Read Online President Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sax Rohmer
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was talking to Lola Dumas.
The profound student of humanity seated at the lacquer table was cruelly just. He wished to study this man who, after doing good work, had seen fit to leave his ordered route and to visit the cousin of Orwin Prescott. Steps had been taken to check any possible consequences. But the fate of the one who had made these measures necessary hung now in the balance.
They stood close together, and although their figures appeared distant, but not so perhaps through the lenses of the glasses worn by the Chinaman, their voices sounded quite normal, as though they were speaking in the room in which he sat.
“Lola, I have the game in my hand.” Richet threw his left arm around the woman’s shoulders and drew her to him. “Don’t pretend. We’re in this thing together.”
Lola Dumas’ lithe body bent backwards as he strove to reach her lips.
“You are quite mad,” she said breathlessly. “Because I was amused once, why should you think I am a fool?” She twisted, bent, and broke free, turning and facing him, her dark eyes blazing. “I can play, but when I work, I quit play. You are dreaming, my dear, if you think you can ever get control.”
“But I tell you I have the game in my hand.” The man, fists clenched, spoke tensely, passionately. “It is for you to say the word. Why should a newcomer, a stranger, take charge when you and I—”
“You young fool! Do you want to die so young?”
“I tell you, Lola,
I’m
not the fool. I know Kern Adler, the big New York lawyer, is in this. And what I say goes with Kern. I know ‘Blondie’ Hahn is. And Blondie stands for all the useful boys still at large. I know how to handle Blondie. We’re old friends. I have all the Donegal material. No one knows the inside of the Brotherhood of National Equality as I know it. What’s more—I know where to go for backing, and I don’t need Bragg! Lola…”
A slender ivory hand, the fingernails long, pointed and highly burnished, moved across the lacquered table in that distant high room.
Six of the seven lights over curtained openings went out.
“What’s this?” muttered Richet. “What do we do now?”
He was inspired by his own vehemence; he felt capable of facing Satan in person.
“Go into the lighted alcove,” said the woman coldly. “The President is ready to interview you.”
Richet paused, fists still half clenched, stepped towards the light, then glanced back. Lola Durmas had gone. She was lost in the incense-haunted darkness… but one green eye of the goddess watched him out of the shadows. He moved forward, swept the curtain aside and found himself in a small, square stone cell, possessing no furniture whatever. The curtain fell back into place with a faint swishing sound. He looked about him, his recent confidence beginning to wane. Then a voice spoke—a high-pitched, guttural voice.
“James Richet, I am displeased with you.”
Richet looked right, left, above and below. Then:
“Who is speaking?” he demanded angrily. “These stage illusions are not impressive. Was I to blame for what happened? I wish to see you, speak to you face to face.”
“An unwise wish, James Richet. Only Numbers one to twelve have that privilege.”
Richet’s brow was covered with nervous perspiration.
“I want a square deal,” he said, striving to be masterful.
“You shall have a square deal,” the implacable, guttural voice replied. “You will be given sealed orders by the Number in charge of Base 3. See that you carry out his instructions
to the letter
…”
* * *
Mark Hepburn sprang up in bed.
“All right, Hepburn!”—it was Nayland Smith’s voice. “Sorry to awake you, but there’s a job for us.”
The light had been switched on, and Hepburn stared somewhat dazedly at the speaker, then glanced down at his watch. The hour was 3.15 a.m. But Nayland Smith was fully dressed. Now wide awake:
“What is it?” Hepburn asked, impressed by his companion’s grim expression and
The profound student of humanity seated at the lacquer table was cruelly just. He wished to study this man who, after doing good work, had seen fit to leave his ordered route and to visit the cousin of Orwin Prescott. Steps had been taken to check any possible consequences. But the fate of the one who had made these measures necessary hung now in the balance.
They stood close together, and although their figures appeared distant, but not so perhaps through the lenses of the glasses worn by the Chinaman, their voices sounded quite normal, as though they were speaking in the room in which he sat.
“Lola, I have the game in my hand.” Richet threw his left arm around the woman’s shoulders and drew her to him. “Don’t pretend. We’re in this thing together.”
Lola Dumas’ lithe body bent backwards as he strove to reach her lips.
“You are quite mad,” she said breathlessly. “Because I was amused once, why should you think I am a fool?” She twisted, bent, and broke free, turning and facing him, her dark eyes blazing. “I can play, but when I work, I quit play. You are dreaming, my dear, if you think you can ever get control.”
“But I tell you I have the game in my hand.” The man, fists clenched, spoke tensely, passionately. “It is for you to say the word. Why should a newcomer, a stranger, take charge when you and I—”
“You young fool! Do you want to die so young?”
“I tell you, Lola,
I’m
not the fool. I know Kern Adler, the big New York lawyer, is in this. And what I say goes with Kern. I know ‘Blondie’ Hahn is. And Blondie stands for all the useful boys still at large. I know how to handle Blondie. We’re old friends. I have all the Donegal material. No one knows the inside of the Brotherhood of National Equality as I know it. What’s more—I know where to go for backing, and I don’t need Bragg! Lola…”
A slender ivory hand, the fingernails long, pointed and highly burnished, moved across the lacquered table in that distant high room.
Six of the seven lights over curtained openings went out.
“What’s this?” muttered Richet. “What do we do now?”
He was inspired by his own vehemence; he felt capable of facing Satan in person.
“Go into the lighted alcove,” said the woman coldly. “The President is ready to interview you.”
Richet paused, fists still half clenched, stepped towards the light, then glanced back. Lola Durmas had gone. She was lost in the incense-haunted darkness… but one green eye of the goddess watched him out of the shadows. He moved forward, swept the curtain aside and found himself in a small, square stone cell, possessing no furniture whatever. The curtain fell back into place with a faint swishing sound. He looked about him, his recent confidence beginning to wane. Then a voice spoke—a high-pitched, guttural voice.
“James Richet, I am displeased with you.”
Richet looked right, left, above and below. Then:
“Who is speaking?” he demanded angrily. “These stage illusions are not impressive. Was I to blame for what happened? I wish to see you, speak to you face to face.”
“An unwise wish, James Richet. Only Numbers one to twelve have that privilege.”
Richet’s brow was covered with nervous perspiration.
“I want a square deal,” he said, striving to be masterful.
“You shall have a square deal,” the implacable, guttural voice replied. “You will be given sealed orders by the Number in charge of Base 3. See that you carry out his instructions
to the letter
…”
* * *
Mark Hepburn sprang up in bed.
“All right, Hepburn!”—it was Nayland Smith’s voice. “Sorry to awake you, but there’s a job for us.”
The light had been switched on, and Hepburn stared somewhat dazedly at the speaker, then glanced down at his watch. The hour was 3.15 a.m. But Nayland Smith was fully dressed. Now wide awake:
“What is it?” Hepburn asked, impressed by his companion’s grim expression and
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