“We betray our presence, our purpose, and our methods, to the common man-hunters. Had this purpose been achieved, we should have been justified. We need so short a time. Interference, now, can be fatal. But the method employed was clumsy. This victim of your blundering must not die.”
“Compassion, Excellency, is an attribute of the weak.”
The compelling eyes remained fixed upon him.
“Rejoice, then, that I entertain it for you. Otherwise you would have joined your revered ancestors tonight. I am moved by expediency—which is an attribute of the wise. In the death of a police officer the seed of retribution is sown. I must remain here until my work is done. If he dies, I shall be troubled. If he survives, the affair becomes less serious. In one hour from now he will be dead—unless we act. I am preparing the antidote. It is for you to find means to administer it . . . Take instant steps.”
The light in the crystal faded.
As a result of this conversation, just as Craig had begun on the sweet, Nayland Smith was called to the phone.
He was not away long. But when he came back, his face wore a curious expression. In part, it was an expression of relief—in part, of something else. As he sat down:
“A miracle has been performed in Manhattan,” he said.
Craig stared. “What do you mean?”
“What! Professor Lowe has won, after all?”
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“No. Professor Lowe was beaten. But some obscure practitioner, instructed by Moreno’s father, insisted upon seeing the patient. As the case was desperate, and the unknown doctor—who had practised in the tropics—claimed to recognize the symptoms, he was given permission to go ahead. Moreno would have died, anyway.”
“But he didn’t?”
“On the contrary. He recovered consciousness shortly after the injection which this obscure doctor administered. He is already off the danger list.”
“This was a brilliant bird. Smith! He doesn’t deserve to be obscure.”
Nayland Smith tugged reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
“He must remain so. The physician whose name he gave is absent in Philadelphia. Officer Moreno’s father was not even aware of his son’s illness.”
Huan Tsung had taken instant steps. But Craig laid his spoon down in bewilderment.
“Then—I mean to say—if he was an impostor—what the devil’s it all about?”
“Perfectly simple. For some deep reason we can’t hope to fathom, Dr. Fu Manchu has decided that Moreno must live. I fear he has also decided that I must die. Granting equal efficiency, what are my chances?”
Chapter V
Sam was free until nine forty-five. He studied the menus displayed outside a number of restaurants suitable for one of limited resources, before making a selection. His needs were simple, it seemed, and having finished his dinner, he moved along to a bar, mounted a stool, and ordered himself a bourbon.
Seated there, in his short leather jacket, a cap with a very long peak pushed to the back of his bullet head, he surveyed the scene through his spectacles whilst lighting a cigarette.
“You’re with the Huston Electric, aren’t you?” said someone almost at his elbow.
Sam turned. A personable young man, of Latin appearance, had mounted the next stool and was smiling at him amiably. Sam stared.
“What about it?” he inquired.
“Oh, nothing. Just thought I’d seen you there.”
“What
“Newspaper story. I’m a reporter.”
“Is that so?”
Sam eyed the reporter from head to heels, without favor.
“Sure. Laurillard’s my name—Jed Laurillard. And I’m always out for a good story.”
“Well, well,” said Sam.
“Push that back and have the other half. Just going to order one myself.”
“That’s fine. My name’s Sam.”
“
“Sam.”
“I mean, what’s your other name?”
“Tim.’
“Your name is Sam Jim?”
“You got it the wrong way around. Jim Sam.”
“I never heard of it before. How do you spell it?”
“S-a-m. I got an uncle the same name.”
For the decimal of a second, Laurillard’s jaw hardened. Then the hard line relaxed. He slapped Sam on the back and laughed, signalling the barman.
“You’re wasting your time,” he declared. “You ought to be in show business.”
Sam grinned, but made no reply. The second bourbon went the way of the first, apparently meeting with even less obstruction.
“This new thing Huston is bringing out,” Laurillard went on. “Breaking into the news next week, isn’t it?”
Sam held up his empty glass and appeared to be using it as a lense through which to count the bottles in the bar.
“Is it?” he said.
“You ought to know.” Laurillard signalled the barman again. “If I could get the exact date it would be worth money to me.”
“Would it? How much?”
“Well”—speculatively, he watched Sam considering his third drink—”enough to make it worth, say, fifty bucks to you.”
Sam looked at Laurillard over the top of his spectacles and finished his drink. He made no other reply. Laurillard caught the barman’s eye and glanced aside at Sam’s glass. It was refilled.
For some time after the fourth, the barman, who was busy, lost count.
“You know what I’m talking about?” Laurillard presently inquired. “This new lighting system?”
“Sure.”
“Some English scientist working on it.”
“Sure.”
“Well, when the story breaks it’s going to be big. Science news is a dollar a word these days. Hurt nobody if I got it first. You’re a live guy. I spotted you first time I was up there. Never miss one. It’s my business—see?”
Sam emptied his glass and nodded.
“Suppose you made a few inquiries. No harm in that. I could meet you here tomorrow. Any time you say.”
“What you wanna know, exac—xactly?” Sam inquired.
His glance had become oblique. Laurillard signalled the barman and leaned forward confidentially.
“Get this.” He lowered his voice. “I want to know when the job will be finished. That gives me a lead. It’s easy enough.”
A full glass was set before Sam.
“Goo’ luck,” he said, raising it.
“Same to you. What time tomorrow, here?”
“Same to you—mean, same time.”
“Good enough. I must rush. Hard life, reporting.”
Laurillard rushed. Outside, he looked in through the window and saw Sam raising the drink to his lips, sympathetically watched by the barman. What happened after that he didn’t see. He was hurrying to the spot where his car was parked.
