Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

dead man’s face, and to call up the image of Lola.

What had happened to her? He seemed to have lived through another life since that wonderful hour in her room. In fact, during this one day he had experienced every emotion of which humanity is capable. Love, when he held Lola in his arms; horror, and a great fear, when he saw Nayland Smith lying dead on the floor. And fear had come again—fear that he was insane—when another Nayland Smith had appeared.

The belief, the conviction, that Lola was nothing more than a decoy of Dr. Fu Manchu’s had brought a sorrow such as he had never known. . . . And now when he knew the truth—she had gone!

A faint sound broke the silence of the corridor.

Brian stood, tense, almost holding his breath, listening.

The sound came from the stair.

He pulled out the big revolver, readied it for action, and slightly turned his head, looking down. Soft footsteps were mounting the stair. He raised the barrel, sighting it on the bend at which the person coming up would appear.

No one appeared. But a snappy voice came:

“Don’t shoot, Merrick!”

It was Nayland Smith. A moment later he stood beside Brian. “Phew!” Brian felt hot all over. “Glad you spoke!”

“So I see,” Sir Denis commented dryly. “But don’t relax your vigilance. We have the situation in hand, if ——”

“If what?”

“If we’re not too late.” Nayland Smith spoke in a low tone. “First, we go to our own apartment. Don’t open your mouth while I try to call the penthouse. Remember, the room has been wired.”

Brian nodded, and they walked along to 420B. Nayland Smith unlocked the door, stood for a moment listening, and then went in. He crossed straight to the penthouse phone, lifted the receiver, held it to his ear awhile and then put it back. He frowned grimly; beckoned Brian to follow and went out of the apartment.

“Step as nearly like a cat as you can,” he whispered. “I’m going up to listen at the door. If I hear anything we won’t go in alone. We’ll wait for reinforcements.”

Fighting down a growing excitement (for Lola might be a prisoner there!), Brian watched while Sir Denis quietly unlocked the door to the penthouse stair.

They stole up.

The stair opened on a landing, and the door was nearly opposite, as Brian remembered. To their right was the elevator which normally served the penthouse, and beyond, a second door.

Nayland Smith tiptoed forward, apparently with the intention of pressing his hear to a panel—then paused. Closer contact was unnecessary.

A voice was speaking, muffled by the intervening door, but still audible—a strident, sibilant voice: “Do you imagine,” it said scornfully, “that your puny interference can check the wheels of the Inevitable? The dusk of the West has fallen. The dawn of the East has come. . . .”

Nayland Smith turned, a triumphant grin on his lean face;

pointed to the stair. Brian followed him down. Sir Denis partly closed the door below.

“You heard him, Merrick—you heard him?” he whispered. “One of his favourite slogans. How often have I listened to it! That’s Dr. Fu Manchu!”

Brian’s heart jumped uncomfortably.

“Who is he talking to?”

“I fear—to Lola Erskine. . . .”

* * *

Brian went through hours of torture in the few minutes that it took to muster the party. Harkness had a search-warrant, and two of the plain-clothes men came from Homicide;

for there was evidence to show that a murder had been committed on the top floor of the towering wing of the Babylon-Lido.

When duties had been allotted, Harkness and another F.B.I, man joined Brian and Nayland Smith, and all four went up to the penthouse. Harkness and his assistant—his name was Dakin—were to deal with the kitchen entrance; Brian and Sir Denis concentrated on the other door.

They stood for a moment, listening.

Complete silence.

“Get the door open!” Brian gasped, quivering with suspense. “For God’s sake, open it!”

Nayland Smith, very grim-faced, put the key in the lock— but never turned it.

“No, no!” A stifled scream came from inside. “Don’t open that door! It’s the end of all of us if you do! Break in at the other end. But don’t open that door!”

Lola!

Sir Denis grasped Brian’s arm in a grip that hurt. He withdrew the key.

“I don’t know what this means, Merrick, but we must do as she directs. Come on!” They ran to join Harkness. “In through the kitchen!”

Harkness unlocked the door. The door swung open.

Brian tried to hurl himself in. Nayland smith grabbed him.

“Go easy, Merrick! We can’t be sure. This is my pidgin.”

An automatic in his hand, Sir Denis stepped warily into a well-equipped kitchenette. Brian followed. There were traces of that peculiar chemical smell which he had noted before, on the night of the demonstration.

They pushed on into what was evidently a dining-room. But it didn’t appear to have been used for one. The only window was blacked out with heavy velvet drapes. On the buffet odd pieces of chemical apparatus stood, as well as a number of bottles and phials. There was very little furniture except a narrow table covered with green baize and a large chair. A green-shaded lamp stood on the table—the only light in the room.

Near the lamp was a cabinet the front of which consisted of a small switchboard.

“Some kind of radio control,” Nayland Smith commented.

“In here! Oh! Be quick!”

Brian, at that wild appeal, pushed past Sir Denis and burst in ahead of everybody.

He stopped so suddenly that he was nearly floored by the rush from behind.

The room in which he had witnessed the extraordinary experiment carried out by the man calling himself Dr. Hessian seemed to swim before his eye. A plan of Manhattan still covered the whole of the top of the long table; but the rows of chairs had been removed. The metal containers which had hung from the ceiling were there no longer. The radio set which produced the “inaudible note” remained in its place on a bureau. A small box, which might have been the one used at the demonstration to represent a specially-equipped plane, stood on one end of the table.

Near by, in a heavy armchair, Lola was seated, white and wild-eyed. Her ankles were lashed to the front legs. Both wrists had been tied to the arms of the chair, but she had managed to free her right hand and to tear off the adhesive tape strapped to her mouth.

It had been done in frantic haste, for her lip was red and swollen.

Brian sprang to her side and began to unfasten her other wrist, but: “Smash that thing!” she said, in a shrill, unnatural voice, pointing to the little box. “The Sound comes from there! Smash it!”

Brian stood upright, and ignoring Nayland Smith who had a hand on his shoulder, pulled out the police revolver and fired two shots into the flimsy framework.

There came a loud explosion, a crash of glass, splinters flew, and one bullet rebounded to be buried in the wall beyond. Then—the box burst into flames!

Dakin acted promptly. Dashing out to the kitchen, he was back in quick time carrying a big pitcher of water. With this, he dowsed the flaming fragments on the table.

When Brian turned—Lola had fainted. . . .

* * *

Brian carried Lola downstairs, using the kitchen entrance. Dakin came with him to unlock the door of the