Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

“You are unpacked and established?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Your transmitter is well concealed?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You may not be wanted tonight, but remain in the hotel.”

A faint click and the order: “Connect 420C.”

There was an almost instant answer in such bad English as to be nearly unintelligible.

“Speak in your own language. You are ready?”

The reply came in a Burmese dialect: “I am ready, Master.”

“Remain where you are until further orders.”

The four apartments on the west side were connected one after another; orders given and accepted in a variety of tongues. Dr. Fu Manchu was a phenomenal linguist. At last he was satisfied, leaning back in his chair and hissing softly between his teeth.

Suite 420B, occupied by Sir Denis Nayland Smith, was entirely surrounded by agents of Fu Manchu!

* * *

While Brian, having booked a table, waited for Lola to join him in the Silver Grill, his reflections took an odd turn. There was a queer similarity between this meeting with Lola in New York and his meeting with Zoe in Cairo. They might have been planned by a producer too lazy to alter the routine. Brian laughed silently, and wondered why so grotesque an idea had occurred to him as he saw Lola coming.

She had changed into an unpretentious but charming dinner dress. It might have—and had—been designed expressly to set off her particular type of beauty. She looked radiant and attracted the tribute of many frowns from the women present.

When they had ordered their dinner, and Lola had selected the right Bordeaux to go with it:

“I’m simply dying to hear what you’re doing in Manhattan, Brian,” she declared. “I thought your mysterious affairs were connected with the East, not the West.”

“So did I,” Brian admitted, then stopped.

How much was he entitled to tell Lola? She knew some of the facts, already, but only as little as he had known, himself, up to the time of his leaving London.

“New York was the last place in which I expected to find myself.” Lola delicately nibbled an olive. “You were the last person I expected to meet.”

Brian went through the pangs of an inward struggle. He longed to confide in somebody. He was made that way. And if he couldn’t trust Lola, in whom could he put his trust? After all, she knew already that he was employed by Nayland Smith, and even if he told her all he knew of Sir Denis’s plans it didn’t add up to much. For he recognized, with a return of his sense of frustration, that he had been kept in the dark all along. He imposed only one condition upon himself: he must say nothing about either Hessian or Dr. Fu Manchu.

“If I could make you understand, Lola, how mad I was to learn that we were coming to New York when where I wanted to be was London you’d know how I longed to be with you again. To find you right here made me think I had Aladdin’s lamp in my pocket and didn’t know it!”

“I was just as delighted to see you, Brian. Your last letter— the one you left for me—made me rather sad. Perhaps you were just mad at having to leave so suddenly. But it was a very chilly letter, Brian!”

Brian’s sense of guilt dried up speech for a moment. Then he forced a grin, reached across and squeezed Lola’s hand.

“I’m no good at writing that kind of letter,” he told her, lamely. “I can say what I want to say, but I can’t write it!”

“You can’t!” she agreed; but the grey eyes were dancing with mischief. “Maybe it’s just as well. You might be prosecuted for libel! But tell me all about what you’re doing, Brian. Is Sir Denis all you expected him to be? Does he match up to your memories of him?”

“Well——” He frowned thoughtfully “He looks older. That’s to be expected, I guess. And of course he’s been through hell since I saw him in Washington. I have a hunch he’s lost some of his pep. But I’ll tell you he can still get things done. He’s great alright.”

A waiter came to serve the first course, and when he had gone:

“What did you do in Cairo?” Lola wanted to know. “Any perilous adventures? I mean—male or female?”

“Nothing much.” Brian spoke hastily. “Except that I was tailed everywhere I went.”

“Tailed? By whom? What for?”

“Because they knew I was with Nayland Smith, I suppose.”

Lola buttered a roll. “Who are they, Brian? I don’t understand.”

“Well . . . from all I can make out, Lola, it’s a Communist plot Sir Denis is up against.”

“How exciting! What’s the plot?”

“Even if I knew—and I don’t—I couldn’t tell you, Lola.”

“It must be something to do with this country, Brian. Is Sir Denis with you?”

“Sure. He’s right here, in the Babylon-Lido.”

“But Brian, dear, you must know what for. Is he looking for somebody?”

Brian realized that he was on perilously thin ice. Secret agents were expected to keep their secrets from everybody.

“Let me make one thing plain, Lola. I’m not in on the master plan. I get my orders from the chief and ask no questions. All I know is that it’s something very big. . . .”

During the rest of dinner they talked about London and the happy days they had spent there. Every minute Brian knew more and more how much Lola meant to him. She was in a category widely different from that of the alluring Arab girl, Zoe. He had always known it, but tonight his last doubt left him. . . . He was sincerely in love with Lola.

A page appeared at his elbow. “Mr. Brian Merrick?”

“Yes.”

“Wanted on the phone.”

He excused himself and went to a box at the end of the grill-room. Even before he heard the voice he knew that this delightful interlude with Lola had come to an end.

“Thought I’d find you there, Merrick,” Sir Denis snapped. “Don’t bolt your dinner, but come up when you finish.”

Lola knew before he spoke. “Wanted by the chief?”

She smiled—that slightly one-sided smile which made him want to kiss her, because it was part invitation and part mockery.

“You’ve guessed it, dear. But he was good enough to tell me not to hurry.”

“In the case of Madame Baudin—that’s Mrs. Michel—this would mean twenty minutes. But never mind. There’s all my packing to do, and we have lots of time ahead. . . .”

* * *

Brian found Nayland Smith pacing up and down their large living-room. The air was foggy with tobacco smoke. He turned as Brian came in; spoke without taking his pipe out of his mouth.

“News for you, Merrick. Your father’s coming tomorrow.” “That’s fine! I mailed a letter to him only this afternoon.” “The Senator is bringing some brass-hat from the Air Service. But they’ll both be disappointed if they expect to see Dr. Hessian. He declines to receive any visitors until his model is ready for a demonstration.”

“Why is the Air Service interested?” Brian wanted to know. “Because Hessian claims that his invention will put ‘em out of business!”

“What! That doesn’t make sense, Sir Denis.” “Think not?” Nayland Smith shot a quick glance at him. “You’re going to be surprised.” “What is it? A guided missile?”

“No. Something to make guided missiles a waste of time. I’m not a physicist, Merrick, so I can’t explain the thing. But it means immunity from every from of air attack—including H bombs!”

“Good Lord! But can he really do it?” Nayland Smith stared at Brian with a grim smile. “Why do you suppose I