Читать книгу President Fu Manchu - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 5
ОглавлениеCHAPTER THREE
ABOVE THE BLIZZARD
In Dom Patrick Donegal’s study at the top of the Tower of the Holy Thorn James Richet faced Federal Agent 56. Some of his silky suavity seemed to have deserted him.
“I quite understand your—unexpected—appearance, Mr. Richet,” said Smith, staring coldly at the secretary. “You have greatly assisted us. Let me check what you have told me. You believe (the abbot unfortunately having no memory of the episode) that certain material for the latter part of his address was provided early on Saturday morning during a private interview in this room between the Father and Dr. Orwin Prescott?”
“I believe so, although I was not actually present.”
There was something furtive in Richet’s manner; a nervous tremor in his voice.
“Dr. Prescott, as a candidate for the Presidency, no doubt had political reasons for not divulging these facts himself.” Smith turned to Abbot Donegal. “It has always been your custom, Father, to prepare your sermons and speeches in this room, the material being looked up by Mr. Richet?”
“That is so.”
“The situation becomes plainer.” He turned to Richet. “I think we may assume,” he went on, “that the latter part of the address, the part which was never delivered, was in Dom Patrick’s own handwriting. You yourself, I understand, typed out the earlier pages.”
“I did. I have shown you a duplicate.”
“Quite,” snapped Smith; “the final paragraph ends with the words ‘torn up by its evil roots, utterly destroyed.’ ”
“There was no more. The abbot informed me that he intended to finish the notes later. In fact, he did so. For when I accompanied him to the broadcasting station he said that his notes were complete.”
“And after his—seizure?”
“I returned almost immediately to the studio. But the manuscript was not on the desk.”
“Thank you. That is perfectly clear. We need detain you no longer.”
The secretary, whose forehead glistened with nervous perspiration, went out, closing the door silently behind him. Abbot Donegal looked up almost pathetically at Smith.
“I never thought,” said he, “I should live to find myself so helpless. Can you imagine that I remember nothing whatever of Dr. Prescott’s calling upon me? Except for that vague, awful moment when I faced the microphone and realized that my mental powers were deserting me, I have no recollection of anything that happened for some forty-eight hours before! Yet it seems that Prescott was here and that he gave me vital information. What can it have been? Great heavens—” he stood up, agitatedly—“what can it have been? Do you really believe that I am a victim, not of a failure in my health, but of an attempt to suppress this information?”
“Not an attempt, Father,” snapped Smith, “a success! You are lucky to be alive!”
“But who can have done this thing, and how did he do it?”
“The first question I can answer; the second I might answer if I could recover the missing manuscript. Probably it’s destroyed. We have a thousand-to-one chance. We are indebted to a phone call, which fortunately came through direct to you, for knowledge of Dr. Prescott’s whereabouts.”
“Why do you say ‘which fortunately came through’? You surely have no doubts about Richet?”
“How long with you?” snapped Smith.
“Nearly a year.”
“Nationality?”
“American.”
“I mean pedigree.”
“That I cannot tell you.”
“There’s color somewhere. I can’t place its exact shade. But one thing is clear: Dr. Prescott is in great danger. So are you.”
The abbot arrested Smith’s restless promenade, laying a hand upon his shoulder.
“There is only one other candidate in the running for dictatorship, Mr. Smith—Harvey Bragg. Yet I find it hard to believe that he.... You are not accusing Harvey Bragg?”
“Harvey Bragg!” Smith laughed shortly. “Popularly known as ‘Bluebeard,’ I believe? My dear Dom Patrick, Harvey Bragg is a small pawn in a big game.”
“Yet—he may be President, or Dictator.”
Smith turned, staring in his piercing way into the priest’s eyes.
“He almost certainly will be Dictator!”
Only the mad howling of the blizzard disturbed a silence which fell upon those words—“He almost certainly will be Dictator.”
Then the priest whose burning rhetoric, like that of Peter the Hermit, had roused a nation, found voice; he spoke in very low tones:
“Why do you say he certainly will be Dictator?”
“I said almost certainly. His war-cry ‘America for every man—every man for America’ is flashing like a fiery cross through the country. Do you realize that in office Harvey Bragg has made remarkable promises?”
“He has carried them out! He controls enormous funds.”
“He does! Have you any suspicion, Father, of the source of those funds?”
For one fleeting moment a haunted look came into the abbot’s eyes. A furtive memory had presented itself, only to elude him.
“None,” he replied wearily; “but his following today is greater than mine. Just as a priest and with no personal pretensions, I have tried—God knows I have tried—to keep the people sane, and clean. Machinery has made men mad. As machines reach nearer and nearer to the province of miracles, as Science mounts higher and higher—so Man sinks lower and lower. On the day that Machinery reaches up to the stars, Man, spiritually, will have sunk back to the primeval jungle.”
He dropped into his chair.
Smith, resting a lean, nervous hand upon the desk, leaned across it, staring into the speaker’s face.
“Harvey Bragg is a true product of his age,” he said tensely—“and he is backed by one man! I have followed this man from Europe to Asia, from Asia to South America, from South to North. The resources of three European Powers and of the United States have been employed to head that man off. But he is here! In the political disruption of this country he sees his supreme opportunity.”
“His name, Mr. Smith?”
“In your own interests, Father, I suggest it might be better that you don’t know—yet.”
Abbot Donegal challenged the steely eyes, read sincerity there, and nodded.
“I accept your suggestion, Mr. Smith. In the Church we are trained to recognize tacit understandings. You are not a private investigator instructed by the President, nor is ‘Mr. Smith’ your proper title. But I think we understand one another.... And you tell me that this man, whoever he may be, is backing Harvey Bragg?”
“I have only one thing to tell you: Stay up here at the top of your tower until you hear from me!”
“Remain a prisoner?”
Patrick Donegal stood up, suddenly aggressive, truculent.
“A prisoner, yes. I speak, Father, with respect and authority.”
“You may speak, Mr. Smith, with the authority of Congress, of the President in person, but my first duty is to God; my second to the State. I take the eight o’clock Mass in the morning.”
For a moment their glances met and challenged; then:
“There may be times, Father, when you have a duty even higher than this,” said Smith crisply.
“You cannot induce me, my friend, to close my eyes to a plain obligation. I do not doubt your sincerity. I have never met a man more honest or more capable. I cannot doubt my own danger. But in this matter I have made my choice.”
For a moment longer Federal Agent 56 stared at the priest, his lean face very grim. Then, suddenly stooping, he picked up his leather topcoat and his hat from the floor and shot out his hand.
“Good night, Father Abbot,” he snapped. “Don’t ring. I should like to walk down, although that will take some time. Since you refuse my advice, I leave you in good hands.”
“In the hands of God, Mr. Smith, as we all are.”
2
Outside on the street, beyond the great bronze door with its figure of the thorn-tortured head, King Blizzard held high revel. Snow was spat into the suffering face when the door was opened, as though powers of evil ruled that night, pouring contumely, contempt, upon the gentle Teacher. Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C., was standing there. He had one glimpse of the olive face of James Richet, who ushered the visitor out, heard his silky “Good night, Mr. Smith”; then the bronze door was closed, and the wind shrieked in mocking laughter around the Tower of the Holy Thorn.
Dimly through the spate of snow watchful men might be seen.
“Listen, Hepburn,” snapped Smith, “get this address: Weaver’s Farm, Winton, Connecticut. Phone that Dr. Orwin Prescott is not to step outside for one moment until I arrive. Arrange that we get there—fast. Have the place protected. Flying hopeless tonight. Special train to Cleveland. Side anything in our way. Have a plane standing by. Advise the pilot to look up emergency landings within easy radius of Weaver’s Farm. If blizzard continues, arrange for special to run through to Buffalo. Advise Buffalo.”
“Leave it to me.”
“Cover the man James Richet. I want hourly reports sent to headquarters. This priest’s life is valuable. See that he’s protected day and night. Have this place covered from now on. Grab anybody—anybody—that comes out tonight.”
“And where are you going, Chief?”
“I am going to glance over Dom Patrick’s home quarters. Meet me at the station....”
