The Chaos of Chung-Fu
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY EDMUND GLASBY
The Ash Murders: Supernatural Mystery Stories
The Chaos of Chung-Fu: Weird Mystery Stories
The Dyrysgol Horror and Other Weird Tales
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2013 by Edmund Glasby
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
To the Memory of John S. Glasby
THE CHAOS OF CHUNG-FU
Jack Murphy’s investigations into the disappearances were to lead him into a shadowy and dangerous world of Oriental horror, sorcery, and madness.
It was in a litter-strewn back alley in downtown Chicago that private investigator Jack Murphy first saw the poster. Damp and tattered, pinned to the wall of a squalid Chinese takeaway, it looked like something from a hundred years ago.
The evening was quite dark and it was raining heavily. Water ran from the brim of his hat and he pulled up the collar of his long coat before crossing over to take a closer look.
He flicked his torch on and shone the beam directly at the poster, grimacing somewhat at what he saw. For the poster was a flyer, an advertisement for a forthcoming theatrical event and one, which, judging by the images depicted, was not for the faint of heart.
Emblazoned along the top, in stark, slanting lettering was:
THE SORCERY OF CHUNG-FU
An evening of Oriental magic and mystery
Chung-Fu. Now there was a name he had heard whispered on the streets.
The image that dominated the garish poster was of a sly-looking Chinese man with a tasselled skullcap and an expensive, embroidered silk robe. Below him were a series of alarming, theatrical scaled-down drawings; a scantily-clad woman shown in mid-scream, strapped to a rack as a pendulum blade swung low; a grinning, hideous puppet-like thing, its dagger held aloft; a man cowering from two tigers; and, in the bottom left corner, another man, open-mouthed, vomiting a stream of spiders. Columns around which massive pythons coiled bordered the central theme.
There was a bizarreness to it that unnerved even him, filled him with an uneasy sensation, which sent a shiver through his body. Whether there was any connection between it and the rash of disappearances in this area that he was investigating he didn’t know, but as he had so little to go on, it was a line of enquiry he would keep open.
From the details he had managed to piece together, the disappearances had been happening for several years and there were some common features that made him think that there was definitely something sinister behind them. All of the missing were lowlifes: those social unfortunates that the police were not overly concerned with, the downtrodden demi-monde—vagrants, ladies of easy virtue, and drunks for the main part. And, had it not been for the disappearance of Harry ‘Two-Bellies’ Lafayette—a local gangster with high-up friends, he doubted whether anyone would have bothered to investigate at all.
Murphy found himself reflecting on this as he studied the poster. There was a forthcoming show scheduled for a week’s time and, after confirming the venue, he decided it was a show he was going to attend. That being the case, he thought it prudent to see what, if anything, he could discover about this enigmatic Chinese showman and his magic show.
‘Big’ Teddy Maxwell, the head of the local mob, afraid that a gang war might be starting on his turf, was paying him good money and he wanted results. As things currently stood he had no other avenues of investigation, everything so far turning out to be dead ends.
Removing the poster from the wall, Murphy rolled it up and stuck it into an inside coat pocket. The rain was becoming heavier, drenching him in its miserable deluge. He stepped closer to the wall and reached for a cigarette, lighting it with a deft flick of a match. He inhaled, taking the smoke into his lungs before exhaling a cloud of blue smoke from his nostrils.
Some inner intuition, one that he had learned to trust over his years as a private investigator, told him that there was something highly suspect about this Chung-Fu, something that definitely warranted deeper investigation. Just what it was, well, that was something he hoped to discover.
With that thought, he hunched his shoulders and stalked, broodingly, back to his apartment, completely unaware of the pair of dark eyes that watched his every movement, tracking him with an intensity of purpose.
* * * * * * *
It was the sound of the creak of the seventh tread on the stairs that made Murphy look up from where he sat at the table, on which his half-empty bottle of cheap whisky rested. The sound of a careless footfall.
Immediately, he got up and sidestepped to his right, towards where his coat, and more importantly his holstered gun, lay. He was halfway there when the door burst open and an Oriental-looking thug rushed in, a knife in his hand. Clearly this was something other than a social visit.
The knife came flying and Murphy ducked so that it went clear of his head and juddered into the far wall. He fumbled for his gun, but the man launched a spinning kick that caught him high in the chest, knocking the air from him and sending him back. Toppling over a chair, he just had time to roll aside to avoid another savage kick.
Scrambling to his feet, Murphy raised his fists. A self-trained pugilist, he adopted a defensive stance, ready and more than willing to give his attacker what for. The man came forward, making a series of vicious swings, his piggy, close-set eyes filled with hatred.
He came at a rush. Murphy saw his arm go back as he made to bring down a chop with the side of his right hand. Shifting nimbly to the side, Murphy blocked the attack, biting back the agony in his arm. He then wrong-footed his attacker, grabbed him and, using his raw strength, swung him back towards the door.
There was a cry of pain as the two collided. The private investigator sprang forward, delivering a solid right hook to the unfortunate’s back. He briefly considered getting his gun. He was just about to, when the man sprang to his feet with the agility of a wild cat and leapt forward in an acrobatic move that took him by surprise. He tried to block the sudden flurry of kicks that struck him, forcing him back. The back of his legs struck the table. Reaching out with his right hand, he made a grab for the whisky bottle. Swinging it down he crashed it over the man’s head. Glass shattered.
Dazed and hurt, the Chinese man shook his head, trying to refocus. He recovered quickly and came at Murphy again, his hands weaving in deft movements before him.
And then there were hands at Murphy’s throat, ragged nails biting into the flesh at his neck. Fighting back the hurt, he jabbed a clenched fist into the man’s stomach, making him release his hold.
Uttering a curse, the thug staggered back, falling to his knees under the force of the punch. A tough and wiry opponent, he lunged forward, arms flailing, head down, pummelling into Murphy as he pushed himself upright, catching him before he could dispatch him with a hefty kick. Together they crashed back, colliding with a chest of drawers and falling to the floor.
Scrambling to his feet, Murphy grabbed his attacker by his shirt collar. He himself was then smacked in the stomach. There was a dull roaring in his ears and all of the wind seemed to rush from his lungs. A follow-up chop sent Murphy reeling back against the window, his head temporarily swimming. Like striking snakes, more blows blurred before his eyes, swings and jabs that he had trouble countering.
Murphy’s ribs and stomach ached and things were now getting desperate. He would have to resort to a bit of dirty fighting, the style he had learnt on the mean streets of Brooklyn where he had been raised. Catching hold of one of the man’s arms, he hauled him close, his other hand reaching out and grabbing a handful of unwashed, greasy hair. He pulled violently, ripping hair from his assailant’s scalp
, before bringing the head down to meet his rising knee.
Howling in agony, the man tried to break free, smacking two quick-fire jabs into Murphy’s ribs. Murphy held on, hauled his attacker to his feet, spun him around and drove him, headfirst, into the wall. Grabbing his stunned foe by the back of his collar, he repeated the act twice more before throwing the badly battered man to the floor. He was just about to finish him off with a savage kick when, to his surprise, he got to his feet.
Snarling his anger, Murphy grabbed him in a headlock. Applying all of his strength, he hoped to squeeze the life from him or break his neck.
Like a slimy eel, the other wriggled free, nipped behind Murphy and hacked two chops into his kidneys. Groaning his hurt, Murphy half-fell and reeled across the room out into the corridor. Warped and bleary images dashed across his vision. He shook his head and tried to focus. Suddenly a chair came flying. He braced himself as it cracked off his right shoulder. The force of the smash almost sent him careering down the narrow stairs.
Murphy’s implacable enemy somersaulted forward, landing nimbly on his feet.
Wiping away the blood that ran from a split lower lip, Murphy landed several solid blows with his right fist. He then dodged past the other, nipped back into his room and made a frantic attempt to get his gun. His attacker sprang on his back and the two of them made a bizarre shadow outline on the wall as they fought and grappled. Murphy tried to throw the other clear. More by accident than design he stumbled and, using his raw strength, he hauled the man free, dashing him, head over heels, out through his apartment window. Glass shattered.
The Chinese man fell past the fire escape and plummeted five storeys to the dingy street below.
Murphy looked down and saw the body, illuminated in the flashing red neon light of the late night diner nearby.
Then, before his disbelieving eyes, something truly unexpected happened. The body lying broken on the rain-washed street below exploded in a fire-cracker burst of streamers, flame, and smoke! The acrid smell of gunpowder wafted up from some fifty feet below.
* * * * * * *
‘Big’ Teddy Maxwell was lots of things, but he certainly wasn’t big—at least not in the physical sense. He was short and balding, clean-shaven and debonair, but there was a glint of menace in his eyes as he glared at Murphy. “What do you mean, he just turned to smoke?”
Murphy stood his ground. He was used to dealing with wise guys, having spent much of his life in the company of bootleggers and racketeers. “I’m telling you, that’s what happened. I threw him from my apartment window and then he just sort of blew up, like a dummy filled with fireworks on the pavement. By the time I got down there to check, there was nothing left but a pile of streamers and that smell you get after someone’s pulled a Christmas cracker.”
“Well I’m not paying you good money to go round fighting things that ain’t real. I want you to find out what’s happened to ‘Two-Bellies’, you hear me?” Maxwell turned to one of his goons who stood behind him; a thick-set ape of a man with a black handlebar moustache and a squint. “You ever heard of any of this rubbish, ‘Muscles’?”
“No, boss.” ‘Muscles’ shook his head,
“You’ve got to believe me,” said Murphy. “I don’t understand it. The only thing I can think is that there’s some connection with this Chung-Fu guy. Maybe it was some kind of fakery, Chinese magic. I don’t know. Anyhow, I’ve been lying low just in case someone’s got it in for me. Could be this Chung-Fu thinks I’m on to him.”
“Chung-Fu’s nothing but a two-bit pain in the ass. He thinks he rules Chinatown, but he can’t even run a laundry business. This magic show, I bet that’s just a load of baloney to try and bring in a bit of extra dough.” Maxwell cracked his knuckles. “Still, I think you should keep an eye on him. Last thing I need right now, what with those boys down in the south giving me grief, is for that damned slant to muscle in on our operations here. If he is holding ‘Two-Bellies’, then he may try and get some information out of him. But me and ‘The Bellies’ go way back, and I know he won’t squeal.”
“So what do you want me to do?” asked Murphy.
“I want you to do what I’m paying you to do. Find ‘Two-Bellies’. If you think that yellow son-of-a-bitch is involved, then find out and tell me.”
“Okay. I’ll see what this show’s all about,” Murphy replied, “but I might need a bit of support if things turn nasty.”
“Don’t tell me you need one of my men to hold you by the hand? It’s only a freakin’ circus show.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t get beat up by a dummy filled with Chinese firecrackers, did you?”
Disgruntled, Maxwell shook his head. “I’ll see if I can spare anyone. Now go, go watch the clowns.” He reached into a pocket and removed a dollar bill. “Here, the candy floss is on me.”
‘Muscles’ and some of the others chuckled.
* * * * * * *
Chung-Fu. The mere name had come to instill a certain terror in Murphy that now brought gooseflesh to his skin. And yet here he now stood, waiting in line with the forty or so others in the pouring rain outside the ramshackle theatre. There were many more posters stuck to the walls, identical to the one he had first seen a week ago.
The crowd shuffled forward a step, then another, a sign that the doors had opened. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Murphy moved forward, eyes scrutinising the sinister face of the Chinese magician. He sneered at it in an act of bravado and scratched the stubble on his chin. If he were the one responsible for the disappearances, and if it had been he who had sent that strange assassin after him, there was going to be hell to pay. He would have to be a damned good magician to avoid six slugs shot at close range. That was his intent, to catch him backstage and interrogate him after the show was over.
The entrance to the theatre had been done up rather tackily to resemble some kind of Chinese temple, with dragons and red and gold banners hung here and there. It looked cheap and uninspiring, and it was of no surprise to Murphy that many, if not all, of those in the queue were tramps, winos, and deadbeats. A pervasive air of sordidness prevailed, the smell from those waiting to go in adding to its overall unpleasantness.
Still, Murphy had frequented worse dens of inequity.
From the talk he overheard whilst waiting to enter, it became apparent that none had ever been to one of Chung-Fu’s performances before.
Murphy bought a ticket from the coolie hat-wearing usher on duty, paid a nickel for a bag of peanuts at the makeshift kiosk, and was directed to one of the doors through which the crowd was already filing. Now in the foyer, it seemed that everywhere he looked he saw more posters, some depicting forthcoming attractions, others highlighting stages of Chung-Fu’s none-too-illustrious career.
It was dark in the theatre.
Murphy found his place, about halfway down the decrepit flea pit. He settled into his uncomfortable seat, his sight virtually useless in the shadowy gloom. He ate a handful of nuts. Figures shifted in the darkness around him as others took their places.
Minutes passed, the constant murmuring of those around increasing the sense of trepidation that was slowly giving way to fear within his mind. His body felt stiff and cold. A tiny muscle in his cheek twitched uncontrollably. He felt as though the theatre had become filled with amorphous, muttering things, each hungry for his blood.
Then the music started. To call it music would be an overstatement, for this was a dreadful clanging clamour mixed with tinkling bells, clashing gongs, and beating drums; an infernal, diabolical din that grew from silence into a hideous cacophony. Thankfully it faded, only to be replaced with a mournful, dirge-like singing that seemed to rise like something dead and wailing from the theatre basement, where all manner of things could lurk. Like a dark, unseen tide, it quickly drowned out the hubbub from those seated.
Murphy patted the lump of his gun, thankful that he had it.
Spotlights illuminated the stage. A thick, red, moth-eaten curtain concealed whatever lay
beyond. The music stopped.
Then came a voice, a strange ethereal voice reciting strange Chinese words that Murphy couldn’t understand. Accompanying this incomprehensible introduction came a shuffling, crooked figure from the right side of the stage. It was an ancient man with a long, wispy grey beard. He was dressed in a rough grey-brown cloak, a knobbly stick in his hand. His movements were arthritic and doddery and, nearing the centre, he stumbled and nearly fell over.
Some in the audience laughed.
The Chinese commentary stopped.
Murphy squinted. Was this Chung-Fu in disguise?
The old man raised his terribly wrinkled face. “Good evening and welcome.” His voice was wavering. “May I take this opportunity to thank you all for coming on such a miserable night. We have a host of entertainers this evening. Tonight’s first act features those manic midgets from Old Shanghai—Sammy Hung and his sons: Ling, Jing, Xing, and Weng. Then we have, all the way from the Grand Guignol Theatre in Paris, France, Monsieur Claude Giraudin. After his performance, you’re sure to be enthralled by the puppetry of Huey Labada.”
Huey Labada. Murphy sat up. He thought he had heard that name before somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where.
“Tonight’s penultimate act before the main attraction is Madame Li Sung, the Empress of Escapology. And then, the one you’ve all come to see, the Master of the Macabre, the Chinese Conjuror, the Devil of Xiang-Shang-Po, ChungFu!”
With no further words, he shambled off the stage.
The curtain rose, albeit clumsily. The backdrop was a poor mockup of a dusty Chinese village street, dilapidated, ramshackle timber houses with red and gold banners hanging from windows and doorways. A large cart filled with marrows and pumpkins rested to one side.
For a time nothing happened and the murmuring in the crowd grew. Then, with the crack and bang of numerous fireworks a small Chinese dragon scurried out onto the stage, the feet of its operators clearly visible. It was a crude-looking thing of scarlet and gold, adorned with streamers, its head shaggy, its large goggle eyes wobbling, its mouth snapping. It weaved and danced for a few minutes before snaking off stage.
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