Free President Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer Page B

by invisible fingers, and a gleaming black cylinder began to revolve, the needle point churning wax from its polished surface as the message was recorded. A tiny aluminium disk dropped into a tray below the electric clock, having stamped upon it the exact time at which the telephone bell had rung.
    Number 81, as if his endless duties had become second nature, waited until the cylinder ceased to revolve. The telephone-rest sprang up into its place; from the electric clock came the sound of a faint tick. Number 81 pressed a button on the desk. The cylinder began to revolve again and a voice spoke—that of the man whose report had just been recorded.
    “Speaking from Base 3. The Abbot Donegal reported missing. There is reason to believe that he slipped away during the night and may be proceeding to New York to be present at the debate at Carnegie Hall. All Numbers along possible routes have been notified, but no report to hand. Number 44 speaking.”
    Presumably satisfied that the mechanism was running smoothly, Number 81 closed the cupboard and stood up. Thus seen, he was an even bigger man than he had appeared seated; an untidy but an imposing figure. He took up the clay model, lifting it with great care. He slipped a tin of Egyptian cigarettes into a pocket of his dressing-gown and walked towards one of the panels which surrounded the seemingly doorless room.
    This he opened by pressing a concealed switch. A descending staircase was revealed. Carrying the clay model as carefully and lovingly as a mother carries her newly born infant, he descended, closing the door behind him. He; went down one flight and entered a small, self-contained apartment. A table littered with books, plans, and all sorts of manuscripts stood by an open window. There was a bed in an alcove, and beyond, through an open door, a glimpse might be obtained of a small bathroom. Clearing a space on the littered table, Number 81 set down the clay model. He crossed the room and opened a cupboard. It showed perfectly empty. He raised a telephone from its hook. In German:
    “The same as last night,” he said harshly; “but the liver sausage was no good. Also, I must have the real German lager. This which you send me is spurious. Hurry, please, I have much to do.”
    These orders given, he crossed to the table and stared down dully at a large open book which lay there, its margins pencilled with numerous notes in tiny, neat handwriting. The book was
Interstellar Cycles
by Professor Albert Morgenstahl, Europe’s greatest physicist and master mathematician—expelled a year earlier from Germany for anti-Nazi tendencies and later reported to be dead.
    At this work Number 81 stared for some time, turning the pages over idly and resting a long tobacco-stained finger upon certain of the notes. There was a creaking in the cupboard and a laden wagon occupied its previously vacant space. Upon this wagon a substantial repast was set. Taking out a long-necked bottle of wine and uncorking it, Number 81 filled a glass. This he tasted and then set it down.
    He threw open the French windows upon one side of the room, revealing a narrow balcony with a high railing of scrolled ironwork. A weather-beaten table stood there, and for a moment Number 81 leaned upon it, gazing down upon a night panorama of the great city below; snow-covered roofs, dwarf buildings and giant towers; a distant gleam of water; a leaden sky. It was bitterly cold at that great elevation; an icy breeze stirred the mane of white hair.
    But, as if immune to climatic conditions, Number 81 bore out the clay head of the majestic Chinaman and set it upon the table. Below him a dome, its veins gilded, every crack and cranny coated with snow, swept down gracefully to a lower parapet. Muffled noises from streets set in deep gullies reached his ears. He returned for his glass of wine, raised his head to the leaden sky, and:
    “To the day of freedom!” he cried. “To the day when we meet face to face.” And now