The Shadow of Fu Manchu

board.

Stella and Camille had gone out into the garden.

The sim was shining.

And over this seemingly peaceful scene there hung a menace, an invisible cloud. The fate of nations was suspended on a hair above their heads. Of all those in Falling Waters that morning, probably Michael Frobisher was the most deeply disturbed. He paced up and down the restricted floor space of his study, black brows drawn together over a deep wrinkle, his eyes haunted.

When Stein came in without knocking, Frobisher jumped around like a stag at bay. He collected himself.

“Well—what now?”

Stein, expressionless, offered a card on a salver. He spoke tonelessly.

“Sir Denis Nay land Smith is here.”

Chapter XVII

“I can tell you, broadly, what happened last night,” said Nayland Smith. “It was an attempt to steal the final plans assumed to be locked in Craig’s safe.”

“I guessed as much,” Michael Frobisher replied.

Under drawn brows, he was studying the restless figure pacing to and fro in his study, fouling the air with fumes from a briar pipe which, apparently, Smith had neglected to clean since the day he bought it. Frobisher secretly resented this appropriation of his own parade ground, but recognized that he was powerless to do anything about it.

“The safe was opened.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Quite!” Smith rapped, glancing aside at Frobisher. “It was the work of an expert. Dr. Fu Manchu employs none but experts.”

“Dr. Fu Manchu! Then it wasn’t—”

Smith pulled up right in front of Frobisher, as he sat there behind his desk.

“Well—go on. Whom did you suspect?”

Frobisher twisted a half-smoked cigar between his lips.

“Come to think,1 don’t know.”

“But you do know that when a project with such vast implications nears maturity, big interests become involved. Agents of several governments are watching every move in your dangerous game. And there’s another agent who represents no government, but who acts for a powerful and well organized group.”

“Are you talking about Vickers?” Frobisher growled.

“No. Absurd! This isn’t a commercial group. It’s an organization controlled by Dr. Fu Manchu. In all probability, Dr Fu Manchu was in Craig’s office last night.”

“But—”

“The only other possibility is that the attempt was made by a Soviet spy. Have you reason to suspect any member of your staff?”

“I doubt that any Russian has access to the office.”

“Why a Russian?” Nayland Smith asked. “Men of influence and good standing in other countries have worked for Communism. It offers glittering prizes. Why not a citizen of the United States?”

Frobisher watched him covertly. “True enough.”

“Put me clear on one point. Because a false move, now, might be fatal. You have employed no private investigator?”

“No, sir. Don’t trust my affairs to strangers.”

“Where are Craig’s original plans?”

Michael Frobisher glanced up uneasily.

“In my New York bank.”

In this, Michael Frobisher was slightly misinformed. His wife, presenting an order typed on Huston Electric notepaper and apparently signed by her husband, had withdrawn the plans two days before, on her way from an appointment with Professor Hoffmeyer.

“Complete blueprints—where?”

“Right here in the house.”

“Were they in the safe that was opened the other night?”

“No, sir—they were not.”

“Whoever inspected the plant in the laboratory would be a trained observer. Would it, in your opinion, be possible to reconstruct the equipment after such an examination?”

Michael Frobisher frowned darkly.

“I want you to know that I’m not a physicist,” he answered. “I’m not even an engineer. I’m a man of business. But in my opinion, no—it wouldn’t. He would have had to dismantle it. Craig and Shaw report it hadn’t been touched. Then, without the transmuter, that plant is plain dynamite.”

Nayland Smith crossed and stared out at the woods beyond the window.

“I understand that this instrument—whatever it may be—is already under construction. Only certain valves are lacking. Craig will probably complete his work today. Mr. Frobisher”—he turned, and his glance was hard—”your estate is a lonely one.”

Frobisher’s uneasiness grew. He stood up.

“You think I shouldn’t have had Craig out here, with that work?”

“I think,” said Smith, “that whilst it would be fairly easy to protect the Huston laboratory, now that we know what we’re up against, this house surrounded by sixty acres, largely woodland, is a colt of a different color. By tonight, there will be inflammable material here. Do you realize that if Fu Manchu—or the Kremlin— first sets up a full-scale Craig plant, Fu Manchu—or the Kremlin— will be master of the world?”

“You’re sure, dead sure, that they’re both out to get it?”

Frobisher’s voice was more than usually hoarse.

“I have said so. One of the two has a flying start. I want to see your radar alarm system and I want to inspect your armory. I’m returning to New York. Two inquiries should have given results. One leading to the hideout of Dr. Fu Manchu, the other to the identity of the Soviet agent.”

Camille and Stella Frobisher came in from the garden.

“You know,” Stella was saying, “I believe we have discovered something.”

“All we seem to have discovered,” Camille replied, “is that there are strange gaps in your memory, and strange gaps in mine. The trouble in your case seems to have begun after you consulted Professor Hoffmeyer about your nerves.”

“Yes, dear, it did. You see,1 had been so worried about Mike. I thought he was working too hard. In his way, dear, he’s rather a treasure. Dr. Pardoe, who is a neighbor of ours, suggested, almost playfully, that I consult the professor.”

“And your nerves improved?”

“Enormously. I began to sleep again. But these queer lapses came on. I told him. He reassured me. I’m not at all certain, dear, that we have discovered anything after all. Your lapses began before you had ever seen him.”

“Yes.” Camille was thinking hard. “The trouble doesn’t seem to be with the professor’s treatment, after all. Quite apart from which, I have no idea if I ever consulted him at all.”

“No, dear—I quite understand.” Stella squeezed her hand, sympathetically. “You have no idea how completely I understand.”

They were crossing the library, together, when there came a sudden, tremendous storm of barking. It swept in upon the peace of Falling Waters, a hurricane of sound.

“Whatever is it?” Camille whispered.

As if in answer to her question, Sam entered through open French windows. He had removed his topcoat, his