Insanity threatened to take him. By some extreme mental effort, he managed to force it down, to focus on staying alive. He would willingly spend the rest of his days in the nuthouse if it meant getting out of this hell.
Then he and four others were at the doors. They were locked.
“Move it!” Murphy shouted, pushing aside one of the others and blasting two bullets at the lock. He then kicked the door open.
Brighter light struck them.
Then pandemonium spilled out into the foyer as several of the stagehands came charging at them. The first went down with a slug between the eyes. He fell and exploded—just like the goon who had attacked him in his apartment.
“Sweet Jesus!” shouted one man.
“Get out! Everybody out!” yelled Murphy, discharging another round, downing another explosive-filled attacker. He made a mad rush for the outer doors. Shadows and other horrors poured out after them, closing in.
Then the main theatre doors crashed open.
Three men, armed with Thompson submachine guns stood in the doorway, framed against the light flung from the street lights outside.
“That you, Murphy?” one of them shouted. “What the hell’s going on?” It was ‘Muscles’.
“Get outta here!” Turning, Murphy fired a few more shots and ran to join them.
There followed a yammering of submachine gunfire as the hoodlums riddled the foyer with bullets. There were screams and shouts as dark things swelled and vanished, bubbled forth and retreated, ebbed and flooded. More of those strange, explosive-filled ‘men’ joined the carnage. The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder.
Murphy’s mind darkened, unwilling or unable to take in any more of the unfolding madness. He was vaguely aware of a pair of strong arms dragging him clear of the theatre.
* * * * * * *
Maxwell wasn’t buying any of it. He stood, his back to Murphy, gazing out the window onto the rain-washed street below.
“But it’s true, boss,” said ‘Muscles’, “there were some weird things going on. I saw it.”
“Listen to what your man’s telling you,” added Murphy. “That goddamned Chinaman’s—”
Maxwell spun round to face them. “What? The Devil?” He strode over to his desk. “And that somehow he’s turned ‘Two-Bellies’ and Huey Labada into freakin’ glove puppets? Come on, what kind of idiot would believe that?” He pointed directly at Murphy. “Nobody makes an idiot outta me. Nobody! You got that?”
“Sure, I’ve got that.” Murphy nodded. He was still trying to come to terms with the horrors of the show he had seen the other evening. Now, in the relative sanity of Maxwell’s office, with the grey light of morning shining in through the window, he tried to tell himself that some of it had been but stage trickery. Some of it—that was the problem. If only he could convince himself that all of it had been nothing more than elaborate theatricals effects.
“But what about the men that exploded, boss?” It was ‘Muscles’’who raised the question.
Maxwell shook his head. “I don’t know. That could be anything. Maybe they weren’t real to begin with. Maybe you just thought they were real. Dummies or something.” It was clear he didn’t have a good answer for this.
“And ‘Two-Bellies’?” asked Murphy. “Okay, maybe that thing I saw wasn’t him, but surely you agree it’s highly coincidental his name being used? And Labada, I remember now. He was one of those that helped spring ‘Two-Bellies’ out of Bridewell, wasn’t he?”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that maybe he and ‘Two-Bellies’ were pals. Maybe they went to one of these shows together. And, even if you don’t think that spooky Chinaman has supernatural powers, I’d say it still suggests that something happened to them there, at one of his shows. It’s just too coincidental for their names to be used and for one to appear as a mobster, the other a jailbird.”
“This is getting nuts. But maybe you’re right.” Maxwell frowned. “Well, let’s not get the cops involved. That’s the last thing we need right now.” He looked Murphy dead in the eye. “What do you suggest? I mean, you’ve seen this man. You claim to know what he’s capable of.”
“Well, that’s just it. I’m trying to forget just what he’s capable of. Madness and magic, what more can I say? If the Devil does exist, I’d say he’s living somewhere in Chinatown, Chicago.”
“Right, I’ve had enough of this.” Maxwell reached into a drawer and withdrew an automatic. He looked to his henchman. “Devil or not, he’s made a big mistake in muscling in on my patch. Get the boys together. Tell ’em that we’re going to sort out a little business in Chinatown. Tell ’em to come armed. And get Larry ‘the Lips’ on the phone. He’ll know where this slant lives.” He clicked home a magazine. “It’s time I paid this Chung-Fu a visit and put him straight about who runs this freakin’ town.”
* * * * * * *
Four cars filled with hoodlums rendezvoused on one of the wide streets opposite the Dow-Tung Restaurant. A typical pork and noodles joint, it was frequented by all manner of unsavoury types: immigrants, railroad workers, dockhands, and bums. This was where Larry ‘the Lips’ had said Chung-Fu held out.
“You ready for this, Murphy?” asked Maxwell, looking out of the car window at the sleazy establishment across the road.
“I don’t know.” It was an honest enough answer. He had seen things the other night that had dragged his sanity to the verge of breaking point, stretched it like toffee. And who knew what fresh terrors awaited them now? Just how effective would bullets prove against the terrible magic of Chung-Fu?
“Let’s do this.” Maxwell got out of the car.
More car doors opened, and a dozen men in long coats, their weapons concealed beneath, stepped out and followed him.
Murphy walked along behind them.
Pushing aside an old Chinese man who was smoking something suspicious from a long clay pipe, Maxwell went up to the front door of the restaurant and kicked it open. He then fired a shot in the air. “I’m looking for Chung-Fu,” he shouted.
There was immediate silence. Confused, wrinkled faces turned to look.
“I know some of you speak English, so I’ll ask once more. Where’s Chung-Fu?”
No one answered.
Maxwell shot a man nearby. “I’ll keep shooting till someone tells me.”
The crowd inside grew hostile, but their hostility turned to fear when they saw Maxwell’s heavies gathered in the doorway, their Tommy guns and double-barrelled shotguns out. Murphy peered from within their ranks.
Maxwell pointed his gun at another man. His heavy-handedness got results.
“I tell, I tell!” The man raised his arms.
“Where?”
“Chung-Fu, he leaving for China. He being taken to shipyard. He decide he live here no more. He take man with two bellies with him, some others and he go.”
“Two bellies?” Maxwell snarled. “Two-Bellies?!”
“Little man in crate.”
“Never mind a crate, I’ll put him in a box six feet under if he’s joined forces with the Chinaman.” Maxwell aimed the gun. “Which dock?”
“I think he say Six.”
“Are you going to go after him?” asked Murphy.
“You bet I’m going to go after him. I hate leaving loose ends. Nobody crosses Teddy Maxwell and gets away with it.” The mob boss returned his gun to its holster and turned to his men. “Some of you remain here in case this son-of-a-bitch is lying. You see Chung-Fu, you shoot him like the rat he is.” He looked at Murphy. “Right. You and me are going to the dock. There’s a shipment bound for China that ain’t gonna get there.”
* * * * * * *
“Why do you think he’s getting out?” asked Murphy as the car, driven by one of Maxwell’s men, sped for the St. Lawrence docks. Evening was fast approaching and it was getting dark and foggy.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Maybe your visit the other night got him rattled. Maybe he thinks he’s go
ing to get busted. I’ll teach him. What say you, ‘Muscles’?”
“You got it, boss,” came the laconic reply from the back seat.
“And what’s this about ‘Two-Bellies’ being in a crate?” asked Murphy.
“Maybe he can’t afford a second-class ticket.” Maxwell grinned.
Their surroundings became increasingly derelict and threatening. This was a foreboding, heavily built-up area that attracted some of the worst of human society. All manner of lawlessness took place here. Especially when, like now, the sun was going down.
Murphy felt uneasy. Had done so ever since Maxwell had declared his intentions of pursuing Chung-Fu. Inwardly, he couldn’t help but think that it was the wrong decision, that nothing good would come of it, that it would only pile evil upon evil. Better to let him go and take his weirdness back to the Orient. He was now convinced that there was something unnatural about the other, something that went well beyond the normal and the understandable. What he had witnessed he could no longer, despite his best attempts, assign to the realm of trickery and illusion.
“Right, ‘Weasel’. Look out for dock Six, should be getting near. I remember a few years back sending some loser to the bottom with concrete shoes on near here.” Maxwell laughed.
The driver slowed down. In the fog it was hard to make out anything. The dockyard was silent. The great hulks of berthed ships and container vessels formed murky shadows.
‘Weasel’ noted a sign. “Dock Six.” He turned the car around and drove slowly in the direction shown.
Before them loomed a massive Trans-Atlantic steamer. A few dockhands moved around, loading crates and boxes of provisions and necessities. Apart from that there was little other real activity.
“They’re loading her up. Looks like she’s getting ready to depart in the morning,” said ‘Weasel’.
“Yeah. In which case we’ve got to get to Chung-Fu now. Pull over.” The car came to a stop. “Right, leave the talking to me.” Maxwell got out.
Murphy, ‘Weasel’, and ‘Muscles’ got out.
Purposefully, the mob boss strode towards one of the workmen. “Any passengers boarded yet? A strange-looking Chinaman? Might have had a few others with him, including a big fat guy with a scar down the left side of his face.”
“There were a couple of Chinese guys came just over an hour ago. Queer-looking folk. Didn’t say much. Told ’em they’d have to wait till the foreman got here in the morning afore we could load ’em aboard. They weren’t too happy, so we sent ’em down to Loading Bay Thirteen. Why are you asking? You a cop?”
“Yeah, I’m a cop,” Maxwell lied glibly. “They’re shipping opium and guns out of the country. We gotta confiscate that contraband. Bay Thirteen, you say?”
“Yeah. Just along there a bit.”
“Thanks.”
Maxwell, Murphy, ‘Weasel’, and ‘Muscles’ headed off in the direction given. It was strangely eerie in the deserted, evening docks. Everything was shadowy, gloomy, filled with a haunting apprehension.
The loading bays were huge, warehouse-type structures.
A cold chill crept into Murphy; a damp feeling that seemed to leak into his soul, filling him with fear. He found himself breathing heavily, mist forming before his face, fogging his vision further. There was evil here, of that he was certain, an evil that went far beyond Maxwell’s thuggishness, an evil born of age-old wickedness, an evil that could be considered otherworldly. Unlike the others, with the possible exception of the dim-witted ‘Muscles’, he had experienced that evil. He knew just what it was capable of. And that knowledge made him starkly afraid, filled him with a soul-draining dread.
“Right,” Maxwell stood before the warehouse door. “I want ‘Two-Bellies’ alive. I ain’t too bothered about the others, although if you can take ’em alive, do so.” He gave the door a push.
The four of them crept inside.
It was dark and gloomy. Reaching for a light switch, Maxwell flicked it on.
The building was huge. It was filled with crates, boxes, and all manner of containers, some bearing stencilled lettering regarding either their provenance or their destination, all lit up by rows of overhead light bulbs.
There was movement up ahead. Shadowy figures crouched behind some of the containers, clearly surprised at this intrusion.
“Spread out,” Maxwell ordered.
No sooner had his order been given than a gunshot shattered the silence, a bullet ricocheting off a nearby wall. They all immediately took cover, ducking behind crates. Two more shots rang out.
“Seems Chung-Fu’s here and he means business,” said Maxwell, turning to Murphy. Gun in hand, he crept forward, taking cover behind a row of crates.
Stealthily, Murphy edged his way to one side. His nerves were tingling, although this was with a fear that he was able to cope with. He had been in numerous situations like this—bullets whizzing over his head and fighting thugs more than willing to end his life. This was normality, as far as he was concerned. Creeping forward, using crates for cover, his index finger clammy on the trigger of his .38 revolver, he moved almost silently, sneaking around the side, hoping to gain the advantage by getting behind the shooters.
There were two of them, Chinese in appearance, although Murphy would have bet a month’s wages that they were more of those firework-stuffed mannequins he had encountered before. They were crouched low, their guns at the ready. He doubted whether he could take out both of them before they were to return fire. Then he saw ‘Muscles’ creeping from one side, his Tommy gun in his hands. He signalled for him to hold his ground. This would have to be handled carefully.
Ducking low, Murphy edged a little closer.
And then the Chinese men were shooting. Whether at Maxwell or ‘Weasel’, Murphy wasn’t sure. They were standing, making good targets and he knew now was the time to open fire. Aiming for a second, he squeezed the trigger, the recoil hammered at his wrist. Bullets flew.
One of the men went down, exploding against a chest-high heap of crates with a loud bang. ‘Muscles’ opened fire on the other, a storm of bullets blasting forth in a fiery burst, tearing the remaining man apart. He too exploded.
And then a crate over to one side burst open and Chung-Fu burst on to the scene. Only this was not the virile, powerful Chinese sorcerer Murphy had last seen at the weird theatre, but rather the ancient, wrinkled, cadaverous old man who had introduced the acts. In fact, his appearance was many times worse than that. His skin was grey and corpse-like, almost mummified. His face was ghastly: red eyes glaring, crooked lips drawn back over protruding fangs. His hands were extended claws, the nails long and talon-like. There was a supernatural horror about him that filled all of them with fear.
“What the hell?” exclaimed Maxwell, rushing up and discharging a round of bullets at the hideous thing.
The bullets had no effect whatsoever.
‘Muscles’ opened fire, emptying a drum of submachine gun bullets. And then ‘Weasel’ was shooting. Crates were splintered and blown asunder. In the resulting chaos, Maxwell fell forward, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He had been shot three times in the back.
Murphy turned to look. Crawling forward, a smoking revolver in its hand, came ‘Two-Bellies’—the deformed, dummy-imp in the convict costume. What manner of perverse sorcery Chung-Fu had used to transform the fat gangster into this foul abomination, he had no idea, nor had he any desire to stay around in order to find out. He pulled back, eyes staring as Chung-Fu rose into the air. A dark cloud began to form around him. His eyes became lambent, red fires of pure evil.
The terror-shadows began to grow, snuffing out the light.
This was an enemy Murphy knew could not be beaten. This was an ancient, demonic thing, no doubt an entity that had existed for centuries, its power derived from the horror it instilled in others; a vampire of sorts. He turned and ran for the exit. ‘Weasel’ was already there, his face chalk-white, his body trembling.
There came a scream as something
terrible befell ‘Muscles’.
The thing that had been Harry ‘Two-Bellies’ Lafayette fired, bullets whining past Murphy’s head.
“There’s some dynamite in the car,” shouted ‘Weasel’. Together he and Murphy dashed outside into the natural dark of evening and ran to the parked vehicle. Several curious dockhands, alerted by the gunshots, watched from a safe distance.
Heart pounding fiercely, Murphy stood trying to gain his breath, waiting as ‘Weasel’ flung open the boot and removed several sticks of dynamite. He handed them to Murphy before taking out some more.
Murphy glanced back at the warehouse. Hideous, unnatural things were happening in there within its shadow-filled interior. For an instant, his vision blurred, veiled by the falling rain. He blinked his eyes clear. Then horror burst out anew as he saw the demonic thing that stood in the doorway of the warehouse, grinning at him with a leering smile. The features were indistinct, half-visible through the black, suffocating shadows that billowed out around it.
Then ‘Weasel’ was lighting fuses and throwing his sticks of dynamite.
An almighty explosion destroyed the doorway of the warehouse. A second and then a third blast went off, the powerful detonations throwing fire and wood skywards. A wall of fiery heat struck Murphy as he hesitated before hurling his explosives. The two men then pulled back, waiting, hoping that nothing would emerge from the conflagration that now raged before their eyes. Thankfully, nothing did.
They then got in the car and sped off, leaving behind the madness of Chung-Fu and the bodies of Maxwell and ‘Muscles’.
* * * * * * *
Hang-Lee, the government appointed investigator, examined the poster that had appeared overnight on the wall of the rundown cinema. There had been a rash of disappearances in the Poor Quarter of Beijing.…
“FREDDY”
If it was real, then surely it was something that should never have existed.
Colonel James Mortimer Stanthorpe was wheeled into the large reception room of his sprawling country mansion by his twenty-two-year-old grandson, David, in order to meet and greet the thirty or so invited guests. Wheelchair-bound, white-haired, and in his mid-eighties, he still looked like a man who could handle himself in a tight spot. Like his father, who had served under Lord Kitchener, his had been a long, distinguished, and highly-decorated career. Some of those gathered were distant family members, military friends, and colleagues he had spent time with out in India. Others were appropriate dignitaries, and there were also one or two from the local press.
The Chaos of Chung-Fu Page 3
