Sir Denis raised his hand. “Ssh! We don’t know who may be listening. But I don’t like it. Come on—and be ready for anything.”
He started up the stair, walking softly, one hand in a pocket of his tweed jacket. At the top he peered out cautiously along the corridor. It was empty from end to end. He banged his fist into the palm of his left hand.
“I should have known better than to rely on one man in dealing with Fu Manchu!”
“What do you figure happened? He didn’t call out. We’d have heard him!”
And Nayland Smith darted back down the stairs. . .
“When it had happened” was fully twenty minutes earlier. Apartment 421 was across the passage and not far from Nayland Smith’s suite. A smartly-dressed woman, her beauty hall-marked with the stamp of sophistication which some men (particularly young ones) find irresistible, had just come in. She had not long returned from Idlewild where Dr. Fu Manchu had ordered her to go to report the instant of Sir Denis’s arrival. She had means of learning such things, for beauty is a key which opens many doors.
Wearily she tossed an expensive hat on to the bed and sat down in front of her mirror. She opened a cream leather jewel case, unstrapped a conspicuous, diamond-studded wrist-watch and was about to put it away when a voice spoke— apparently coming from the watch.
“Where are you now?”
She started, stooped forward, and answered, “Back in my room, Doctor.”
“No one obstructed you?”
“No one.”
“You have done well. You were only just in time. But there is more to do. Put the amethyst ring on your finger. It is live. Be careful not to turn the bezel until needed. Remember the volume is low. Direct contact is necessary. Wear the diamond watch also. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“Your freedom is in your hands tonight.”
The woman’s eyes opened widely. They were of the colour of the ring which Dr. Fu Manchu had ordered her to wear— amethyst—and, with her auburn hair, gave her an exotic beauty. Her delicate colour paled as she spoke:
“You mean—my complete freedom?”
“Your absolute freedom. The task I am giving you shall be your last. So you cannot afford to fail. These are your orders.. . .”
As an immediate result of those orders, Sergeant Mike Ruppert, taking up his station at the foot of the stairs, a post which he expected to find very dull, had just ventured to start a cigarette when he heard light footsteps descending.
He dropped he cigarette and put his foot on it, turned—and saw a vision.
A disturbingly attractive woman was coming down. From her slender foot, her arched instep, to the flaming crown of her wonderful hair, Sergeant Ruppert found no flaw in her beauty. He began to rack his memory, convinced that she must be a film star. For he suffered from a fixed idea that Hollywood had a corner in such feminine perfection.
She smiled alluringly, and made to pass him.
Sergeant Ruppert intruded his bulk. “Sorry, lady. No one allowed down this way.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant?” She had an enchanting accent. “I live here. You can’t keep a guest a prisoner!”
The sergeant wasn’t enjoying his job. “Department orders, miss. There’s—er—some inquiry going on. It’ll be all clear soon.”
“Soon! But my friend is waiting.”
“He’ll wait!” Sergeant Ruppert grinned.
A ghost of the smile stole back to the lovely face.
“He is a
“That’s right.” The sergeant was sympathetic. “But it’s not my fault, miss. All I can do is obey orders,”
“It is so stupid!” she pouted. “Never again do I stay at the Babylon-Lido! I shall go up and call the manager. Come with me. You shall hear that I am to be allowed to go out.”
“Sorry, miss. I’d like nothing better——”
“I can give you a nice cool drink while I phone.”
Sergeant Ruppert had never heard of St. Anthony, but he was going through similar fires. Years of discipline won. Dizzy but unconquered:
“I can’t leave my post, miss,” he told her.
“It’s not as bad as that, lady. I’ll tell you what you do. I don’t think it’s meant for a young lady like you to be inconvenienced. So go back to your apartment and call the manager like you said. Ask him to speak to the officer in charge, and——”
She turned away impulsively. “It is preposterous! All this trouble! . . . Ah!
Her slender hands—he noted a great violet ring (the colour of her eyes!) on one white finger—slipped around his neck. Her touch made him tremble. And this moment of emotion was the last thing he remembered. . . . She had turned the bezel.
He experienced a sensation as though he had been clubbed on the back of his head—and knew no more.
She had carried out her last task—for she couldn’t afford to fail. In a fractional moment she reversed the bezel—a miniature receiver, tuned to pick up the lethal note from the transmitter in the penthouse. But as the big, good-looking policeman pitched forward and fell on his face, tears dimmed her eyes. She raised the jewelled wrist-watch. Her hands trembled when she adjusted the cunning radio mechanism.
“It is done!” she whispered.
“Good. Do not return to your apartment. Whatever you leave behind there shall be recovered or replaced. Walk down one more floor. Then use the elevator. You have money with you?”
“As you ordered, Doctor.”
“Avoid observation going out. Use a side entrance. Take a taxi to East 74th Street at Park Avenue. A man will be standing outside the drug store on the corner. He will wear evening dress and a red rose in his buttonhole. Say ‘Si-Fan’ and he will make all arrangements. Your life is your own. . . .”
Chapter
18
Brian’s vigil at the stair-head proved something of a tax on his nerves.
If the strange and oddly sinister figure who had dominated the meeting in the penthouse was none other than Dr. Fu Manchu then his uneasy feeling in the presence of the man he had accepted as Otto Hessian called for no further explanation. During the journey from Egypt he had had a strong inclination to avoid him, and, as he now recalled clearly, the bogus Nayland Smith had encouraged him to do so, saying, “He has the brains of a genius but the manners of a gorilla. . . .”
And now, the fabulous Dr. Fu Manchu was near, on the defensive, at bay!
Already he had spirited away a physically powerful police officer, armed and keenly alert to danger. . . .
In the long, lighted corridor there was unbroken silence. Guests occupying the several apartments were probably away for the evening, he assumed—unless (a disturbing thought) there were other apartments as well as that adjoining their own which harboured servants of the Chinese doctor. He saw again, mentally, the two Asiatic assassins dragging away the body of the unfortunate double.
Perhaps they had strangled Sergeant Ruppert!
He changed his position slightly, so that he had his back to a wall; tried to blot out a ghastly memory of the
