The Wrath of Fu Manchu

The Eyes of Fu Manchu

"Dr Gregory Allen?" Gregory looked up from the newspaper he was reading in the lobby of his hotel. He recognised that clipped English voice but hadn't expected to hear it now in Paris.

He saw a tall, lean-faced man, his crisp hair silvered at the temples, a man who looked like a retired Indian Army officer but whose smile was thirty years too young.

"Nayland Smith!" Gregory jumped up, hand stretched out. "What a happy surprisel How did you trail me here?"

"Got your address from the Sorbonne." Sir Denis Nayland Smith dropped into a chair facing Gregory and began to fill his pipe. "I was one of your admiring audience in the lecture theatre. You speak French better than I do — in spite of your American accent.

"I didn't join the mob in the lecturer's room; but I enjoyed the account of your remarkable researches. For a youngster in his early thirties you have gone far."

"What were you doing there?"

"I have reached an age. Alien—" Nayland Smith gave the boyish grin — "when your theories of extending life far beyond its present span begin to interest me."

"You don't look as though you need any of my new chemical discoveries to keep you young."

"The fact is," Nayland Smith said seriously, "that I hoped to find a certain person in your audience, a person who illustrates in his own survival the truth of your theories; a man of fabulous age — beyond doubt scientifically prolonged.

"I refer, of course, to Dr Fu Manchu. He will have followed your career with interest. We know he's in Paris. But we couldn't spot him, although the place bristled with detectives."

Gregory stared at the older man. An ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard and now an agent of the British Secret Service, Nayland Smith couldn't be romancing.

"Does Fu Manchu really exist?" Gregory asked incredulously.

"Indeed he does. He is both the greatest scientist and the most dangerous man alive. You must have heard his name."

"His name, yes! But I thought—"

"You thought Fu Manchu was a myth. Others have made the same mistake."

"But a person of such unusual appearance in this country?"

"He has a variety of unusual appearances. Alien. He doesn't conform to the popular idea of a Chinese and can pose successfully as a European. He speaks several languages fluently. His green, oblique eyes and his hands betray the Asiatic; but in public he wears gloves and tinted glasses."

"To have escaped prison or the gallows for so long, he surely has a lot of helpers?"

Nayland Smith smiled — but it was a grim smile.

"He has an international organisation, men and women; scientists, politicians, watching eyes everywhere."

"But what kind of person would work for him?"

"Every kind. He has his own methods of recruiting assistants and seeing that they work. Tell me, where do you go next?"

"To London. I'm invited to repeat my lecture at King's College. My grant from Columbia University doesn't allow luxury, so I have reserved accommodation in a small hotel near the Strand."

"Give me the address. I'll look you up.** "Bring our mutual friend, Dr Petrie, if he's in town. I should love to see him again. I need hardly say how much I'd like to meet Dr Fu Manchu as well."

"I hope you never do!" Nayland Smith replied… It was crowded next day on the cross-Channel steamer. As the ship cleared Calais, Gregory found a quiet spot at the port-side rail, well forward. There were many things he wanted to think about, but the shadowy Dr Fu Manchu kept returning to his thoughts. He found himself inspecting the passengers in search, of a man wearing tinted glasses and gloves.

He hadn't seen one. But he had seen a very pretty girl coming on board alone, carrying a large artist's portfolio, and had imagined that she stared at him.

As she was passing him the ship suddenly rolled to port. She stumbled against him, and dropped the portfolio in the scuppers.

Gregory steadied himself against the rail, grabbed up the portfolio and turned. She was even prettier than he had thought in the first glimpse as she came on board.

The ship rolled to starboard and he grasped a slim shoulder to support her.

"I'm so sorry," he spoke awkwardly. "Are you feeling unwell?"

Her delicate colouring seemed to make the question absurd. "Oh, no," she assured him. "It was the so sudden lurch that nearly upset me." She had a delightful accent. "It made me feel a little — swimmy." She laughed. "Thank you very much."

"There's nothing to thank me for. Are you travelling alone?"

"Yes. I go to meet friends in London."

Rather reluctantly, Gregory relaxed his grip of her shoulder. She had remarkable blue eyes which possessed the strange quality, even when her lips smiled, of retaining a look of sadness that he found haunting.

"I have a splendid prescription for that swimmy feeling," he told her in French, tucking her portfolio under his arm. "As a fellow artist, of sorts, please take my advice."

She hesitated for a moment. The blue eyes considered him. Then she nodded and they went off along the deck together. The swell was increasing. Presently they faced each other across a table in the nearly deserted dining room. Gregory ordered dry champagne.

Her name, he learned, was just "Mignon." She made her living by drawing caricatures for French weekly journals, and had already exhibited two paintings at the Salon.

"Your card says you are a doctor. I never heard of a doctor of painting."

Gregory laughed, and told her how during his two years at the Sorbonne, where he had completed his studies, he had found time also to study art, which had been his first choice as a profession.

"I, too, am a bred-in-the-bone Bohemian, Mignon."

"Oh, I know you are." Across her face a shadow of compassion passed. "What a pity you changed your mind. Don't you think science is going too far? Isn't it upsetting the balance of nature? Science creates horrible things, and art creates beauty."

"You have something there."

She watched him wistfully. "You must often think of those Paris days, of the carefree life of the students at the atelier. You lived in two different worlds. Do you ever regret the one you gave up?"

He refilled Mignon's glass. Those compassionate blue eyes were oddly disturbing. "I sometimes wonder… "

Gregory couldn't make out how he managed to miss Mignon at the customs shed, but, somehow, in the crowd at Dover he lost sight of her. He walked from one end of the boat train to the other, but couldn't see her anywhere, until, looking farther afield, he caught a glimpse of a Jaguar gliding away from the dock. Mignon was in the passenger's seat.

He concluded that black and white art paid better than science research and said goodbye to a dream… It was raining by the time the train reached London. From his hotel suite, Gregory called King's College, but could find nobody there from whom to get particulars about arrangements for his lecture. He ordered whisky to be sent up and wondered how he was going to kill time until the rain stopped.

He wondered, too, if he would ever see Mignon again. Evidently the friends she had come to meet moved in a financial circle in which he would be a misfit. Mignon? She had given him no other name. But Mgnon was exactly the right one for her.

She seemed completely a part of the Bohemian Paris that he loved. Gregory took out a sketching block and a soft pencil. He began to draw a figure. His knowledge of anatomy had helped him in the life class, and he drew sweeping, confident lines, blocked in the features with bold touches of light and shade. At last, he held the drawing away for a critical look — and saw a rough but recognisable sketch of Mignon.

One thing was wrong. He had captured her pose, the slim lines of her figure, the oval face and smiling lips. But her eyes had defeated his pencil.

He had been subconsciously aware for some time of a sound which resembled muffled footsteps, but had ignored it. And at this moment he became aware of the footsteps again.

They were soft but continuous. There was something furtive in this ceaseless padding, something eerie. At one moment he thought it came from a room above; at another from the passage outside his own room — a sort of phantom patrol. Once, when the footfalls seemed to be passing his door, he ran and opened it, and saw no one.

Gregory took a look out of the window. He felt nervous and decided that a brisk walk would be good for him. The rain had stopped.

His mood was an odd one, an unhappy one. He had succeeded in his chosen profession, had earned the respect of older scientists, whose accomplishments he revered. His researches had won him wide recognition. Yet tonight he wished he had chosen to be a painter; he longed to escape from his accepted self, to be his natural self. He was still young, and there was a world outside the world of science, a world in which there remained room for romance, for beauty.

In the lobby he paused to light a cigarette. A wave of self-contempt swept over him. Had he, a trained scientist, fallen for that romantic myth, love at first sight? He left a message at the desk that he would be back in half an hour, swung the door open and stepped out into the street.

He was greeted by a flash of lightning which changed the gloomy night into a sort of blue-white day. Then came a volley of thunder so awesome that it might have heralded the end of the world. It prefaced a fresh deluge.

Gregory retired inside the porch. Left and right the street was deserted, until a figure came running through the downpour, a girl caught in the storm.

She dashed into the shelter of the porch, and Gregory found himself looking down at the piquant face, wet with rain, into the blue eyes of Mignon.

They stood for a moment watching the rain and then went to Gregory's small suite.

She sat in the only comfortable chair which the living room offered. The expression in her eyes was almost tragic, but she forced a smile.

"It is the thunderstorm. They affect me very much."

Gregory sat on a hassock, looking at her. There came another electric flicker through the shaded window, a shattering crash of thunder. Mignon flinched; tried to control herself. Gregory took her hand reassuringly. "I don't know what you were doing out on such a night, Mignon."

"I came to look for you. At Dover you disappear. I don*

"Mignon!"

And in the sudden silence which fell as the thunder died, Gregory heard the footsteps again.

But their pattern had altered. At regular intervals the patrol was halted, and three deliberate beats came. Now, as he felt Mignon's grip tighten, he glanced back at her; and before she could lower her lashes, he caught an expression of such frantic compassion that it frightened him.

"Mignon, there's no danger," he said. "The storm is passing. It was very good of you to come."

But he knew that whatever she feared, it wasn't the storm. She opened her eyes, still clasping his hand.

"I am silly, Gregory. Try to forgive me. Why, oh why, didn't you stay an artist?"

Her manner, her disjointed phrases, told a story of nervous tension for which he could find no explanation.

"Listen, Mignon. Take it easy. Let me give you a cigarette and a little drink, so we can talk quietly."

"No, no!" She held onto his hand, detaining him. "I don't want a drink — yet. I want to talk to you — yes. But it is so hard."

"What do you want to tell me? That we're not going to see one another again?"

He knew that the words betrayed his secret dreams, but he didn't care; for he knew, now, that Mignon wasn't indifferent and he meant to hear the truth.

"No," she whispered

Three soft taps sounded distinctly.

Gregory was on the point of asking Mignon if she had heard the queer sound when a third flicker of lightning came and another crack of thunder. She closed her eyes.

"Let's go downstairs," Gregory proposed, "and have a drink in the lounge. This room is suffocating."

He pulled her up from the chair and they moved toward the door. The three muffled taps were repeated.

It seemed to Gregory that Mignon stopped as suddenly as if unseen hands had grasped her.

"Oh, Gregory, I feel so — swimmy! I think I will have a drink now, after all."

Her manner certainly suggested that she needed one, as she turned and dropped back into the chair. Gregory poured out two drinks, glanced at Mignon's pale face, and hurried into the bathroom for water.

When he returned he found Mignon had recovered herself a little, and was looking at the sketch he had roughed out. She drank from her glass and looked at the sketch again.

"Is it very bad?" he asked.

She didn't look up. "No, it's very good. It was sweet of you."

Mignon raised her eyes as she spoke, and he had only time to see that they were cloudy with tears when the phone buzzed. Puzzled and bewildered, he took up the receiver.

"Gregory Alien?" a familiar voice demanded.

"Here, Sir Denis." The caller was Nayland Smith.

"Good. Listen. I have just arrived. Followed you by plane. This is urgent: Don't leave your apartment until I get there. On no account allow anyone in."

Gregory hung up, turned — and saw Mignon through a mist. He staggered to'the couch, gulped the rest of the brandy. What was the word Mignon had used? Swimmy. Yes, that was what he felt, too.

He fell back. His mind began to wander. He tried to call Mignon, to explain to her — but his voice would not come. He tried to rise. He couldn't move. But he could hear Mignon's voice — as from a distance.

With one arm she supported his head. Her fingers caressed his hair. Something wetted his cheek. He looked up, and into her eyes. Mignon was crying. He wanted to console her, to warn her. But he couldn't speak, couldn't move a muscle.

"You must try to forgive me," she whispered. "Try to understand. One day, you will. How sorry I am… "

She had gone. He didn't see her go, for he couldn't turn his head. All he could see was the ceiling above him and part of the wall. His brain now was clear enough; but his heart was sick — for at last he guessed the truth. She had doped his drink, and those uncanny footsteps were drawing nearer.

A number of people came in. He recognised the voice of the hotel manager. "How lucky you were in the hotel, Dr Gott-feld."

Someone bent over Gregory: a tall man. He wore black silk gloves and tinted glasses, with a delicate thumb and forefinger he raised Gregory's lids. Then he removed the glasses and stared down at him with brilliant green eyes. And Gregory knew he was face to face with Dr Fu Manchu.

"Very lucky." The words were spoken with a guttural German accent. "I see from his baggage labels that he is recently in lower Egypt. There was a mild outbreak there of plague two weeks ago. Do not be alarmed. There is no danger — yet. But we must act quickly."

Conscious — seeing, hearing, but incapable of speech or movement — Gregory heard the man they called Dr Gottfeld volunteer to drive him in his own car to the London Hospital for Tropical Diseases — "Where they know me well," he explained.

Mentally alert, but helpless as a dead man, Gregory heard that German voice giving explicit directions concerning locking the apartment, destruction of its contents, and fumigation of the rooms. Knowing the symptoms of every variety of plague, he was well aware that the man was a liar.

Why had he been doped by Mignon? Was she in the power of Fu Manchu? He thought about the drug. Its composition was unknown to him, but he thought there might be some hyoscine. Then he heard a hurried exodus.

Fu Manchu bent over him, again removing the tinted glasses, and Gregory knew that those hypnotic eyes were claiming him.

"I have studied your career with interest." The words now were spoken in perfect, curiously precise English. "I recently lost my chief assistant in your particular field of research, Dr Alien. You have become indispensable to me in my search for a way to continue my life — indefinitely. Your service will not be unpleasant. There are rich rewards."

He was charging a hypodermic syringe when there came a faint buzzing.

A few words, harshly spoken, told him Dr Fu Manchu carried some kind of two-way radio device which kept him in contact with his associates. When again the Chinese scientist bent over him, he knew that the message had been a warning. The green eyes blazed with frustration.

"Your death could avail me nothing. Your life may yet be of use. I bid you good night, Dr Alien. Convey my deep respects to Sir Denis Nayland Smith." Gregory was alone in the room.

He fought to retain the state of unreal consciousness in which he was held, but found that his over-taxed brain was defeating the effort. Sleep overcame him.

As something out of a dream, he heard Nayland Smith's voice: "What is it, Petrie? Are we too late?"

"Very simple. A knockout drop. It was in this glass — this one."

"I assure you gentlemen," — the manager's frightened voice climbed to a falsetto — "it's plague!"

"Plague be damned!" Dr Petrie snapped. "He's been drugged. I don't know what's in it. But I suspect a proportion of hyoscine." Gregory silently applauded. "I'm going to take strong measures. Sheer luck, Smith, that I hurried straight from the hospital to meet you and had my bag with me."

Gregory caught a glimpse of Dr Petrie's earnest face bending over him, and knew that the doctor had administered an injection.

Recovery was slow, and nauseating, but at last he regained control of his muscles as well as of his brain, sat up and looked about him.

Dr Petrie was watching him with a professional regard.

"Thanks, Doctor!" Gregory grasped his hand. "I agree with you about hyoscine. But I wish I knew the other ingredients."

Nayland Smith was looking at the drawing of Mignon. He glanced up as Gregory spoke.

"Hullo, Alien. This must be the young lady who informed (he management that you were taken seriously ill and then disappeared. They gave me her description."

Gregory nodded.

"I warned you Dr Fu Manchu has eyes everywhere. You know now how fascinating those eyes can be. His scouts warned him in some way that I was close on his heels, and once again he has slipped away."

Nayland Smith put the drawing of Mignon where he found it and glanced at Gregory. There was sympathy in the grey eyes.

"Don't condemn her," he said. "She's in his power as, but for an act of Providence, you might have been." His voice hardened. "You must never under any circumstances try to see that girl again."

For the next few days Gregory Alien prowled the streets of London, driven by the ridiculous hope that somewhere in the crowds which thronged the Strand and Piccadilly he would see the aubum hair and piquant face of Mignon. His scientist's brain told him Nayland Smith had been right in warning him that he must never see her again. But against reason was set a desperate urge to find the girl, free her from the spell of Dr Fu Manchu and take her back to New York with him.

Sometimes in his restless walks, he had the feeling he was followed, but whether by one of Fu Manchu's assistants or a Scotland Yard man assigned to protect him, he did not know. Nor did he know where to look for Mignon. He didn't even know her last name.

With faint hope he had written off to Paris to the weekly magazine which regularly published her sketches. An answer came back promptly. The magazine could not give out contributors' addresses. But they would see that his message reached Mignon.

The letter filled him with hope. When he returned to his hotel two days later, there was a plain white envelope with his mail: "Exhibition of French art at the Tate Gallery," it read. "Please come there at 5.30 this afternoon. Wait near the Gauguin paintings, but when I come in pretend not to recognise me. Destroy this note — Mignon."

Gregory approached the Tate Gallery at dusk. He told himself once again that he was playing with fire; but he could not blind himself to the fact that he had become hopelessly infatuated with the girl.

The building was all but deserted. It was near to closing time. He found the appointed spot and then decided to wait on the other side of the room, pretending to examine the sketches and charcoal studies.

Pew visitors came. At every footstep Gregory turned. One man, dark, of a saturnine cast of features and wearing a white raincoat strolled through twice; but Gregory decided that he was probably a gallery detective. He glanced anxiously at his watch. And still Mignon didn't come.

He had begun to lose heart when he heard light footsteps, and a girl came into the gallery. She wore a scarlet cape, her auburn hair almost entirely hidden by a close-fitting beret.

It was Mignon. But she gave no sign of recognising him.

The dark man strolled in, glanced round, and went out by another door. Mignon, a moment later, went out, too. Gregory followed. She passed through several other rooms and stopped in an empty room devoted to French drawings.

"Mignoni" He grasped her shoulders. "How wonderful!"

She turned her head aside. "I am glad to see you, too, Gregory; But you must be mad. You should hate me. I have done you only harm."

"I aw mad, Mignon — mad about you\ Look at me. I understand it all. Nayland Smith has told me. Don't reproach yourself."

She glanced up at him, furtively, timidly. "You should not have come. Nor should I. You had one narrow escape from Fu Manchu. Why do you take another risk? You must forget me — forget we ever met."

"I can't forget you," he said, "and I won't even try unless you tell me, here and now, that I have no right to think about you as I do."

"There is no one else, in the sense you mean," she whispered. "Think of me, Gregory, as someone inaccessible, a slave."

He held her. "There are no slaves," he said tensely. "Come with me — now. Back to America. Nayland Smith has the power of the government behind him. You will be safe from Dr Fu Manchu."

Mignon rested her head against his shoulder.

"How I wish it could be, Gregory. It is my father, hopelessly under the power of Fu Manchu, whom I must protect." She looked up swiftly. "Every moment you stay with me you are in danger. My father is in danger. So am I."

He bent to her lips. Mignon thrust her hand against his mouth. Her eyes were wild. "If you value my life, Gregory, dear, please let me go. I mean it. Don't even look back. Don't try to follow me."

She slipped from his arms. He dared not ignore the urgency of her appeal. But as he heard her light footsteps retreating through the next gallery towards the door he did look back.

Mignon was out of sight.

Three minutes later Gregory was on the Embankment in front of the gallery, staring right and left. Dusk had drawn in, and the opposite bank of the Thames was curtained in mist. And then in the direction of Millbank, under the light of a street lamp, he had a glimpse of the scarlet cape.

As he set out to follow, another figure passed under the lamp, close behind Mignon — the white-coated figure of the dark man.

Gregory hurried on. Mignon was being covered. But if he could find out where she was going, Nayland Smith could do the rest. For Gregory was determined now to get Mignon away from Fu Manchu even if he had to kidnap her.

The cape disappeared around a corner not far from the Gallery. The white coat closed up and disappeared also.

Gregory raced to the corner. He was just in time to see Mignon turn into one of the many narrow streets which abounded in this district. The white-coated man followed no farther. He went straight ahead.

Gregory ran on to the head of the street where she had turned. He could see no sign of the scarlet cloak. It was dark in the opening, but there were some lighted windows beyond. He stood listening for the sound of an opening or closing door. He heard nothing — then moved in cautiously.

No sound warned him of his danger. No blow was struck. He suffered a sudden sharp pain — and remembered no more… Except for a slight headache, he felt no discomfort when he woke up. He took one look around, then closed his eyes again. This must be a dream!

He lay on a divan in an Oriental room. The walls were decorated with a number of beautiful lacquer panels. The ceiling consisted of silk tapestry, and in and out of its intricate pattern gold dragons crept. The appointments were mainly Chinese. Rugs covered the floor: There was a faint smell resembling that of stale incense. At a long, narrow desk facing the divan a man sat writing. He wore a yellow robe and a black cap topped with a coral bead.

This man's face possessed a sort of satanic beauty. The features were those of an aristocrat, an intellectual aristocrat. And an aura of assured power seemed to radiate from the whole figure.

It was Dr Pu Manchu.

"Good evening, Dr Alien," he said, without looking up. "I am happy to have you as my guest. I anticipate a long and mutually satisfactory association." Gregory swung his legs off the divan. Fu Manchu didn't stir. "I beg you to attempt no vulgar violence. Even if it succeeded, you would be strangled thirty seconds later."

Gregory sat upright, his fists clenched, watching, fascinated.

"To all intents and purposes, Dr Alien, you find yourself in China — although this room, which has several remarkable qualities, was designed by a clever Japanese artist; for you must not fall into the error of supposing that my organisation is purely Chinese in character. I assure you that I have enthusiastic workers of all races in the Order of the SiFan, of which I am president."

This statement Dr Fu Manchu made without once glancing up from the folio volume in which he was writing marginal notes. Gregory sat still, watching and waiting.

"For instance," the strange voice continued, "this room is soundproof. It was formerly a studio. The Chinese silk conceals top lights. The seven lacquer panels are in fact seven doors. I use the place as a pied-a-terre when my affairs detain me in London. I am much sought after, Dr Alien — particularly by officials of Scotland Yard. And, this apartment has useful features. Will you take tea with me?"

"No, thank you."

"As you please. Your unusual researches into the means of increasing vigorous life prove of great value to my own. I am no longer young, my dear doctor, but your unexpected visit here inspired me to hope that in addition to securing your services, I may induce a mutual friend to call upon us."

Dr Pu Manchu laid his pen down, and for the first time looked up. Gregory found himself subjected to the fixed regard of the strangest human eyes he had ever seen. They were long, narrow, only slightly oblique, and were brilliantly green. Their gaze threatened to take command of his will and he averted his glance.

"When you followed a member of my staff, Dr Alien, whom you know as Mignon, I was informed of this — at the time that you left the Tate Gallery — and took suitable steps. A Judo expert awaited your arrival and dealt with you by a simple nerve pressure with which, as a physician, you may be familiar. I am aware that Mignon made a secret appointment to meet you. She awaits her punishment. What it shall be rests with you."

Gregory experienced an unpleasant fluttering in the stomach. He sensed what was coming, and wondered how he should face up to the ordeal. He said nothing.

"There is a telephone on the small table beside you," Fu Manchu told him, softly. "Be good enough to call Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Tell him that you have met with an accident on Chelsea Embankment and are lying in the house of a neighbouring doctor who was passing at the time. This apartment is rented by a certain Dr Steiner. His plate is outside. His surgery adjoins this room. One of the seven doors leads to it. The address is Ruskin Mews. Request Sir Denis to bring his car here for you at once."

Gregory stood up. "I refuse."

Lacquer doors to the left and right of him opened silently, as if motivated by his sudden movement. Two short, thickset Asiatics came in. They carried knives. Holding them poised in their hands for a throw, they watched him — waited.

"I deplore this barbarous behaviour, Dr Alien. At my headquarters I have more subtle measures available."

"To hell with your measures! You can kill me, but you can't make me obey your orders."

Fu Manchu sighed. One long yellow finger moved onto his desk; and a third door, almost facing Gregory, opened. Mignon came in. Another member of the gang, who presumably acted as a bodyguard, grasped her by the wrist. In his other hand the man carried a whip.

Beret and scarlet cape were gone. Mignon wore a black skirt and a white blouse. Her auburn hair framed her pale face. One glance of entreaty she flashed at him, then lowered her head.

"You daren't do it!" Gregory blazed in a white fury. "You may consider yourself to be in China, but if you attempt this outrage, you'll find you're still in England. We'll rouse the neighbourhood."

The point of a knife touched his throat. One of the pair guarding him had moved closer. Fu Manchu shook his head.

"You forget, Dr Alien, that this room is soundproof. Be so wise as to call Sir Denis. I am advised that he is at home at present and Whitehall Court, where he resides, is no great distance away. But he may be going out to dine. We are wasting time. I think you'll find the number is written by the 'phone."

Gregory cast a last glance round the room, then took up the *phone and dialled the number. Nayland Smith's man answered, and immediately brought Nayland Smith.

"Smith here. What's up. Alien?" came the crisp voice.

The words nearly choked him, but Gregory gave the message which Dr Fu Manchu had directed. His eyes remained fixed upon Mignon as he spoke, and he knew that he dared not risk any hint of warning.

"Good enough. Bad luck. Be with you in ten minutes." Nay-land Smith hung up.

Fu Manchu uttered a guttural order; the knife was removed; Gregory's guards retired; Mignon without a glance in his direction was led away. The doors closed. He found himself alone again with Dr Fu Manchu. He dropped back on the divan.

He had done a thing with which he would reproach himself to his last day. To save a woman who had never truly meant anything in his life from suffering, he had betrayed an old, tried friend, into the power of a cruel and relentless enemy.

Fu Manchu had resumed his annotations. He spoke without looking up.

"To do that which is unavoidable merits neither praise nor blame, Dr Alien. That curious superstition, the sanctity of woman which is, no doubt, a part of your American heritage, left you no alternative. I am transferring Mignon to another post, where I trust you will no longer be able to interfere with her normal efficiency."

Gregory was reaching boiling point, but knew that he was helpless to avert the evil he had brought about. If he could have killed Fu Manchu with his bare hands he would gladly have done it. But he knew now, that he couldn't hope to get within reach of him.

Nayland Smith was racing into a trap. In a matter of minutes he would be here, A curious, high bell note broke the complete silence of the room.

Dr Fu Manchu stood up, put the folio volume under his arm and, opening one of the doors, went out.

As the door closed behind the Chinese doctor, Gregory, risking everything, grabbed the phone and dialled Nayland Smith's number.

There was no reply.

But no one had disturbed him; none of the doors had opened. He went to one at random, could find no means of opening it. He tried another, worked on it frantically. It was immovable. He stepped back and put his shoulder to the lacquer. Nothing happened.

Then, with a tearing crash, the silence was broken. The door by which Dr Fu Manchu had gone out burst open, and the dark man in the white raincoat stared into the room.

Gregory counted himself lost, when the man turned and shouted back over his shoulder: "This way, sir! Here he is!" He stepped into the room. "Glad to see you still alive. Doctor."

And Nayland Smith ran in behind him.

"You caught me only just in time. Alien," Nayland Smith assured him. "Sergeant Ridley here—" he nodded to the man in the white coat — "has been shadowing you for nearly a week. You see, I knew you were trying to get in touch with the little redhead, and his orders were, if you succeeded, to transfer all his attention to the girl when she left you. He did so tonight and had no idea you were somewhere behind. He reported to me that Mignon had just gone into Ruskin Street."

Gregory forced a smile. "Thank you. Sergeant," he said.

"Scotland Yard's crime map has a red ring drawn around this area," Nayland Smith explained. "We have suspected that Fu Manchu had a hideaway here. The Japanese artist who reconstructed this place disappeared six months ago, and a certain Dr Gottfeld took it over, though the name of Dr Steiner appears on the plate."

"Of course," Gregory broke in. "Gottfeld was the name the hotel manager called Fu Manchu when they came to my suite. Have you got him?"

Nayland Smith shook his head. "I'm afraid he has done another of his vanishing tricks. The raid squad I brought along is searching. But my guess is that Fu Manchu has slipped away to one of his old haunts near Limehouse."

He motioned to the Sergeant, who brought in a man of perhaps fifty whose eyes had the peculiar glaze which showed he had been under Fu Manchu's hypnotic spell. "But at least we've rescued a man who may be able to give us a great deal of information about Fu Manchu's operations. Dr Alien, this is Dr Gaston Breon. Besides being a famous French entomologist, he is Mignon's father."

"Thank God you've saved him!" Gregory said, as he gripped the scientist's limp hand. "But Smith, have you rescued Mig-non?"

Nayland Smith slapped him on the shoulder. "We got her with two of Pu Manchu's henchmen who were trying to force her into a motor launch. I had her taken to my place." As Gregory looked at him gratefully, he smiled that boyish grin. "She's your responsibility now."

Ten minutes later Gregory walked past a guard and into Nayland Smith's large booklined study. Mignon sprang up from a chair near the window and ran to him, her eyes wild with terror.

"Gregory! You must compel them to let me go!" she cried. "Fu Manchu will kill my father if I do not return to him."

She stared at Gregory in bewilderment. "Why do you smile?"

But Gregory was looking beyond her to the door, and Mignon turned. A sigh of joy escaped her as she ran to her father. "My child, my child," Dr Breon muttered, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "The nightmare is finished, Mignon."

"Oh, what they've done to you these past two years, my father," she whispered.

Gregory crossed the room and stood at her side, his arm around her shoulders. "We'll have him right in no time," he promised. "All he needs is rest and the care we'll give him."

Mignon's head came back, and the tears were gone. What was more, the look of infinite sadness he remembered from their first meeting was gone, too. In its place there was a sparkle that danced in the light of the lamps with swift invitation.

"I think it is quite safe for you now to love me, Gregory," she said.

He took her into his arms.