"Advise General Huan Tsung that we leave in an hour. It is still possible to be there in time. Proceed."
Matsukata bowed again, and went out. Dr Fu Manchu dried his high forehead with a silk handkerchief which he drew from the sleeve of his robe, and crossing the saloon, his gait slow and catlike, he mounted a leewan at the further end and opened a cupboard From the cupboard he took a flat cedarwood box and raised the lid.
Inside lay a green mask — identical with that which, later, George Thurston was to see in a Manhattan Customs shed…
The phone buzzed in Thurston's hotel apartment.
He was unpacking his suitcase. He crossed and called:
"Hullo!"
"That you, Thurston?" came a vaguely familiar voice. "Fordwich here. Got my flask, haven't you?"
"Yes. I lost sight of you. What happened?"
"Called away. Hang on to the flask. Be seeing you around cocktail time. That all right?"
"Quite."
"Did you get your golf clubs through safely?"
"Golf clubs? Of course. Why not?"
A chuckle of laughter.
"Just asking! See you about six."
Fordwich hung up.
Thurston scratched his head reflectively, then returned to his unpacking. He took out a lounge suit, a Tuxedo and black trousers. He put them on hangers in the wardrobe, turned, and stared at his golf-bag.
Slowly, he went over and inspected it.
Amongst the club-heads he saw a rubber ferule sticking out!
He grabbed it, trying to pull the thing free. But he had to remove a niblick, a mid-iron and a mashie before he succeeded.
Then — he held Fordwich's walking stick in his hand!
"Phew!"
Thurston sat down on the side of the bed. The stick was unmistakable. It was of some dark, heavy wood, smooth, nearly black. The handle curved above a plain gold band. There was no inscription.
He couldn't doubt that the stick he held in his hands was the one upon which Fordwich had been leaning in the Customs shed!
"It isn't possible!"
Thurston spoke the words aloud. He was startled out of his normal self. This inexplicable incident crowned all the others. What on earth did it mean? Why should the mysterious Mr Pordwich assume that he was a suitable subject for conjuring tricks? And when had the trick been performed? He thought of the green devil mask. He recalled a conversation with an Anglo-Indian at his club. This man had assured him that, for all science might say to the contrary, the powers of magic were very real in the East.
Hurriedly completing his unpacking, he went down to the bar.
The delay in getting ashore had upset his plans. He didn't know what to do with himself, or how to spend the evening.
Six o'clock came; half past.
Still there was no word from Fordwich. Thurston sat down and stared at the black walking stick. He didn't touch it. He was aroused from amorous musings, in which the ivory arms of Mrs van Roorden figured prominently, by a disturbance in the corridor outside.
Someone seemed to be persistently banging on a door, and he could hear the dim ringing of a bell.
As the row continued, Thurston stood up, crossed the apartment and looked out.
The disturbance came from a door almost immediately opposite his own… and the man who rang and banged was Nayland Smith!
"Smith!"
Nayland Smith had turned, was staring at Thurston across the width of the corridor. His skin had been permanently darkened by years of tropical suns, so that it was impossible to detect pallor. But Thurston thought that some of the old, eager vitality was lacking tonight. The silver at his temples had become more marked.
"Hullo, Thurston!" he rapped (the quick-fire speech remained unimpaired). "Didn't expect to see you here. Come into your apartment and phone if I may."
"You're very welcome."
But, when the door was closed, Nayland Smith dropped wearily into an armchair, and Thurston saw that he looked al most haggard. Something had taxed this man of iron to the limit of his endurance.
"I'm up against one of my toughest problems, Thurston," he began in his abrupt, staccato way. "Can talk to you. Glad to. There's a gigantic plot about to mature — a plot to destroy Fort Knox, and the gold reserve upon which the financial power of the United States largely depends!"
"Destroy Fort Knoxl It's just impossible! Communists?"
Nayland Smith shook his head, smiled grimly, and taking out a charred briar pipe, began to charge it from a dilapidated pouch.
"No. What d'you think I'm doing here? If it had been the Communists I might have agreed with you. But it's something far more serious. Did you ever hear of the Si-Fan?"
Thurston stared blankly.
"Never."
"It's the most powerful secret society in the world today. It is directed by a man who is probably the supreme genius of all time. He has more scientific knowledge in that one phenomenal brain than any ten men alive. He is called Dr Pu Manchu. You have heard the name?"
"As a name, yes." Thurston was awed. "No more!"
Nayland Smith replaced his pouch and lighted his pipe.
"I sincerely hope you may never have occasion to learn more! We are uncertain of the details of the scheme. But we think some kind of guided missile is involved — probably with an atomic warhead, or something even more destructive!"
"But where could such a thing be assembled?"
"Several thousand men are engaged, at this very moment, trying to find out! One man, a brilliant FBI operative, has actually succeeded in becoming a member of the Si-PanI"
"Is he an Oriental?" Thurston gasped.
Nayland Smith smoked feverishly.
"Not a bit of it. Don't run away with the idea that the Si-Fan is a Far Eastern group. It's international. That's the danger. It's true that Selwyn Orson — the FBI man — Joined it somewhere in the East. He's a wonderful linguist. He's just back, with vital information."
"Where is he?"
"That's his room over there. And, although he called me only half an hour ago, I can get no reply. Hasn't gone out. Checked that."
He grabbed up the 'phone. Thurston stared.
"Put me through to Mr Wylie. This is Sir Denis Nayland Smith."
He glanced aside at Thurston.
"When do you think this horror is. timed to happen?" Thurston asked in a hushed voice.
Nayland Smith shook his head, and then:
"Hullo — Mr Wylie?" he asked. "Nayland Smith here. I'm in Number 114, Mr Thurston's apartment. Be good enough to send a boy up with a key to Number 113. Yes, at once, please."
He hung up.
"I don't know the exact time, Thurston. But all my information suggests that it may happen at almost any hour nowl"
The speed with which the key was delivered by the management indicated the authority vested in Nayland Smith, and when the boy had gone away, they crossed the corridor, and Nayland Smith unlocked the door of Number 113.
On the threshold he stood still, barring Thurston's entrance.
"What is it. Smith?"
"You don't have to come in, Thurston." He spoke without turning. "If you do, prepare for a dreadful sight!"
Nayland Smith went in, and Thurston followed him. The warning had been timely; for even now Thurston pulled up, uttered a smothered cry.
Face downward in the lobby, and so near the door that it was only just possible to open it, lay a blue-clad stocky figure. The man's outstretched hands were still plunged into an open suitcase, from which a variety of articles had been thrown out on to the floor.
"Good God!" Thurston muttered. He felt deathly sick. "What does this mean?"
"Murder!" snapped Nayland Smith. "He's been shot through the head — from behind."
"There's blood — a trail of it — leading into the room."
Nayland Smith nodded and went in. Thurston, trying to avoid wet patches on the carpet, followed. Inside, he clutched Smith's arm.