Emperor Fu Manchu f-13

by Sax Rohmer

  “Tehee!” It was a hiss. “The old hound is hot on my trail! He will not be working alone. We must take precautions. He lacks genius. He is a product of the Scotland Yard tradition. But he has inexhaustible patience. Note this, Tsung-Chao: any suspect arrested by the blundering Communists in or near Szechuan must be reported to me at once. I shall interrogate such suspects, personally . . .”

  * * *

  Tony awoke with a start, shot upright in bed.

  It wasn’t the rats and it wasn’t the lice. It was a woman’s scream that had pierced his sleep like a hot blade.

  Everything was silent again, the night hot and still. His cell stank foully. But he hadn’t dreamed. He had heard a woman scream—a sudden, agonized scream. He clenched his fists. His palms were clammy. And he listened—listened.

  He had no means of knowing what time it was, how long he had slept. The barred window resembled a black hole in the wall. It overlooked a small courtyard and he could barely see the sky.

  Further sleep was out of the question. His brain was on fire. Somewhere, in this hell hole, they were persecuting a woman.

  Footsteps and voices broke the silence. He recognized one voice. It was that of his jailer.

  They were coming for him!

  This would be the great test.

  The heavy door was unlocked. Two armed men wearing the uniform of the Red Army held up lanterns. His thickset, leering jailer opened the padlock which confined McKay’s ankle.

  “This way, Chi Foh. They want to ask you something about fishing!”

  He assumed that stony passivity which belonged to his part. Head held low, he went out between the two guards. Quite unnecessarily, they prodded him with their rifle butts to keep him moving. Strange how Soviet training dehumanized men!

  Colonel Soong sat at a bamboo table in the lighted courtyard. The governor, an older man whom Tony could have respected, sat on the colonel’s right. A junior officer who looked like a coolie in uniform was on his left. Two soldiers stood behind them.

  “Stand him there,” Colonel Soong commanded, pointing, “where he can see what we do with spies!”

  The governor had put on heavy-rimmed spectacles, and was trying to read some document which lay before him—probably, the several examinations of Suspect Wu Chi Foh. The junior officer watched Tony with an expression a gourmet might assume before a choice meal.

  “Those who admit their guilt, Chi Foh”—the colonel was addressing him—”die an easy death. I recommend an open confession. Bring in the prisoners.”

  Escorted by four soldiers, two men came into the courtyard, their hands tied behind their backs.

  Tony saw the elderly Chung Wa-Su, and the younger Li. He had covered many hundreds of miles by road, river and canal since his dealings with them. Yet here they were to confront him, lined up no more than three paces away.

  “Wu Chi Foh, do you know these men? Make them look up.”

  Guards prodded the prisoners. Both stared impassively at Tony.

  “No, Excellency”

  “You are a lying son of a pig! Again I ask you—and this is your last chance of an easy death—do you know these men?”

  “No, Excellency”

  Colonel Soong rapped out a harsh order. The official executioner came in, a stocky, muscular figure, stripped to the waist and showing a torso and arms like those of a gorilla. He carried a short, curved sword.

  Neither of the prisoners displayed the slightest interest in the proceedings . . .

  When, with an efficiency which commanded Tony’s reluctant admiration, Chung Wa-Su and Li had been beheaded and their bodies hauled from the courtyard: “That is the easy death, Chi Foh,” Colonel Soong told him. “I am returning you to your cell to consider this. Be prepared at any hour to buy the same painless end.”

  Tony was dragged back to the smelly dungeon which had confined him so long, and was thrown in with such sudden violence that he fell on his face. The chain was relocked to his ankle.

  He dropped onto the bed and sank his head into his hands.

  Even supposing that neither Chung Wa-Su nor Li had involved him in their confessions (and it was possible), he was marked for death. He could admit all he had learned (very little), and have his head neatly lopped off by an expert, or he could persist in his story that he was a harmless fisherman. Then he would be put in the stocks, and—

  They had no evidence whatever to connect him with Sir Denis Nayland Smith. The wonderful little long-range walkie-talkie which Sir Denis had entrusted to him before he set out, he had, mercifully, managed to drop in the river when he saw them coming to arrest him.

  He seemed to hear again that snappy voice: “If anything goes wrong—get rid of it, fast . . .” It had helped him in many emergencies, made him feel that he wasn’t alone. Now—

  He could, of course, reveal his true identity and challenge Soong to execute a United States officer. But there’s a code in these affairs, and it is never broken, except by renegades.

  This was the end . .

  Something came through the window bars and fell right at his feet.

  It made a dull thud, but there was a faint metallic jingle, too. Tony stooped eagerly and picked up a piece of thin paper wrapped around two keys and another metal object.

  His hands shook as he unrolled the parcel. The third object was a cigarette-lighter!

  He snapped it up and read on thin rice paper:

  From Nayland Smith.

  The smaller key frees your chain. The other opens the door. Leave before daylight. The guard on the gate is bribed. Your boat still lies where you left it. Money and some food aboard. Follow Min River left bank, down to any navigable creek, then use irrigation canals to Niu-fo-tu on Lu Ho River. Ask for the house of the Lama. He expects you. Memorize and swallow message.

  His heart leapt madly. Thank God! Nayland Smith hadn’t lost contact with him! His last message on the walkie-talkie had placed his location—and he was no longer alone.

  Tony had little difficulty in memorizing the directions, for his journey up to Chia-Ting had made him familiar with the river and place-names. He masticated the piece of rice paper; then had to make a lightning decision about the keys. Footsteps sounded in the passage. Voices. They were coming back for him.

  He thrust the keys and the lighter under his mattress.

  But in his heart he knew help had come too late . . .

  “Colonel Soong is asking for you, fisherman!”

  His leering jailer threw open the cell door. Two men—the same as before—stood by while the chain was unfastened, banged his ribs with their rifle butts as he was marched along the passage and out again into the courtyard.

  Many men have been condemned for cowardice in the face of the enemy. But, knowing what was in store for him. Tony wondered if Nayland Smith would understand (and sympathize) if he simply accepted “the easy death” and became another missing agent. For he couldn’t hope to survive the ordeal ahead.

  If he could, and did, stay silent, and they released him (which was unlikely), his sufferings would have made him useless, helpless; his memory would be gone. He would be a mere parody of a man . . .

  * * *

  “Have you anything more to say, Chi Foh?”

  “No, Excellency”

  Tony was forced onto his knees in front of the stocks, facing outward, and his feet were clamped in the openings provided. Then, wrists pinioned behind, his body was drawn as far back as it would go without something snapping and the rope was tied to a crossbeam.

  The executioner, satisfied, awaited orders.

  “For the last time, Wu Chi Foh, have you anything to say?”

  “Nothing, Excellency.”

  Colonel Soong raised his hand . . .

  (“Your boat still lies where you left it . . .”)

  “Release the prisoner!”

  Colonel Soong’s hand remained raised. It was held in a vice-like grip by a Nubian of enormous physique, a man built like the executioner but on a much larger sc
ale. This ebony giant had rested his free hand on the shoulder of the Chinese lieutenant, who was clearly unable to stir.

  “I gave an order.”

  The mist was dispersing more and more. Now, half in the shadow of an archway behind the table. Tony could see a tall figure. The executioner became electrified. In a matter of seconds Tony found himself free, saw the executioner bowing humbly to the man who stood motionless in the archway.

  Another crisp command, not spoken in Chinese, resulted in the Nubian’s stepping back. Both officers sprang to their feet, spun around and stood at the salute.

  “Colonel Soong”—the imperious tones carried clearly all over the courtyard—”it is contrary to my wishes that these primitive methods of questioning be employed. China will flower again as a land of beauty and of culture. If harsh means must be used to extract the truth, at least let them be refined. Brutality without purpose is neither enjoyable nor artistic. Remain in your quarters until I send for you.”

  Colonel Soong retired, followed by his lieutenant.

  “I will interview the prisoner.”

  Chapter III

  Tony, dazed, bewildered, but calm with the numb calm of utter desperation, found himself in an elaborately furnished room (probably the prison governor’s study), facing a long desk, over-ornamented in the Burmese manner, behind which was placed a commodious chair. He was tinglingly conscious of the presence of the giant Nubian in the shadows at his elbow.

  No one else was there—until the man who had ordered his release came in.

  He came in from the other end of the room and walked to the desk. His movements had a catlike quality; his step was feline, silent. Tony couldn’t mistake the tall, lean figure of which he had a glimpse in the courtyard. He recognized a sort of cavalry cloak in which the man with the imperious voice had been wrapped and which he now discarded and dropped on the rug beside the chair.

  Tony saw that he wore a uniform resembling those which had once distinguished Prussian officers, with glossy top boots. And as he took his seat, resting his elbows on the desk and pressing his long, yellow fingertips together. Tony experienced a fluttering in the stomach.

  He was looking at one of the most wonderful faces he had ever seen. The high forehead, the chiseled, aggressive nose, the thin lips, were those of an aristocrat, a thinker, and a devil. But the long, half closed eyes, eyes of a phenomenal green color, completed the impression of force which radiated from his man’s personality, as he sat there perfectly still.

  Then suddenly he spoke.

  “Well, my friend, I think the time has come to lay your cards on the table. Don’t you agree with me?”

  The last shadow of doubt was swept from Tony’s mind. He recalled fragments of Nayland Smith’s vivid word picture of the person he was seeking: “A brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan. Eyes of the true cat green . . . He speaks every civilized language with near-perfection, as well as countless dialects. He has the brains of any three men of genius embodied in one man . . .”

  Tony found it impossible to sustain the stare of those hypnotic eyes. But he knew, and counted himself lost, that here was Number One, The Master, the driving power behind the Communist regime—for the words had been spoken in perfect English. He had succeeded—but too late.

  This was Dr. Fu Manchu!

  The shock of that question in English was so unexpected that he nearly betrayed himself by replying in the same language.

  It was a crucial test. And he survived it.

  “I don’t understand. Excellency,” he said in Chinese.

  “Don’t be a fool. You understand well enough.”

  Tony shook his head in a bewildered way. Meeting the intolerable stare of those green eyes, he became aware that, again, his life hung on a thread.

  Silence. The negro behind him made no sound. He could hear the faint spluttering of perfume sticks set before a shrine at one end of the room. The air was oppressive. He was becoming dizzy. His appalling experience, his imprisonment, had stolen his stamina.

  He was recalled by a brusque question in Chinese.

  “Your name is Wu Chi Foh? You are accused of spying?”

  He met the hypnotic stare.

  “Yes,Excellency”

  In that fleeting second he had discovered something. The disturbing quality of Fu Manchu’s gaze was that he seemed to be looking not at him, but through him.

  “Are you guilty?”

  “No, Excellency”

  “For a humble fisherman, you have a pure accent. You interest me. Take him back to his cell.”

  For once. Tony was glad to throw himself wearily on the filthy mattress, glad to find even brief sanctuary in his dungeon from those dreadful eyes.

  (“Leave before daylight . . .”)

  He jumped up and stared at the barred window. He could see the stars against a grey background. Dawn was breaking . . .

  (“ . . . Your boat still lies where you left it . . .”)

  Had the arrival—clearly unexpected—of The Master, put the scheme out of gear? Had the guard on the gate been changed? Was the sampan still lying in the river?

  Well, he could find out.

  The key of the leg iron worked rather stiffly, gave him uneasy moments. But at last came a welcome click, and his leg was free. His heart pounded hard as he fitted the second key into the keyhole of the door. It turned without a hitch. He swung the heavy door open and looked out cautiously into the stone-paved passage.

  There was no one there. The only light, a very faint one, came through a barred window at the end. He heard nothing; slipped out into the cool open air.

  He clung close to the buildings. The courtyard was deserted. A shadow of the whipping-post lay like a band across the stone paving. No window showed any light. At last he got to the corridor which led to freedom. He peeped around an angle of the wall. This prison had been a fortress in feudal times, and just inside the great nail-studded gate there was a cramped guardroom.

  A dim light, probably that of a lantern, shone out from the guardroom door.

  And he had to pass that door.

  He inhaled deeply, then went ahead. No one was to be seen inside, the lantern stood on a table. He passed, and came to the gate.

  The bolts—they seemed to be well oiled—were already withdrawn from the sockets which secured the gate.

  Inch by inch. Tony swung open the mass of teak and iron. When the gap was wide enough to slip through, he stepped out, paused for a moment, breathing hard, then gently reclosed the gate.

  He set off at a good pace, but avoided running. His escape had been perfectly planned. The guard had only to shoot the bolts into place, employ his national talent for lying, and the prisoner’s disappearance would look like magic, for Tony had taken the keys and the lighter with him. Sound staff work. But it must have cost a lot of money.

  When he came to the river, there was his old sampan, tied up to a rickety stage.

  Not pausing to examine the craft, he cast loose the mooring line and stepped on to the oarsman’s platform, aft.

  When day broke into full flame he was many miles south. He tied up in a cactus-lined backwater from which he could see no signs of a nearby road. Then he stooped under the strip of plaited roof and went in to find where the money was hidden and what provisions he had.

  There was a Chinese girl asleep in the cabin.

  She was curled up on a heap of matting, one arm half covering her face. Her clothes were at least as ragged and soiled as his own and her black hair was disheveled He could see that she had long dark lashes and there were tear tracks from her closed eyes cutting through the dirt on her cheeks.

  How had she got on board, and when? She might have been there from the time he started, or she might have crept on later, during one of his several reconnaissance tours ashore.

  However, here she was, and he had to make up his mind what he was going to do with her. An added problem, when he had far too many to cope with already. First and foremost stood the problem of
Chien-Wei. Where was Chien-Wei? He had never heard of it. Such names cropped up like nettles all over the map of China. Was it a town or merely a village? This he must find out, and soon, for he might be getting farther away from the place instead of nearer.

  Creeping quietly out to the stem, carrying soap and shaving material, he stripped, soaped himself all over and then dropped into the cool water. Climbing back, much refreshed, he toweled and, stifling his disgust, got into the filthy rags which were all he had. Then he lighted his galley fire (an iron bucket with holes punched in it) using dry wood gathered on the bank, and boiled a pannikin of water.

  He was struggling through his first shave for more than two weeks when he saw the girl watching him. He paused, shaving brush in hand, and stared. He had expected coal-black eyes. But her eyes were dark blue. He remembered, though, that some of the up-country peasants had blue eyes. She looked like a very dirty Chinese doll.

  “So you are awake at last?”

  “Yes.” She looked down and shuddered. “How long did I sleep?”

  She had a pretty, bell-like voice, but it shook nervously.

  “I don’t know.” More to reassure her than for any other reason he went on shaving. “When did you come on board?”

  “Some time last night,” she answered.

  Wiping his face, he began anxiously to forage in the locker. His own few pots and pans were there. He had jettisoned everything incriminating when he had realized they were coming to arrest him. He found a considerable sum of money, mostly in small currency, and there were cigarettes and a carton of canned meat, soup and other edibles. Sea toast and rice he found, too, and fresh fruit; soap, shaving kit, matches, a bottle of lime juice and a bottle of Scotch. And, last of all, a .38 and a box of shells.

  Then, resoaping his chin, he went on shaving again. “You came on board at Chia-Ting?”

  “Yes. Please don’t throw me off. I don’t know what I shall do if you won’t let me stay.”