by Sax Rohmer
Nayland Smith had just finished reading the letter when the door opened and two Chinese servants came in carrying full trays. They placed on the table a delicate meal of assorted dishes, a variety of wines, a bottle of Napoleon brandy, Scotch whiskey, a number of glasses and an English siphon of soda water. One of the servants uncorked all the bottles, placing the white wines in ice, and withdrew.
Nayland Smith grinned almost happily. “Let’s make the best of it, and prepare for the worst.”
“We’ll all be drugged,” Cameron-Gordon said.
Sir Denis held up the note. “This is the first example of Fu-Manchu’s handwriting I have seen,” he declared. “But it must obviously be genuine. I accept his word for I have never known him to break it.”
Cameron-Gordon groaned. “Right or wrong, a shot of brandy is what I need.”
“It would do none of us any harm,” Sir Denis agreed, and poured out three liberal tots. “A compromise is going to be offered. It will be one we can’t accept. But let us all sharpen our wits, and have something to eat.”
But Cameron-Gordon made a very poor attempt. “How did that cunning fiend get his hands on Jeanie?” he asked in a voice of despair.
“I suspect,” Sir Denis told him, “because of her own obstinacy.”
“Meaning what?” Tony wanted to know.
“Meaning that I detected, or thought that I detected, the footsteps of someone following us. Jeanie is high spirited, and as nearly fearless as any woman I ever met. My guess is that Jeanie was the follower. We have even to suppose that she climbed the bamboo ladder and was actually in the garden when Fu-Manchu saw her.”
“God help her,” Cameron-Gordon groaned, “no one else can, now.”
“I don’t agree,” Nayland Smith rapped in his sudden fashion. “There are weak spots in Fu-Manchu’s armor. I think I can find one. But leave the talking to me.”
Presently the Chinese servants reappeared, cleared the table, leaving only the brandy, and served coffee. They also brought cigars and cigarettes, port and a number of liqueurs.
“It’s evidently dinner time,” Sir Denis remarked when they went out. “I had an idea it might be luncheon.”
“I have lost all track of time,” Tony confessed. “My wrist watch is missing.”
“All our watches are missing. We’re not intended to know the time.”
They had finished their coffee, and Cameron-Gordon sat deep in silent gloom, when the door opened again.
The huge Nubian stepped in. He wore some kind of uniform, had a revolver in a holster and a tarboosh on his head.
“March out.” He had a deep, negroid voice. “One at a time. I will follow.”
Nayland Smith glanced wryly at Tony, shrugged his shoulders. “You go first, McKay, then Cameron-Gordon. I’ll bring up the rear.”
The big man stood stiffly beside the open door, his hand on the butt of his revolver, as they filed out. Tony was seized by sudden misgivings. To what ordeal were they being taken? He dared not allow himself to think of Moon Flower.
At the end of a short passage he came to a flight of stairs.
“Go down,” the deep voice ordered.
Tony went down. He was in one of the white-walled corridors which he had seen before. His fellow captives followed silently. He came to a cross-passage.
“Right turn.”
He obeyed. He was a cadet again, being ordered about by a drill-sergeant.
The cross-passage ended in what appeared to be a vestibule. It was well lighted. He could see a large double door which might be the main entrance to the building.
“Halt.”
The tone of command was unmistakable. This big African was an ex-soldier.
Tony halted, standing stiffly upright, then recovered himself, turned, and looked back. Cameron-Gordon was grim and angry, but Nayland Smith grinned reassuringly. The Nubian pointed to a long wooden bench.
“Sit down.”
They sat down. Tony was assessing their chances of overpowering the man by a simultaneous attack. But even assuming that the double doors opened on freedom, how far could they go, and how would it help Moon Flower?
Nayland Smith seemed to read his thoughts, for he caught his eye and shook his head as a side door opened and two stocky Burmese came out.
Tony submitted to having his eyes scientifically bandaged. He imagined, rather than knew, that his companions were undergoing the same indignity. Next he was raised to his feet and led out into the open air. He was helped into a vehicle. A slight odor of petrol told him that it was an automobile. He guessed it was a limousine.
All three were packed into the back seat, the door was closed, and the car started. The engine had the velvet action of a Rolls.
“No talking,” came the deep African voice.
The big Nubian was still with them.
A dreadful idea crossed Tony’s mind. They were being taken to the jail at Chia-Ting! The thought seemed to chill his blood. Once inside that grim prison they would be lost to the world. Even Sir Denis, with all the power of Great Britain behind him, would merely be listed as missing.
But the horror was quickly dismissed. The car stopped long before they could have reached Chia-Ting, and he was hauled out. Unseen hands guided him through what he knew was a garden by the faint fragrance of flowers.
He was led onto a softly carpeted floor and piloted upstairs. He could hear the stumbling footsteps of his friends who followed. He was thrust down in a chair. And at last, the bandage was removed from his eyes.
Tony blinked, for a light shone directly on his face. For a while, he couldn’t get accustomed to the glare after the complete darkness. But at last he did.
* * *
He saw a luxuriously furnished room. There were rich Chinese rugs, cabinets in which rare porcelain vases gleamed, trophies of arms, openings veiled by silk curtains. The lighting was peculiar. It came from a shaded lamp, the shade so constructed that light shone fully on his face and on the faces of his two companions. This lamp stood on a long lacquered desk, its gleaming surface littered with a variety of objects: books, manuscripts, some curious antique figures on pedestals, a small gong, and several queer-looking objects which were completely strange to him.
But these things he saw clearly later. His first impression of them was a vague one. For his attention became focused upon the man who sat behind the lacquered desk, wearing a plain yellow robe, his long-fingered hands resting on the desk before him. Owing to the cunning construction of the lampshade, his face was half shadowed.
With green eyes glinting under partly lowered lids, Dr. Fu-Manchu sat passively regarding the three trapped men.
“It is a long time, Sir Denis,” he said softly, “since I had the privilege of entertaining you. I trust you enjoyed your supper?”
“Oh, it was supper? It was excellent.”
“Prepared by a first-class French chef.”
“Tell him if he cares to come to London, I can find him better employment.”
Dr. Fu-Manchu took a pinch of snuff. “Incorrigible as always. In our many years’ association I cannot recall that you ever admitted defeat.”
Nayland Smith didn’t reply. The green eyes were turned upon Tony, and he felt, again, the horrible sensation that they looked not at him, but clear through him.
“You have proved yourself a nuisance, Captain McKay,” the sibilant voice continued, “but not a serious menace. Suppose I offered you your freedom, on two conditions?”
“What conditions?”
“One, that you married Miss Cameron-Gordon.”
Tony’s throat grew dry. “And the other?”
“That you both took the oath of allegiance to the Order of the Si-Fan.”
Tony turned, met a look from the haggard eyes of Cameron-Gordon who cried out, “I don’t understand. I didn’t know you were even acquainted.”
“We were thrown together for a long time, sir. I love your daughter deeply, sincerely. And she has consented to marry me, with your appro
val… but not until you are free.”
“I have already offered Dr. Cameron-Gordon his freedom,” Fu-Manchu murmured.
“On the same terms,” Cameron-Gordon began, then stopped, sank his head in his hands.
Nayland Smith sat silently, looking neither to the right nor left, but straight ahead at Dr. Fu-Manchu.
“Suppose I decline?” Tony asked hoarsely.
Fu-Manchu struck the small gong. Draperies before one of the several doors were swept aside and Moon Flower came in.
She wore the nurse’s uniform in which Tony had recently seen her.
“Yueh Hua!” he gasped and half-stood up.
“Jeanie, darling,” Cameron-Gordon’s voice rose on a note of deep emotion.
She ignored them. Her blue eyes were turned on Dr. Fu-Manchu who did not even glance in her direction.
“You are happy in your new work?” he asked.
“I am happy, Master.”
“You may go.”
Moon Flower turned and automatically walked out through the opening by which she had come in.
Cameron-Gordon and Tony sprang simultaneously to their feet. Nayland Smith reached out to the right and left and grabbed an arm of each in a powerful grip.
“Sit down!” he snapped. “Don’t act like bloody fools.”
Tony conquered the furious rage which had swept his sanity aside, and sat down. Cameron-Gordon resisted awhile, but finally sank back into his chair. “You damn monster!” he muttered. “Why didn’t I strangle you long ago?”
Fu-Manchu, who had remained impassive, replied in an undertone like a snake’s hiss, “Probably out of consideration for your daughter, Doctor. I am obliged to you, Sir Denis. If you will glance behind you, I think you will realize how childish any display of force would have been.”
Tony turned in a flash.
Four stockily built Burmese, armed with long knives, stood behind their chairs.
Fu-Manchu spoke three guttural words, not in English, and Tony knew, although he heard no sound, that the four bodyguards had retired.
“Now let us hear,” Nayland Smith spoke crisply, “what plans for our welfare you have in mind if your generous offer is declined.”
His irony ruffled Dr. Fu-Manchu no more than Cameron-Gordon’s violence had done. Resting his elbows on the desk, he pressed the tips of his long fingers together. Moon Flower’s evident submission to the will of the perverted genius had shaken Tony so badly that his brain seemed numbed.
Waiting for Fu-Manchu’s next words, he felt like a criminal awaiting sentence.
“There was a time, Sir Denis,” he heard the cool voice saying, “when I employed medieval methods. You may recall the Wire Jacket and the Seven Gates of Wisdom?”
Tony looked aside at Nayland Smith, noted a tightening of the jaw muscles, and knew that he had clenched his teeth.
“Quite clearly,” he replied calmly. “Hungry rats featured in the Seven Gates, I remember.”
“I have abandoned such crudities. Doubtless they were appropriate in dealing with river pirates, if only as a warning to other low-class criminals. But I recognized that they were useless to me. I had to deal with enemies on a higher social and intellectual plane. Therefore, more subtle means were indicated.”
“Go on,” Nayland Smith said irritably. “What do you propose to do with us?”
“I hope to make you understand that it is my methods and not my ideals against which you have fought, without notable success, for many years. In England, I agree, those methods were unusual. In consequence, your Scotland Yard branded me as a common criminal. My political aims were described as ‘The Yellow Peril’.”
Fu-Manchu’s strange voice had increased in volume, had become guttural. He had altered his passive pose. Lean hands lay clenched upon the desk before him.
“Was Scotland Yard wrong?” Nayland Smith asked, coolly.
Fu-Manchu got halfway out of his chair, then dropped back into it.
“Sometimes your persistent and insufferable misunderstanding rouses my anger. This is bad—for both of us. You are perfectly well aware that the Si-Fan is international. Ridding China of Communism is one of its objectives, yes. But ridding the world of this Russian pestilence is its main purpose. In this purpose do we, or do we not, stand on common ground?”
Tony almost held his breath. He sensed a storm brewing between these two strong personalities. If it broke, God help all of them!
“As I am still employed by the British government,” Nayland Smith answered calmly, “your question is difficult for me to answer.”
“The British government,” Fu-Manchu hissed. “Why do they soil their hands by contact with the offal that pose as lords of China? Can you conceivably believe, knowing the history of my people, that these unclean creatures can retain their hold upon China, my China? Do you believe that the proud Poles, the hot-blooded Hungarians, the stiff-necked Germans, will bend the knee to the childish nonsense of Marx and Lenin? You asked me what I proposed to do with you. Here is my answer: Work with me, for we labor in a common cause—not against me.”
There was an interruption; a faint bell-note. Dr. Fu-Manchu stooped to a cabinet beside him. A muffled voice spoke. The voice ceased. Fu-Manchu pressed a switch and lay back in his chair, impassive again.
“Well, Sir Denis?” he prompted softly.
“Unofficially,” Nayland Smith spoke slowly, as if weighing every word, “there might be certain advantages. I should be glad to see China rid of the Communist yoke.”
“For which reason, perhaps—and unofficially—you had André Skobolov intercepted in Niu-fo-tu?”
Tony suppressed a groan. Fu-Manchu knew, as Nayland Smith suspected, that he had been seen in Niu-fo-tu.
“André Skobolov?” Nayland Smith murmured. “The name is familiar. A Kremlin agent? But I never met him, nor even saw him.”
Fu-Manchu bent forward. The hypnotic eyes were turned on Tony.
“But you met him, Captain McKay, in Niu-fo-tu.”
Tony thought hard, and quickly; tried to act on Nayland Smith’s lead. “I was in Niu-fo-tu for less than half an hour—on the run from jail. I certainly never saw the man you speak of there, and shouldn’t have known him if I had.”
“Then for what other purpose were you in Szechuan?”
“For my purpose, Dr. Fu-Manchu,” Nayland Smith cried out fiercely. “His mission was to confirm my belief that the man known as the Master was yourself.”
The overpowering gaze of the green eyes was transferred to Sir Denis. “Then your trusted agent, Sir Denis, who seems to have acquired what he would call ‘a girl friend’ on his way, safely reached the house of Lao Tse-Mung to report to you?”
“Lao Tse-Mung is an old and honored acquaintance who has offered me hospitality on any occasion when my affairs brought me to this part of China.”
“You mean he is an agent of British Intelligence?”
“I mean that he is a patriot, and a gentleman.”
There was a brief silence.
“I, also, am a patriot, Sir Denis. What is more, I hope to save not only the Chinese but the peoples of every nation from obliteration. This will be their fate if the insane plans of the Soviet should ever be put into execution. Their latest instrument of destruction is so secret and so dangerous that research on it is being conducted in this remote area of China.”
“We are aware of this.”
“Indeed?” Fu-Manchu’s tone changed slightly. “We are on common ground again. You regard it with deep concern?”
“We do. If—accidentally—this research plant could be destroyed, its loss would be welcome. Germ warfare is too horrible to be permitted, and Dr. von Wehrner, their chief scientist, is the greatest living expert on the subject.”
Fu-Manchu’s masklike features melted in a cold smile. “You see, Sir Denis, we must work together. I was informed a few minutes ago that Dr. von Wehrner has been recalled to Moscow.”
Nayland Smith started, then shook his head. “Collaboration,
I fear, is impossible. The end does not justify the means, and you can’t win me over with persuasive guile any more than you could with physical torture. So I ask you again, what do you propose to do with us?”
Fu-Manchu lay back in the chair, so that his strange, powerful features became half-masked in shadow. The long hands rested on the desk and a large emerald seal which he wore gleamed and seemed to shoot out sparks of green fire as pointed nails tapped the surface of the desk. He spoke in a low voice.
“I anticipated your reply. Yet I never despair of convincing you one day that your government, and others, must accept me, as they have accepted the puppet regime at Peking. But my power in China hangs upon a silken thread. The Kremlin distrusts me. In spite of my acknowledged scientific eminence, I have never been invited to inspect the Soviet research station. And I have not sought an invitation—because I intend to destroy it.”
“In that,” said Nayland Smith, “you have my approval. But you have not answered my question.”
Fu-Manchu’s long fingers resting on the desk became intertwined in a serpentine fashion, and Tony experienced a kind of spiritual chill.
“I shall answer it, Sir Denis,” the 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 God’s sake,” he snapped, “shut up.” Then he continued smoothly, “There is one objection to your plans, Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“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.