Nayland Smith grew pale under his tan. "What are your terms!" he demanded.
"Make no terms," Malcolm cried out. "I'll take a chance if you will!"
"I admire your courage," Dr Fu Manchu spoke softly. "I need such men."
"What are your terms?" Sir Denis repeated tensely.
"Your word, which I respect, as you have learned to respect mine, that you will order your man, directly as I leave here, to take the disc, carefully packed, to Andre Messina, a guest at the Savoy hotel, and that you will take no further action until your man reports that it is delivered. I give you my word that I will take none."
Nayland Smith's grey eyes were angry, but he said, "Agreed," and pressed a bell. Begby came in. "Show Dr Fu Manchu to the door, Begby."
Dr Fu Manchu picked up his black hat, bowed formally and went out. Before the door had closed, Malcolm had snatched the disc from his pocket and dashed it on the floor.
Smiling wryly, Nayland Smith stooped to pick it up.
"Don't touch it, Sir Denis!" Malcolm's voice quivered. "For God's sake don't touch it!"
But Nayland Smith picked it up without hesitation.
"Forbes, you are new to the wiles and ways of Dr Fu Manchu. Cunning and ruthless to all who stand in his way. Treacherous in all but one thing. He never breaks his word — for good or evil. In this, Forbes, lies his great strength… "
The Mind of Fu Manchu
She woke in completely incomprehensible surroundings. There was a vague smell of what she thought might be incense, a strange heaviness of all her limbs. "Where am I? Who am I?" — were questions which danced mockingly across her brain. Then came helpless fear, fear of the silence, the void around her. Had she been abducted? An accident? Was she suffering from amnesia? She lost control, wanted to cry out — but couldn't utter a sound, And then, to crown growing panic, she became conscious of a presence. Softly came a voice, a sibilant, commanding voice: "You are quite safe. Miss Merton. There is no danger."
That voice! It's strange tones magically awakened her memory. She knew herself. She was Pat Merton. She knew the voice and where she had heard it before. Clearly, as though a veil had been raised, she remembered the crowded room in the Mayflower Hotel. A reception for Bruce Garfield and some of his colleagues was being held there. But his old friend Nayland Smith was arriving from Hong Kong and had wired him to meet his plane on a matter of vital importance, and so Bruce had phoned, asking her to rush over to the hotel and apologise for his unavoidable delay.
Bruce's colleagues assembled at the reception knew Pat and introduced her to some of the dignitaries in the throng. One of them was a Swiss scientist whose name she now failed to remember. But she recalled that he wore tinted glasses. Feeling rather uncomfortable as his voice droned on she had decided to leave, and then — this memory was crystal clear — the Swiss gentleman had removed his glasses, and a stare of long, narrow emerald-green eyes was fixed upon her. Apart from a hazy impression that he saw her from the hotel to a cab or car, the rest was a blank. But this was his voice. And then almost silently a tall figure appeared beside her.
Pat's inclination, as she looked up, was to scream. But a sense of horror, or, rather, of supernatural dread, reduced her to passive submission. This was the man she had met at the hotel, but he had changed. As the Swiss scientist, he must have worn a wig, for now his massive skull was only sparsely covered by hair. It was a wonderful face, the face of a genius, but of a genius inspired by hell.
He spoke softly, watching her, and his words soothed her terror strangely.
"I regret that you were overcome by the heat of the room at the Mayflower, Miss Merton. I took the liberty of bringing you here and restoring you." His eyes seemed to grow larger, to absorb her in their green depth; but she recovered in time to hear the words, "My car is at your service."
The cool night breeze outside refreshed her as a courteous chauffeur in smart uniform made her comfortable in a limousine.
Numbly, she began to study her surroundings. The chauffeur had navigated several narrow, sordid streets. From one dark alleyway she had seen Chinese faces peering out in the gleam of the headlights. Over the low roofs there was a glow of night labour; she heard the hoarse minor note of a steamer's whistle. This was the East End dock area, of which she knew nothing.
Now they were speeding along a wide, straight thoroughfare, almost deserted, toward a part of the city with which she was acquainted. She had a glimpse of the Mansion House. There was Ludgate Hill… They were in the Strand… Charing Cross… Piccadilly.
The car pulled up. The chauffeur opened the door. Pat stepped out and found herself at the entrance to the Mayflower Hotel.
"Two o'clock!" Pat said in astonishment, when the night-doorman told her the time.
"Yes, miss." He looked at her in an odd way. "You are staying here?"
"No, I'm not. Will you please call a taxi?" Bruce will be frantic. She must get to him.
Pat opened her handbag, momentarily wondering if her money was still there. Everything was in order. She tipped the doorman and gave the taxi driver the address of Bruce's flat in Knightsbridge. As there were frequent occasions when she had to go there while Bruce was working, she had a key.
Bruce occupied a mews flat which Pat had helped to furnish and decorate. When the taxi pulled up, she saw that the windows were lighted; there were sounds of excited conversation coming through an open window. She hesitated for a moment, rang the bell.
The voices ceased. Then came footsteps on the short stair.
The door opened.
"Pat! Pat, darling! Thank God you're safe." Pat went into Bruce's arms.
She was so emotionally exhausted that he had almost to carry her up to the living room. The first person she saw,a tall lean man with sunburned skin, — white streaks on dark hair above his temples, and grey eyes, she knew and welcomed: Sir Denis Nayland Smith, former Scotland Yard Commissioner and one of Bruce's oldest friends. The very man she had hoped would be there.
"A nice fright you have given us, young lady," he rapped in his crisp fashion. "Four divisions of the Metropolitan Police are combing London for you. This is Inspector Haredale of Scotland Yard" — indicating the third man — "who has been directing the search."
The inspector was so typical a police officer — fresh-coloured, frank blue eyes and a grey toothbrush moustache — that Pat could have guessed his profession. When the excitement of her unheralded, dramatic appearance had calmed down, Nayland Smith spoke.
"Before you attempt to explain your disappearance, let me bring you up to date about what has happened since you vanished from the Mayflower Hotel. Garfield found nothing remarkable in your leaving after giving his message of apology. After the reception, I went to my flat in Whitehall Court and Garfield came here. He made an unpleasant discovery."
He paused to relight his pipe which had gone out. Brace crossed to Pat's chair and sat on the arm, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Don't let what has happened bother you. Pat. You're in no way responsible."
But Pat, looking from face to face, sensed that whatever had happened during those lost hours was intimately tied in with Bruce's flat.
"A report of a paper read by Garfield before a group of scientists a week ago," Nayland Smith went on, "had reached me in Hong Kong. It outlined his revolutionary theory of travel in outer space without rocket propulsion. He spoke of a scale model on which he was still working — and I knew he was in deadly danger."
"Why?" Pat whispered.
"Because I knew that Dr Fu Manchu was in London. Scientists all over the world have been disappearing. What they had in common was that each one was working in the problem of anti-gravity." He sighed. "You don't know Dr Fu Manchu, Pat—"