President Fu Manchu

am disposed to believe it, Miss Lakin. My advice is to conform strictly to the letter and spirit of his request.” Miss Lakin was watching him intently, then:

“I am afraid I don’t agree with you, Sir Denis,” she said. “Why?” He turned and faced her.

“That Orwin was kidnapped we know. Thank God he is alive! Surely he was forced to write this letter by the kidnapers. They are playing for time. Surely you can see that they are playing for time!”

Chapter 14

THE SCARLET BRIDES

In a small, book-lined room, high above New York City, dimly lighted and pervaded by a faint smell of incense, Dr. Fu Manchu, wearing a yellow robe but with no cap crowning his massive skull, sat behind a large lacquered table, his eyes closed. From a little incense burner on one comer of this table a faint spiral of smoke arose-some might have ascribed this to a streak of effeminacy in an otherwise great man, but one who knew the potency of burning perfumes as understood in the ancient Orient would have placed a different construction upon the circumstances. The Delphic Oracle was so inspired; incense cunningly prepared, such as the khyfi of the ancient Egyptians, can exalt the subconscious mind. A voice was speaking as though someone stood in the room, although except for the presence of the majestic Chinaman it was empty.

Dr. Fu Manchu pressed a button, the voice ceased, and there was silence in the incense-laden place. For two, three, five minutes the Chinaman sat motionless, his lean, long-fingered hands resting upon the table before him, his eyes closed.

“I am here, Master,” said a feeble voice speaking in Chinese.

“Listed carefully,” Dr. Fu Manchu replied in the same language. “It is urgent How many of our Scarlet Brides from New Zealand have you in reserve?”

“Fifteen, Master. I sacrificed five in the case of the man James Richet, fearing that some might not survive the cold.”

“It is reported that Danger Number One—I hear you hiss, my friend—invariably sleeps with his windows open. Sacrifice ten more of our little friends. See that he does not sleep alone to-night.”

“My lord, I have no one who could undertake the work. If I had Alt Khan or Quong Wah, or any one of our old servants. But I have none. What can I do in this uncivilized land to which my lord has exiled me?”

Several moments of silence followed. The long ivory hands with their incredible nails, beautiful even in their cruelty, rested motionless upon the table, then:

“Await orders,” said the imperious, guttural voice.

Another button was depressed and there was silence. The pencil of smoke rising from the incense burner was growing more and more faint. Dr. Fu Manchu opened his eyes, staring straight before him; his eyes were green as emeralds, glittering gems reflecting an inexorable will. His right hand moved to a small switchboard. He inserted a plug, and presently a spot of red light indicted that he was connected.

“Is that’A’New York?”

“Kern Adier here.”

“You know to whom you are speaking?”

“Yes. What can I do for you, President?”

The voice was unctuous but nervous.

“We have not yet met,” the imperious tone continued, “but I assume, otherwise I should not have appointed you, that you can command the services of the New York underworld?”

There was a perceptible pause before Kern Alder replied.

“If you would tell me, President, exactly what you want, I should be better able to answer.”

“I want the man called Peter Carlo. Find him for me. I will then give you further instructions.”

Another pause . . .

“I can find him, President.” The nervous voice replied “but only through Blondie Hahn.”

“I distrust this man Hahn. You have recommended him, but I have not yet accepted him. I have my reasons. However, speak to him now. You know my wishes. Report to me when they can be carried out.”

The red light continued to glow; one yellow finger pressed a small switch with the result that the office of Kern Adier, Attorney, and one of the biggest survivors of the underworld clean-up, seemed to become acoustically translated to the study of Dr. Fu Manchu. Adier could be heard urgently calling a number; and presently he got it.

“Hello, Kern,” came a coarse voice; “want the boss, I guess. Hold on; I’ll get him.” There was an interval during which dim sounds of dance music penetrated to the incense-laden room, then: “Hello, Kern,” came in a deep bass; “what’s new with you?”

“Listen, Blondie. I’m telling you something. If you want a quiet life you have to fall into line. I mean it. It’ll be good for your health to go to work again. Either you come in right now or you stay right out. I want something done to-night—you have got to do it.”

“Listen to me, Kern. You’ve spilled a mouthful. But what you don’t seem to know is this: you’ve been washed up—and you figure you’re still afloat. You’re stone dead but you won’t lie down. Come clean and I’ll talk to you. I’m standing all ready on my two big feet. I don’t need your protection.”

“I want ‘Fly’ Carlo, and I’m prepared to pay for him. He has to get busy to-night. President’s orders——”

“President nothing! But listen—you can have Carlo, when I hold the pay roll. That’s my terms now and always. What’s the figure? Carlo will cost the President (like hell he’s the President!) all of two thousand dollars. He can only get him through me. I’m his sole agent and my rake-off is my own pid-gin.”

“Your terms are ridiculous, Blondie. Talk sense.”