“I begin to see the hand of Fu Manchu everywhere. Although I wore glasses and my clerical dress (upon which you have complimented me) I nearly came to grief on the corner right outside here this morning.”
“What happened?”
“A heavy lorry, ignoring signals, drove at me hell-for-leather! Only the skill of my driver saved me. The man said his brakes had failed. . . . The lorry belonged to the Lotus Corporation.”
“But Smith—”
“We must expect it. Our enemy is a man of genius. Our small subterfuges probably amuse him! Consider what’s at stake! Have you glanced at the Abyssinian situation, for instance? Dr. Fu Manchu’s triumph here would mean the end of Italy’s ambition.”
“You think so?”
Hepbum looked up sharply.
“I know it,” Nayland Smith returned. “The map of the world is going to be altered, Hepburn, unless we can check what is going on in this country. Have you given due thought to the fact that almost overnight Paul Salvaletti has become a national figure?”
“Yes; I can’t fit him into the picture.”
“There is one very curious point. . . .”
“To what do you refer?”
“Lola Dumas is with Salvaletti. She is frequently in the news with him.”
“Is that so strange? She has always been associated with the League of Good Americans.”
“The League of Good Americans is merely another name for Dr. Fu Manchu,” rapped Nayland Smith, standing up and beginning to pace the floor. “It is a point of very great interest: it implies that Dr. Fu Manchu is backing Salvaletti; in other words, that Salvaletti is not an opportunist who has sprung into the breach——”
“Good heavens!” Hepburn laid down his fork, “the breach was
“Exactly”
“Is it possible?”
“The pattern begins to become apparent. We have been looking too closely at one small piece of it. I have read the report upon Salvaletti. Even now it is far from complete but it would appear that his training throughout has tended inevitably in one direction. Thank heaven that Abbot Donegal is safe. I have said it before, I say it again: that priest’s life is valuable. He may yet be called upon to stem the tide. Look at the papers. . . .”
In his restless promenade he stirred the loose sheets with his foot.
“The grave problems facing the Old World are allotted but little space. The nervous collapse (as such it is accepted) of Orwin Prescott merely occurs as a brief bulletin from Weaver’s Farm. The several murders which have decorated the Doctor’s visit to the United States are falling into the background. Even our Chinatown raid is granted scanty honours. No, Harvey Bragg, the Martyr, continues to dominate the news—his name now coupled with that of Paul Salvaletti. And—a significant fact, as I have said—Lola Dumas is creeping in.”
There was a short silence interrupted only by the buzzing of the telephone, the subdued voice of Fey answering in an adjoining room. Evidently none of the messages was of sufficient importance to demand the presence of Nayland Smith or Hepburn. But Fey would be making careful notes. Smith, staring out of the window, saw that all traces of fog had disappeared; that icily clear visibility which sometimes characterizes New York City in the winter months was prevailing.
“Are you looking at the Stratton Building, Smith?” Hepburn asked.
“Yes,” snapped Smith. “Why?”
“You remember what I told you about the strange man who lives up there at the top—as reported by Robbie Adair?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps—I admit maybe because it is associated with Mrs. Adair, I am very curious about this man. I put inquiries in hand late last night and I have a report this morning. There’s rather a queer thing about the Stratton Building.”
“What is it?”
Nayland Smith turned and looked at Hepbum.
“This—so far as the report goes; it’s by no means complete:
The whole of the building is occupied by offices of concerns in which the late Harvey Bragg was interested.”
“What!”
“The New York headquarters of the League of Good Americans is there; the head offices of the Lotus Transport Corporation; even the South Coast Trade Line has an office in the building.”
Nayland Smith came forward, resting his hands upon the table; bending down, he stared keenly into Mark Hepburn’s eyes.
“This is interesting,” he said slowly.
“I think so. It’s odd, to say the least. Therefore I arranged early this morning to inspect the lightning conductors—by courtesy of the Midtown Electric Corporation. I may discover nothing, but at least it will give me access to a number of the rooms in the building.”
“You interest me keenly,” said Nayland Smith, returning to the window and staring up at the Stratton Building.
