by Sax Rohmer
The few peasants they met paid little attention to the lama priest and the boy who trudged on their way, except for one or two who were Buddhists. These respectfully saluted Tony, and he gave them a sign of hand which Nayland Smith had taught him.
They were in sight of a village which Moon Flower recognized, not more than a mile and a half from their destination, before anything disturbing happened. The day had been hot and they had pushed on at a good pace. They were tired. They had reached a point at which there was a choice of routes; they could either take the main road or a detour which would lengthen their journey.
“Should we risk the main road?” Tony asked. “Is it used much?”
“No,” Moon Flower said. “But we would have to pass through the village. I think this is a county line, and there may be a police post there.”
“Then I think we must go the long way, Moon Flower. Where will that lead us to?”
“To a gate in part of Lao Tse-Mung’s property, nearly half a mile from the house. It is locked. But there’s a hidden bell-push which rings a bell in the house. We have to cross the main road at one point, but the path continues on the other side.”
“Then let’s go.”
They resumed their tramp. At a point where the path threatened to lose itself in a plantation of young bamboo, their luck deserted them. The thicket proved to border the road and as there was no sound of traffic they stepped out from the path onto a narrow, unpaved highway. And Moon Flower grasped Tony’s arm.
A dusty bicycle lay on a bank, and sitting beside the cycle, smoking a cigarette, they saw a man in khaki police uniform.
Moon Flower suppressed a gasp. The policeman, however, looked more startled than they did as he got to his feet, dropping his Chinese cigarette, which Tony knew from experience tasted like a firecracker. It was getting toward dusk and their sudden appearance out of the shadow bordering the road clearly had frightened him. The man grew very angry. He snatched up his cigarette.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“We are trying to find our way to the river, which we have to cross. But we took the wrong path,” Tony told him.
“And where are you going, then?”
“I have to return to my monastery in Burma. I am taking this young disciple with me.”
“If you come from Burma, show me your papers, your permit to enter China.”
Tony fumbled inside the loose robe. In an interior pocket he had all the necessary credentials which had been sent at top speed by Lao Tse-Mung to Chungking before the party set out, how obtained Tony could only guess. Lao Tse-Mung was a clever man.
He handed the little folder to the police officer, wondering if the man could read. Whether he could or not, evidently he recognized the official forms. They authorized the bearer to enter China and remain for thirty days. There was still a week to go. Tony wondered why the smoke of his cigarette, drooping from a corner of his coarse mouth, didn’t suffocate him.
The man handed the passport back, clearly disappointed.
“Who is this boy?” he asked roughly. “Has he any official permit to travel?”
Thanks to Ray Jenkins, who had influential and corruptible friends in Chungking, “he” had. Tony produced a certificate for travel, signed by a member of the security bureau, authorizing Lo Hung-Chang, age 14, to leave his native town of Yung Chuan, but to report to security police at the Burma frontier before leaving China.
The disappointed policeman returned the certificate. Evidently he could read.
“You have only seven days to reach the frontier,” he growled. “If it takes you any longer, look out for trouble.”
“If I have earned this trouble, brother,” Tony told him piously, “undoubtedly it will come to me, for my benefit. Have you not sought the Path?”
“Your path is straight ahead,” the surly officer declared, furious because he had found nothing wrong. “You’ll have to walk to Lung Chang and then on to Niu-fo-tu to reach the river.” He dropped the last fragment of his stale cigarette and put his foot on it as Tony fumbled to return the certificate to his inside pocket. “You seem to have a lot of things in that pouch of yours. I have heard of lama priests getting away with pounds of opium that never saw the Customs. Turn out all you have there.”
Tony’s pulse galloped. He heard Moon Flower catch her breath. And he had to conquer a mad impulse to crush his fist into the face of the policeman. As he had done in jail at Chia-Ting, he reflected that Communist doctrines seemed to turn men into sadists. He hesitated. But only for a decimal of a second. He had money in a body belt, but carried nothing else, except the official papers which had been forged, and—the mystery manuscript.
He turned the big pocket out, handed the Chinese manuscript to the policeman.
If he attempted to confiscate it, Tony knew that no choice would be left. He would have to knock the man out before he had time to reach for the revolver which he carried. He watched him thumbing over the pages in fading light.
“What is this?” the policeman demanded.
Tony’s breath returned to normal.
“A religious writing in the hand of a great disciple of our Lord Buddha. A present from this inspired scholar to my principal. If you could understand it, brother, you would already be on the Path.”
“Brother” threw the manuscript down contemptuously. “Move on,” he directed, and turned to his bicycle.
Moon Flower breathed a long sigh of relief as he rode off. “I wonder if you can imagine, Chi Foh,” she said, “my feelings when you trusted that thing to him? I seemed to hear Sir Denis’s words, ‘the most powerful weapon against Fu-Manchu which I ever held in my hands.’ Did you realize that he might have orders to look for it?”
“Yes. But the odds against it were heavy. And if he had tried anything, I was all set to make sure he didn’t get away with it.”
They reached their destination without further trouble and found Nayland Smith anxiously waiting for them.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
For two days they remained in Lao Tse-Mung’s house, apparently inactive, except that Nayland Smith spent hours alone, smoking pipe after pipe, deep in thought. Tony guessed that he was trying to discover a plan to rescue Dr. Cameron-Gordon and was finding it no easy thing to do.
With Moon Flower, Tony roamed about the beautiful gardens, and this brief interlude of peace was a chapter in his life which he knew he would always remember with happiness. Lao Tse-Mung had warned them all that Fu-Manchu was by no means satisfied with what he had seen and heard.
“My house will be watched. I shall be spied upon. If he discovers that you are here, none of us will be safe any longer. So never show yourselves at any point which is visible from the road. The entire property is walled, and the top of the walls are wired. But at places there are tall trees, which overlook the walls, and these trees I cannot wire.”
Lao Tse-Mung’s talented secretary, Sun Shao-Tung, had translated all the Russian letters in Skobolov’s briefcase, and Nayland Smith had been interested to learn from the correspondence that the research scientist employed at the hidden Soviet plant was not a Russian, but a German, Dr. von Wehrner. But even more exciting was a penciled note which Sir Denis deduced to be a translation of a code message:
“If hidden Ms. as reported secure at any cost. Proceed as arranged to governor’s villa to allay suspicion. Cancel further plans. Join plane at Huang-Ko-Shu.”
“I was right, McKay,” Nayland Smith declared. “This Chinese document is dynamite.”
Sun Shao-Tung had gone to work on the mysterious manuscript. He had worked far into the night, only to find himself baffled.
Nayland Smith asked him to make a careful copy in case the original should be lost—or stolen. It was late during the second night of their stay at Lao Tse-Mung’s house that something happened.
The secretary worked in a top room, equipped as an up-to-date office, with typewriter, filing cabinets, bookcases, and a large desk. This betrayed the m
odern side of the old mandarin, and was in keeping with his private airplane, his cars, his electrical lighting plant, and other equipment; a striking contrast to the Oriental character of the reception rooms below.
Tony occupied a room next to the office. Nayland Smith was lodged on the other side of the corridor. He was unaccountably restless. Lao Tse-Mung’s guest rooms had electric lights and all the other facilities of a modem hotel. It was very late when Tony switched off his bedside lamp and tried to sleep. But the night seemed to be haunted by strange sounds, furtive movements which he couldn’t identify or place.
The shadow of Fu-Manchu was creeping over him. He began thinking, again, about the dead Russian, seeing in his imagination the man’s ceaseless battle with clouds of invisible insects. Of course, it had been delirium. But what a queer kind of delirium. Skobolov had died at the hand of Dr. Fu-Manchu. But of what had he died?
Tony found himself listening intently for a buzz of insects in the room.
He heard none. He tried to laugh at these phantom fears.
Then he began to listen again.
There was a sound—a very faint sound. It was not a sound of insects, and it was not in his room. It came from the adjoining office.
He knew that Sun Shao-Tung had retired two hours before. He had heard him go. Yet something or someone moved in the office.
Tony swung out of bed, stole to the door of his room, opened it cautiously.
Barefooted, he crept along to the office door.
He stood listening, silently.
Yes, there was someone inside!
He began to turn the handle and gently opened the door. As it opened, a draft of cold air swept onto his face.
It brought with it a sense of horror. He shuddered, then fully opened the door.
The office was in darkness. But a beam of moonlight through the open window just brushed the top of the large desk. There was a dim figure in the shadow behind the desk, and two hands, which alone were visible in the moonlight, busily swept up a litter of papers lying there.
Perhaps the lighting created an illusion. But they were gray hands!
Tony clenched his fists, took a step forward, and a lean figure sprang over the desk, leapt upon him, and had his throat in an icy grip.
He uttered a stifled shriek as that ghastly grip closed on him; it was a cry of loathing rather than fear. But in the face of what he knew to be deadly peril, his brain remained clear. He struck a right, a left to the jaw of his antagonist. The blows registered. The grip on his throat relaxed. He struck again. But he was becoming dizzy.
Desperately, he threw himself on the vaguely outlined figure that was strangling him. He touched the naked body—and the body was cold.
He was fighting with a living corpse!
Very near the end of his resources, he used his knee viciously. The thing grunted, fell back, and sprang toward the open window.
Swaying like a drunken man, he saw, dimly, a gray figure sweep up something from the desk and leap to the window. Tony tottered, threw out his arms to save himself, and collapsed on the floor. His outstretched hands touched a heavy bronze bowl which the secretary used as a wastebasket.
Pain, anger, gave him a brief renewal of strength. He grasped the bowl, forced himself to his feet, and hurled the bowl at the head of the retreating thing.
It reached its target. He heard the dull thud. It rebounded and crashed against the glass of the opened window.
But the living-dead horror vanished.
* * *
Lights… voices… arms which lifted him… the tang of brandy.
Tony came to life.
The lighted office looked red. His head swam. Through this red mist he saw Nayland Smith bending over him.
“A close call, McKay. Take it easy.”
Tony found himself in a deep rest-chair. He had some difficulty in swallowing. He managed to sit up.
“It went through the window,” he croaked hoarsely, “although… I hit it on the head with… that.”
The bronze bowl lay among a litter of glass.
“I know,” Sir Denis snapped. “It’s phenomenal. We have search parties out.”
“But—”
“Don’t strain your throat, McKay. Yes. It has the cipher manuscript.”
* * *
In Lao Tse-Mung’s library, surrounded by an imposing collection of books in many languages, four men assembled. A servant placed a variety of refreshments on a low table around which they sat, and was dismissed. The staff’s quarters were separated from the house, and the disturbance in the office had not reached them. Mercifully, it had failed to arouse Moon Flower, whose apartment was in the west wing. The thing which had happened in the night was known only to these four who met in the library.
Lao Tse-Mung and his frightened secretary sipped tea. Tony and Nayland Smith drank Scotch and soda. Tony smoked a cigarette and Sir Denis smoked his pipe.
“My chief mechanic reports,” their host stated in his calm voice and perfect English, “that the connections are undisturbed. Six men are now examining the possible points of entry, and if anything is discovered to account for the presence of this thief in my house, I shall be notified immediately.”
“When it’s daylight,” Nayland Smith said, “I’ll take a look, myself.”
“Of course you understand, Sir Denis, what has happened? We have had a visit from a Cold Man. These creatures have been reported in the neighborhood of Chia-Ting on more than one occasion, but never here. It is a punishable offense to touch them. If seen, the police must be informed. An ambulance from a hospital established recently in that area by the governor, Huan Tsung-Chao, is soon on the scene, I understand; the attendants seem to know how to deal with these ghastly phenomena. They are believed, by the ignorant people, to be vampires and are known as ‘the living-dead.’”
“The ignorant people have my sympathy,” Tony declared hoarsely.
“Personally,” Nayland Smith snapped, “I’m not surprised. That master of craft, Dr. Fu-Manchu, has discovered that I am here. That it was he who murdered Skobolov in order to recover this manuscript is beyond dispute. But how he found out that it had fallen into my hands is a mystery.”
“I warned you,” Lao Tse-Mung pointed out in his quiet way, “that my house would be watched.”
“You did,” Nayland Smith agreed, bitterly. “But even so, how did the watcher discover the very room in which this manuscript lay? And, crowning mystery, how did the Cold Man get in to steal it?”
As he ceased speaking, the large room seemed to become eerily still. This stillness was broken by a sound which sent a chill through Tony’s nerves. Although a long way off, it was as clearly audible, penetrating, and horrifying as the wail of a banshee. A long minor cry, rising to a high final note on which it died away.
Even Lao Tse-Mung clutched the arms of his chair. Nayland Smith sprang up as if electrified.
“You heard it, McKay?”
“Of course I heard it. For God’s sake, what was it?”
“A sound I haven’t heard for years and never expected to hear in China. It was the warning cry of a dacoit. Fu-Manchu has always employed these Burmese robbers and assassins. Come on, McKay! I have a revolver in my pocket. Are you armed?”
“No.”
“You may have my gun,” Lao Tse-Mung volunteered, entirely restored to his normal calm. From under his robe he produced a small but serviceable automatic. “It is fully charged. What do you propose to do, Sir Denis?”
“To try to find the spot where that call came from.”
Nayland Smith was heading for the door when a faint bell-note detained him.
“Wait,” Lao Tse-Mung directed.
The old mandarin drew back the loose sleeve of his robe. Tony saw that he wore one of the phenomenal two-way radios on his wrist. He listened, spoke briefly, then disconnected.
“My chief mechanic reports, Sir Denis, that the cry we heard came from a point between the main gate and the drive-in to the garage. He
is there now.”
“Come on, McKay,” Nayland Smith repeated, and ran out, followed by Tony.
They headed for the main gate, looking grotesque in their pajamas and robes. They slowed down as they reached the gate, stood still, and listened. The sound of voices reached them from somewhere ahead.
Tony found himself retracing that sloping path behind the high wall which led to the garage—the path along which Mai Cha had taken him on the memorable night he had escaped the Master.
The beam of a flashlight presently led them to Lao Tse-Mung’s chief mechanic. He had two other men with him. A tall ladder was propped against the wall, and another man could be seen on the top looking over. Sir Denis was expected, for Wong, the mechanic, saluted and reported. He spoke Chinese with a Szechuan dialect which seemed to puzzle Sir Denis but with which Tony’s travels in the area had made him fairly familiar. Fortunately, he also spoke quite good English.
He had been walking toward this point, scanning the parapet of the wall with his flashlight, when that awful cry broke the silence, and died away. “It came from about here,” Wong said. “I called out, and the nearest man in the search party ran to join me. My orders were not to open the gates and not to disconnect the wiring. The gardeners brought a ladder so that we could look into the road. It is set so that the rungs do not touch the wires. But the man up there can see nothing and I have ordered him to come down.”
“You have heard no other sound?” Tony asked him.
“Not a movement,” the man assured him. “Nothing stirred.”
The gardener descended from the long ladder and was about to remove it.
“One moment,” Nayland Smith snapped. “I want to take a look. This intrigues me.”
“Be careful of the wiring,” Wong warned. “It carries a high voltage and a slight touch is enough.”
“That wouldn’t interest you,” Tony called out as Nayland Smith started up the ladder.
“That’s just what does interest me!” Sir Denis called back.
He mounted right to the top of the ladder. He didn’t look out onto the road; he looked fixedly at the parapet where the wires were stretched. Then he came down. From a pocket of his gown he took his pipe and his pouch.
