Free President Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer Page A

like he was wrestling with somebody… Gee!”
    The man pulled his cap off and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I run in here. There wasn’t a cop in sight. Nobody was in sight… What could I do, mister? I figured he’d gone raving mad… When we got out to him he’s lying almost still. Only his hands was twitching…”
    The night manager came into the office.
    “All heat turned off on this floor,” he reported, “and all doors closed…”
    Outside the Regal-Athenian the atmosphere was arctic. Two patrolmen watched Mark Hepburn with an electric torch and a big lens examining every square foot of sidewalk and the carpeted steps leading up to the main entrance. Residents who arrived late were directed to a door around the corner. In reply to questions the invariable answer of the police was:
    “Somebody lost something valuable.”
    The death cab had been run into an empty garage. It had been sealed; and at this very moment two men wearing chemists’ masks were pumping it full of a powerful germicidal gas.
    Later, assisted by Dr. Scheky—both men dressed as if working in an operating theatre—Hepburn stripped and thoroughly examined the body and the garments of James Richet. The body was then removed, together with a number of objects found in Richet’s possession. The night manager’s room was sealed, to be fumigated. The main foyer, Nayland Smith ordered, must be closed to the public pending further orders. Dawn was very near when Dr. Scheky said to Hepburn:
    “You are not by chance under the impression that this man died of some virulent form of plague?”
    Mark Hepburn stared haggardly at the physician. They were dead beat.
    “To be perfectly frank, Doctor,” he answered, “I don’t know of what he died…”

CHAPTER TWELVE

NUMBER 81
    I n that domed room, amber-lighted through curious Gothic windows, the white-haired sculptor sat smoking Egyptian cigarettes and putting the finishing touches to a sinister clay head which one might have assumed to be his life’s work. Pinned upon a wooden panel beside the tripod on which the clay was set, was some kind of small colored picture, part of which had been masked out so that what remained resembled a tiny face surrounded by a margin of white paper.
    This the sculptor examined through a powerful magnifying glass, and then lowering the glass, scrutinized the clay. Evidently his work was to attempt to produce a life-size model of the tiny head pinned to the board.
    Seeming to be not wholly satisfied, the sculptor laid down the lens with a sigh and wheeled the clay along to the end of the table. At which moment the amber light went out, the dim bell rang. A high-pitched, imperious, guttural voice spoke.
    “The latest report from the Regal-Athenian.”
    “Received at 5.10 a.m. from Number in charge. Foyer closed to the public by Federal orders. Night manager’s office sealed. Taxi in garage on Lexington. The body of the dead man identified as that of James Richet, late secretary to Abbot Donegal, removed at 5 a.m. to police mortuary. Cause of death unknown. Federal Agents Smith and Hepburn in their quarters in the tower. End of report.”
    Followed some moments of silence, broken only by an occasional faint ticking from an electric clock. Then:
    “Fix the recording attachment, Number 81,” came an order. “You are free for four hours.”
    Amber light poured again into the room. Number 81 stood up. Opening a cupboard in the telephone table, he attached three plugs to a switchboard contained in the cupboard. One of these connected with the curious electric clock which stood upon the desk; another with a small motor which operated in connection with the telephone; and a third with a kind of dictaphone capable of automatically recording six thousand words or more without change of cylinder.
    As he was about to close the cupboard, a dim buzz indicated an incoming message. The faint hum of well-oiled machinery followed; a receiver-rest was lifted as if