Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

“Then I must leave you. I have urgent business to deal with, concerning Sir Denis’s future plans. Concerning your own duties, no doubt he will inform you.”

Brian wasn’t sorry when Mr. Ahmad went. Whatever might be the position Ahmad held in Nayland Smith’s organization, he couldn’t shake off a feeling of distrust of the man. He took a book out into a shady corner of the garden and settled down to do nothing until cocktail time. He had little exercise these days, apart from a morning swim, and so far had found no time to do any sight-seeing. He wondered how much longer he would be in Cairo. There were so many things he wanted to do.

He was half dozing over his book when a boy came to look for him. He was wanted on the phone.

It was Zoe. “Oh, Brian! I am so sorry. My uncle from Luxor will be here this evening and I cannot see you! It is perhaps that I have to go back with him. I don’t know.”

“I hope you don’t, Zoe. I doubt if I could find time to get up to Luxor, much as I’d like to. But as it happens I’m tied up this evening, too. I have to wait in for Sir Denis.”

“So, he finds you! I know he will. You may give him my love, but don’t tell him how much love I give you!”

Brian heard her musical laugh. “When shall I know if you’re going to Luxor?”

“As soon as I find out. Perhaps tonight.” She wafted a kiss over the wire.

Brian returned to his seat in the garden; thought about Zoe, tried to read, tried to keep himself awake by watching other visitors who strolled about there from time to time. But at last the restful, warm air, the drone of insects, conquered, and he fell asleep. He dreamed he was being bitten by thousands of mosquitoes and woke up to find that the dream was based on fact.

A boy was shaking him by the shoulder. “Wanted on the phone, sir.”

And when he got there and said, “Hullo!” a snappy voice replied, “Brian Merrick, Junior?”

“I am Brian Merrick.”

“Nayland Smith here. How are you, Merrick? Don’t bother to tell me. Listen. I’m in a hell of a position. You’re in it with me. At eight o’clock—exactly eight o’clock—wait in your room. Leave the door ajar. Don’t tell me the number. I know it. At eight o’clock—with the door ajar. Good-bye. . . .”

* * *

After an early dinner, Brian went up to his room. A bottle of Scotch and a supply of soda water in an ice- bucket were there by his orders. And feeling oddly strung-up, excited, he sampled the whisky while waiting, constantly looking at his watch.

At last he was to learn the whole truth.

He would know tonight what he had committed himself to do; what his duties were to be. All the minor mysteries and misunderstandings would be cleared up. The grand mystery—the nature of the project in which Nayland Smith was engaged—would be unfolded.

It was such an adventure as he had often dreamed of. And even before this strange appointment with Nayland Smith it had brought events into his life more unusual than any he had known before. His meeting with Lola in London. Her drawing his notice to the advertisement in The Times. The strange interview with the Honourable Peter Wellingham and his appointment to what looked like a fabulous job.

-Then, the journey to Cairo. The silence of Lola. Zoe! That unforgettable interview with the Sherif Mohammed in the house in the Oriental city. And now—this strangest incident of all: “At eight o’clock—with the door ajar”!

What could be Sir Denis’s object? Unless he was in actual physical danger and feared an attack upon him somewhere in the corridor leading to this room. Brian could think of none. Of course he might be hoping to avoid observation altogether;

suspect that there were spies in the hotel. But how could he hope to escape detection in the lobby?

It was a puzzle. Brian looked again at his watch.

Three minutes to eight. . .

Excitement mounted second by second, now. He listened, intently, watching the slit of light from the corridor.

He heard the lift stop at his floor, the clang of the opening gate. Someone stepped out, walked briskly along towards his door . . . and passed it!

One minute to eight. . .

Another door was unlocked some distance away, and closed. That was the person who had just come up.

Silence.

And this almost unbearable silence remained unbroken until a very slight creaking disturbed it—and the slit of light began to grow wider!

Brian shot up from his chair. “Who’s there?” he challenged.

A man came in—and closed the door.

It was Nayland Smith!

He wore a light topcoat with the collar turned up and a soft-brimmed hat, the brim pulled down. Brian sprang to meet him.

“Sir Denis! At last!”

“One moment, Merrick. Wait till I get to the window and then switch everything off.” He crossed the room. “Lights out!”

Brian, utterly confused, obeyed the snappy order. Complete darkness came, until it was dispersed by faint streaks of light as Nayland Smith moved the slats of a Venetian blind.

“What’s the idea?” Brian asked.

“Lights up! Wanted to know if you’re overlooked.” The room became illuminated again. “We’re dealing with clever people who mean to stop us. And I’m Target Number One! Ha! Whisky and soda! What I need!”

He dropped his coat and hat on the carpet beside a cane rest-chair and was about to sit down. Then, as an afterthought, he stretched out his hand.

“Glad to see you, Merrick. How’s your father?”

Brian grinned as he grasped the extended hand. This was the Nayland Smith he remembered, and yet, in some way, a changed Nayland Smith. His snappy, erratic style of speech, sometimes so disconcerting, remained the same as ever. The change was in his expression. He had the kind of tan which never wears off, but through it Brian seemed to see that he had become unhealthily pale. His features, too, were almost haggard, and he wore a thin strip of surgical plaster across the bridge of his nose.

As he mixed two stiff drinks: “My father is well, thank you, and sends his best wishes,” he said. “But I’m told you have been a sick man, Sir Denis.”

“Right. Do I look it?”

“You look fit enough now, but I can see you’ve been through a tough time.”

“I owe my life, Merrick, to the Seyyid Mohammed. The man’s a master physician. Lucky for me I knew him. Those devils were hard on my heels when I got to his house. They’d penetrated my disguise, you see.”

Brian passed a drink; sat down facing him.

“I’m afraid I don’t see, Sir Denis! I have been walking in circles ever since I was selected for this job. I don’t know what I have to do. I don’t know what you’re up against. I’m honoured and delighted to be with you, whatever the game may be. But I do want very much to know what it is.”

Nayland Smith, who wore grey flannel trousers and an old shooting jacket, pulled out from one of the large pockets an outsize tobacco pouch and began to stuff some rough-cut mixture into the bowl of a very charred briar pipe.

“Naturally,” he snapped. “I’m here to tell you. First, you might like to know how I got in? Service entrance. Walked up the stairs.”

“Why?”

“He knows you’re here to join me, Merrick!”

“He? Who’s he?”

“Doctor Fu Manchu! You heard me talk to your father about him. He’s the biggest menace the Western world has ever had to cope with. He has the brain of a genius and the soul of Satan! He’s stronger today than ever he was. His agents are everywhere, in every corner of the world. This building is certainly covered. So are you. Either