Emperor Fu Manchu f-13

by Sax Rohmer

  “I shall answer it, Sir Denis,” the sibilant whisper went on, almost dreamily. “Your death could avail me nothing, and might one day be laid at my door with disastrous consequences; for you are no longer a mere Burmese police officer but an esteemed official of the British Secret Service.”

  “Therefore?” Nayland Smith prompted.

  “Therefore, I shall see to it that you disappear for a time. Dr. Cameron-Gordon will resume his work in my laboratory here, or perhaps in another, elsewhere. His charming daughter I shall keep usefully employed. Concerning Captain McKay, I am undecided.”

  Tony had been struggling hard to bottle his rising anger, but as Fu Manchu’s voice ceased the cork came out.

  “Then I’ll decide for you!” he shouted, and sprang to his feet.

  Nayland Smith grabbed him and threw him back in his chair. “For the last time,” he snapped, “shut up!”

  “I am obliged to you, Sir Denis,” Fu Manchu murmured. “I recall that you were one of the first Englishmen to master judo. With advancing years, and increasing perils, it is a desirable accomplishment.”

  “There is one objection to your plans. Dr. Fu Manchu,” Nayland Smith said grimly.

  “From your point of view, no doubt?”

  “No. From yours.”

  “And what is this objection?”

  Fu Manchu bent forward, fixing his strange gaze on Sir Denis’s face.

  “I will explain it only if you give me your word—which I respect—that should you decline to accept what I propose, no coercion of any kind be used upon any of us to force compliance and that I am not asked to identify others concerned. We should remain, as we are now, your prisoners.”

  Fu Manchu watched him in silence for some time, his fingers pressed together; then:

  “I give you my word. Sir Denis,” he said quietly.

  Tony, fists clenched tightly, glanced at Nayland Smith. What was he going to say? What plan had flashed through that resourceful brain? And what was the word of this archcriminal worth?

  “Good,” Sir Denis said calmly. “I accept it. You suggested recently that I had attempted to intercept the man Skobolov. On the contrary, I was unaware that he was in China, nor did I know what I should have had to gain by such an attempt. But your evident interest in his movements suggest that it was something of great importance.”

  Dr. Fu Manchu did not stir; his face remained expressionless. Tony almost held his breath. He knew, now, what Nayland Smith was going to propose.

  “By mere chance,” Sir Denis went on, speaking calmly and unusually slowly, “a man unknown appealed to McKay to help him. He was very ill and apparently in danger. McKay took him on board his boat, and during that night the man died. His body was consigned to the canal. His sole baggage—a large briefcase—McKay brought with him to the meeting place I had appointed.”

  Fu Manchu’s expression remained impassive. But his long fingers became intertwined again. He said nothing.

  “From the correspondence in the briefcase, when translated, we learned that the man was Andre Skobolov. We also learned that he had something in his possession which was of vital interest to the Kremlin. This could only be a bound manuscript, written in Chinese.”

  And at last Fu Manchu spoke. “Which was also translated?”

  “It could not be deciphered. May I suggest that this manuscript is the reason for your interest in Andre Skobolov?”

  There was a brief silence. Cameron-Gordon had raised his bowed head and was watching Nayland Smith.

  “If it were so,” Fu Manchu said smoothly, “in what way could this be an objection to my plans?”

  “At the moment, it could be none. In the event of my disappearance it might prove a source of annoyance. The manuscript is in safe keeping, but should I fail to reclaim it in the next few days, it will be dispatched to the British Foreign Office to be decoded . . .”

  Chapter XXI

  In his memories of his mission to Szechuan, memories both bitter and sweet. Tony found the electric silence which followed Nayland Smith’s words one of the most poignant. That clash of mental swords, recognition of the fact that the fate of all of them rested upon the combat, had penetrated even Cameron-Gordon’s lethargy of despair. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead as he watched Dr. Fu Manchu.

  To Tony it appeared that they held all the cards—but only if Fu Manchu’s word was worth a dime. No man—even Nayland Smith—could stand up to Chinese tortures. He was almost afraid to think about the copy of the cipher manuscript which was in the keeping of Lao Tse-Mung, for he believed that Fu Manchu could read men’s minds. And he knew that Sir Denis, although a master of evasion, would never tell an outright lie. He knew that the original was safe with the lama at Niu-fo-Tu.

  It was a masterly bluff. Clearly enough Nayland Smith had been right when he said, “The most powerful weapon against Fu Manchu which I ever held in my hands.”

  For Dr. Fu Manchu, eyes closed, sat deep in meditation for several agonizing minutes considering the matter.

  What was the manuscript for which Andre Skobolov had given his life?

  Tony, in his agitation, found himself grasping Nayland Smith’s arm—when Dr. Fu Manchu spoke:

  “Where is this cipher document” came in guttural tones.

  “T have your word. Dr. Fu Manchu, that I am not to be asked to reveal the names of others concerned,” Nayland Smith answered coldly.

  Fu Manchu leaned forward, his green eyes staring venomously at Sir Denis.

  “You have rejected my offer. You force me to accept yours.”

  His voice was lowered to the sibilant hiss. “Very well. My word is my bond. What are your conditions?”

  “That we are all four free to leave, and will not be intercepted; that Jean Cameron-Gordon be released from the control you have laid upon her and returned to her father’s care; that I be given an official travel permit to recover the document you want; that no attempt is made to trace my journey or destination.”

  Dr. Fu Manchu closed his eyes again. “These conditions I accept.”

  “Then I can start at once?”

  “Directly your travel permit is ready. Sir Denis. Two must remain until the manuscript is in my hands. Whom do you wish to go with you.”

  Nayland Smith hesitated only a moment, then: “Captain McKay,” he said. “But before we leave. Miss Cameron-Gordon must join her father.”

  “She shall do so. As my guests they shall be safe and comfortable until your return.”

  “I accept your terms. But you must allow me an hour to confer with my friends before I leave—in a room which is not wired.”

  “To this also I agree . . .”

  “For mercy’s sake, mix me a drink, McKay! Dr. Fu Manchu and I have struck a strange bargain. You may talk freely. We have his word for it there’ll be no eavesdropping—and as I told you recently, I never knew him to lie. He’s the blackest villain unhung, but his word is sacred.”

  “Okay,” Tony said, and crossed to the buffet.

  Cameron-Gordon growled something under his breath.

  Although they were unaware of the fact, they had been conducted to the luxurious suite formerly occupied by Andre Skobolov.

  “How I miss my pipe!” Nayland Smith muttered. “I see there are cigarettes. Toss a packet over. Here’s the situation—Fu Manchu has his own plans for ruling China. He doesn’t want those plans disturbed by a sudden, crazy use of germ weapons. As you know, McKay, I found the name of von Wehmer in the Russian correspondence.”

  He lighted a cigarette, took a sip from the glass which Tony handed to him.

  “This was news for which Military Intelligence would have paid a foreign agent anything he asked. You see, von Wehrner was employed by the Nazis on similar research during the war. M.I. located the germ plant in occupied France. There was a Commando raid—German plant completely destroyed. Somehow or another they dragged von Wehmer out of the blazing building and brought him back with them. He was interned; And I had sever
al long interviews with him. I found him to be a brilliantly clever man; and when he got to know me better he confided that although he had devoted his skill day and night to the secret researches, he abhorred the idea of germ warfare.”

  “He would have no choice,” Cameron-Gordon declared. “I know the method!”

  “Later on,” Sir Denis added, “he confessed that he had repeatedly delayed results. And I think it’s a logical deduction that he’s doing the same again. Hence his recall!”

  “But the situation is different,” Cameron-Gordon objected. “Maybe he was never a Nazi. But now he’s clearly a Communist.”

  “No more a Communist than you are!” Nayland Smith snapped. “I have great respect for von Wehrner. At the end of the war I secured his release and he went back to Germany. I heard from him from time to time; then his letters ceased. I had an inquiry started, and after a month or more got a report of the facts. Von Wehmer had been kidnapped one night and rushed over to East Berlin! Never a word since.”

  “You mean he’s a prisoner of the Communists, just as I am?”

  “The situation is almost identical—but I haven’t been idle. In addition to making the plans which led to our present position, I got in touch with von Wehmer. I foresaw the possibility of things going wrong—heaven knows they did!—and realized that my cordial relations with von Wehmer might be useful.”

  “But how the devil did you get in touch with him?” Cameron-Gordon demanded.

  “Through our talented friend the lama. He has a contact in the Russian camp, by whom one of the phantom radios was smuggled in to von Wehmer.”

  “And what is von Wehmer prepared to do?”

  “This: If I can guarantee his escape from the Soviets, he will guarantee to destroy the plant!”

  “But Fu Manchu intends to destroy it!”

  “And to make a slave of von Wehmer! I mean to move first . . .”

  Dr. Fu Manchu remained in his place behind the lacquer desk. Old General Huan faced him from his cushioned seat.

  “The ancient gods of China are with us, Tsung-Chao.” General Huan seemed to be pondering.

  “You agree with me?” Fu Manchu said softly.

  “That the Si-Fan Register should be returned to us by the hand of Nayland Smith certainly savors of a miracle. Master. It is a sword of Damocles removed. In possession of the men at the Kremlin, or the British Foreign Office, it would spell disaster.”

  Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff from his silver box. “Its recovery sets me free to move against the Soviet research plant—a plague-spot in Szechuan.”

  General Huan fanned himself, for the night was warm.

  “It is this project which alarms me,” he stated placidly.

  Fu Manchu’s voice changed, became harsh. “I recall, when I communicated with you from England, that you advised against it, pointing out that it would result in a flock of Soviet investigators descending upon Szechuan and possibly finding evidence of your part in the disaster.”

  “I recall the correspondence very well. As a former officer of the old regime, I am not above suspicion. And having escaped one grave danger, it seems to me to be tempting Fate to plunge into another.”

  Fu Manchu hissed contemptuously. “Always we live on the edge of a volcano. We are accustomed to such conditions. Very well. Here is an opportunity to achieve one of my minor objectives without exposing you or myself to charges of complicity.”

  General Huan folded his fan. “Your plan, as I recall it. Master, involved the employment of a number of Cold Men?”

  “It did.”

  “As it is well known that these ghastly creatures come from the clinic which you established and which I constructed, surely this fact would expose us both to a charge of complicity?”

  Fu Manchu smiled his icy smile. “By whom will such a charge be made? At night the circumference of the plant is patrolled by a squad of Russian guards. They are easily disposed of. Members of the staff live in the neighboring village. There is a Russian camp about a mile distant. The guard on the plant is relieved at regular intervals. The wire fence enclosing it is electrified.”

  “I have made it my business. Master, to acquaint myself with the Russian arrangements. I did so on receipt of your letter from London. It is true that only six men and a sergeant guard the place. The sergeant holds the key of the gate. There are telephone connections between a box at the gate and the Russian headquarters inside the camp. Reinforcements could be on hand very quickly.”

  “We should, first, cut this connection—then, overpower the sergeant.”

  General Huan bowed slightly. “Professionally, I should have planned the defense otherwise, although I admit that an attempt to seize the research station is not a likely contingency. It is believed, throughout the area, to be devoted to the study of leprosy.”

  Fu Manchu laughed. It was harsh, mocking laughter. “The affair will be over long before an alarm reaches the Russian camp. “

  “And who will direct these Cold Men?”

  “Matsukata. Or I may go, myself.”

  “Master! You would be running your head into a noose!”

  “Why? The supply truck from the clinic will be standing by. The necropolites have rioted and escaped. This will be our story if our presence is detected. I am there to recapture them. I had anticipated a possible occasion when a number of these might be used, and so had instructed Matsukata to turn one at large from time to time in order to create popular terror of the creatures . . .”

  “You believe that the operation can be carried through without sound of it reaching the Russian camp?”

  “Certainly, if no one blunders. Long ladders will be taken, such as those we have used before, in case we fail to find the key of the gate. Dr. von Wehmer, who lives in the enclosure, will be seized first. He will have keys of the buildings, or know where to find them . . .”

  * * *

  And in their own luxurious quarters, Nayland Smith was outlining his own plans. “You see, the loss of our mystery radio sets ties me badly. I’m glad we left them behind of course. If found on us, I don’t doubt that Fu Manchu would have put the system controlling them out of order.”

  “Tell me something,” Tony interrupted: “How long have we been here?”

  Nayland Smith smiled grimly. “I know how you feel. That filthy, sweet-smelling gas in the insect room! It might have happened a week ago. But it’s my guess that it happened at approximately ten o’clock on Wednesday night. That would make the time, now, at about three a.m. on Thursday morning. Events have moved quickly, McKay”

  “And now tell me just one thing,” Cameron-Gordon broke in:

  “Where is Jeanie?”

  But before Nayland Smith could reply, the door opened—and Moon Flower came in!

  She wore the dress of a working girl with which Tony was familiar. Her father sprang up at a bound and had her in his arms.

  “Jeanie, my Jeanie! I didn’t think I should ever see you again!”

  When at last, wet-eyed, she turned, “Chi Foh!” she whispered—”Sir Denis! I know what a fool I have been. I spoiled all your plans. Try to forgive me.”

  Nayland Smith grasped both her hands. “Jeanie, my dear, your devotion to your father and your courage outran discretion: But you have nothing to be ashamed about. Just sit down and tell us all that happened.”

  It was a simple story. She had followed them, as Sir Denis had suspected, had climbed the bamboo ladder and had tried to keep in sight when they crossed the garden. When she had a glimpse of her father opening the laboratory door, she hid in a clump of bushes to wait for them all to come out again,

  A long time seemed to pass, and still the door remained closed. At which point:

  “God forgive me, Jeanie! It was my fault,” Cameron-Gordon moaned.

  “Forget it!” Nayland Smith snapped. “I was equally to blame.”

  “Suddenly,” Moon Flower went on, “I heard footsteps. I crouched down in the shrubbery. And I saw Dr. Fu Manchu walking tow
ards the laboratory! I nearly screamed, but not quite. There was that huge African following behind him. And this horrible man—although honestly I don’t think I made a sound—like a bloodhound, seemed to scent me. He sprang to the spot where I was hiding and swept me up into his arms, one big, black hand over my mouth—,,

  “If ever I have half a chance!” Tony whispered.

  “Shut up!” Nayland Smith snapped.

  “Then,” Moon Flower said, “those awful green eyes of The Master were looking at me. I tried not to see them, but they compelled me to keep my own eyes open.” She stopped, sighed, and clutched her father’s arm. “I don’t remember a thing that happened after that until I woke up in a room somewhere quite near this one. A kind old Chinese woman was telling me that I was all right and that my friends were waiting for me. She brought me to the door.”

  “Give Jeanie a drink, McKay,” Nayland Smith said crisply. “She needs one. Here’s our problem. Deprived of radio, I can get nothing through to the lama and nothing to Lao Tse-Mung. I don’t know when von Wehrner is leaving. It’s essential that he should have all his plans laid before I can help. This means that I have to get back to Chia-Ting.”

  “When do we start?” Tony asked.

  “Directly transport and our travel permits are available. But Jeanie doesn’t know what it’s all about. I’m leaving it to you, McKay, to explain to her . . .

  Chapter XXII

  It was not long after dawn when, Nayland Smith driving, the Buick—which Tony had seen before—entered the outskirts of Chia-Ting.

  “Everybody will be asleep,” he said. “How do we get in?”

  For the hundredth time he glanced back. He couldn’t believe that they weren’t followed.

  “We shall have to wake poor Mrs. Wu. I think that’s her name. You do the talking, McKay. Your Chinese is better than mine. And don’t waste your energy looking for a tail. Fu Manchu has at least one virtue. He keeps his word.”

  Nayland Smith parked near the house of the hospitable physician who had given them shelter. The normally busy street was deserted. They walked to the door; relentlessly pressed the bell. At last they heard movements, and the doctor’s old housekeeper opened the door.