by Sax Rohmer
“This side, or beyond?”
“This side, Chi Foh.”
“We have a chance, even if they have found the boat. They won’t be watching your aunt’s house. And we have to get there — fast.”
CHAPTER TEN
It became a forced march. Twice they took cover; once, while a heavily loaded bullock cart went lumbering by, and again when they were nearly overtaken by an old jeep in which four soldiers were traveling toward Lung Chang.
Dawn was not far off when they reached a point in a long, high wall which had bordered the road for over half a mile. Dimly, he saw Yueh Hua stand still and beckon to him. He hurried forward.
She stood before a heavy, ornamental gate through which he could see a large, rambling building partly masked in ornamental gardens — a typical Chinese mansion — on a slope beyond. The high wall evidently surrounded the property.
“My uncle was Lao Tse-Mung’s gardener,” Yueh Hua explained. “He and his wife always lived here, and my aunt is allowed to stay.”
“Is that Lao Tse-Mung’s house over there?”
“Yes, Chi Foh. Please wait outside for a little while where they can’t see you, until I explain” — she hesitated for a second— “who you are.”
Yueh Hua had led him to the very door of the man he had to see! He saw her reach inside the gate. An interval, footsteps, then a woman’s cry — a cry of almost hysterical gladness.
“My baby! My Yueh Hua!”
The gate was unlocked. The voice died away into unintelligible babbling as they went in.
This gave him something else to think about.
Evidently Yueh Hua had told him her real name. But why had Yueh Hua asked him to wait, and gone in first herself?
In any case, he didn’t have to wait long. She came running back for him.
“I haven’t told her, Chi Foh, about us. But she knows how wonderful you have been to me.”
This clearly was true. Tears were streaming down her aunt’s face when Yueh Hua brought him into the little house, evidently a gate-lodge. She seemed to want to kneel at his feet. He wondered what the exact relationship could be between Yueh Hua and Mai Cha, her aunt. It would have been hard to find two people less similar in type than this broad-faced old peasant woman and Yueh Hua. But Mai Cha became Tony’s friend on sight, for it was plain that she adored Yueh Hua.
She left them together while she went to prepare a meal. But Yueh Hua, who seemed to have become suddenly and unaccountably shy, went out to help her.
He walked quietly under the flowered porch and looked across to the big house and its setting of arches, bridges, and formal gardens. He could be there in five minutes. A winding path, easy to follow in starlight, led up to the house.
Yueh Hua had reached sanctuary, but Tony’s business was with Lao Tse-Mung. He couldn’t hope to avoid exposure of his real identity to Yueh Hua once he had reported to the friend of Nayland Smith. This he must face.
But, the major problem remained. Where was Dr. Fu-Manchu?
Had this man, who seemed to wield supreme power in the province, out-maneuvered Sir Denis? He could not expect the late gardener’s widow to know anything of what had happened tonight in the big house.
He must watch his step.
There were several little bridges to cross and many steps to climb before he reached a terrace which ran the whole length of the house. Flowering vines draped a pergola. Some night-scented variety gave out a strong perfume. He wondered where the main entrance was located, and if he should try to find it.
He stood still for a moment, listening.
A murmur of conversation reached him. There were people in some nearby room. Step by step, he crept closer, hugging shadowy patches where the vines grew thickly. Three paces more and he would be able to look in.
But he didn’t take the three paces. He stopped dead.
An icy chill seemed to run down his spine.
He had heard a voice, pitched in a clear, imperious tone.
“We have no time to waste.”
It was the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu!
He had walked into a trap.
* * * *
Tony checked a mad panorama of thoughts racing across his brain. Nayland Smith would gain something after all. He fingered the automatic which he had kept handy in a waist belt and moved stealthily forward. Whatever his own end might be, he could at least remove the world menace of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
He could see into the room now.
It was furnished, in true Chinese fashion, but with great luxury. Almost directly facing him, on a divan backed by embroidered draperies, he saw a white-bearded figure wearing a black robe and a beaded black cap. A snuff bowl lay before him.
Facing the old mandarin so that his back was toward the terrace, someone sat in a dragon-legged armchair. His close-cropped hair showed the massive skull beneath.
Dr. Fu-Manchu.
The mandarin’s eyes were half-closed, but suddenly he opened them. He looked fixedly toward the terrace, and straight at Tony.
Holding a pinch of snuff between finger and thumb and still looking directly at him, he waved his hand gracefully in a sweeping side gesture as he raised the snuff to his nostrils.
But Tony had translated the gesture.
It meant that he had moved too close. He could be seen from the room.
Quickly he stepped to the right. A wave of confidence surged through him.
This was Lao Tse-Mung who sat watching him, who had known him instantly for what he was, who had warned him of his danger. A highly acute and unusual character.
Tony could still see him clearly through a screen of leaves.
The mandarin spoke in light, easy tones.
“This is the first time you have honored my poor roof, Excellency, in many moons. To what do I owe so great a privilege?”
“I am rarely in Lung Chang,” was the sibilant reply. “I see that it might have been wise to come more often.”
“My poor hospitality is always at my friends’ disposal.”
“Doubtless.” Fu-Manchu’s voice sank to a venomous whisper. “Your hospitality to members of the present regime is less certain.”
Lao Tse-Mung smiled slightly, settling himself among his cushions. “I retired long ago from the world of politics, Excellency. I give all my time to the cultivation of my vines.”
“Some of them grow thorns, I believe?”
“Many of them.”
“Myself, Lao Tse-Mung, I also cultivate vines. I seek to restore to the garden of China its old glory. And so I fertilize the human vines which are fruitful and tear out those which are parasites, destructive. Let us come to the point.”
Lao Tse-Mung’s far-seeing eyes sought among the shadows for Tony.
Tony understood. He was to listen closely.
“My undivided attention is at your disposal, Excellency.”
“A man calling himself Wu Chi Foh, who is a dangerous spy, escaped from the jail at Chia-Ting and was later reported to be near Lung Chang. He may be carrying vital information dangerous to the Peiping regime.” Fu-Manchu’s voice became the familiar hiss. “I wonder if you, perhaps, have news of Wu Chi Foh.”
Lao Tse-Mung’s expression remained bland, unmoved.
“I can only assure Excellency that I have no news concerning this Wu Chi Foh. Are you suggesting that I am acquainted with this man?”
Dr. Fu-Manchu’s voice rose on a note of anger. “Your record calls for investigation. As a former high official, you have been allowed privileges. I merely suggest that you have abused them.”
“My attention remains undivided, Excellency. I beg you to make your meaning clearer.”
Tony knew that his fate, and perhaps the fate of Lao Tse-Mung, hung in the balance. He knew, too, that he could never have fenced with such an adversary as Fu-Manchu, under the X-ray scrutiny of those green eyes, with the imperturbable serenity of the old mandarin.
“Subversive elements frequent your house.”
“The news dis
tresses me.” Lao Tse-Mung took up a hammer which hung beside a small gong. “Permit me to assemble my household for your inspection.”
“Wait.” The word was spoken imperatively. “There are matters I have to discuss with you, personally. For example, you maintain a private airfield on your estate.”
Lao Tse-Mung smiled. His smile was directed toward Tony, whom his keen eyes had detected through the cover of leaves.
“I am sufficiently old fashioned to prefer the ways of life of my ancestors, but sufficiently up-to-date to appreciate the convenience of modern transport.” Lao Tse-Mung calmly took another pinch of snuff, smiling his sly smile. “I may add that in addition to chairs and rickshaws, I have also several automobiles. We are a long way from the railhead, Excellency, and some of my guests come from distant provinces.”
“I wish to inspect this airfield. Also, the garage.”
“It will be an honor and a great joy to conduct you. Let us first visit the airstrip, which is some little distance from the house. Then, as you wish, we can visit the garage. Your own car is there at present. And, as the garage is near the entrance gate, and I know Excellency’s time is valuable” — the shrewd old eyes were staring straight into Tony’s through the darkness— “there should be no unnecessary delay.”
This statement was astonishing to Tony because it was unmistakably a direct order to him.
He accepted it.
Silently, he slipped away from the lighted window, back along the terrace, and began to run headlong down the slope to the gate lodge.
Old Mai Cha was standing in her doorway.
“Quick, get Yueh Hua. There’s not a minute to spare.”
“She has already gone, Chi Foh.”
“Gone!” He stood before her, stricken, unable to understand.
“Yes, Chi Foh. But she is safe. You will see her again very soon. She has taken all you brought with you in your bundles. You know they are in good keeping.”
He grasped Mai Cha by the shoulders, drawing her close, peering into her face. Her love for Moon Flower he couldn’t doubt. But what was she hiding?
“Is this true, Mai Cha?”
“I swear it, in the name of my father, Chi Foh. I can tell you no more, except that my orders are to lead you to the garage. A car is waiting. You must hurry — for Yueh Hua’s sake and for your own. Please follow me.”
Even in that moment of danger, of doubt, he was struck by the fact that she showed no surprise, only a deep concern. She seemed to be expecting this to happen. She was no longer an emotional old woman. She was controlled, practical.
A long, gently sloping path led them to a tiled yard upon which a lighted garage opened. One car, a sleek Rolls, with lights off, stood in the yard. He saw two other cars in the garage beyond.
Mai Cha opened the door of the Rolls, and Tony tumbled in. She kissed his hand as he closed the door. In the light from the garage behind he saw the back of a driver, a broad-shouldered Chinese with a shaven skull. The car started. Smoothly, they moved out of the paved yard.
“Thank God you’re safe, McKay,” came a snappy voice.
The driver was Nayland Smith.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Don’t worry about Lao Tse-Mung, McKay. He has the guile of the serpent and the heart of a great patriot. He could convince men like us that night is day, that a duck is a swan. He called me an hour ago, and all’s well. This isn’t his first brush with the Master, and my money was on Tse-Mung all along. By the way, what about another drink?”
Tony grinned feebly, watching Nayland Smith mix drinks. It was hard to relax, even now, to accept the fact that, temporarily, he was safe. He glanced down at a clean linen suit which had taken the place of his Chinese costume and wondered afresh at the efficient underground network of which he had become a member.
This charming bungalow on a hill overlooking Chungking was the property of the great English drug house of Roberts & Benson and was reserved for the use of their chief buyer, Ray Jenkins, who operated from the firm’s office in the town. Nayland Smith handed him a glass.
“You’ll like Jenkins,” Sir Denis rapped in his staccato fashion. “Sound man. And what he doesn’t know about opium, even Dr. Fu-Manchu couldn’t teach him. He buys only the best, and Chungking is the place to get it.”
He dropped into a split-cane chair and began to fill his pipe. He wore a well-cut linen suit and would have looked his familiar self but for the shaven skull. Noting Tony’s expression, he laughed boyishly.
Tony laughed, too, and was glad that he could manage it; for in spite of Mai Cha’s assurance, he was desperately worried about Moon Flower. And inquiries were out of the question.
“I can only thank you again, Sir Denis, for all you have done.”
“Forget it, McKay. The old lama is one of ours, and he had orders to look out for you. Your last message had warned me that you expected to be arrested and I notified him. Then, I put Lao Tse-Mung in charge until I arrived.”
“This is amazing, Sir Denis. I begin to hope that China will shake off the Communists yet.”
Nayland Smith nodded grimly; lighted his pipe. “From my point of view, there are certain advantages in our recognition of the Peiping crowd. For instance, I can travel openly in China, but I avoid Szechuan.”
“How right you are.”
“Lao Tse-Mung, of course, is our key man in the province. The job calls for enormous courage, and something like genius. He has both. He master-minded the whole affair of getting you out of jail. The lama, who has more degrees than you could count on your fingers, gave you your instructions. He speaks and writes perfect English. Also, he has contacts inside the jail. We’re not washed up yet in the East, McKay.”
“So it seems.”
Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his ear, a habit Tony knew indicated deep reflection. “If Fu-Manchu can enlist the anti-Communist elements,” he said, “the control of this vast country may pass into his hands. This would pose another problem. But let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. This bungalow is one of our bases. It was here that I converted myself into a lama. Jenkins provided me with a vintage Ford, a useful bus on Chinese roads. You see, there’s constant coming and going of Buddhist priests across the Burma frontier, and if my Chinese is shaky, my Burmese is sound.” He glanced at his watch. “Jenkins is late. Feeling hungry?”
“No.” Tony shook his head. “After my first bath for weeks in a civilized bathroom, a change of clothes and a drink, I feel delightfully relaxed.”
“Good for you. Jenkins has another guest who is probably reveling in a warm bath, too, after a long journey; Jeanie Cameron-Gordon. Her father, an old friend of mine, is the world-famous medical entomologist, Dr. Cameron-Gordon. His big work on sleeping sickness and the tsetse fly is the textbook for all students of tropical medicine. Ran a medical mission. But more later.”
“Whatever brings his daughter here?” Tony wanted to know.
Before Nayland Smith could reply, the stout, smiling, and capable resident Chinese housekeeper, whom Tony had met already, came in. She was known simply as Mrs. Wing. She bowed.
“Miss Cameron-Gordon,” she said, in her quaint English, “is dressed, and asks if she should join you, or if you are in a business conference.”
Nayland Smith smiled broadly. “The conference is over, Mrs. Wing. Please ask Miss Jeanie to join us.”
Mrs. Wing bowed again, went out, and a moment later Miss Cameron-Gordon came in, her face shaded by a wide-brimmed hat. She wore a tailored suit of cream shantung which perfectly fit her beautiful figure.
For an interval that couldn’t be measured in terms of time, Tony stood rigid. Then he sprang forward.
Miss Jeanie Cameron-Gordon found herself locked in his arms.
“Moon Flower! Moon Flower!”
“I had an idea,” Nayland Smith said dryly, “that you two might be acquainted.”
* * * *
Ray Jenkins joined them for lunch. A thin Chinese-yellow man with large, wiry hands,
gaunt features, and a marked Cockney accent, he had a humorous eye and a markedly self-confident manner. Moon Flower was reserved and embarrassed, avoiding Tony’s looks of admiration. He felt he was the cause of this and cursed the impulse which had prompted him to betray their intimacy. He didn’t attempt to deny that he was in love with her, but gave a carefully edited account of their meeting and how he had formed a deep affection for his native helper.
“I never saw Jeanie in her other kit,” Jenkins said nasally. He called one and all by their first names. “But, looking at her now, Tony, I should say you were nuts not to know she wasn’t Chinese.”
“But I am,” Moon Flower told him, “on my mother’s side.”
Ray Jenkins regarded her for a long time, then, “God’s truth,” he remarked. “Your mother must have been a stunner.”
Nayland Smith threw some light upon what had happened at Lao Tse-Mung’s. He had arrived there several hours before Tony, intending to proceed with speed to Chungking as soon as Tony showed up. He found the mandarin in an unhappy frame of mind. The daughter of his old friend, Dr. Cameron-Gordon, who had been staying at his house, had disappeared. He suspected that she had gone in search of information about her father, contrary to his, Lao Tse-Mung’s advice. He had used all the facilities at his disposal, but with no result.
“I’ll leave it to Moon Flower, as you call Jeanie, to tell you the whole story, McKay,” Sir Denis said, with one of his impish grins. “She will tell it better than I can.”
Moon Flower gave him a reproachful, but half-playful glance.
“I was staggered,” he went on. “I had heard in Hong Kong that her father died in a fire which destroyed the medical mission building. But I supposed that Jeanie was still in England. I was discussing the problem of Jeanie’s disappearance with Tse-Mung when his secretary ran in and announced, ‘The Master is here!’
“Fast action was called for. I made my way back toward the entrance gate. From behind a bank of rhododendrons I had the pleasure of seeing my old friend Dr. Fu-Manchu, wearing what looked like a Prussian uniform, striding up to the house. A big Nubian, whom I had seen somewhere before, followed him.”
