“I don’t understand,” Craig repeated. “If the principle was known to you, as well as the method of applying it—and I can’t dispute that it was—”
“Why did I permit you to complete your experiments? The explanation is simple. I wanted to know if you could complete them. On my arrival, the main plant had already been set up in the Huston laboratory. 1 was anxious to learn if the final problem would baffle you. It did not. Such a man is a man to watch.”
Dr. Fu Manchu locked the teak chest.
“Then it was you who destroyed my work?”
“I had no choice. Dr. Craig. Your work was destined for the use of the Kremlin. I have also your original plans, and every formula. The only blueprints existing I secured tonight. One danger, only, remains.”
“What’s that?”
“Yourself.”
And the word was spoken in a voice which made it a sentence of death.
Dr. Fu Manchu carried the chest across the littered room, and opened what looked like a deep cupboard. He placed the chest inside, and turned again to Craig.
“You will have noted that I am dressed for travel. Dr. Craig. My time is limited. Otherwise, I should employ less mediaeval methods to incline your mind to reason. You seem to have failed to recognize me as Professor Hoffmeyer, but a committee such as I spoke of when we met already exists. It is called the Council of Seven. In our service we have some of the best brains of every continent. We have wealth. We are not criminals. We are idealists—”
A second of those wailing cries, the first of which had terrified Camille, checked his words. Craig started.
“I may delay no longer. You have it in your power, while you live, to destroy all our plans. Therefore, Dr. Craig—I speak with sincere regret—either you must consent to place your undoubted genius at my disposal—or you must die.”
“The choice is made.”
“I trust not, yet.”
Dr. Fu Manchu opened one of the sliding shutters over the long desk. It disclosed an iron grille through which crept a glimmer of light.
“Miss Navarre!” There was no slightest change of tone, of inflection, in his strange voice. “You were anxious about Dr. Craig. Here he is—perfectly well, as you may judge for yourself.”
And Morris Craig saw Camille’s pale face, her eyes wide with terror, her hair disordered, staring at him through the bars!
A torrent of words, frenzied, scathing, useless words, flooded his brain. But he choked them back—rejected them; and when he spoke, in a whisper, he said simply:
“Camille!”
“When we move”—Nayland Smith’s expression was very grim—”we must be sure the net has no holes in it. We have Regan’s evidence that there are people in that building. We know who put Regan there. So we know what to expect. Is our cordon wide enough?”
“Hard to make it wider,” Harkness assured him. “But these old places are honeycombs. There are sixty men on the job. I have sent for the keys of all the adjoining buildings.”
“We daren’t wait!” Smith said savagely. “Fu Manchu has destroyed the last possibility of Craig’s invention being used— except Craig . . . We daren’t wait.”
“Report coming through,” said Harkness.
The report was one which might have meant next to nothing. A cry had been heard, more than once, in the neighborhood of the closely covered building, which at first hearing had been mistaken for the cry of a cat. Repeated, however, doubt had arisen on this point.
“That settles the matter!” rapped Smith. “It was the call of one of his Burmese bodyguard! Fu Manchu is there.”
* * *
“There was a pleasant simplicity,” Dr. Fu Manchu was saying, “in the character of the unknown designer of this chair. I fear I must start its elementary mechanism. The device bears some resemblance to a type of orange-squeezer used in this country.”
He stood behind Craig for a moment; and Craig became aware of a regular, ticking sound, of vibrations in the framework of the chair:
he clenched his teeth.
“I am going to ask Miss Navarre to add her powers of persuasion to mine. If you prefer to live—in her company—to devote yourself to the most worthy task of all, the salvation of men from slavery or from destruction, I welcome you—gladly. You are a man of honor. Your word is enough. It is a bond neither you nor I could ever break. Do you accept these terms?”
“Suppose I don’t?”
Morris Craig had grown desperately white.
“I should lock the control, which, you may have noted, lies under your right hand: an embossed gold crown. I should prefer to leave it free. You have only to depress it, and the descent will be arrested. Choose—quickly.”
“Whichever you please. The result will be the same.”
“Words worthy of Molotov! The time for evasion is past. I offer you life—a life of usefulness. I await your promise that, if you accept, you will press the control. Your doing so will mean, on the word of an English gentleman, that you agree to join the Council of Seven. Quickly. Speak!”
“I give you my word”—Morris Craig’s eyes were closed; he spoke all but tonelessly—”that if I press the control it will mean that I accept your offer.”
Dr. Fu Manchu crossed to the door behind which he had placed the teak chest. As he passed the grilled window:
“The issue. Miss Navarre,” he said, “rests with you.”
He went out, closing the door.
“No! No! Come back!” Camille clutched the iron bars, shook them frantically. “Come back! . . . No! No! Merciful God! stop him! Morris! Agree! Agree to anything! I—I can’t bear it . . .”
The domed canopy, its gilding barely touched by upcast lantern light, was descending slowly.
“Don’t look at me. I shall—weaken—if you look at me . . .”
“Weaken Morris, darling, listen to me! Dr. Fu Manchu is a madman’. There can be no obligation to a madman . . . I tell you he’s mad! Press the control! Do it! Do it!”
The canopy continued to descend, moving in tiny jerks which corresponded to audible ticks of some hidden clockwork mechanism. It was evidently controlled by counterweights, for Craig found the chair to be immovably heavy.
He closed his eyes. He couldn’t endure the sight of Camille’s chalk-white, frenzied face staring at him through those bars. A parade of heretics who had rejected conversion passed before him in the darkness, attired in the silk and velvet, the rags and tatters, of Old Seville. Their heads lolled on their shoulders. Their skulls were crushed.
“Morris! Have you no pity for me? Is this your love . . .”
He must think. “A bond neither you nor I could ever break.” Those had been the words. That had been the bargain. If he chose life. Dr. Fu Manchu would claim his services.
“Camille, my dearest, you have faced worse things than this—”
“I tell you he is mad!”
“Unfortunately, 1 think he’s particularly sane. I even think, in a way he has the right idea.”
Tick-tick . . . Tick-tick . . . Tick-tick. In fractions of an inch, the canopy crept lower.
“I shall lose my reason! 0 God in heaven, hear me!”
Camille dropped to her knees, hands clasped in passionate supplication. Kneeling, she could no longer see Morris. But, soon, she must look again.
Meaningless incidents from the past, childish memories, trivial things, submerged dreams of a future that was never to be; Morris’s closed eyes; the open, dreadful eyes of Dr. Fu Manchu: all these images moved, in a mocking dance, through her prayers . . .
A whistle skirled—a long way off. It was answered by another, nearer.
Camille sprang up, clutched the bars.
The canopy almost touched Morris’s head. His eyes remained closed.