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

silent. Get your laboratory to analyze the stuff on the tip of the dart. Curari is too commonplace for the man who inspired this thing.”
    “Smith! I’m appalled. What are you telling me?”
    “It was flicked, or perhaps blown from a tube, into Moreno’s face through the open window of the car. It stuck in his chin, and he pulled it out. But when the car got here, he was quite insensible, and—”
    “You mean he’s dead?”
    “I had him rushed straight to hospital.”
    “They’ll want this for analysis.”
    “There was another. The first must have missed.”
    Nayland Smith dropped limply into a chair, facing Craig.
    He pulled out his blackened briar and began to load it from an elderly pouch.
    “Let’s face the facts, Craig. I must make it clear to you that a mysterious Eastern epidemic is creeping west. I’m not in Manhattan for my health. I’m here to try to head it off.” He stuffed the pouch back into his pocket and lighted his pipe.
    “I’m all attention, Smith. But for heaven’s sake, what devil are you up against?”
    “Listen. No less than six prominent members of the Soviet government have either died suddenly or just disappeared—within the past few months.”
    “One of those purges? Very popular with dictators.”
    “A purge right enough. But not carried out by Kremlin orders. Josef Stalin is being guarded as even
he
was never guarded before.”
    Craig began groping behind him for the elusive packet of cigarettes.
    “What’s afoot, Smith? Is this anything to do with the news from London?”
    “You mean the disappearance of two of the Socialist Cabinet? Undoubtedly. They have gone the same way.”
    “The same way?” Craig’s search was rewarded. He lighted a cigarette. “
What
way?”
    Nayland Smith took the fuming pipe from between his teeth, and fixed a steady look on Craig.
    “Dr. Fu-Manchu’s way!”
    “Dr. Fu-Manchu! But—I—”
    The door of Camille’s room opened, and Camille came out. She held some typewritten sheets in her hand. There was much shadow at that side of the office, for only the desk lights were on, so that as the two men turned and looked towards her, it was difficult to read her expression.
    But she paused at sight of them, standing quite still.
    “Oh, excuse me, Dr. Craig! I thought you were alone.”
    “It’s all right,” said Craig. “Don’t—er—go, Miss Navarre. This is my friend, Sir Denis Nayland Smith. My new secretary, Smith—Miss Navarre.”
    Nayland Smith stared for a moment, then bowed, and walked to the window.
    “What is it, Miss Navarre?” Craig asked.
    “It’s only that last cylinder, Dr. Craig. I wanted to make sure I had it right. I will wait until you are disengaged.”
    But Nayland Smith was looking out into the jewelled darkness, and seeing nothing of a towering building which rose like a lighted teocalli against the skyline. He saw, instead, a panelled grillroom where an attractive red-haired girl sat at a table with a man. He saw the dark-faced spy lunching alone near by.
    The girl in the grillroom had not worn her hair pinned back in that prim way, nor had she worn glasses.
    Nevertheless, the girl in the grillroom and Miss Navarre were one and the same!

CHAPTER THREE

    I n a little shop sandwiched in between more imposing Chinese establishments, a good-looking young Oriental sat behind the narrow counter writing by the light of a paper-shaded lamp. The place was a mere box, and he was entirely surrounded by mysterious sealed jars, packets of joss sticks wrapped up in pakapu papers, bronze bowls with perforated wooden lids, boxes of tea, boxes of snuff, bead necklaces, and other completely discordant items of an evidently varied stock. The shop smelled of incense.
    A bell tinkled as the door was opened. A big man came in, so big that he seemed a crowd. He looked and was dressed like some kind of workman.
    The young Oriental regarded him impassively.
    “Mr. Huan Tsung?” the man asked.
    “Mr. Huan Tsung not home. How