Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

Brian took one. It was an “Aziza”! He accepted the offer of Mr. Ahmad’s lighter and went in to write his note. But he sat at the desk a long time, pen in hand, before beginning to do so. Was it another coincidence that the girl in the Loofah office had advised him to inquire for Mr. Ahmad from the Aziza Cigarette Company? And was it a still further coincidence that a spy whom he had mistaken for Zoe had followed him from the shop of the merchant in the Muski who claimed to be the sole Cairo agent for the sale of those cigarettes?

He sighed, looked once more at the name on the cigarette, and then went on smoking. He began to write. Above all things he mustn’t let his imagination run away with him again. . . .

When he came back to the terrace and handed the note to Mr. Ahmad: “I shall see that this is placed in Sir Denis’s hands not later than noon,” Ahmad promised.

“Fine. Now, what about a drink?”

“Many thanks. But it is much too early for me! What I really came to tell you is that Sir Denis expects to be ready to start tomorrow or the next day.”

“Start for where?” Brian wanted to know.

“This I cannot tell you, because I have not been told myself.”

“I see. Well, I’m ready at short notice.”

“Good. And now I must go. My time is not my own. . . .”

Brian had a poor appetite for lunch, and was already finished when he was called to the phone. When he said, “Hullo,” a voice snapped, “Is that Brian Merrick?”

“Here, Sir Denis!”

“Didn’t recognize you for a moment. What’s up? Something gone wrong?”

“Not exactly. That is, nothing that concerns you, personally. But Zoe Montero left in a tremendous hurry yesterday. Called me from the railroad station (or so she said) and seemed very agitated. Told me her aunt in Luxor was dying. I’m rather worried, Sir Denis. I have a hunch something queer may be going on. We were covered by a man I’m almost sure was a spy while lunching at Mena House. Could you give me her uncle’s address and phone number?”

“Oh! I hope your hunch is wrong, Merrick. Don’t want that poor kid dragged into our troubles. Situation rather complicated. Friend of the Sherif Mohammed happened to be leaving for Luxor day I got in. Asked him to let Zoe’s uncle know I was in Cairo. Safe man, Merrick; name of Jansen, Swedish artist. Jansen wired me Zoe was here.”

“But what’s his phone number?”

“That’s the snag, Merrick. Doubt if he has one. Runs a sort of art shop near the Palace Hotel, Never knew the address. Does reproductions of murals from the old temples, statuettes of gods and so on. Sir Lionel Barton employed him when he was excavating a tomb up there.”

“Well, how am I to contact him? Would a radiogram to the Palace Hotel find him?”

“It might, Merrick—in time. I can suggest nothing better. Shall be sorry if anything happens to Isobel Jansen. I know Jansen was devoted to her. By the way, stand by tomorrow. I’m breaking cover. Look out for me!”

Nayland Smith hung up. Brian rather resented the light dismissal of his concern for Zoe, but reflected that Sir Denis had affairs more serious on his mind than the erratic movements of a girl he evidently thought of as a child. He wrote out a careful message addressed to Jansen (he didn’t know his first name) at the Luxor Palace, and gave it to the operator for transmission.

But, try how he would to fight it off, a mood of black depression swept down upon him. . . .

Chapter

8

Dr. Fu Manchu sat behind his desk, his disconcerting eyes focused upon Mr. Ahmad.

“You have instructed our agent at Luxor?”

“In detail, Excellency. The situation is under control.”

“Good. Return to your duties.” He resumed his reading of a closely written manuscript.

And Ahmad had not long gone out by one door when the Sherif Mohammed came in at another. “A messenger from China has just arrived, Excellency.”

Dr. Fu Manchu glanced up. “What has he to report?”

“There have been serious disturbances in three provinces. The Communist authorities have been compelled to send military reinforcements to——”

Fu Manchu suddenly stood up. His eyes blazed as though fires burned behind their greenness.

“What folly is this!” The words were rather hissed than spoken. “Are our Si-Fan directives no longer obeyed? My orders were clear: Accept whatever conditions, however harsh are imposed upon you. Lull the enemy into a state of false security. Wait! Wait for my word! Then—but not until then—strike, all my millions together. And at last China, our China, will lie like a choice pearl in my hand!”

Fu Manchu spoke as a man inspired—or possessed. The Sherif Mohammed lowered his head and muttered a Moslem prayer.

“It is true, Excellency. But agents of our enemy are sent amongst them to stir up rebellion, as an excuse for massacre. Here in Egypt I have great difficulty in preventing premature action, also.”

Dr. Fu Manchu clenched long, slender hands and sat down again. From some spot high above his head, Peko, his pet marmoset, sprang down on to his shoulder, giving his curious cry, which sounded like a short whistle. Fu Manchu reached up and stroked the little creature.

“Ah, Peko! You come to soothe me, my tiny friend.”

“No doubt,” Mohammed murmured, “Excellency will wish to send further orders back to General Huan Tsung Chao?”

Fu Manchu nodded. “Let the messenger wait. The fate of all the world hangs now upon a silk thread. Communism is not ready for war, and has nothing to gain by it. Washington fails to see how one step in the wrong direction may force the hazard. I have been selected to prevent this catastrophe, since I alone could hope to carry out the plan. Upon my success everything depends. Be good enough, my friend, to ask Dr. Matsukata to come in.”

The Sherif Mohammed salaamed and went out, leaving Dr. Fu Manchu playfully teasing the marmoset, which sometimes tried to bite him, whistling with fury, and sometimes snuggled up against his silk robe affectionately.

Matsukata came in; bowed ceremoniously. “Excellency wished to see me?”

Fu Manchu fixed his strange gaze upon the Japanese surgeon.

“No later than forty-eight hours from now, Matsukata, we must be on our way. You are ready?”

“I am ready.”

“And your last patient?”

“Is ready also.”

“You are satisfied?”

“He is sleeping. But Excellency might wish to see him.”

Fu Manchu slightly shook his head. “It is unnecessary. He must make the journey.”

Matsukata bowed again. The marmoset sprang across the desk and whistled at him angrily . . .

* * *

Brian spent a wretched day. He remained extremely uneasy about Zoe. Whatever the urgency, he couldn’t understand why she had gone with never a word to him. He had found out from the management that she had left all her luggage behind, and all her expensive dresses!

They had never seen her before and could give him no information about her. They hoped nothing unpleasant had happened. But as the value of her abandoned property was apparently greater than the amount of her unpaid bill, they weren’t so deeply concerned as otherwise they might have been.

It was late in the afternoon when a boy handed him a telegram. It was signed “J. Jansen.” The message was brief, merely stating that Zoe had hurried back to Luxor with the writer and that there were hopes for her aunt’s recovery. She sent her love to Brian and Sir Denis.

Brian gave a great sigh of relief.

He had built up a pyramid of doubts based upon her disappearance. These included the theory that Mr.