Re-enter Dr. Fu Manchu
by Sax Rohmer
Chapter
1
“Here is
Brian nodded. “I imagine you had quite a big mail.”
“You may be surprised to learn”—Wellingham lay back in his chair and pressed his finger-tips together—”that applicants were quite few.”
“I’m certainly surprised.”
“I refer, particularly, to suitable applicants. You, I may say, were quite easily the most promising. I need not tell you that I am acting for a third party. Now—let’s see . . . You are a United States citizen, the son of Senator Merrick. You hold an American degree and have recently also graduated at Oxford. Your record in sports is good. Your degrees, if not outstanding, are respectable.”
Brian picked up a brief-case from the carpet. “I have the credentials here.”
Peter Wellingham waved a pale hand. He smiled a pale smile.
“I assure you, Mr. Merrick, applicants’ qualifications have already been checked. My principal is highly efficient. Now— you are unattached?”
“Meaning unmarried?”
“Meaning unmarried and not engaged to marry.”
“All clear,” Brian grinned.
“And you are prepared to travel?”
“I’m eager. My father has given me six months’ leave of absence before I go into the family business ——”
“Which, I am told, is a very good business.”
Brian experienced a return of that sense of resentment with which Peter Wellingham filled him. These F.B.I, methods offended him. He became more than ever certain that he had been subjected to close scrutiny whilst he had waited.
But, to be fair, what did this mean? Only that these people were looking for a man of exceptional qualities for what must be a highly important job.
“It’s a good business all right,” he admitted.
A rap on the door—and the willowy secretary he had seen before came in.
“Sir John is here, Mr. Wellingham. He is on his way to the House and is pressed for time.”
Peter Wellingham stood up, smiled apologetically.
“I won’t detain you many minutes, Mr. Merrick. My legal adviser is also a member of Parliament. Please excuse me.” He crossed to the door; switched on indirect lighting, so that the crowded bookcase became illuminated. “You might like to look over my library.”
He went out and closed the door.
Peter Wellingham was a slender man of uncertain age; pale, with scanty fair hair. He was faultlessly groomed and wore correct morning dress. His white hands were slender, and of effeminate beauty. His voice and speech were those of the cultured Englishman, and he wore the short, close-trimmed moustache which Brian associated with the British army.
But, somehow, he couldn’t imagine Peter Wellingham as a soldier, and, try as he would, he couldn’t like him. . . .
He looked around the small, but crowded room, trying to reconsider his first impression of the Honourable Peter Wellingham. The secretary who had received him was an attractive Eurasian, and many of the volumes on the shelves dealt with the Orient. There were antiques, too, placed here and there between the books, all of Eastern origin.
How strangely quiet this room seemed. Hard to believe that he was in the heart of fashionable Mayfair and less than fifty yards from Park Lane. Although his physical senses didn’t support the idea, that uncanny suspicion overcame him again—a suspicion that he wasn’t alone, that someone watched him. It had come to him when he first arrived, while he was waiting for the Honourable Peter.
Why? And from where?
There was only one point in the room from which an observer might be watching. This was a massive Burmese cabinet of dark wood with a number of fretwork cupboards. It seemed to be built into the wall, and there might be a space behind it.
But it was all too fantastic, although at one time his doubts had prompted him to decline the job if it were offered. Indications suggested it might involve exciting travel, and this prospect thrilled him. He crossed to a bookcase, and began to read some of the titles. Many dealt with the tangle in the Near East, and not all were in English.
There was one shelf with no books on it; only a bronze sphinx and several framed photographs.
Brian stood still, staring at one of them. It was of Senator Mclnnes, an old friend of his father’s. At another he stared even longer; a lean-faced man with steady, keen eyes, his hair silvering at the temples.
He was still studying this, holding the frame in his hands, when the door opened and Peter Wellingham came back.
“Do you know Sir Denis?” Wellingham asked in evident surprise.
“Not intimately. But Sir Denis Nayland Smith was my father’s house-guest in Washington two years back.”
“Splendid! Sir Denis makes this his base when he is in London. If we come to terms, he will be your chief. . . .”
* * *
“It was Sir Denis’s intention,” Wellingham explained, “that this should be a six-month agreement. Renewable by mutual consent. This, I think would suit your plans?”
“Perfectly.”
“Here is a form of agreement. Will you read it carefully, and if you find it acceptable sign all three copies.”
Brian found himself walking on air. The terms of employment were generous, and he would receive two months’ salary in advance. He must be ready to leave for Cairo at short notice and the cost of equipment he required would be defrayed by his employers.
He signed the three copies without hesitation; passed them across the desk. Peter Wellingham signed in turn and rang for his secretary who acted as witness. “Draw Mr. Brian Merrick’s cheque,” he directed.
The girl went out, and Brian’s glance followed the graceful figure. As she opened the door, an oblique ray of sunshine touched the intricate carving of the Burmese cabinet—and Brian’s glance was diverted, then held . . .
He suppressed a start. Through the delicately carved panel before one of the small cupboards he thought he saw two brilliant green eyes fixed upon him! He inhaled deeply; looked away. Peter Wellingham was scribbling notes on a pad.
With the closing of the door the apparition had vanished, and Brian tried to tell himself that he was the victim of an illusion. Some shiny object, such as a jade vase, probably stood in the cupboard. His slumbering distrust of Wellingham most not be allowed to upset his judgement. He knew Nayland Smith to be a high-up in the British Secret Service and a former Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. Brian had longed to travel before settling down to serious work, but funds were short. Here was a golden opportunity!
Peter Wellingham looked up.
