“The appearance of the Abbot at Carnegie Hall,” Dr. Fu Manchu continued, “might be fatal to my plans. Yet”— removing heavy gloves he laid two long bony hands upon the table before him—”I remain in uncertainty.”
“In war, Master, there is always an element of uncertainty.”
“Uncertainty is part of the imperfect plan,” Fu Manchu replied sibilantly. “Only the fool is uncertain. But the odds are heavy, my friend. Produce to me the man Herman Grosset, whom you have chosen for to-night’s great task.”
Sam Pak moved slightly, pressing a bell. The curtain was drawn aside, and a Chinese boy appeared. A few words of rapid instructions and he went out, dropping the curtain behind him.
There was silence in the queer room. Dr. Fu Manchu, eyes half closed, leaned back in his chair. Sam Pak resembled a mummy set upright in ghastly raillery by some lightminded excavator. Then came vigorous footsteps, the curtains were switched aside, and a man strode in.
Above medium height, of tremendously powerful build, dark faced and formidable, Herman Grosset was a man with whom no one would willingly pick a quarrel. He looked about him challengingly, meeting the gaze of those half-closed green eyes with apparent indifference and merely glancing at old Sam Pak. He stepped to the table, staring down at Dr. Fu Manchu.
His movements, his complete sang-froid, something, too, in the dark-brown face, might have reminded a close observer of Harvey Bragg; and indeed, Grosset was a half-brother of the potential dictator of the United States.
“So you are the President?” he said—and his gruff voice held a note of amused self-assurance. “I’m sure glad to meet you, President. There’s some saying about Tools step in . . .’ I don’t know if it applies to me, but it’s kind of funny that you’ve stayed in the background with Harvey, but asked me to step right into the office.”
“The circumstances under which you stepped into the office,” came coldly, sibilantly, “are such that if you displease me, you will find it difficult to step out again.”
“Oh! I’m supposed to be impressed by the closed auto and the secret journey?” Grosset laughed and banged his fist on the table. “Look!”
With a lightning movement he snatched an automatic from his pocket and covered Dr. Fu Manchu.
“I take big risks because I know how to protect myself. While you’re for Harvey, I’m for you. If I thought you’d dare to cross him, you’d start out for your Chinese paradise this very minute. Harvey is going to be President. Harvey is going to be Dictator. Nothing else can set the country to rights. I wouldn’t hesitate——” he tapped the gun barrel on the table, watching out of the corner of his eye the old Chinaman on the settee— “I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot down any man living that got in his way. When he made me boss of his bodyguard he did the right thing.”
Dr. Fu Manchu’s long yellow hands with their cruelly pointed nails remained quite motionless. He did not stir a muscle;
his eyes were mere green slits in the yellow mask. Then:
“No one doubts your loyalty to Harvey Bragg,” he said softly; “That point is not in dispute. It is known that you love him.”
“I’d die for him.”
The automatic disappeared into the pocket from which it had been taken. Two men stripped to the waist entered so silently that even the movement of the curtain was not audible. They sprang from behind like twin panthers upon Grosset.
“Hell!” he roared, “what’s this game!”
He bent his powerful body forward, striving to throw one of his assailants across his shoulder, but realized that he was gripped in a stranglehold.
“You damned yellow double-crosser.” he groaned, as his right arm was twisted back to breaking-point.
From behind, an expanding gag was slipped into his gaping mouth. He gurgled, groaned, tried to kick, then collapsed as the pressure of fingers made itself felt, agonizingly, upon his eyeballs. . . .
He had not even seen his assailants when straps were buckled about his legs, and his arms lashed behind him.
Throughout, Dr. Fu Manchu never stirred. But when the man, his eyes fixed in frenzied hate upon the Chinese doctor, was carried, uttering inarticulate sounds, from the room, and the curtain fell behind his bearers:
“It is good, my friend,” Fu Manchu said gutturally, addressing the mummy-like figure on the settee, “that you succeeded in bringing me a few expert servants.”
“It was well done,” old Sam Pak muttered.
“To-night,” the precise tones continued, “we put our fortunes to the test. The woman Adair, to whom I have entrusted the tuition of Harvey Bragg, is one I can rely upon; I hold her in my hand. But the man himself, in his bloated arrogance, may fail us. I fear for little else.” His eyes became closed; he was thinking aloud. “If Enemy Number One has Abbot Donegal, all approaches to Carnegie Hall must be held against them. This I can arrange. We have little else to fear.”
From the material upon the table he delicately charged a hypodermic syringe with a pale-green fluid. Sam Pak watched him with misty eyes, and Dr. Fu Manchu stood up.
“It is unfortunate,” he said, but there was a note of scientific enthusiasm in the guttural voice, “that my first important experiment in the use of this interesting drug should involve in success or failure such high issues. Come, my friend; I desire you to be present. . . .”
Across the silent temple of the seven-eyed goddess they went: Fu Manchu with his cat-like walk; old Sam Pak shuffling behind. The place was silent and empty. They descended a stone stair, traversed the corridor lined with six painted coffins, and passed the steel door beyond which a secret passage led to East River.
In a small, cell-like room, lighted by a pendant lamp, Herman Grosset lay strapped to a fixed teak bench. The immobile Chinamen had just completed their task as Dr. Fu Manchu entered, and:
