The Shadow of Fu-Manchu Read Online Free Page B

crossed to the divan, upon which he stretched his gaunt body. He struck a silver bell which hung in a frame beside the rack of opium pipes. The bell emitted a high, sweet note.
    Whilst the voice of the bell still lingered, drowsily, on the air, draperies in a narrow, arched opening were drawn aside, and a Chinese girl came in.
    She wore national costume. She was very graceful, and her large, dark eyes resembled the eyes of a doe. She knelt and touched the carpet with her forehead.
    “You have done well, Mai Cha. I am pleased with you.”
    The girl rose, but stood, head lowered and hands clasped, before the reclining figure. A flush crept over her dusky cheeks.
    “Prepare the jade pipe. I seek inspiration.”
    Mai Cha began quietly to light the little lamp on the stool.
    * * *
    Although no report had reached old Huan Tsung, nevertheless Nayland Smith had left police headquarters.
    He was fully alive to the fact that every move he had made since entering New York City had been noted, that he never stirred far without a shadow.
    This did not disturb him. Nayland Smith was used to it.
    But he didn’t wish his trackers to find out where he was going from Centre Street—until he had got there.
    He favored, in cold weather, a fur-collared topcoat of military cut, which was almost as distinctive as his briar pipe. He had a dozen or more police officers paraded for his inspection, and selected one nearly enough of his own build, clean-shaven and brown-skinned. His name was Moreno, and he was of Italian descent.
    This officer was given clear instructions, and the driver who had brought Nayland Smith to headquarters received his orders, also.
    When a man wearing a light rainproof and a dark-blue felt hat (property of Detective Officer Moreno) left by a side entrance, walked along to Lafayette Street, and presently picked up a taxi, no one paid any attention to him. But, in order to make quite sure, Nayland Smith gave the address Waldorf-Astoria, got out at that hotel, walked through to the Park Avenue entrance, and proceeded to his real destination on foot.
    He was satisfied that he had no shadow.
    * * *
    The office was empty as Camille Navarre came out of her room and crossed to the long desk set before the windows. One end had been equipped for business purposes. There was a leather-covered chair and beside it a dictaphone. A cylinder remained on the machine, for Craig had been dictating when he was called to the laboratory. At the other end stood a draughtsman’s stool and a quantity of pens, pencils, brushes, pans of colored ink, and similar paraphernalia. They lay beside a propped-up drawing board, illuminated by a tubular lamp.
    Camille placed several typed letters on the desk, and then stood there studying the unfinished diagram pinned to the board.
    She possessed a quiet composure which rarely deserted her. As Craig had once remarked, she was so restful about the place. Her plain suit did not unduly stress a slim figure, and her hair was swept back flatly to a knot al the nape of her neck. She wore black-rimmed glasses, and looked in every respect the perfect secretary for a scientist.
    A slight sound, the click of a lock, betrayed the fact that Craig was about to come out. Camille returned to her room.
    She had just gone in when the door of the laboratory opened, and Craig walked down the three steps. A man in a white coat, holding a pair of oddly shaped goggles in his hand, stood at the top. He showed outlined against greenish light. With the opening of the door, a curious vibration had become perceptible, a thing which might be sensed, rather than heard.
    “In short, Doctor,” he was saying, “we can focus, but we can’t control the volume.”
    Craig spoke over his shoulder.
    “When we can do both, Regan, we’ll give an audition to the pundits that will turn their wool white.”
    Regan, a capable-looking technician, grey-haired and having a finely shaped mathematical head, smiled as he stepped back through the