Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

Arab blood betrayed you—and betrayed me!”

Fu Manchu’s strange voice rose to a hissing falsetto on the last word. Zoe raised her hands to her face, and seemed to droop like a fading flower.

“Whispered words,” the remorseless voice went on, “a man’s caresses, and those years of patient training became wasted years in as many minutes. Yet, Zobeida, this was not by any means the first assignment you have carried out. You have passed through those fires unscathed—as you were taught to do. Tell me, Zobeida, are you afflicted by the delusion miscalled love?”

He gave to “love” so scornful an intonation that Zoe shrank even lower. She was trembling, now. Her answer was a whisper:

“This one is young, and without experience, Master. He is not like—those others.”

Dr. Fu Manchu considered her silently for a moment.

“Had you spoken the unforgivable words, ‘I love him’, I should have sent for whips. It would have meant that you were of no future use, and therefore lash marks on your smooth skin would no longer have concerned me. But—you have betrayed the plans of the Si-Fan.”

Zoe looked up. “I have not! He knows nothing of your plans, for even had I wanted to, I could have told him nothing. He knows that I think he is in danger, that he should go away——”

“With you, unless I misunderstood Abdul, who was listening.”

Zoe dropped her head again. “I would not have gone, Master, farther than Port Said. I dare not have gone. I thought, if I said this, he might be tempted to listen to me.”

Another silence fell—a long silence, and then: “Your desire to guide this attractive young man into the straight and narrow path is most touchng. Fortunately, I was able to take instant steps to check further confidences.” Fu Manchu spoke softly. “Go to your room. You will not be returning to the hotel. . . .”

* * *

A faint hope that Zoe, piqued by his refusal to take her strange advice, might have found an empty cab at Mena House and returned alone to Cairo was disappointed when he got back to his hotel. She had not come in.

He had exhausted every probability before leaving Mena House. There was no doubt that she had gone. . . . But no one had seen her go!

Frantically, he tried to think of possible sources of information. Apart from Nayland Smith, he knew none of her friends. In fact, as he realized now, he knew next to nothing about her except what she had told him. And Nayland Smith had impressed upon him, “Don’t attempt to contact me . . .”

Who was this uncle by marriage, possibly still in Cairo, with whom Zoe had discussed those family matters on the previous night? Where was he staying? What was his name?

He didn’t know!

Once, as his widely travelled father had told him, when the British controlled Egypt, the Cairo police had been a highly efficient force. But now, when neither Britons nor Americans were too popular, what hope had he of co- operation?

The mystery of the thing appalled him . . . Had Zoe been abducted?

Clearly enough, she had picked up information somewhere concerning the existence of Fu Manchu— information which had terrified her. It was folly to try to pretend to himself that the dirty old vagabond sitting on the road at Gizeh in hearing of their conversation was not a spy; that his previous appearance in Sharia Abdin had been a coincidence.

Brian went up to his room and paced about there like a madman.

He had not dreamed. He had seen a vision. Could it be that the rest of it was true? Had Nayland Smith fallen into a trap? He smoked countless cigarettes; had several drinks. In desperation, he called Mr. Ahmad’s number . . . No reply.

He was wondering what to do next when his phone buzzed. He grabbed it.

“Oh, Brian dear!”—Zoe!—”I cannot tell you how unhappy I am. My uncle finds out from the hotel porter where we are gone and comes out by car to Mena House to get me. There is not one moment to lose. My poor Aunt Isobel is dying. She asks for me. So we rush for the train. I am at the station now . . . The train just comes in! I must run.” The sound of a kiss. “Good-bye, Brian . . .”

“But, Zoe——”

She had gone . . .

* * *

Mr. Ahmad called early in the morning. He found Brian on the terrace, looking wretched, toying with biscuits and cheese and a cup of coffee—apparently his breakfast. Mr. Ahmad sat down in a cane chair.

“You are not feeling so well, Mr. Merrick?”

“Thank you. I feel fine.”

“You looked, or so I thought, unhappy. Yes?”

Brian stared hard at Mr. Ahmad. And Mr. Ahmad forced a smile of sympathy.

“Shall I tell you something?” Brian asked. “I’m sick to death of all this mystery business. I’m told there’s a serious danger threatening the Western World. I’m told that I’m a marked man. Queer things happen. And I’m left alone to think it all out. What kind of game is this? I can never get in touch with you—and Sir Denis orders me not to contact him!”

Ahmad shrugged. “Forgive me if I fail to follow you. I cannot know what took place between Sir Denis and yourself. I was not there. If your personal expenses have embarrassed you, I think I can promise that this can be arranged——”

“They haven’t! It’s not a question of money.”

“Then of what?”

“Of self-respect, I guess! I find out I have a spy on my trail. I should like to report it. There’s no one to report to! I’m supposed to be in on this thing. But I’m left sitting right outside.”

Even as he spoke so bitterly he was well aware that the real cause of his bitterness was the strange disappearance of Zoe. Her words, when she had called him, had sounded false, unreal. Either she had been playing a double game all along, and had now gone off with some unknown man she really loved, or she had been abducted, had been forced to speak to him in order to put him off the scent.

But he didn’t want to talk to Ahmad about Zoe, and:

“Could you deliver a message from me to Sir Denis?” he asked.

“But certainly. With pleasure.”

But Mr. Ahmad spoke in a curiously uneasy way.

“If you can see him, why not I?”

Mr. Ahmad now looked unmistakably embarrassed. Brian could see that he was trying hard to think up an answer to that one. But at last:

“I can only obey Sir Denis’s orders, Mr. Merrick,” he explained. “Surely you know that he thinks it important, until his plans are complete, that no connection between you should be suspected?”

“Yes, I know that. But unless my hotel phone is tapped, why can’t I call him?”

Mr. Ahmad leaned forward, his expression very earnest.

“Has Sir Denis told you where he is?”

“Yes. I knew, anyway. I didn’t tell you at the time, because I thought maybe he didn’t want me to know yet.”

Ahmad forced a smile. “It was discreet—for I, too, was in ignorance of his presence in Cairo at that time. But, now that you know, Mr. Merrick, I ask you: Is it likely that such a household would be on the telephone?”

Brian thought a while, and then, “No,” he agreed. “I guess not. But if I step in to a desk for a minute and write a note, can you undertake that he’ll get it?”

He stumped out the butt of his cigarette in an ash-tray.

“Most certainly. May I offer you one of mine?” Ahmad held out a gold case. “They are different from yours. Unusual. But you may like them.”

“Thanks.”