“Easily done,” rapped Nayland Smith, and pointed, “There’s the Regal Tower, half-right.”
“Then the penthouse lies somewhere west of where we stand. It must, because I know it isn’t visible from our windows.”
“That’s a pity,” said Nayland Smith drily.
“I’m not thinking the way you believe, Smith, at all. I’m trying to work out a totally different idea. It seems to me. . . .”
The sound which checked his words was a very slight sound, yet clearly audible up there where the Juggernaut hymn of New York was diminished to a humming croon, the song of a million fireflies dancing far below.
Nayland Smith turned as though propelled by a spring.
The open french window had been closed and bolted. Visible in the eerie light of a clouded moon, Dr. Fu Manchu stood inside watching them!
He wore a heavy coat with an astrakhan collar, an astrakhan cap upon his head. His only visible protection was the thickness of the glass. . . .
“Hepburn!” Nayland Smith reached for his automatic.
Those strange eyes glittered like emeralds through the panes of the window.
“A shot would be wasted, Sir Denis!” The cold, precise voice reached them out there upon the balcony as though no glass intervened. “The panes are bulletproof—an improvement of my own upon the excellent device invented by an Englishman.”
Nayland Smith’s finger faltered on the trigger. He had never known Dr. Fu Manchu to tell a lie. But this was a crisis in the Doctor’s affairs. He took a step back and fired obliquely.
The bullet ricocheted as from armour plate, whistling out into space! Dr. Fu Manchu did not stir a muscle.
“My God!” (and it sounded like a groan) came from Mark Hepburn.
“You can hear me clearly through the ventilators above the window,” the Asiatic voice continued. “I regret that I should have given you cause, Sir Denis, to doubt my word.”
Hepburn turned aside; he was trying desperately to think coolly. He stared downward from the balcony. . . .
“You are one of the few men whom I have encountered in a long life,” Dr. Fu Manchu continued, “of sufficient strength of character to look me in the eyes. For this I respect you. I know by what self-abnegation you have achieved this control, and I regret the necessity which you have thrust upon me. Our association, if at times tedious, has never been dishonourable.”
He turned aside, placing a small globular lamp upon the bare floor of the room: within it a bright light sprang up. He took a step back towards the window.
“I am not prepared to suffer any human hindrance in this hour of destiny. I have chosen Paul Salvaletti to rule at the White House. Here, in the United States, I shall set up my empire. Time and time again you have checked me—but this time, Sir Denis, you arrive too late. You are correct in your surmise that there is another means of entrance to these apartments, formerly occupied by Professor Morgenstahl (whose name will be familiar to you) and myself.”
“Smith,” Hepburn whispered—”there’s one chance . . .”
But Nayland Smith did not turn; he was watching Dr. Fu Manchu. The superhuman Chinaman was winding what appeared to be a watch. He placed it on the floor beside the lamp, turned, and spoke:
“I bid you good-bye, Sir Denis; and—I speak with sincerity—not without regret. Your powers of pure reasoning are limited: your gifts of intuition are remarkable. In this respect I place you among the seven first-class brains of your race. Captain Hepburn has excellent qualities. He is a man I should be glad to have in my service. However, he has chosen otherwise. The small apparatus which I have placed upon the floor (a hobby of the late Lord Southery, a talented engineer whom I believe you knew) contains a power which, expanding from so small a centre, will, I am convinced, astound you. I have timed it to explode in one hundred and twenty seconds. Its explosion will entirely obliterate the dome of the Stratton Building. I must leave you.”
He turned, and in the glare of the globular light upon the floor crossed to the door and disappeared.
Nayland Smith, fists clenched, glared in through the bullet-proof glass.
“Hepburn,” he said, “I have been blind and mad. Forgive me.”
“Smith! Smith!” Hepburn grasped his arm. “I have been trying to tell you . . . ! You know what we’re supposed to be here for?”
“The lightning conductor. What the hell does it matter now!”
“It matters everything. Look!”
Hepburn pointed downwards. Nayland Smith stared in the direction indicated.
The cable of a lightning conductor attached from point to point passed down immediately beside the balcony to a dim parapet below . . .
“God help us!” Smith whispered, “will it bear a man’s weight?”
Chapter 34
“THE SEVEN”
“The history of America,” said the Abbot of Holy Thorn, “has acquired several surprising Chapters since our last meeting, Sir Denis.”
Nayland Smith, standing at the window of the abbot’s high-set study staring out at a sun-bathed prospect, turned slightly and nodded. Every detail of his former visit had recurred in his memory. And at this hour, while the fate of the United States hung in the balance, he was really no nearer to success than on the night when first he
