Re-enter Fu-Manchu (2 page)

Peter Wellingham was a slender man of uncertain age; pale, with scant fair hair. He was faultlessly groomed and wore correct morning dress. His white hands were slender, and of effeminate beauty. His voice and speech were those of the cultured Englishman, and he wore the sort of short, close-trimmed mustache that Brian associated with the British Army. But somehow he couldn’t imagine Peter Wellingham as a soldier, and, try as he would, he couldn’t like him.

He looked around the small but crowded room, trying to reconsider his first impression of the Honorable Peter Wellingham. The secretary who had received him was an attractive Eurasian, and many of the volumes on the shelves dealt with the Orient. There were antiques, too, placed here and there between the books, all of Eastern origin.

How strangely quiet this room seemed! Hard to believe that he was in the heart of fashionable Mayfair and less than fifty yards from Park Lane. Although his physical senses didn’t support the idea, that uncanny suspicion overcame him again—a suspicion that he wasn’t alone, that someone watched him. It had come to him when he first arrived, while he was waiting for the Honorable Peter.

There was only one point in the room from which an observer might be watching. This was a massive Burmese cabinet of dark wood with a number of fretwork cupboards. It seemed to be built into the wall, and there might be a space behind it.

But it was all too fantastic. He crossed to a bookcase and began to read some of the titles. Many dealt with the tangle in the Near East, and not all were in English.

There was one shelf with no books on it, only a bronze sphinx and several framed photographs.

Brian stood still, staring at one of them. It was of Senator Mclnnes, an old friend of his father’s. At another he stared even longer: a lean-faced man with steady, keen eyes, his hair silvering at the temples.

He was still studying this, holding the frame in his hands, when the door opened and Peter Wellingham came back.

“Do you know Sir Denis?” Wellingham asked in evident surprise.

“Not intimately. But Sir Denis Nayland Smith was my father’s house guest in Washington two years back.”

“Splendid! Sir Denis makes this his base when he’s in London. If we come to terms, he will be your chief.”

“I understood Sir Denis had retired.”

“So he did. But his special knowledge of Eastern problems is unique. He volunteered to act in the present case—I believe at the request of Washington. This is a private appointment. You will be under the orders of no one but Sir Denis. It was Sir Denis’ intention,” Wellingham explained, “that this should be a six-month agreement, renewable by mutual consent. This, I think, would suit your plans?”

“Perfectly.”

“Here is a form of agreement. Will you read it carefully, and if you find it acceptable, sign all three copies.” He rang for his secretary.

Brian found himself walking on air. The terms of employment were generous, and he would receive two months’ salary in advance. He must be ready to leave for Cairo at short notice, and the cost of equipment he would require would be defrayed by his employers.

He signed the three copies without hesitation and passed them across the desk. Peter Wellingham signed in turn, and his secretary signed as witness.

“Draw Mr. Brian Merrick’s check,” Wellingham directed.

The girl went out, and Brian’s glance followed the graceful figure. As she opened the door, an oblique ray of sunshine touched the intricate carving of the Burmese cabinet, and Brian’s glance was diverted, then held…

He suppressed a start. Through the delicately carved panel before one of the small cupboards he thought he saw two brilliant green eyes fixed upon him! He inhaled deeply, looked away. Peter Wellingham was scribbling notes on a pad.

With the closing of the door the apparition had vanished, and Brian tried to tell himself that he was the victim of an illusion. Some shiny object, such as a jade vase, probably stood in the cupboard. His slumbering distrust of Wellingham must not be allowed to upset his judgment. He knew Nayland Smith to be high up in the British Secret Service and a former assistant commissioner of Scotland Yard. Brian had longed to travel before settling down to serious work, but funds were short. Here was a golden opportunity.

Peter Wellingham looked up.

“I needn’t warn you to observe great discretion concerning the nature of your employment, Mr. Merrick. Sir Denis is engaged upon a dangerous assignment and has entrusted me with the job of finding an additional assistant having certain qualifications. I think you are the man he’s looking for.”

The lissom secretary glided in again, laid a check on the desk, and glided out. Brian avoided glancing at the cabinet while Peter Wellingham signed the check.

Five minutes later Brian was striding along Park Lane. Wellingham, at parting, had walked to the doorstep, wished him good luck, and shaken hands.

The slender white fingers were very cold.

As Peter Wellingham returned to the study and before Brian had reached Park Lane, a section of the Burmese cabinet swung open, showing another room beyond.

A tall, gaunt man stepped out, a man with a phenomenally high brow, crowned with a black cap not unlike a biretta; a man whose strange emerald green eyes seemed to gaze, not
at
Wellingham, but through his skull into his brain. He was unmistakably Chinese, unmistakably an aristocrat and standing there, wearing a plain yellow robe, he radiated force.

He crossed and seated himself behind the desk. Peter Wellingham remained standing.

“For a moment, Mr. Wellingham, I feared”—he spoke pedantically exact English, except that he stressed the sibilants—“that your peculiar personality had produced an unfortunate impression. This I should have regretted. I had Brian Merrick under close observation, and I am satisfied that he will admirably serve my purpose. But he inherits a streak of his father’s obstinacy, and at one time he considered declining the offer. That was why I called you from the room—your cue to draw his attention to the photographs.”

Peter Wellingham’s white forehead was damp. He had detected a note of menace in that strange voice.

“I should have been sorry, Doctor—”

“But too late. With your succession to the title I cannot interfere. But the facts concerning your political views, if suspected by Lord Chevradale, would have disastrous results for you.”

“I did my best, Doctor. I feel sure that he—”

“Be sure of no man. For the only man of whom you may be sure is yourself.”

“Shall I take steps to have Merrick covered during the time he remains in London?”

The brilliant eyes were raised in a penetrating glance. “Such steps have already been taken. I fly to Cairo tonight. Your instructions concerning Brian Merrick will reach you through the usual channels.”

* * *

Brian hurried along Park Lane to his hotel. Lola was lunching with him, and he knew she would be pressed for time, as usual. Lola Erskine was a designer for Michel, a famous Paris house that every season dictated to smart women the world over exactly what they must wear. Equally at home on Paris boulevard, Fifth Avenue, or Bond Street, she was a stimulating companion.

He walked into the crowded lounge, looking eagerly around, and there was Lola, waving to him. He joined her, signaling to a waiter.

“Hello, Brian!” She greeted him with that half-amused and half-affectionate smile that he found so fascinating—although sometimes he vaguely suspected her of secretly laughing at him. “Don’t order anything for me yet. Look, I have one already.”

“Have I kept you waiting?”

“Only five minutes. But I was dying for a drink. I had a desperately tough morning.”

“You don’t look like it. You look like a cover girl. Is that dress by Michel?”

“Why ask me? If I wore anything else I’d be fired on sight. Also, I get them at cost.”

“Lola!” He grasped her arm as a waiter came along. “Don’t finish that Martini or whatever it is. Share a bottle of champagne with me. It’s a celebration. I’ve picked up a wonderful job!”

Lola stared. She had dark gray-blue eyes that never seemed to join in her smiles; abstract, mysterious eyes. “Not that thing I showed you in the
Times
?”

He nodded. “Waiter, may I have a wine list?”

As the man went away Lola asked, “Is it anything really good? I mean, worth a bottle of champagne?”

“It’s worth a case! Listen—I know you’ll have to rush right after lunch. There’s so much I want to say to you. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“I can be, Brian—if you’re not being extravagant.”

“I have to leave London at short notice. And I hate that part of it now I’ve met you.”

‘That’s sweet of you. It all depends where you’re going. Michel has branches around the world and my job takes me to all of them.”

“I’m going to Cairo.”

“Cairo? No, we haven’t opened in Cairo so far. What kind of job is this, Brian? Commercial or political?”

The waiter brought the wine list, which Brian handed to Lola.

“I won’t let you be extravagant,” she told him, “and if I’m to eat my lunch it will have to be only a half bottle. Say, a half of Piper Heidsieck, ’forty-nine.”

As the waiter went away, Brian looked at Lola with frank admiration. She was unlike any woman he had ever known. Yet he felt that he had been looking for her all his life. He longed to know if his interest was returned, but those somber eyes told him nothing.

“Don’t turn around,” Lola whispered, “but there’s a queer-looking man sitting just behind you who seems to be interested in our conversation. This job of yours sounds rather hush-hush. Let’s talk about me until we go in to lunch. Then you can tell me all about it.”

Brian had reserved a corner table in the grill room, and when they were seated he asked, “Any sign of the spy?”

Lola smiled and shook her head. “I may have misjudged him. But he really did seem to be listening. He hasn’t come in, anyway.”

“I’m glad. There certainly seems to be something unusual about my new job. But as you put me onto it, Lola, you’re entitled to know all about it. You’d gone out when I got my mail this morning, and there was a very formal note that said something like ‘The Honorable Peter Wellingham would be obliged if Mr. Brian Merrick would call at the above address at eleven a.m. in connection with his application dated the fifteenth instant.’ You know all about the kind of people who are ‘Honorable,’ Lola. Who is Peter Wellingham?”

Lola looked confused, almost alarmed, but quickly recovered her composure.

“He’s Lord Chevradale’s son.”

“Do you know him?” There was a note of suspicion in Brian’s voice.

“Not personally. But I’ve heard that he’s badly in debt.”

“That’s queer. Because he gave me a substantial advance on my salary. I hope it’s not a rubber check! But let me tell you.”

And so over lunch he told her all that had happened on this eventful morning. He admitted that he had not taken to Peter Wellingham, but that because of the strong attractions of the job he had overcome his prejudice, convinced that to work under Sir Denis Nayland Smith would be an education in itself.

Sitting there, facing a pretty girl and surrounded by normal, healthy people, many of them fellow Americans, with deft waiters moving from table to table, he dismissed the illusion of the green eyes behind the Burmese cabinet. He decided not to mention it.

“I really owe this chance to travel to you, Lola. You saw the advertisement in the
Times
, and if you hadn’t encouraged me to do it, I don’t believe I should have written.”

“It read like a job created purposely for you, Brian.” She smiled rather wistfully. “I knew how you wanted to see more of the world before going home, and I’m really glad you pulled it off.”

“There’s one fly in the ointment,” Brian confessed. “Just as I get to know you I have to dash off to Egypt.”

“But you told me the Near East fascinated you, that you’d always wanted to go there.”

“That’s true. And it would be perfect—if you were coming with me.”

Lola took a cigarette from her case. “I never know where I’ll be sent next. I admit that Egypt’s unlikely but I don’t suppose you’ll be there long. We’re both world wanderers now, and we’re certain to get together again somewhere. I must rush, Brian. Six-thirty at the Mirabelle…”

I
n an old Cairo house not far from the Mosque of El Ashraf, a house still untouched by Western “improvements,” a tall, gaunt figure paced slowly up and down a room that once had been the saloon of the harem. High, and lighted by a lantern in the painted roof, it was brightly paved in the Arab manner, and had elaborate paneled walls and two
mushrabîyeh
windows.

The man pacing the tiled floor wore the same yellow robe that he had worn during his brief interview with Peter Wellingham in London and a similar black cap on his massive skull. His finely lined features were those of a scholar who had never spared himself in the quest of knowledge. It was a wonderful face. It might have belonged to a saint, or to the Fallen Angel.

His walk was feline, silent. He seemed to be listening for some expected sound. And suddenly it came… a strange, muffled, animal sound.