Camille opened her eyes, rose from her knees, and although her limbs felt heavy, cramped, sprang upright. She stared wildly at Dr. Fu Manchu, lifting one hand to her disarranged hair.
“What—what am I doing here?”
“You are kneeling to me as if I were the Buddha.”
A wave of true terror swept over her. Almost, for the first time, she lost control.
“You . . . Oh, my God! What happened to me?”
She retreated from the tall, yellow-robed figure, back and back until her calves came in contact with the divan. Dr. Fu Manchu watched her.
“Compose yourself. Your chastity is safe with me. I wished to see you without your disguise.”
“There was—someone else here—a dreadful man . . .”
“M’goyna? You were conscious of his presence? That is informative. I regret that I cannot give you an opportunity to examine M’goyna. As a fellow scientist, you would be interested. M’goyna carried my first invitation to you, although I thought you had forgotten.”
“I had forgotten,” Camille whispered. She was trembling.
“He can climb like an ape. He climbed from the fire ladders along the coping of the Huston Building in order to present my compliments. You spoke of ‘a dreadful man.’ But M’goyna is not a man. In Haiti he would be called a zombie. He illustrates the possibilities of vivisection. His frame is that of a Turkish criminal executed for strangling women. I recovered the body before rigor mortis had set in.”
“You are trying to frighten me. Why?”
“Truth never frightened the scientific mind. M’goyna was created in my Cairo laboratory. I supplied him with an elementary brain—a trifle superior to that of a seal. Little more than a receiving set for my orders. He remains imperfect, however. I have been unable to rid my semi-human of that curious cough. Some day I must try again.”
And, as the cold, supercilious voice continued, Camille began to regain her composure; for Dr. Fu Manchu had been unable wholly to conceal a note of triumph. He was a dangerous genius, probably a madman, but he was not immune from every human frailty . . . He was proud of his own fantastic achievements.
She dropped down onto the settee as he crossed, moving with that lithe, feline tread, and resumed his place behind the black table. When he spoke again he seemed to be thinking aloud . . .
“There are only a certain number of nature’s secrets which man is permitted to learn. A number sufficient for his own destruction.”
A high, wailing sound came from somewhere beyond the room. It rose, and fell, rose, and fell—and died away. But for Camille it was almost the last straw.
Clasping her hands, she sprang up, threatened now by hysteria.
“My God! What was it?”
Dr. Fu Manchu rested his chin on interlaced fingers.
“It was Bast—my pet cheetah. She thinks I have forgotten her supper. These hunting cats are so voracious.”
“I don’t believe you . . . It sounded like . . .”
“My dear Miss Navarre, I resent the implication. Sir Denis Nayland Smith would assure you that lying is not one of my vices.”
Delicately he took a pinch of snuff from a silver box. Camille sat down again, struggling to recover her lost poise. She forced herself to meet his fixed regard.
“What is it you want? Why do you look at me like that?”
“I am admiring your beautiful courage. To destroy that which is beautiful is an evil thing.” He stood up. “You wish for the peace of the world. You have said so. You fear cruelty. You flinched when you heard the cry of a cheetah. You have known cruelty— for there is no cruelty like the cruelty of war. If your wish was sincere, only I can hope to bring it true. Will you work
“How can I believe—”
“In Dr. Fu Manchu? In an international criminal? No—perhaps it is asking too much, in the time at my disposal—and the very minutes grow precious.” He opened his eyes widely. “Stand up, Camille Navarre. What is your real name?”
And Camille became swept again at command of the master hypnotist into that grey and dreadful half-world where there was no one but Dr. Fu Manchu.
“Camille Mirabeau,” she answered mechanically—and stood up. “Navarre was the name by which I was known to the Maquis.”
The green eyes were very close to hers.
“Why were you employed by Britain?”
“Because of my success in smuggling Air Force personnel out of the German zone. And because I speak several languages and have had science training.”
“Were you ever married?”
“No.”
“How many lovers have you had?”
“One.”
“How long did this affair last?”
“For three months. Until he was killed by the Gestapo.”
“Have you ceased to regret?”
“Yes.”
“Does Morris Craig attract you?”
“Yes.”
“He will be your next lover. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“You will make him take you away from the Huston Building not later than half past nine. He must not return to his office tonight. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Does he find you attractive?”
“Yes.”
The insistent voice was beating on her brain like a hammer. But she was powerless to check its beats, powerless to resist its promptings; compelled to answer—truthfully. Her brain, her heart, lay on Dr. Fu Manchu’s merciless dissecting table.
“Has he expressed admiration?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“He has asked me not to wear glasses, and not to brush my hair back as I do.”
“And you love him?”
Camille’s proud spirit rose strong in revolt. She remained silent.
“You love him?”
It was useless. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Tonight you will seduce him with your hair. The rest I shall leave to Morris Craig. I will give you your instructions before you leave. Sleep . . .”
There came an agonized interval, in which Camille lay helpless in invisible chains, and then the Voice again.
“I have forgotten all that happened since I left my office in the Huston Building. Repeat.”
“I have forgotten all that happened since I left my office in the Huston Building.”
“When I return I shall remember only what I have to do at nine-fifteen—nine-fifteen by the office clock.”
“When I return I shall remember only what I have to do at nine-fifteen, by the office clock.”
“At nine-thirty Dr. Fu Manchu will call me: repeat the time.”
“Nine-thirty.”
“The fate of the world rests in my hands.”
