command throughout the world? That Nayland Smith has snapped at my heels—may now at any moment bark outside my door. This brings down my pride like a house of cards. Gods of my fathers”—his voice sank lower and lower—”is it written that I am to fail in the end?”
“Quote not from Moslem fallacies,” old Sam Pak wheezed. “Your long contact with the Arabs, Marquis, is responsible for such words.”
“Few living men could have sustained the baleful glare of those jade-green eyes now fully opened. But Sam Pak, unmoved by their hypnotism, continued:
“I, too, have some of the wisdom, although only a part of yours. The story of your life is traced by your own hand. This you know: fatalism is folly. I, the nameless, speak because I am near to you and am fearless in your service.”
Dr. Fu Manchu stood up; his bony but delicate fingers selected certain objects on the table.
“Without you, my friend,” he said softly, “I should indeed be alone in this my last battle, which threatens to become my Waterloo. Let us proceed”—he moved cat-like around the end of the long table—” to the supreme experiment. Failure means entire reconstruction of our plans.”
“A wise man can build a high tower upon a foundation of failures,” crooned old Sam Pak.
Dr. Fu Manchu, silent-footed, went out into the room haunted by the seven-eyed goddess; crossed it, descended stairs, old Sam Pak following. They passed along the corridor of the six coffins and came to the dungeon where Herman Grosset lay upon a teak bench. The straps had been removed—he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
One of Sam Pak’s Chinamen was on guard. He bowed and withdrew as Dr. Fu Manchu entered. Old Sam Pak crouched beside the recumbent body, his ear pressed to his hairy chest. Awhile he stayed so, and then looked up, nodding.
Dr. Fu Manchu bent over the sleeping man, gazing down intently at the inert muscular body. He signalled to Sam Pak, and the old Chinaman, exhibiting an ape-like strength, dragged Grosset’s tousled head aside. With a small needle syringe Dr. Fu Manchu made an injection. He laid the syringe aside and watched the motionless patient. Nearly two minutes elapsed. . . . Then, with an atomizer, Dr. Fu Manchu projected a spray first up the right and then up the left nostril of the unconscious man.
Ten seconds later Grosset suddenly sat upright, gazing wildly ahead. His gaze was caught and held by green compelling eyes, only inches removed from his own. His muscular hands clutched both sides of the bench; he stayed rigid in that pose.
“You understand”—the strange voice was pitched very low:
“The word of command is ‘Asia’.”
“I understand,” Grosset replied. “No man shall stop me.”
“The word,” Fu Manchu intoned monotonously, “is Asia.”
“Asia,” Grosset echoed.
“Until you hear that word”—the voice seemed to come from the depths of a green lake—”forget, forget all that you have to do.”
“Asia.”
“Sleep and forget. But remember that the word is Asia.” Herman Grosset sank back and immediately became plunged in deep sleep.
Dr. Fu Manchu turned to Sam Pak. “The rest is with you, my friend,” he said.
Chapter 21
CARNEGIE HALL
harvey bragg turned round in the chair set before the carved writing-table in the study of the Dumas’ apartment. He was dressed for the meeting destined to take its place in American history. Above the table, in a niche and dominating the room, was a reproduction of the celebrated statue of Bussy d’Ambois. The table itself was an antique piece of great value, once the property of Cardinal Mazarin.
“Listen, Baby, I want to get this right.” Harvey Bragg stood up. “I’m all set, but I’m playing a part, and I’m not used to playing any part but the part of Harvey Bragg. Bring me into the party, Eileen. Nobody knows better than you. Lola is a hard case. But I guess you’re a regular kid.”
Moya Adair, seated at the end of the table, raised her eyes to the speaker.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“I want to know”—Bragg came a step nearer, rested his hands on the table, and bent down—”I want to know if I’m being played for a sucker; because if I am, God help the man who figures to put that stuff over on me! I’ve had dough to burn for long enough—some I could check up and some from this invisible guy, the President. Looks to me like the President’s investment is a total loss . . . and I never met a rich guy who went around looking for bum stock. This crazy shareholder is starting to try to run the business for me. Listen, Eileen: I’ll step where I’m told, if I know where I’m stepping.”
There was a momentary silence broken only by the dim hum of traffic in Park Avenue below.
“You would be a fool,” said Moya calmly, “to quarrel with a man who believed in you so implicitly that he is prepared to finance you to the extent of so many million dollars. His object is to make you President of the United Sates. He has selected me to be your secretary because he believes that I have the necessary capacity for the work. I can tell you no more. He is a man of enormous influence and he wishes to remain anonymous. I can’t see that you have any cause for quarrel with him.”
Harvey Bragg bent lower, peering into the alluring face.
“I’ve learned up a lot of cues,” he said; “cues you have given me. Seems I have to become an actor. And”—he banged his open hand upon the table—”I don’t know even at this minute that Orwin Prescott is going to be there!”
