by Sax Rohmer
“Sun Shao-Tung’s notes—and the Chinese manuscript’. Our luck’s changed, McKay.” He picked up his pipe. “Let me show you something.” He stooped again, lighted the face of the Cold Man. “Contrary to official belief, Dacoity (said to be extinct) is a religious cult, like Thuggee. Look!”
He tore the grey turban from the dead man’s head. Tony drew nearer.
“What, Sir Denis?”
The flashlamp was directed on the shaven head.
“The caste mark.”
Tony looked closely. Just above the line of the turban he saw a curious mark, either tattooed or burnt on to the skin.
“A dacoit!” Nayland Smith told him.
“Then it was he who gave that awful cry?”
“No!” Sir Denis rapped. “That was my hunch! It was another dacoit who gave the cry . . .”
Chapter XIV
Three times Matsukata, the Japanese physician in charge of the neighboring clinic, had come into a small room attached to Dr. Fu Manchu’s laboratory in which the Doctor often rested, and sometimes, when he had worked late, in which he slept. It was very simply equipped, the chief item of furniture being a large, cushioned divan.
A green-shaded lamp stood on a table littered with papers and books, and its subdued light provided the sole illumination. The air was polluted with sickly fumes of opium.
Dr. Fu Manchu lay on the divan entirely without movement. Even his breathing was not perceptible. A case of beautifully fashioned opium pipes rested on a small table beside him, with a spirit lamp, a jar of the purest chandu, and several silver bodkins. In spirit Dr. Fu Manchu was far from the world of ordinary man, and his body rested; perhaps the only real rest he ever knew.
Matsukata stood there, silent, watching, listening. Then once more he withdrew.
Some few minutes had passed in the silent room, when Fu Manchu raised heavy lids and looked around. The green eyes were misty, the pupils mere pinpoints. But, as he sat up, by some supreme command of his will the mist cleared, the contracted pupils enlarged. He used opium as he used men, for his own purpose; but no man and no drug was his master.
It was his custom, in those periods of waiting for a fateful decision which the average man spends in pacing the floor, checking each passing minute, to smoke a pipe of chandu and so enter that enchanted realm to which opium holds the key.
He was instantly alert, in complete command of all his faculties. He struck a small gong on the table beside him.
Matsukata came in before the vibration of the gong had ceased.
“Well?” Fu Manchu demanded.
Matsukata bowed humbly. “I regret to report failure. Master.”
Fu Manchu clenched his hands. “You mean that Singu failed?”
“Singu failed to return. Master.”
“But Singu was a Cold Man, a mere automaton under your direction,” Fu Manchu spoke softly. “If anything failed, Matsukata, it was your direction.”
“That is not so. Master. Something unforeseen occurred. Where, I cannot tell. But when more than ten minutes over his allotted time had elapsed. Ok, who was watching from the point of entry, reported a man with a flashlamp approaching. I ordered Ok to give the warning to which Singu should have replied. There was no reply. I ordered Ok to remove evidence of our mode of entry. It was just in time. A party of men was searching the grounds.”
Dr. Fu Manchu stood up slowly. He folded his arms.
“Is that all your news?” he asked in a sibilant whisper. “The Si-Fan register is lost?”
“That is all. Master.”
“You may go. Await other orders.”
Matsukata bowed deeply, and went out . . .
* * *
In Lao Tse-Mung’s library, Nayland Smith was speaking. Grey ghostly daylight peered in at the windows.
“Dacoits never work alone. During my official years in Burma, I furnished reports to London which proved, conclusively, that Dacoity was not dead. I also discovered that, like Thuggee, it was not merely made up of individual gangs of hoodlums, but was a religious cult. Dr. Fu Manchu, many years ago, obtained absolute control of the dacoits and also of the thugs. He has a bodyguard of dacoits. Probably the Cold Man, who lies dead out there, was formerly one of them.”
Lao Tse-Mung’s alert, wrinkle-framed eyes were fixed upon Sir Denis. Tony chain-smoked.
“Of the powers of these creatures, called, locally. Cold Men, we know nothing. But we do know, now, that they are—or were—normal human beings. By some hellish means they have been converted to this form. But certainly their powers are supernormal, and the temperature of their bodies is phenomenal. I have never heard that the fabulous zombies of Haiti are cold as blocks of ice!”
Tony found himself shuddering. His first encounter with a Cold Man had made an impression that would last forever.
“How you got on to the fact that he was lying somewhere on that path is beyond me,” he declared.
“It was a theory, McKay, based on experience. Whenever I have heard that call it has always been a warning to one dacoit, who was operating, from another who was watching. As it’s getting light, I hope to find out shortly how the Cold Man got into the grounds.”
“But how did he get into the office?”
“That,” Nayland Smith rapped, “is not so difficult. There is a tall tulip tree growing close to the house some twenty yards from the window. These Burmese experts often operate from the roof. Evidently, even when changed to Cold Men, they retain these acrobatic powers.”
“Professional thieves in this Province,” Lao Tse-Mung remarked, “use much the same methods. But how they do it, I have yet to learn.”
“I hope I may be able to explain later,” Nayland Smith told him. “So that although the Cold Man may have dropped from the office window, for dacoits are capable of performing astonishing falls, it’s more likely that he returned to the roof. Your lucky shot with the metal bowl registered,” he turned to Tony—”it would have killed a normal man. It only dazed the dacoit. He got back as far as the tall tulip tree, sprang to a high branch—and missed it.”
He knocked ashes from his pipe and began to reload the charred bowl.
“Your analysis of the night’s events,” came Lao Tse-Mung’s mellow voice, “is entirely credible. But there’s one mystery which you have not cleared up. I refer to the fact that those who instructed this man (if he ;’s a man) must have known that the document in cipher was here.”
Nayland Smith paused in the act of pressing down tobacco in the bowl of his pipe.
“I don’t think they knew it,” he replied thoughtfully. “But as McKay was identified in Niu-fo-Tu as the escaped prisoner, and as the dying Skobolov was in the neighborhood at the same time, Fu Manchu may have surmised that McKay had got possession of the document and brought it to me . . .”
In the early morning, a party of frightened and shivering men under Nayland Smith’s direction carried a long, heavy wooden box out from the main gate and across the narrow road. In a cypress wood bordering the road they dug a deep grave, and buried the Cold Man.
The body remained supernaturally chilled.
Sir Denis, having dismissed the burial party, set off at a rapid pace in the direction of the gate lodge. A man now was in charge there, old Mai Cha having moved up to the big house to look after Moon Flower.
They passed the silent bungalow and went on to the spot where the gardeners had placed the ladder that night. Nayland Smith quickly identified it by marks on the soil where it had rested. Then, foot by foot, he examined every inch of ground under the wall for several yards east and west of it. And at last:
“Look!” he cried triumphantly and pointed down. “As I thought!”
Tony looked. He saw two narrow holes in the earth, as if made by the penetration of a walking stick.
“What does this mean?”
“It means what I expected, McKay. I have the key of the main gate. Here it is. Go out and walk back along the road. I’ll sing out to guide you. When you get to the spot where I’m st
anding inside, look for similar marks, outside.”
Tony took the key and ran to the gate. He unlocked it and began to do as Nayland Smith had directed. When he reached a point which he judged to be near that where Sir Denis waited, he called out.
“Three paces more,” came crisply.
He took three paces. “Here I am.”
“Search.”
Tony found the job no easy one. Coarse grass and weeds grew beside the road close up to the wall. But, persevering, he noticed a patch which seemed to have been trodden down. He stooped, parted the tangled undergrowth with his fingers, and at last found what he was looking for:
Two identical holes in the earth!
“Found ‘em?” Nayland Smith rapped from the other side of the wall.
“Yes, Sir Denis. They’re here!”
“Come back, and relock the gate. It isn’t supposed to be opened until the gate porter is on duty.”
Tony obeyed; rejoined Nayland Smith. “What does all this mean?”
Sir Denis grinned impishly. “It means two light bamboo ladders, long enough to clear the wiring and meeting above it on top. It’s as easy as that!”
Tony gaped for a moment; then he began to laugh.
“So much for Lao Tse-Mung’s fortress!”
“Quite so.” Nayland Smith spoke grimly. “It could be entered by an agile man using only one ladder. But he would have to stay inside until he found another way out. So that’s that. Now, to find the last piece of evidence on which my analysis of this business rests. I have examined the wall below the office window, and no one could reach the window from the ground. Therefore, he reached it from the roof.”
They returned to the house, where Wong was waiting for them.
“The trap to the roof,” he reported, “is above the landing of the east wing. I have had a step-ladder put there and have unbolted the trap.”
“Good.” Nayland Smith lighted his pipe. “Lead the way.”
The opening above the ladder gave access to a low, stuffy loft formed by the curved, tiled roof which projected over the house like an umbrella. Wong carried a flashlamp, directing its light on to the cross-beams and warning them to stoop. Four of the many ornamental brackets supporting the eaves—viewed from outside, a picturesque feature of Chinese architecture—masked traps by which it was possible to get on to the upturned lip of the curving roof, and so inspect or repair the tiles.
Lao Tse-Mung had gently grafted modern efficiency on to ancient feudalism.
“This is the nearest,” Nayland Smith muttered, and turned to Wong. “Open this one up.”
Wong ducked his head, stepped into the narrow, V-shaped closet, reached up and opened a trap. A shaft of daylight appeared in the opening.
“Wait until I’m up, McKay,” Sir Denis directed. “Then follow on. Four eyes are better than two.”
He raised his arms, wedged his foot on a projection, and was gone. Tony followed—to find himself lying at the base of the curved roof, and only prevented from falling off by the curl of the highly decorated edge. Nayland Smith, on all fours, was already crawling along the ledge. Tony glanced over the side, and saw at a glance that they were no more than a few yards from the office and his own room below.
As this fact dawned upon him, Nayland Smith turned his head, looked back.
“I was right!” he cried. “Here’s what I was looking for!”
He held up a length of shiny thin rope. One end apparently was fastened to an ornament on the curling lip of the roof.
Tony turned cautiously and crawled back. He decided that the profession of steeplejack was not for him. He noted, when Sir Denis joined him, that he carried the coil of rope. But it was not until they were in Tony’s room that he explained what already was fairly clear. He held up the thin line.
“Note,” he rapped, “that it’s knotted at intervals. It’s a silk rope and strong as a cable. You saw that it was fastened to one of the gargoyles decorating the edge of the roof. A dacoit’s rope. I have seen many. At a pinch, it can serve the same purpose as a thug’s cord. His weight, as he first swung down to the window and then hauled himself up again, so tightened the knot that he couldn’t get it free. He dared not wait. He ran along the roof to the tulip tree—and broke his neck.”
Chapter XV
That night a counsel of war was held.
“Whatever information he may have,” Lao Tse-Mung stated, “The Master dare not take active steps against me. It is clear that we hold a document which is of vital import to him. This is my shield. Your presence. Sir Denis, requires no explanation, nor does that of Moon Flower. But you. Captain McKay, as a secret agent once under arrest, pose a problem.”
“I quite agree, sir,” Tony admitted.
“What are we going to do?” Moon Flower asked, her blue eyes anxious. “Even if Fu Manchu does not have you arrested. Sir Denis has told you that his awful servants, the Cold Men, can get in almost any night!”
Lao Tse-Mung smiled in his gentle way.
“For a few more nights, possibly. Moon Flower. And I have arranged a patrol of the walls which will make even this difficult. Then, advised by Sir Denis, and in conference with my engineers, I have prepared a surprise for invaders.”
“It boils down to this,” Nayland Smith rapped out: “We’re all three going to move—tonight! We meet at the house of the lama, Dr. Li Wu Chang, in Niu-fo-Tu. I could discard disguise and travel openly, as I’m entitled to do, taking Jeanie with me. Fu Manchu knows I’m in Szechuan, although I’m uncertain how he found out. It’s open warfare. But in view of all we have to do, this would be to play into Fu Manchu’s hands. He must be made to believe that I have returned to Hong Kong—Our good friend, Lao Tse-Mung, has undertaken this part of the scheme, and his private plane will leave for Hong Kong tonight.”
“But you won’t be on board?” Tony suggested.
“I shall be on my way to Niu-fo-Tu. I shall take over the part of the Burmese monk retiring to his monastery with a young disciple. Our host has provided me with suitable papers. Hang on to those you have. You, also, must travel as a Buddhist priest. You know your own story, your name and the name of your monastery. The travel permit for disciple I must have,7
“All clear.”
“We’ll set out together, in the old Ford, until I say ‘Beat it!’ Then you’ll beat it, and be on your own!”
“Agreed,” Tony said.
“Leave the details to me. Yours may be the harder part, McKay, but you’re used to the hard way. Jeanie insists on joining us, so let it go at that. We start at nine sharp . . .”
On a long, cane settee, outside the library, where flowering vines laced the terrace, and the gardens under a crescent moon looked like fairyland. Tony and Moon Flower continued the conference.
“Yueh Hua,” he whispered, “why must you come with us? God knows I always want you near me, but we’re up against enemies who stick at nothing. Dr. Fu Manchu uses strange methods. These Cold Men! Couldn’t you stay right here, where you’re safe, until a better time comes to join me?”
He could feel her heart beating against his own when she answered.
“No, Chi Foh. I know Sir Denis has some plan to release my father, and I may be part of it. I can’t be wrong, because otherwise I’m sure he would have told me to stay.”
Tony held her close. “When Sir Denis needs you he will send for you.”
“He needs me now, or he wouldn’t take me. Don’t worry about me, Chi Foh. It is you I’m worrying about! If we have to separate, and someone recognizes you as an escaped prisoner—”
“The odds are against it. I know enough about the game, now, to take care of myself. I have credentials, too, and I’ll get by.”
“Please heaven you do, my dearest.”
The rest of the conference had no bearing on the problem . . .
* * *
There was a fairly good road, as Chinese roads go, to Niu-fo-Tu, as Tony remembered. And when they set out, Nayland Smith driving, Moon Flower beside hi
m, and Tony in the back, moonlight was adequate to prevent a driver from coming to grief on the many obstacles met with.
Nayland Smith was an expert driver, but his speed, on this unpredictable surface, might have alarmed a nervous passenger. There was no great distance to go, and he took bends with a confidence which showed that he meant to get there in the shortest possible time.
“I’m afraid, Jeanie,” Tony heard him say, “my many journeys in the old days with Scotland Yard’s Flying Squad have taught me bad manners!”
His remarkable driving got them intact to within sight of dim lights which indicated the market town of Niu-fo-Tu—of unhappy memory.
And suddenly these dim lights were reinforced by a red light!
“Beat it, McKay!” Nayland Smith rapped and slowed down. “Make a detour. You know something of the lay of the land. Head for Li Wu Chang’s back door. If picked up, do your stuff. Admit that’s where you’re going. You’re fellow Buddhists.”
Tony jumped out. He had a glimpse of Moon Flower looking back; then, he made his way to the roadside, tried to recall what he knew of the immediate neighborhood to place himself, and groped a way through a bamboo jungle to a spot where he could sit down.
He had a packet of cigarettes and a lighter in the pocket of his ungainly robe. He took them out, lighted a cigarette, and sat down to consider his next move.
Which side was the river? If he could mentally locate the spot where the sampan had been tied up, he could work out his route to that path which would lead him to the back door of the lama’s house.
From cover, he watched the Ford pass out of sight.
He was alone again. He must act alone.
A few minutes’ reflection convinced him that the Lu Ho river lay on his left. Then he must follow the road as close as possible to the outskirts of the town. As the road ran roughly east and west, on this side of Niu-fo-Tu he must bear north- westerly, if he could find a path, and this would bring him to the open country behind the lama’s house.
Without further delay, he returned to the road and started walking.
What was Nayland Smith’s plan? That he had one seemed evident, as he was re-entering the danger zone. Tony’s heart sank when he reflected that he had rescued Moon Flower from the clutches of Fu Manchu and that now she was venturing again into his reach. But how he loved her loyalty, her intrepid spirit, that glorious, fighting spirit, ready to defy even such an enemy as Dr. Fu Manchu.
