* * *
He woke early in the morning, vaguely aware of disturbed dreams in which Nayland Smith had become transformed into a sort of prehistoric monster about to devour him and had then vanished in a cloud of smoke.
Wondering why he felt so jaded, he gave an order for coffee and went into the bathroom. If Sir Denis had returned or not he didn’t know, and for some reason didn’t care. There was no sound in the suite. He was finishing up with an ice-cold shower when the waiter came into the living-room.
Brian called out, “Leave my coffee in there, waiter.”
“All ready.” But the man lingered, drew nearer to the open bathroom door. . . . “Explosion upstairs last night, I hear. Did it wake you?”
Brian hesitated, towel in hand. He must be cautious.
“Yes, it did. Any damage?”
“Not that I’ve heard. One of those pressure cookers blew up, I’m told. But nobody hurt.”
“Lucky. I wondered what had happened. . . .”
He was drinking coffee and glancing over the morning newspapers which the man had brought up when Sir Denis burst in. He was dressed in one of his well-cut and well-worn tweed suits, so that evidently he, too, had been an early riser.
“Good morning, Merrick. Sorry about last night. Started a lot of rumours. Not good for us. One thing certain. Hessian is a genius compared with whom Einstein was a beginner! I want you with me up there tonight—and you’re going to see a miracle. . . .”
When, soon afterwards, Nayland Smith dashed out again, saying that he had an important conference at police headquarters, Brian was left as much in the dark as he had been before Sir Denis dashed in. Mingled with the promised excitement of what the night had in store was a growing resentment at being treated like a figure of no consequence where the big issues at stake were concerned.
Irritably, Brian looked at his watch, and decided that it wasn’t too early to call Lola. He asked to be put through to her apartment. She answered almost at once.
“Did I wake you, dear?”
“No, Brian. I’m all ready to go out. A long day ahead at Michel’s, and I was up so late last night. Heaven only knows when I’ll be through. This was the job I was brought here to do. I have to pass all the models who’ll display Michel’s creations at the show!”
“Poor darling! Any hope for lunch?”
“Not a shadow. It will be sandwiches and coffee on Fifth Avenue. If I can make it between seven and eight for a quick drink I’ll call you.”
Brian’s spirits sank to zero. The Washington committee, headed by his father, was due at eight o’clock.
“I’m afraid I may be tied up by then, Lola. But call all the same. We might fix something later. . . .”
It was a seemingly interminable morning. Around one o’clock Sir Denis called to say that Brian could leave the suite for his lunch provided he didn’t leave the building. . .. “Acting on your advice, I have made other arrangements to safeguard the penthouse. But in case I’m delayed, stand by to receive your father’s party from seven on.”
Brian lingered over his lunch and then wandered about the huge hotel hoping to find somebody he knew; but, as happens on such occasions, without success. Merely to kill time, he dropped into a lounge in one of the public rooms and ordered coffee.
A strange-looking man sauntered by. He was young, dark-complexioned and handsome in a sinister way, with large, black and brilliant eyes. Otherwise conventionally dressed in European fashion, he wore a blue turban. He seemed to take an unwholesome interest in the younger women present.
Just then, the waiter brought Brian’s coffee, and:
“Is the character in the blue turban staying here, waiter?” Brian asked.
The waiter nodded. “Sure he is, sir. They tell me he’s an Indian prince. All I know is he has a servant with him that looks like a gorilla. I’ve taken orders to their apartment.”
Finally, Brian bought a bundle of newspapers and magazines and went upstairs to try to amuse himself until the committee arrived. It was important that he should distract his thoughts from hazy doubts and misgivings that crowded upon him. . . .
Almost on the stroke of seven, his father arrived—alone.
“This is a very wonderful occasion, my boy,” he declared;
“and you’re entitled to be proud that you’ve been chosen to take part in it. The Secretary for Foreign Affairs is coming, General Jenner, General Dowson of the Air Force, and Admiral Druce, representing the Navy. Last, but not least, Dr. Jurgonsen, the physicist and the President’s personal adviser on development of atomic projects. Where is Sir Denis? With Dr. Hessian, I suppose?”
“I don’t know, Father,” Brian confessed. “But he warned me that he might be detained.”
Brian Merrick Senior nodded. “A man carrying a heavy load of responsibility on his shoulders.”
The party assembled in ones and twos, Nayland Smith last except for Dr. Jurgonsen. Sir Denis looked physically exhausted—or so Brian thought. The three Service officers (all of them in mufti) were so typical of their services as to be without individual characteristics. They showed one trait in common; a reserved but unmistakable hostility for each other.
At three minutes after eight the physicist arrived, a spare grey man in powerful spectacles and a bad temper. He looked around irritably.
“To the devil with New York taxi drivers,” he remarked. “The one I hired didn’t know the way to the Babylon- Lido!”
The three officers transferred their mutual hostility to the civilian. But Senator Merrick tried to pour oil on troubled waters, as Nayland Smith said:
“If you will be good enough to follow me, gentleman, we will now proceed to the demonstration.”
They filed out and long the corridor to the penthouse door, which proved to be open. Brian’s curiosity rose to fever pitch. This was his first visit to Dr. Hessian’s hideaway. There was another door at the top of the stair which was opened by an expressionless Japanese who wore a white tunic.
He led them through a lobby crowded with oversized trunks and cases and into what was evidently the main room of the penthouse. Although french windows were opened, so that the light-studded panorama of Manhattan could be seen stretched out below the terrace, the air was heavy with some pungent chemical odour.
The Japanese, apparently Dr. Hessian’s assistant, closed the door as the last of the party came in.
“Here, gentlemen, as you see, we shall witness a demonstration of Dr. Hessian’s supreme achievement.”
All eyes became focussed on a long, narrow table in the middle of the room. It was entirely covered by a large-scale plan of Manhattan from the Battery to the Bronx. Roughly midway on the plan a miniature radio mast stood.
Three large metal balls of some dull metal that looked like lead were suspended above the table from the lofty ceiling. Hanging down lower than these was a small box.
Ten chairs were placed around, four on either side and one at each end.
“Your places are marked, gentlemen,” the Japanese receptionist told them in perfect English. “Writing materials are provided.”
They sorted themselves out, and Brian found himself beside Nayland Smith. Senator Merrick had been placed at one end of the long table.
“Stand by to make notes of anything worth remembering, Merrick,” Sir Denis rapped in his staccato fashion.
He seemed to be highly strung, or so Brian thought. Nor was he the only one. When everybody was seated, only two chairs remained vacant. That to the left of Dr. Jurgonsen and that facing Senator Merrick at the other end of the table. A hum of conversation arose, and Brian detected a theme of incredulity running through it.
“Looks like a new gambling game,” Admiral Druce growled. “Where do we put our chips?”
But silence fell suddenly when a strange figure appeared in an inner doorway. A tall man, stooping slightly, he, also, wore a white tunic, as well as tinted glasses, a small skull cap, and gloves which appeared to be made of black rubber.
“Gentlemen,” the Japanese assistant announced in his toneless English: “Dr. Otto Hessian.” Dr. Hessian
