President Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

and hide yourself behind the trunks—I have placed a chair for the purpose. Your job is to watch the windows but not to be seen—”
    “Good God!” Hepburn whispered, and clutched Smith’s arm.
    “What is it?”
    “There’s someone in your bed!”
    “There’s no one in my bed, Hepburn, nor is there any time to waste. This job is life or death. Get to your post.”
    Mark Hepburn rallied his resources: that shock of discovering the apparent presence of someone in the bed had shaken him. But now he was idly cool again, cool as Nayland Smith. He climbed on to the chest of drawers, curled up there behind the trunks, although space was limited, in such a manner that he had a view of the windows while remaining invisible from anyone in the room. This achieved:
    “Where are you, Sir Denis?” he asked, speaking in a low voice.
    “Also entrenched, Hepburn. Do nothing until I give the word. And now listen…”
    Mark Hepburn began to listen. Clearly he sensed that the menace came from the windows, although its nature was a mystery to him. He heard the hooting of taxis the eerie wail which denotes that the Fire Department is out, the concerted whine of motor engines innumerable. Then, more intimately, these sounds becoming a background, he heard something else…
    It was a very faint noise but a very curious one; almost it might have been translated as the impact of some night bird, or of a bat, against the stone face of the building…
    He listened intently, aware of the fact that his heartbeats had accelerated. He allowed his glance to wander for a moment in quest of Nayland Smith. Presently, accustomed now to the peculiar light of the room, he detected him. He was crouching on a glass-topped bureau, set just right of the window, holding what Hepburn took to be a sawn-off shotgun in his hand.
    Then again Hepburn directed the whole of his attention to the windows.
    Clearly outlined against a sullen sky he could see one of New York’s tallest buildings. Only three of its many windows showed any light: one at the very top, just beneath the cupola, and two more in the dome itself which crowned the tall, slender structure. Tensed as he was, listening, waiting, for what was to come, the thought flashed through his mind: Who lived in those high, lonely rooms—who was awake there at this hour?
    Another curious light was visible from where he lay—a red glow somewhere away to the left towards the river; a constantly changing light of which he could see only the outer halo. Then a moving blur appeared far below, and a rumbling sound told him that a train was passing…
    Suddenly, unexpectedly, a sharp silhouette obscured much of this dim nocturne…
    Something out of that exotic background belonging to the man who, alone, shared this vigil tonight, had crept up between the distant twinkling lights and Mark Hepburn’s view.
    Vaguely he realized that the phenomenon was due to the fact that someone, miraculously, had climbed the face of the building, or part of it, and now, as he saw, was supporting himself upon the ledge. There was a moment of tense silence. It was followed by activity on the part of the invader perched perilously outside. A light, yellow-muffled, shone into the room, its searching ray questing around, to rest finally for a moment upon the bed.
    Mark Hepburn held his breath; almost, he betrayed his presence.
    The appearance of the disordered bed suggested that a sleeper, sheets drawn up right over his head, lay there!
    “Dr. Fu-Manchu has become a slave of routine”—Nayland Smith’s words echoed in Hepburn’s mind. “It is almost a habit with him to test his death-agents upon someone else, and if the result is satisfactory to try them on me.”
    The shadowy silhouette perched upon the window ledge projected some kind of slender telescopic rod into the room. It stretched out towards the bed… Upon it depended what looked like a square box. The rod was withdrawn. The visitor accomplished this with a minimum