Emperor Fu Manchu f-13

by Sax Rohmer

  He knew that heaven had been good to him, and strode along confidently until he had a distant view of the gate of the town—but not the gate by which he had entered on a previous occasion. He pulled up, made a swift mental calculation, and got his bearings.

  As he stepped aside from the high road into a tangle of bushes, a heavy wagon of market produce lumbered along, and from cover he saw, again, the red light spring up ahead.

  Evidently, there was a guard at the gate. What was the reason of these unusual precautions? . . . And how had Nayland Smith been received?

  Anxiety surged up in him like a hot spring.

  He peered out. The big cart was being detained. He saw a number of men around it. He moved on. Still keeping parallel with the road, he tried to find some sort of path leading in the direction he wanted to go.

  And, soon, he found one.

  It was a footpath from the highroad, bearing north-westerly, just such a path as he had hoped to find. He sighed with relief; began to trudge along.

  But, fifty yards from the road, he stopped. His heart seemed to stop, too.

  A Ford car (and he couldn’t mistake it!) stood beside the narrow footpath!

  He sprang forward. The car was empty. It had been deserted.

  His brain began to behave like a windmill, and he broke into a run. What did it mean? What had happened? This was the car Nayland Smith had been driving. Where was Nayland Smith—and where was Moon Flower?

  The path led into a patch of dense shadow, deserted by moonlight. He ran on.

  A steely grasp on his ankle! He was thrown—pinned down!

  Tony twisted, threw off his unseen enemy, nearly got on to his knees, when a strangle-hold ended the struggle.

  “The light—quick!” came a snappy command.

  A light flashed dazzlingly on to Tony’s face.

  “Chi Foh!” Moon Flower’s voice!

  “Damn it, McKay! I’m awfully sorry!”

  He had been captured by Nayland Smith . . .

  * * *

  “I thought my maneuver had been spotted,” Sir Denis explained. “Hearing someone apparently in pursuit, I naturally acted promptly.”

  “You did!” Tony admitted. “I’m getting quite used to being strangled!”

  “You see, McKay, in sight of the town gate, I saw a loaded cart being examined there; several lanterns were brought out. By great good luck, I recognized one of the searchers—the big Nubian! That settled it. I looked for an opening where I could turn in, scrapped the old Ford and went ahead on foot.”

  “I understand. I did the same thing; and I think, but I’m not sure, that you have picked the right path. If so, we haven’t far to walk. But what’s going on in Niu-fo-Tu? Is Fu Manchu expecting us?”

  They were walking ahead cautiously, speaking in low tones.

  “That’s what bothers me,” Nayland Smith confessed. “I don’t understand it.”

  Moon Flower had said little for some time, but now she broke her silence. “As we have the mysterious manuscript, surely Fu Manchu would expect us to get away and not to come back here.”

  “I agree,” Sir Denis said. “There may be some other reason for these strange precautions.”

  They came out from the shadow of trees. The path led sharply right, and silvered by moonlight, they saw the scattered houses of Niu-fo-Tu. The house of the Lama, Dr. Li Wu Chang, was easy to identify, and Tony recognized the door by which he had escaped.

  “Is the Lama expecting us?” he asked Nayland Smith.

  “Yes. He has been advised. Hurry! We can be seen from several points now.”

  m less than two minutes they were at the door. It was a teak door with a grille. It was locked.

  Nayland Smith fumbled about urgently, and presently found what he was looking for. A faint bell note sounded inside the house.

  “I think someone is coming along this way,’ Moon Flower whispered. “Perhaps we have been seen!”

  The grille opened. There was an outline of a face behind the bars.

  “Nayland Smith!” Sir Denis snapped.

  The door was opened. They hurried in, and the old woman who had opened the door reclosed and barred it.

  At that moment the lama came out of his study, hands extended.

  “You are welcome. I was growing anxious. My sister, who looks after me, will take charge of Miss Cameron-Gordon, and presently we will all share a frugal supper . . .”

  Later in the Lama’s study, with its church-like smell, and refreshed by a bottle of excellent wine: “I have brought you a problem. Doctor,” Nayland Smith said, “which I know will appeal to you. Guard it carefully—for its solution may determine the fate of China.”

  And he handed the Lama the Chinese manuscript.

  The old Lama glanced over a few pages, smiled, looked up.

  “It is unusual. Sir Denis, but I don’t despair. No doubt you have a

  copy?”

  Nayland Smith nodded. “I had one made at Lao Tse-Mung’s.” “I received a message from him. He called to learn if you had arrived. It seems that a Cold Man entered his house to steal this document, but that the attempt was frustrated and the creature killed?” “Correct,” Nayland Smith agreed. “He was also buried.” “So I understand. Sir Denis. Lao Tse-Mung informs me that his chief mechanic, a very faithful and intelligent servant, reported to him shortly after you had departed that he had heard voices and strange sounds from the cypress grove in which the burial had taken place. He asked for permission to investigate. It was granted.”

  “Wong’s a good man,” Nayland Smith said, his grey eyes lighting up. “I don’t know another of them all that would go near that grave at night. What did he find?”

  “He found the grave reopened—and empty!”

  * * *

  A blue light went out in the small cabinet which faced Dr. Fu Manchu. He glanced across at General Huan who sat watching him. “Mahmud reports that the consignment from Lung Chang has passed through Niu-fo-Tu. On the outskirts of the town it will be transferred to the motor wagon and should be here very shortly.”

  General Huan took a pinch of snuff, “m my ignorance. Master, it seems to me that to employ your great powers upon a matter which cannot advance our cause—”

  Fu Manchu raised his hand, stood up slowly. His eyes became fixed in an almost maniacal stare, his fingers seemed to quiver.

  “Cannot advance our cause?” The words were hissed. “How do you suppose, Tsung-Chao, that I have accomplished even so little? Is it because I am a master politician? No. Because I am a great soldier? No. Why do I stand before you, alive? Because I was chosen by the gods to outlive my normal span of years? No!”

  His voice rose to a guttural cry. He clenched his hands.

  “I regret my clumsy words. Master. I would have said—”

  “You would have spoken folly. It is because I have explored more secrets of nature than any man living today. The fools who send rockets into space: what cause do these toys advance? I constructed a machine thirty years ago which defies the law of gravity. What of those who devise missiles with destructive warheads to reach distant targets? I could erase human life from the face of the earth without employing such a clumsy device.”

  Fu Manchu dropped back into his chair, breathing heavily.

  “Forgive me. I had no wish to disturb you.”

  “I am not disturbed, Tsung-Chao. I am disappointed to find that our long association has not shown you that it is my supremacy as a scientist which alone can carry our projects to success. And what is my greatest achievement to this present hour? The creation of the Cold Men. You may not know, therefore I tell you, that the Cold Men are dead men.”

  Huan Tsung-Chao stirred uneasily, looked aside.

  “You are startled! Matsukata alone knew the secret, which now you share. Every one of the Cold Men has died, or has been put to death, and from the cold ashes I have re-created the flame of life. None, save Singu, has ever been buried as dead. For a man once dead cannot die a second time!�
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  General Huan’s mask-like features relaxed into an expression which almost resembled one of fear.

  “I am appalled. Master. Forgive my ignorance—but Matsukata reported that Singu died of a broken neck.”

  Dr. Fu Manchu laughed harshly. “He reported that Singu had suffered a dislocation of the anterior ligament as the result of a fall on his head. There were other injuries to the skull which may indicate the cause of this fall. The ligament I can repair; the other injury also.”

  “But—”

  “But if I cannot restore Singu to life long years of research will have led me to a hollow fallacy. I believed the Cold Men to be indestructible except by total disintegration.”

  There was a faint sound, and Fu Manchu turned a switch. The voice of the Japanese physician, Matsukata, came faintly:

  “I have the body in the clinic. Master.”

  “Do nothing until I join you.”

  Dr. Fu Manchu stood up. “Would you care to witness one of the most important experiments I have ever carried out, Tsung-Chao?”

  “Thank you, no,” the old soldier replied. “I fear no living man; but dead men who walk again turn my old blood to water . . .

  Chapter XVI

  Tony stared out of a window into one of the busiest streets of Chia-Ting. This was part of the city he had never previously visited. His knowledge of Chia-Ting was confined to the waterfront and the jail. Accompanied by the old Lama, whose credentials were above suspicion, they had made the thirty-odd miles journey without incident, as members of his family bound for Chengtu.

  Nayland Smith and Tony had adopted the dress of members of the professional class, and Moon Flower was a girl again—Sir Denis’s daughter. The house in Chia-Ting belonged to a cousin of the Lama, a prosperous physician and a fervent anti-Communist.

  But, this evening. Tony was worried.

  Nayland Smith and his “daughter” had traced, at last, the house in which Shun-Hi, former servant of Dr. Cameron-Gordon (now employed in the summer villa of the governor of the province) was living. Moon Flower’s memory of its location was rather hazy. They had gone to interview Shun-Hi.

  And, although dusk was near, they had not returned.

  Sir Denis had insisted that, until the time for action came. Tony must not show himself unnecessarily in Chia-Ting. Too many people knew him, and the reward for his arrest would stimulate recognition. But he suffered agonies whenever Moon Flower was out on the search.

  He still had little more than a vague idea of Nayland Smith’s plan. That the girl, Shun-Hi, was a link with Moon Flower’s father he saw clearly. But, regarding his release from Dr. Fu Manchu, he saw no prospect whatever. Only his faith in the chief who had employed him shone like a guiding star. If anyone could do it, Nayland Smith was the man.

  Just before suspense became unendurable. Tony saw Moon Flower and Sir Denis making for the door below. They had a girl with them whom he guessed to be Shun-Hi, and a few moments later all three came into the room.

  Nayland Smith looked elated. “Our luck holds, McKay! Here’s a useful recruit. Sit down, Shun-Hi. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Shun-Hi, a good-looking working-class girl, smiled happily at Moon Flower and sat down. Moon Flower sat beside her, an encouraging arm thrown around Shun-Hi’s shoulders, as Nayland Smith began to fill his pipe.

  “Is your father well, Yueh-Hua?” Tony asked.

  Moon Flower nodded. “Yes—but very unhappy.”

  “Shun-Hi,” Sir Denis explained, “speaks remarkably good English. So now, Shun-Hi, I want to ask you some questions. Your old employer, the doctor, you tell me, works in a laboratory in the garden but sleeps in the house. How large is this laboratory?”

  “It is—” Sun-Hi hesitated—”like four of mis room in a row—so.” She extended her hands.

  “Along, low building. I see. And where’s the door?”

  “One at each end. From the door at the far end there is a path to a gate. But the gate is always locked.”

  “And inside?”

  “No one is allowed inside. Sometimes, I carry a tray down for the doctor. His lunch. But I put it on the ledge of a window and he takes it in. This was how I got Miss Yueh-Hua’s message to him and got his reply back.”

  “Does he work alone there?”

  “Yes. Except when a Japanese from the hospital comes, or when The Master is here. The Master spends many hours inside this place.”

  “And when the window is opened, what can you see?”

  “Only a very small room, with a table and some chairs.”

  “Does Dr. Cameron-Gordon work there late?”

  “I don’t know. He is always there when I leave in the evening.”

  “Does he never go outside the walls?”

  “No.”

  “When he leaves the laboratory, what is to prevent him walking out by one of the gates?”

  “They are always locked, except when visitors come. Then, a gate porter opens them. There is a small door in the wall, used by the staff. It is opened for us when we arrive and again when we leave.”

  Moon Flower smiled. “That was the door, Shun-Hi, I watched until I saw you come out one evening. Do you remember?”

  Shun-Hi turned her head and affectionately kissed the hand resting on her shoulder.

  “Is Huan Tsung-Chao a good master?” Nayland Smith asked.

  “Yes. He is kind to us all.”

  “But you would rather be with Dr. Cameron-Gordon again?”

  “Oh,yes!”

  “And The Master—do you have much to do with him when he is there?”

  “No!” Shun-Hi spoke shudderingly. “I should be afraid to go near him!”

  Nayland Smith had not lighted his pipe. He did so now; and as smoke rose from the bowl:

  “Tell me, Shun-Hi,” he rapped, “is any watch kept in the gardens at night?”

  “I don’t know. I am never there at night. But I don’t think so. It is just a summer house where his Excellency comes for a rest.”

  Nayland Smith nodded. “Do you take a tray to Dr. Cameron-Gordon every day?”

  “Oh, no. Some days one of the other girls is sent.”

  “And does the same girl bring it back?”

  “As a rule, yes. The doctor leaves it on the ledge. But, the day I gave him the message, he waited until I came to return the tray and give me the reply.”

  Nayland Smith pulled at the lobe of his ear, thoughtfully. “So that if we gave you another message for Dr. Cameron-Gordon, it might be several days before you could deliver it?”

  “Yes.”

  “H’m! That complicates matters.”

  Tony, who had listened to every word, broke in: “It only means, Sir Denis, a few days more delay.”

  “Perhaps. But Fu Manchu is merely a bird of passage in Szechuan. He may move on at any time. I haven’t an idea in what way he’s employing Cameron-Gordon’s special knowledge. But as it’s obviously of some value to Fu Manchu, when one goes the other goes with him!”

  Moon Flower’s eyes opened widely. “Oh, I couldn’t bear it! We are so near to him—and yet!”

  “We have to face facts, Jeanie,” Sir Denis said. “Even if we’re given our chance, it may not come off. But I have a strong conviction that if we make no mistakes it will.”

  * * *

  At a glass-topped table a man whose iron-grey hair, fresh complexion and a close-trimmed grey mustache lent him something of the look of a Scottish sergeant major bent over a powerful microscope. He wore the white linen jacket which is the scientist’s field uniform. Whatever he was studying absorbed all his attention.

  A faint sound made by an opening door failed to distract him.

  The tall figure which had entered, that of a man also in white, stood silent, watching.

  The student, without removing his eye from the instrument, scribbled something on a pad which lay near his hand. He looked a while longer, then standing up and completing the note he had made, sat down and turned to a globular lam
p-glass, the top closed with cotton-wool, standing in a Petri dish. Several sheets of damp filter paper lay in the bottom. He took up a lens and stared intently into the glass globe.

  “I see, Doctor,” came a sibilant voice from the shadowed doorway, “you are studying my new sandflies.”

  “Yes.” The man addressed didn’t even glance aside.

  “Are you satisfied?”

  “Yes. But you won’t be.”

  “Why?”

  “They are not absorbing the virus.”

  “It is fed to them.”

  “It is here, on the filter-papers. But they reject it.” He looked up for the first time. Light-blue eyes blazed under shaggy eyebrows. “For your own filthy purpose these new imports are useless.”

  Fu Manchu walked slowly into the room, stood over the seated man; smiling his icy smile.

  “Your mulish obstinacy in ignoring my high purpose begins to annoy me.” He spoke softly. “You are well aware of the fact that I do not strike at random. Only the guilty suffer. You persist in confusing my aims with those of the crazy Communist fools who wrecked your mission hospital. You presume to classify my work with that of the ignorant, power-drunk demagogues who have forced their way into the Kremlin.”

  “Your methods are much the same.”

  There was a moment of tense silence, broken only by a rhythmic throbbing in the adjoining room. Fu Manchu’s clenched hands relaxed.

  “You forget that I saved you from the mob who burned your home.”

  “By arresting me and making me a prisoner here. It was you who inspired the mob—for that purpose alone.”

  Fu Manchu’s voice was coldly calm when he spoke again. “Dr. Cameron-Gordon, I respect your knowledge. I respect your courage. But I cannot respect your blindness to the fact that our ideals are identical. My methods in achieving them are beyond your understanding. Be good enough to leave your work for an hour. I wish to talk to you.”

  “When I undertake a thing, though I may loathe it, I carry it out. My work here is not finished.”