let nobody see him."
"I shall die if I came too late!" the girl moaned.
Nayland Smith pulled up. "Madame—" he addressed the older woman — "please tell me, is this your house? "It is, sir. Mrs Sefton is my name; and my top floor was let to Mr Kenealy — as nice a young man as I'd wish to meet. Even now, I can't believe it's happened."
"What did happen, Mrs Sefton?"
"I was sitting sewing, not more than half an hour ago, when I heard him cry out. It echoed through the place. It was terrible. It was more of a scream than a cry. I knew he had nobody with him but I was alone in the house and so frightened I had to forte myself to go up to his sitting-room. I called to him. But he didn't answer. So I tried to open the door. It was locked."