Emperor Fu Manchu f-13

by Sax Rohmer

  “I’ll marry you, Chi Foh—but on the first day my father is free again . . .”

  * * *

  Dr. Fu Manchu sat in his favorite chair behind the lacquer desk. It was early dawn. But only one lamp relieved the gloom: a green-shaded lamp on the desk. This cast a sort of phantom light over the yellow-robed figure. Fu Manchu lay back, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, the tips of his bony fingers pressed together, his eyes half closed, but glinting like emeralds where the light touched them.

  In the shadowy room, two paces from the desk, the gigantic figure of Mahmud the Nubian stood motionless.

  Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff from the silver snuffbox. He spoke softly.

  “Go to your quarters, Mahmud, and remain there until further orders.”

  The big Nubian knelt on the rug, bent his head to the floor, stood up, made a deep salaam, and went out. He had a stealthy step, almost silent.

  And, as he left by one door, another opened, and Huan Tsung-Chao came in. Fu Manchu lay back in his chair, with closed eyes. General Huan settled himself upon the divan facing the desk.

  “The man is honest and devoted,” he said. “I have heard his account of all that happened, as you wished.”

  Fu Manchu’s eyes opened widely. They stared into the shadows from which Huan Tsung-Chao had spoken. “You heard how Skobolov, a dying man, tricked him in Niu-fo-Tu and fled to some obscure rest house? You heard how the Russian escaped again, taking his papers with him?”

  He almost hissed the words, stood up, a tall, menacing figure.

  “I heard. Master. I heard, also, that the escaped prisoner, Wu Chi Foh, was seen in Niu-fo-Tu after Skobolov had arrived there.”

  “So that the Si-Fan register may now be on its way to Moscow!”

  “Or to London,” came placidly out of the shadows. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith is in China. A dying man is not hard to rob. And you suspected the prisoner called Wu Chi Foh to be working for British Intelligence in the first place.”

  Fu Manchu dropped back in his chair.

  “Perhaps, Tsung-Chao, the weight of years bears me down. My powers may be failing me at last. You know of my visit to Lao Tse-Mung. His behavior aroused deep suspicions. But he has the powers of a great diplomat. I have watched him for some years. Is he working with Nayland Smith? Is he opposed to Peiping? He remains impenetrable—and his estate is a fortress! To what party does he belong? These things we must find out, Tsung-Chao—or Lao Tse-Mung must be destroyed . . .

  Chapter XII

  “This man, Skobolov,” Nayland Smith snapped, “was one of the most trusted agents of the Kremlin.” He raised his eyes from the documents found in the portfolio. “Top marks to you, Jeanie, for taking care of such valuable evidence. I know very little Russian, but enough to recognize his name as the person to whom these letters are addressed.”

  Tony nodded, smiling at Moon Flower.

  “What I am anxious to know,” Sir Denis added, “is what Skobolov was doing in Szechuan. Why was he sent here? It’s a shot in the dark, but I venture to guess—for this.”

  He held up the bound manuscript that was written in Chinese.

  “I agree with you. Sir Denis,” Moon Flower said quietly, “I know written Chinese fairly well, but this is in cipher and quite beyond me. Why should it be in cipher if it weren’t something very secret?”

  “Quite obvious, Jeanie. It can’t be a top secret dispatch from Peiping. In the first place, it couldn’t be in Chinese; in the second, he would have headed for Russia and not come wandering around this remote province. Therefore, he must have acquired it in Szechuan.” He dropped the manuscript on the table and pulled at the lobe of his ear. “There are three people known to me who might decipher it. Lao Tse-Mung—his secretary—or our friend the Lama in Niu-fo-Tu. What’s more, all of them speak Russian, and this correspondence interests me.”

  “Let us go to my uncle’s,” Moon Flower said eagerly. “We shall at least be safe while we’re there, and Lao Tse-Mung’s secretary is very clever as you say, and knows many languages.”

  “You’d be still safer with your aunt in Hong Kong, young lady,” Nayland Smith rapped.

  Moon Flower smiled. “I shall never go back to Hong Kong until my father goes with me,” she assured him. And there was a note of finality in the soft voice which carried conviction.

  “You’re going to be a big responsibility in the kind of work we have to do, Jeanie.”

  Moon Flower turned to Tony. “Was I a big responsibility to you, Chi Foh, in the kind of work we had to do?”

  And honesty forced Tony to answer, “I couldn’t have done it without you. Moon Flower.”

  Nayland Smith took his old briar pipe out of his pocket and began to fill the bowl with coarse-cut mixture. His expression was very grim, but a smile lurked in the grey eyes.

  “If McKay’s against me, too, I suppose I must compromise. From the moment we leave this house we all carry our lives in our hands. We don’t know what this Chinese manuscript is, but your account, McKay, of Skobolov’s behavior and his strange death, tells us plainly that it’s dynamite, and that somebody was following him to recover it. You agree?”

  “I do. Sir Denis,” Tony told him. “But if it was of such value to the Kremlin, it may be of equal value to us.”

  “If we can hang on to it,” Nayland Smith snapped, “and not go the way of Skobolov!”

  There was a brief silence while he dropped his pouch back in his pocket and lighted his pipe.

  “You have some theory about Skobolov?” Tony suggested.

  Nayland Smith nodded. “I have. He was poisoned. The purpose of the poisoner was to recover this manuscript. I can think of only one man who is not only an expert poisoner but also a danger to the Soviet empire.”

  “Dr. Fu Manchu!”

  Nayland Smith blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke.

  “If I’m right, and I think I am, we have here the most powerful weapon against Fu Manchu which I have ever held in my hands . . .”

  * * *

  Many hours later, the security police held up an old Ford car on a nearly impassible road some miles east of Lung Chang. The Chinese driver, whose shaved skull betrayed nothing but a stubble of hair, was a dull, taciturn fellow. His passengers were a lama, who wore glasses, and a Chinese boy. The lama did the talking.

  “Where did you come from and where are you going?” the man in charge wanted to know.

  “From Yung Chuan,” the Buddhist priest told him. “Are you a member of the faith, my son?”

  “Never mind about that—”

  “But it’s more important than anything else.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “My pupil. I am returning to my monastery in Burma, and I am happy to say that I bring a young disciple with me.”

  The man, who evidently had special orders of some kind, looked from face to face.

  “Who owns this car?”

  “A good friend in Yung Chuan, and one of the faith. I have out-stayed my leave and am anxious to return.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Li Tao-shi. He has found the Path. Seek it, my son.”

  The man made a rude noise and waved the car on.

  When they had gone a safe distance, the driver slowed down and turned a grinning face to his passengers.

  “Good show, McKay!” he said. “You remembered your lines and never flunked once! I don’t know why those fellows were so alert, but I was prepared for emergencies. It’s just possible that The Master has sent out special orders. We’re getting into the danger zone, now . . . Which way do we turn, Jeanie? Here’s a crossroads. One leads to a marsh as far as I can make out!”

  The “disciple” hesitated. “I’m not sure. Sir Denis. It’s a long time since I came this way. But I think it’s the road to the marsh! Except in rainy weather, it’s quite passable. Then we should come to the main road to Lung Chang—if you think it’s safe for us to use a main road?”

  “I don’t. But is th
ere any other way?”

  “Not for a car. By water, yes. Otherwise, we have to walk!”

  “H’m!” Nayland Smith pulled reflectively at the lobe of his ear. “If we drive to the high road, how far is it from there to Lao Tse-Mung’s house?”

  “About five miles,” Moon Flower told him.

  “But from here, walking?”

  “About the same, if I don’t lose my way!”

  “Then, as two experienced pedestrians, I think you and McKay must walk. If challenged again, you know the story, McKay. Stick to it. We must separate for safety.”

  He raised the wizard walkie-talkie to his ear, adjusted it and listened; then: “Hullo, is that Sun Shao-Tung?” he said. “Yes. Nayland Smith here. Tell Lao Tse-Mung I have Yueh Hua and McKay with me. We’re about five miles from the house and they are proceeding on foot. First, I must know if my Ford was noted by The Master when he arrived at the garage . . . It was? And what explanation was offered for its disappearance?” He listened attentively . . . “Ford used for collecting gardening material? Good. Had been sent into Chungking for repairs? Would be returned later by mechanic? Excellent! We’ll be on our way.” He turned to Tony.

  “Did you follow, McKay?” he rapped.

  “Yes, I did. Fu Manchu has given orders for all ranks to look out for a Ford car. That’s why we were held up. There must be more Fords in Szechuan than I suspected, or we shouldn’t have slipped through so easily. You’re right about breaking up the part, Sir Denis.”

  “I suspected this, McKay. I shall have to hang on to the briefcase. A missionary lama from Burma can’t very well carry one! But, for safety, suppose you take the Chinese manuscript? If challenged, it’s a religious treatise to be presented to your principal in Burma. No soldier or policeman will know any better. And lama priests still command some slight respect in this part of China.”

  The leather case was taken from its hiding-place in the car and the mysterious manuscript tucked into a capacious pocket inside Tony’s ample garment, which resembled a long-sleeved bathrobe.

  But when the parting took place, Moon Flower looked wistfully after the old Ford jolting away on the unpaved road. Tony knew what she was thinking, but it didn’t hurt him. He shared her feeling. Nayland Smith was an oasis in a desert, a well of resource. He put his arm around a slim waist concealed by the baggy boy’s clothes.

  “Come on, my lad!” he said gaily, and kissed her. “We have faced worse things and survived.”

  Moon Flower clung to him, her blue eyes raised to his; and the blue eyes were sombre.

  “I am not afraid for us, Chi Foh,” she assured him. “I am thinking about my father.”

  “We’ll get him out, dearest. Don’t doubt it.”

  “I don’t dare to doubt it. But I feel, and you must feel, too, that this awful man, Dr. Fu Manchu, is drawing a net around all of us. He has dreadful authority, and he has strange powers. I understand now that it was he who killed the Russian. But how did he kill him?”

  “God knows! But it’s pretty certain that his purpose was to get hold of this thing I have in my pocket. So we score over the great Fu Manchu!”

  “Not we, Chi Foh. Fate stepped in. I have seen Dr. Fu Manchu. You have spoken to him. He holds my father, a clever man and a man of strong character, helpless in his hands. Dr. Fu Manchu is not an ordinary human being . . . He’s a devil-inspired genius. Sir Denis is our only hope. And he has tried for years to conquer him. Alone, what could you and I do?”

  Tony laughed, but not mirthfully. “Very little, I admit. Fu Manchu has a vast underground organization behind him, and, at present anyway, the support of the government of China. We have nothing but our wits.”

  Moon Flower forced a smile. “Don’t let me make you gloomy, Chi Foh. You mustn’t pay too much attention to my moods. I don’t expect us to overthrow Dr. Fu Manchu. I only pray we may be able to get my father out of his clutches.”

  Tony hugged her affectionately, kissed her hair, which she had allowed Mrs. Wing, Ray Jenkins’s housekeeper, to cut short when Nayland Smith had decided that a lama priest couldn’t travel in the company of a girl. She turned her head aside, pursing her lips in a way which Tony found delicious.

  “I don’t like my hair so short, Chi Foh. Although, when I left England, it was quite fashionable to wear one’s hair like a boy.”

  “I’m quite happy about it. Moon Flower. Anyway, it will soon grow again.”

  And they set out on the path to Lung Chang.

  It was a crazy path, in places along embankments crossing flooded paddy fields, and sometimes wandering amongst acres of opium poppies which had become a major crop since all restrictions had been removed. The collective authorities reaped a rich harvest from the sale of opium; the growers struggled to live.

  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 his hand which Nayland Smith had taught him.

  After one such encounter, “I sincerely hope,’ he told Moon Flower, “that we don’t meet a real lama! Sir Denis might have been up to it, but I’m not!”

  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 speed. They were tired. They had reached a point at which there was a choice of routes; the main road or a detour which would lengthen their journey.

  “Dare we risk the main road?” Tony asked. “Is it much used?”

  “No,” Moon Flower admitted. “But we should 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 bring us out?”

  “By a gate into 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.”

  “Lead on!”

  They resumed their tramp. Tony with his arm around Moon Flower, except where the path was so narrow and bramble bordered that they had to march in single file. At a point where the path threatened to lose itself amongst 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 on to 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 were as he got to his feet, dropping his Chinese cigarette, which Tony knew from experience tasted like a firework. It was now growing dusk and their sudden appearance out of the shadow bordering the road clearly had frightened him. m consequence he was very angry. He picked up his cigarette.

  “Where do you two think you’re going?” he then 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 took himself in hand. The sudden appearance of the security officer had shaken him. But now he was his own man again. He fumbled inside the loose robe. It was the one that Nayland Smith had worn before him. In an interior pocket he had all the necessary credentials, equally applicable to Sir Denis or to himself. They had been sent at 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 recognize
d the official forms. They authorized the bearer to enter China and remain for thirty days. There was still a week to go. Tony wondered that the smoke of his cigarette, drooping from a comer 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, aged I4, 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, for:

  “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 odorous cigarette and put his foot on it as Tony rumbled 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 crash his fist into the face of this servant of Red China. 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 (and forged) papers, 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, until: