The Shadow of Fu-Manchu Read Online Free PDF Page A

doorway.
    “I doubt if Mr. Frobisher will want any ‘auditions,’” he said drily.
    As the door was closed, the vibrant sound ceased.
    Craig stood for a moment studying the illuminated diagram as Camille had done. He lighted a cigarette, and then noticed the letters on his desk. He dropped into the chair, switching up a reading lamp, and put on his glasses.
    A moment later he was afoot again, as the office door burst open and a man came in rapidly—closely followed by Sam.
    “Wait a minute!” Sam was upset. “Listen. Wait a minute!”
    Craig dropped his glasses on the desk, stared, and then advanced impulsively, hand outstretched.
    “Nayland Smith! By all that’s holy—Nayland Smith!” They exchanged grips, smiling happily. “Why, I thought you were in Ispahan, or Yucatán, or somewhere.”
    “Nearly right the first time. But it was Teheran. Flew from there three days ago. More urgent business here.”
    “Wait a minute,” Sam muttered, his eye-shade thrust right to the back of his head.
    Craig turned to him.
    “It’s all right, Sam. This is an old friend.”
    “Oh, is that so?”
    “Yes—and I don’t believe he has a bit of string.”
    Sam stared truculently from face to face, chewing in an ominous way, and then went out.
    “Sit down, Smith. This is a great, glad surprise. But why the whirlwind business? And”—staring—“what the devil are you up to?”
    Nayland Smith had walked straight across to the long windows which occupied nearly the whole of the west wall. He was examining a narrow terrace outside bordered by an ornamental parapet. He looked beyond, to where the hundred eyes of a towering building shone in the dusk. He turned.
    “Anybody else got access to this floor?”
    “Only the staff. Why?”
    “What do you mean when you say the staff?”
    “I mean the staff! Am I on the witness stand? Well, if you must know, the research staff consists of myself; Martin Shaw, my chief assistant, a Columbia graduate; John Regan, second technician, who came to me from Vickers; and Miss Navarre, my secretary. She also has scientific training. Except for Sam, the handyman, and Mr. Frobisher, nobody else has access to the laboratory. Do I make myself clear to your honor?”
    Nayland Smith was staring towards the steel door and tugging at the lobe of his left ear, a mannerism which denoted intense concentration, and one with which Craig was familiar.
    “You don’t take proper precautions,” he snapped. “
I
got in without any difficulty.”
    Morris Craig became vaguely conscious of danger. He recalled vividly the nervous but repressed excitement of Michael Frobisher. He could not ignore the tension now exhibited by Nayland Smith.
    “Why these precautions, Smith? What have we to be afraid of?”
    Smith swung around on him. His eyes were hard.
    “Listen, Craig—we’ve known one another since you were at Oxford. There’s no need to mince words. I don’t know what you’re working on up here—but I’m going to ask you to tell me. I know something else, though. Unless I have made the biggest mistake of my life, one of the few first-class brains in the world today has got you spotted.”
    “But, Smith, you’re telling me nothing—”
    “Haven’t time. I baited a little trap as I came up. I’m going down to spring it.”
    “Spring it?”
    “Exactly. Excuse me.”
    Smith moved to the door.
    “The elevator man will be off duty—”
    “He won’t. I ordered him to stand by.”
    Nayland Smith went out as rapidly as he had come in.
    Craig stood for a moment staring at the door which Smith had just closed. He had an awareness of some menace impending, creeping down upon him; a storm cloud. He scratched his chin reflectively and returned to the letters. He signed them, and pressed a button.
    Camille Navarre entered quietly and came over to the desk. Craig took off his glasses and looked up—but Camille’s eyes were fixed on the letters.
    “Ah, Miss Navarre—here we are.” He returned them to