The Shadow of Fu-Manchu (21 page)

“Agreed. Remember—not a word to Mrs. F.”

When Craig left the study, Frobisher stood there for a long time, staring out of the window.

* * *

But Morris Craig’s route to his “cubicle” had been beset by an obstacle—Mrs. F. As he crossed the library towards the stair, she came in by another door. She glanced at the folded diagram.

“My
dear
Dr. Craig! Surely you haven’t come
here
to work?”

Craig pulled up, and smiled. Stella had always liked his smile; it was so English.

“Afraid, yes. But not for too long, I hope. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll nip up and get going right away.”

“But it’s too
bad.
How soon will you be
ready
to nip
down
again?”

“Just give me the tip when the bar opens.”

“Of
course
I will. But, you know, I have been
talking
to Camille. She is
truly
a dear girl. I
don’t
mean expensive. I
mean
charming.”

Craig attention was claimed, magically, by his hostess’s words.

“So glad you think so. She certainly is—brilliant.”

Stella Frobisher smiled her hereditary smile. She was quite without sex malice, and she had discovered a close link to bind her to Camille.

“Why don’t you
forget
work? Why don’t you two
scientific
people go for a walk in the
sunshine?
After all, that’s what you’re
here
for.”

And Morris Craig was sorely tempted. Yes, that was what he was here for. But—

“You see, Mrs. Frobisher,” he said, “I rather jibbed the toil last night. Camille—er—Miss Navarre, has been working like a pack-mule for weeks past. Tends to neglect her fodder. So I asked her to step out for a plate of diet and a bottle of vintage—”

“That was
so
like you, Dr. Craig.”

“Yes—I’m like that. We sort of banished dull care for an hour or two, and as a matter of fact, carried on pretty late. The chief is anxious about the job. He has more or less given me a deadline. I’m only making up for lost time. And so, please excuse me. Sound the trumpets, beat the drum when cocktails are served.”

He grinned boyishly and went upstairs. Stella went to look for Camille. She had discovered, in this young product of the Old World, something that the New World had been unable to give her. Stella Frobisher was often desperately lonely. She had never loved her husband passionately. Passion had passed her by.

In the study, Michael Frobisher had been talking on the phone. He had just hung up when Stein came in.

“Listen,” he said. “What’s this man, Sam, doing here?”

Stein’s heavy features registered nothing.

“I don’t know.”

“Talk to him. Find out. I trust nobody.
I
never employed that moron. Somebody has split us wide open. It isn’t just a leak. Somebody was in the Huston Building last night that had no right to be there. This man was supposed to be in Philadelphia. Who
knows
he was in Philadelphia? Check him up, Stein. It’s vital.”

“I can try to do. But his talk is so foolish I cannot believe he means it. He walks into my room, just now, and asks if I happen to have an old razor blade.”

“What for?”

“He says, to scrape his pipe bowl.”

Michael Frobisher glared ferociously.

“Ask him to have a drink. Give him plenty. Then talk to him.”

“I can try it.”

“Go and try it.”

Stein stolidly departed on this errand. There were those who could have warned him that it was a useless one.

Upstairs, in his room, Morris Craig had taken from his bag ink, pencils, brushes, and all the other implements of a draftsman’s craft. He had borrowed a large blotting-pad from the library to do service in lieu of a drawing board.

Stella and Camille had gone out into the garden.

The sun was shining.

And over this seemingly peaceful scene there hung a menace, an invisible cloud. The fate of nations was suspended on a hair above their heads. Of all those in Falling Waters that morning, probably Michael Frobisher was the most deeply disturbed. He paced up and down the restricted floor space of his study, black brows drawn together over a deep wrinkle, his eyes haunted.

When Stein came in without knocking Frobisher jumped around like a stag at bay. He collected himself.

“Well—what now?”

Stein, expressionless, offered a card on a salver. He spoke tonelessly.

“Sir Denis Nayland Smith is here.”

“
I
can tell you, broadly, what happened last night,” said Nayland Smith. “It was an attempt to steal the final plans assumed to be locked in Craig’s safe.”

“I guessed as much,” Michael Frobisher replied.

Under drawn brows, he was studying the restless figure pacing to and fro in his study, fouling the air with fumes from a briar pipe which, apparently, Smith had neglected to clean since the day he bought it. Frobisher secretly resented this appropriation of his own parade ground, but recognized that he was powerless to do anything about it.

“The safe was opened.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Quite!” Smith rapped, glancing aside at Frobisher. “It was the work of an expert. Dr. Fu-Manchu employs none but experts.”

“Dr. Fu-Manchu! Then it wasn’t—”

Smith pulled up right in front of Frobisher, as he sat there behind his desk.

“Well—go on. Whom did
you
suspect?”

Frobisher twisted a half-smoked cigar between his lips. “Come to think, I don’t know.”

“But you do know that when a project with such vast implications nears maturity, big interests become involved. Agents of several governments are watching every move in your dangerous game. And there’s another agent who represents no government, but who acts for a powerful and well-organized group.”

“Are you talking about Vickers?” Frobisher growled.

“No. Absurd! This isn’t a commercial group. It’s an organization controlled by Dr. Fu-Manchu. In all probability, Dr. Fu-Manchu was in Craig’s office last night.”

“But—”

“The only other possibility is that the attempt was made by a Soviet spy; Have you reason to suspect any member of your staff?”

“I doubt that any Russian has access to the office.”

“Why a Russian?” Nayland Smith asked. “Men of influence and good standing in other countries have worked for Communism. It offers glittering prizes. Why not a citizen of the United States?”

Frobisher watched him covertly. “True enough.”

“Put me clear on one point. Because a false move, now, might be fatal. You have employed no private investigator?”

“No, sir. Don’t trust my affairs to strangers.”

“Where are Craig’s original plans?”

Michael Frobisher glanced up uneasily.

“In my New York bank.”

In this, Michael Frobisher was slightly misinformed. His wife, presenting an order typed on Huston Electric notepaper and apparently signed by her husband, had withdrawn the plans two days before, on her way from an appointment with Professor Hoffmeyer.

“Complete blueprints—where?”

“Right here in the house.”

“Were they in the safe that was opened the other night?”

“No, sir—they were not.”

“Whoever inspected the plant in the laboratory would be a trained observer. Would it, in your opinion, be possible to reconstruct the equipment after such an examination?” Michael Frobisher frowned darkly.

“I want you to know that I’m not a physicist,” he answered. “I’m not even an engineer. I’m a man of business. But in my opinion, no—it wouldn’t. He would have had to dismantle it. Craig and Shaw report it hadn’t been touched. Then, without the transmuter, that plant is plain dynamite.”

Nayland Smith crossed and stared out at the woods beyond the window.

“I understand that this instrument—whatever it may be—is already under construction. Only certain valves are lacking. Craig will probably complete his work today. Mr. Frobisher”—he turned, and his glance was hard—“your estate is a lonely one.”

Frobisher’s uneasiness grew. He stood up.

“You think I shouldn’t have had Craig out here, with that work?”

“I think,” said Smith, “that whilst it would be fairly easy to protect the Huston laboratory, now that we know what we’re up against, this house surrounded by sixty acres, largely woodland, is a colt of a different color. By tonight, there will be inflammable material here. Do you realize that if Fu-Manchu—or the Kremlin—first sets up a full-scale Craig plant, Fu-Manchu—or the Kremlin—will be master of the world?”

“You’re sure, dead sure, that they’re
both
out to get it?” Frobisher’s voice was more than usually hoarse.

“I have said so. One of the two has a flying start. I want to see your radar alarm system and I want to inspect your armory. I’m returning to New York. Two inquiries should have given results. One leading to the hideout of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the other to the identity of the Soviet agent.”

Camille and Stella Frobisher came in from the garden. “You know,” Stella was saying, “I believe we have
discovered
something.”

“All we seem to have discovered,” Camille replied, “is that there are strange gaps in your memory, and strange gaps in mine. The trouble in your case seems to have begun after you consulted Professor Hoffmeyer about your nerves.”

“Yes, dear, it
did.
You see, I had
been
so
worried
about Mike. I thought he was
working
too hard. In his way, dear, he’s
rather
a treasure. Dr. Pardoe, who is a
neighbor
of ours, suggested, almost
playfully
, that I consult the professor.”

“And your nerves improved?”

“
Enormously.
I began to
sleep
again. But these
queer
lapses came on. I
told
him. He
reassured
me. I’m not at
all
certain, dear, that we have
discovered
anything after all.
Your
lapses began before you had
ever
seen him.”

“Yes.” Camille was thinking hard. “The trouble doesn’t seem to be with the professor’s treatment, after all. Quite apart from which, I have no idea if I ever consulted him at all.”

“No, dear—I quite
understand.
” Stella squeezed her hand, sympathetically. “You have no
idea
how
completely
I understand.”

They were crossing the library, together, when there came a sudden, tremendous storm of barking. It swept in upon the peace of Falling Waters, a hurricane of sound.

“Whatever is it?” Camille whispered.

As if in answer to her question, Sam entered through open French windows. He had removed his topcoat, his cerise scarf, and his slate-grey hat. He wore the sort of checked suit for which otherwise innocent men have been lynched. He grinned happily at Camille.

“Morning, lady.”

“Good morning, Sam. I didn’t expect to see
you
.”

“Pleasant surprise, eh? Same with me.” The barking continued; became a tornado. “There’s a guy outside says he’s brought some dogs.”

“Oh!”
Stella’s face lighted up. “
Now
we shall be
safe!
How splendid. Have they sent
all
the dogs?”

“Sounds to me like they sent all they had.”

“And a
kennelman?
”

Stella hadn’t the slightest idea who Sam was, but she accepted his striking presence without hesitation.

“Sure. He’s a busy guy, too.”

“I must go and see them at once!” She put her arm around Camille. “Do
come
with me, dear!”

Camille smiled at Sam.

“I should love to.”

“The guy is down there by the barbed-wire entanglements.” Sam stood in the window, pointing. “You can’t miss him. He’s right beside a truckload of maybe a couple hundred dogs.”

Camille and Stella hurried out, Stella almost dancing with excitement.

Their voices—particularly Stella’s—were still audible even above the barrage of barking, when Nayland Smith and Michael Frobisher came into the library.

“You have a fair assortment of sporting guns and an automatic or two,” Smith was saying. “But you’re low on ammunition.”

“Do you expect a siege?”

“Not exactly. But I expect developments.”

Nayland Smith crossed to the glazed cabinet and stood before it, pulling at the lobe of his ear. Then he tilted his head sideways, listening.

“Dogs,” he rapped. “Why all the dogs?”

Frobisher met his glance almost apologetically.

“It’s Mrs. F.’s idea. I do try to keep all this bother from her, but she seems to have got onto it. She ordered a damned pack of these German police dogs from some place. There’s a collection of kennels down there like a Kaffir village. She’s had men at work for a week fixing barbed wire. Falling Waters is a prison camp!”

“Not a bad idea. I have known dogs to succeed where men and machines failed. But, tell me”—he pointed to the cabinet—“how does this thing work?”

“Well—it’s simple enough in principle.
How
it works I don’t know. Ground plan of the property. Anyone moving around, when it’s connected up, marks his trail on the scoreboard.”