It was the triumph of “Bluebeard.”
IV
In that book-lined room high above New York, where sometimes incense was burned, Dr. Fu Manchu sat behind the lacquered table.
The debate at Carnegie Hall was being broadcast from coast to coast. Robed in yellow, his mandarin’s cap upon his head, he sat listening. Reflected light from the green-shaded table-lamp enhanced his uncanny resemblance to the Pharaoh Seti I: for the eyes of Dr. Fu Manchu were closed as he listened.
His hands, stretched out upon the table before him, had remained quite motionless as Orwin Prescott became involved more deeply in the net cunningly spread for him by Harvey Bragg. Only at times, when the latter hesitated, fumbled for words, would the long pointed nails tap lightly upon the polished surface.
On three occasions during this memorable debate an amber point came to life on the switchboard.
Without in any way allowing his attention to be distracted, Dr. Fu Manchu listened to reports from the man of miraculous memory. These all related to Numbers detailed to intercept Abbot Donegal. The third and last induced a slight tapping of long nails upon the lacquered surface. It was a report to the effect that a government patrol had rescued the abbot (picked up at last within a few miles of New York) from a Z-car which had been tracking him. . . .
The meeting concluded with wildly unrestrained cheers for Harvey Bragg. In that one hour he had advanced many marches nearer to the White House. Politically he had obliterated the only really formidable opponent who remained in the field. Except for the silent Abbot of Holy Thorn, the future of the United States now lay between the old regime and Harvey Bragg.
Deafening cheers were still ringing throughout Carnegie Hall when Dr. Fu Manchu disconnected. Silence fell in that small book-lined room distant from the scene of conflict. Bony fingers opened the silver box: Fu Manchu sought the inspiration of opium. . . .
Orwin Prescott, bewildered, even now not understanding that he had wiped himself off the political map, that he was committed to fatal statements that he could never recall, dropped down into an armchair in Nayland Smith’s office, closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands.
Sarah Lakin crossed and sat beside him. Senator Lockly had disappeared. Nayland Smith glanced at Mark Hepburn, and they went out together. In the corridor:
“Where is Abbot Donegal?” said Nayland Smith.
“In care of Lieutenant Johnson,” Hepburn answered drily. “Johnson won’t make a second mistake. Abbot Donegal stays until he has your permission to leave.”
“Orwin Prescott was either drugged or hypnotized, or both,” rapped Nayland Smith. “It’s the most damnably cunning thing Fu Manchu has ever done. With one stroke tonight, he has put the game into Harvey Bragg’s hands.”
“I know.” Mark Hepburn ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. “It was pathetic to listen to, and impossible to watch. Abbot Donegal was just quivering. Sir Denis! This man is a magician! I begin to despair.”
Nayland Smith suddenly grabbed his arm as they walked along the corridor.
“Don’t despair,” he snapped, “yet! There’s more to come.”
They had begun to descend to the floor below when Harvey Bragg, flushed with triumph, already tasting the sweets of dictatorship, the cheers of that vast gathering echoing in his ears, came out into a small lobby packed with privileged visitors and newspapermen.
His bodyguard, as tough a bunch as any man had ever collected in the United States, followed him in. Paul Salvaletti walked beside him.
“Folks!” Bragg cried, “I know just how you feel.” He struck his favourite pose, arms raised. “You’re all breathing the air of a new and better America. . . . That’s just how I feel! Another obstacle to national happiness is swept away. Folks! There’s no plan but my plan. At last we are getting near to the first ideal form of government America has ever known.”
“Which any country has ever known,” said Salvaletti, his clear, musical voice audible above the uproar. “American, Africa, Europe—or Asia.”
As he spoke the word Asia, Herman Grosset, hitherto flushed with excitement, suddenly became deathly pale. His eyes glared, foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. With that lightning movement which no man of the bodyguard could equal, he snatched an automatic from his pocket, sprang forward and shot Harvey Bragg twice through the heart. . . .
There was a moment of dazed silence; a sound resembling a moan. Then the faithful bodyguard, one second too late, almost literally made a sieve with their bullets of Herman Grosset.
He died before the man he had assassinated. Riddled with lead, he crashed to the floor of the lobby as Harvey Bragg collapsed in the arms of Salvaletti.
“Herman! My God!
Chapter 22
MOYAADAIR’S SECRET
“I am uncertain, Hepburn,” rapped Nayland Smith, pacing up and down the sitting-room. “I cannot read sense into the crossword puzzle.”
“Nor can I,” said Mark Hepburn.
Smith stared out at the never familiar prospect. The day was crystal clear; the distant Statue of Liberty visible in sharp detail. Some strange quality in the crisp atmosphere seemed to have drawn it inland, so that it appeared like a miniature of itself. Towering buildings had crept nearer: a wide section of New York City seemed to be looking in at the window.
“That Orwin Prescott should suffer a nervous collapse and entirely lose his memory was something for which I
