Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

had been called upon to do exactly nothing, had been left entirely to his own devices!

Only that morning he had tackled Nayland Smith on the subject.

And Nayland Smith had replied, “Cultivate patience, Merrick. There are long spells of idleness in a soldier’s life, too. But when war starts he has his hands full. We’re in just that position. I might have had desperate need of you in Cairo. As it chanced, I didn’t. We got Hessian away without a hitch. But Dr. Fu Manchu’s forces are here, in Manhattan!”

“What!”

“They are here—a group of thugs pledged to stop Hessian’s work! How they’ll operate I don’t know. I can’t tell you if I’ll need your brawn or your brain. But I can assure you that you’ll be an essential figure in the picture. This is by far the biggest thing I ever took on, and if it breaks me and Fu Manchu wins, it means the end of all we stand for.”

Before he went out that morning, Sir Denis drew Brian’s attention to a portable phone in the living-room. It was connected with the penthouse above.

“By arrangement with the management, Merrick, the elevator goes no higher than this floor. Visitors to the penthouse must use the stair. But the door is locked from the inside. You’ll see a typed notice on it which says: ‘Apply No. 420 B.’

That’s this apartment. If anyone applies, take particulars and call Dr. Hessian. His secretary will answer. She’s a young lady supplied by the F.B.I.”

And so Brian realized that whenever Nayland Smith was out, he had to stay in. He was on a kind of sentry duty.

Many hours had passed since then. But no one had applied for permission to visit Dr. Hessian. He had ordered his lunch from Room Service and written a long letter to Senator Merrick, walked along a corridor and dropped it in the letter chute.

As he returned, he had an odd impression that the door to the penthouse stair had been slightly opened, that someone had looked out and then quickly drawn back. Before going in to the suite, he stood for a moment looking at the mysterious door. He could see a sheet of paper pinned to it, and beyond doubt the door was closed. He concluded that he had been mistaken.

And now he had nothing to do but to stare out of a window.

He was watching smoke from a distant steamer, hull-down on the skyline, when the penthouse phone buzzed. This was so unexpected that it startled him. He took it up.

“Hullo!”

“Nayland Smith here,” came the snappy voice. “Any visitors?”

“No.”

“Callers?”

“No one called.”

“Boring for you, Merrick. Relax for a couple of hours. I’ll take over. Cut downstairs and try a champagne cocktail in the Paris Bar. They used to be good when I was here before. Then dine in the Silver Grill. I shall know where to find you if you’re wanted.”

“Thanks, Sir Denis. I’ll take your advice.”

He looked at his watch, surprised to find how the afternoon had passed, how late it was. He spruced up and went downstairs. Although he wasn’t familiar with the Babylon-Lido he had no difficulty in finding the Paris Bar. It was equipped in Montmartre style, with coloured advertisements for French drinks on the walls, and framed Lautrec reproductions. There were red and white check cloths on the little tables, French waiters and a French bartender.

The bar was already well patronized, but he saw no one he knew. He sat down at a vacant table and ordered a champagne cocktail. He supposed he should be grateful to find himself back in his native land, but all the same a voice within kept asking, “Why New York? Why couldn’t it be London?” When his drink came and he had sampled it and lighted a cigarette he began to feel better. He recalled what someone had told him once, that Secret Service routine can be as dull as banking.

This thought consoled him, and he had just ordered a second cocktail when soft hands were pressed over his eyes from behind and a soft voice said, “Guess, Brian! Who is it?”

He grasped the slender hands, twisted in his chair . . . and found himself looking up into eyes which smiled while they seemed to mock him.

“Lola!” He almost failed to recognize his own voice, “Lola! But—but—you ought to be in London!”

Lola freed her hands, came around and sat down in the chair facing him. “You mean I shouldn’t be in New York?”

“My dear!” Brian partly recovered from the glad shock, wondered about the way his heart was thumping. “Your being here is the answer to a prayer. It’s impossible but true.”

“Did you get my radiogram?”

“I did. But did you get my reply?”

Lola shook her head. A waiter was standing beside her. Brian ordered two champagne cocktails. As the waiter moved away:

“How could I?” Lola asked him. “I had to leave London an hour after I sent my message to you in Cairo. Madame had booked me for a flight leaving the same afternoon. I told you, Brian, we should meet again before long.”

Brian’s eyes devoured her. Lola, as always, was perfectly dressed, with that deceptive simplicity which only much money can buy. He was so overpowered by her appeal—her sudden presence—that he became almost tongue-tied.

“It will be sent on?”

“Of course. Everything that comes will be air-mailed to me here.”

“You are staying here—in the Babylon-Lido?”

“I am! Madame believes in Michel representatives being seen in smart places.”

“Lola—it’s a miracle!”

Lola, watching him, smiled that odd smile which at once irritated and infatuated him. “There are men even today, Brian, who can perform miracles.”

Her words were puzzling; but as the waiter brought the cocktails, he forgot them, clinked glasses, and was glad to be alive.

“You didn’t know I was here, Lola?”

“How could I? I saw you as I came in.”

“Are you free for dinner?”

“Of course, Brian dear, I only just arrived. . . .”

* * *

Dr. Fu Manchu sat in a small room which apparently had no windows. A single bright light shone down on to a large-scale plan pinned to a board, so that sometimes a shadow of his head or hand would appear on the plan as he bent forward to study it. The room was profoundly silent.

The plan represented a number of suites of apartments, some adjoining one another, but roughly half of them separated from the others by a wide corridor. An elevator door and a descending stair were marked opening off a square landing;

an ascending stair appeared at the other end of the corridor.

It was a plan of the top floor of a wing of the Babylon-Lido.

Of the three suites shown on the east side of the corridor that in the centre was marked 420B. 420A was on the north of it and 420C on the south. There were four smaller apartments on the west side, numbered from 421 to 424.

Dr. Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff from a silver box, then turned his shadowed face towards a cabinet which stood near. He pressed a switch.

“Connect 420A.”

An interval, and then a man’s voice speaking English with a pronounced accent: “Four-twentyA.”