was not unprepared. His deplorable exhibition at Carnegie Hall was the result of some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion, a form of attack of which Dr. Fu Manchu is a master.”
Mark Hepburn lighted a cigarette.
“There was a time,” he said slowly, “when I thought that the powers which you attributed to this man must be exaggerated. I think now that all you said was an understatement. Sir Denis! He’s more than the greatest physician in the world—he’s a magician.”
“Cut the ‘Sir Denis,’“ came crisply; “I was born plain Smith. It’s time you remembered it.”
Mark Hepburn smiled—a rare event in those days: it was the self-conscious smile of a nervous schoolboy—life had never changed it.
“I am glad to hear you say that,” he declared awkwardly— “Smith, because I’m proud to know that we are friends. Maybe that sounds silly, but I mean it.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I can understand,” Hepburn went on, “after what you have told me, that it might be possible—although it’s quite outside my own medical experience—to drug a man in some way and impose certain instructions upon him to be carried out later. I mean I can believe that this is what happened to Orwin Prescott. It’s a tough story, but your experience can provide parallels. Mine can’t. We are dealing with a man who seems to be a century ahead of modem knowledge.”
“Dismiss Prescott,” said Nayland Smith curtly; “he’s out of the political arena. But he’s in good hands now, and I hope to heaven he recovers from whatever ordeal he has passed through. I am disappointed about the escape of the man Norbert. That was bad staff work, Hepburn, for which I take my full share of responsibility.”
“We’ll get him yet,” said Hepburn harshly, “if we comb every state for him. His getaway had been cunningly planned. I have checked it all up. Nobody is to blame. This thing goes back a year or more. Dr. Fu Manchu must have been working, through agents, long before he arrived in person.”
“I know it,” rapped Nayland Smith; “I have known it for some time past. But what I don’t know and cannot work out is this: Where does the death of Harvey Bragg fit into the Doctor’s plans?”
He fixed a penetrating stare upon Hepburn and almost automatically began to load his pipe. . . .
“The man Herman Gorsset was a drunken ruffian; his only redeeming virtue seems to have been his attachment to his half-brother. He was a killer, as your records show. Such a man is like an Alsatian dog—his savagery may be turned upon his master. I wonder . . .” He dropped his pouch back into the pocket of his dressing-gown and lighted a match. . . . “I wonder? . . .”
“So do I,” said Mark Hepburn monotonously; “I have been wondering ever since it happened. That this damnable Chinaman was running Harvey Bragg is a fact beyond doubt. It isn’t conceivable that Bragg’s death should form any part of his plan. If he wanted to turn a blustering demagogue into a hero, he has succeeded. Why”—he paused . . . “Smith! He lay in state right here in New York City! Now his embalmed body is being taken back to his home town. He’s a bigger man dead than alive. Fifty per cent of uninformed American opinion today thinks that the greatest statesman since Lincoln has been snatched away in the hour of need.”
“That’s true.” Nayland Smith blew a puff of smoke into the air. “As I said a while ago, I cannot read sense into the crossword puzzle. I am tempted to believe that the Doctor’s plans have been thwarted.”
He began to walk up and down again restlessly.
“Salvaletti’s broadcast oration,” said Hepburn monotonously, “was quite in the classic manner. In fact it was brilliant, although I don’t see its purpose. It has made Harvey Bragg a national martyr.”
“Salvaletti is going South by special train,” jerked Nayland Smith, “with the embalmed body. There will be emotional scenes at every stop. Have we details regarding this man?”
“They should be to hand any moment now. All we know, so far, is that he’s of Italian origin, was trained for the priesthood, left Italy at the age of twenty-three, and became a United States citizen five years ago. He’s been with Bragg since early 1934.”
“I listened to him, Hepburn. Utterly out of sympathy as I am with the subject of his eloquence, I must confess that I never heard a more moving speech.”
“No—it was wonderful. But now—er—Smith, I am worried about this projected expedition of yours.”
Nayland Smith paused in his promenade and stared, pipe gripped between his teeth, at Mark Hepburn.
“No more worried than I am regarding yours, Hepburn. You know what Kipling says about a rag and bone and a hank of hair . . .”
“That’s hardly fair, Smith. I quite frankly admitted to you that I’m interested in Mrs. Adair. There’s something very strange about a woman like that being in the camp of Dr. Fu Manchu.”
Nayland Smith paused in front of him, reached out and grasped his shoulder.
“Don’t think I’m cynical, Hepburn,” he said—”we have all been through the fires—but, be very careful!”
“I just want time to size her up. I think she’s better than she seems. I admit I’m soft where she’s concerned, but maybe she’s straight after all. Give her a chance. We don’t know everything.”
“I leave her to you, Hepburn. All I say is: be careful. I’d gamble half of the little I possess to see into the mind of Dr. Fu Manchu at this moment! Is he as baffled as I am?”
He resumed his promenade.
“However . . . we have a heavy day before us. Learn all you can from the woman. I am devoting the whole of my attention to Fu Manchu’s Chinatown base.”
“I am beginning to think,” said Hepburn, with his almost painful honesty, “that this Chinatown base is a myth.”
“Don’t be too sure,” rapped Nayland Smith. “Certainly I saw the late secretary of the Abbot Donegal disappear into a turning not far from Wu King’s Bar. Significant, to say the least. I have spent hours, in various disguises, exploring that area and right to the water fronts on either side of it.”
