Emperor Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “Stop pulling,” von Wehrner said hoarsely. He seemed to be in a state of panic. “You’ll break the ladder. Hold it fast. I’m coming over.”

  “Hurry,” Nayland Smith urged softly. “I think the moon’s breaking through.”

  He and Tony hung on to the end of the ladder as von Wehrner mounted on the other side. Astride the top of the fence, he tossed a briefcase into the tangled grass near Tony, and turned and groped for a rung of the ladder. Faint moonlight through the tail of a racing cloud began to dilute the darkness.

  “Stand clear.”

  As they released their hold, von Wehrner dropped beside them.

  “Lie flat down,” Nayland Smith whispered. “We must chance the ladder.”

  They were none too soon, for just then the moon burst fully out from a patch of starry sky, and it seemed to Tony that the landscape was drenched in silvery light, that the ladder hanging from the fence must surely be seen.

  The next few minutes were among the most nerve-racking of the night. Von Wehrner was gasping. He began to speak in a low, breathless voice.

  “I had made the connection in the powerhouse… hurried back to the bungalow. I went in, using a flashlight. On my desk I had left the ladder, carefully rolled, in a black canvas bag, and my briefcase… I heard padding footsteps behind me.”

  He stopped, listening. They were all listening. That indefinable disturbance continued, but no sound came from the sentries. The moon was becoming veiled again. Nayland Smith passed his flask to von Wehrner, who accepted it gratefully. After he handed it back he began to speak again.

  “I had a dreadful sense of chill. Physical. Something cold was behind me. You will think I am mad. I picked up an old lancet which lay there. I use it as a pencil sharpener. I turned, and the light of my lamp showed me a gray thing, nearly naked. Its eyes were a dead man’s eyes…

  “It sprang upon me. It was supernaturally cold. The mouth was open in a hideous grin. I was held in a grip of ice. I plunged the lancet into the grinning mouth and upward through the soft palate. The creature relaxed and I was able to struggle free. For heaven’s sake, what was it?”

  “I know what it was,” Nayland Smith remarked grimly. “And it means we have to move—fast! Dark enough now. Crawl after me, Doctor.”

  As they crept across the open ground to the cover beyond, Tony knew, too, what it was. Fu-Manchu had chosen that night to raid the research station. He understood, at last, the muffled disturbance which filled the night. The place had been taken over by Cold Men—necropolites.

  They had not reached cover long when there was evidence that the Cold Men were outside as well as inside. A shriek, instantly stifled, came from the direction of the sentry on the south.

  “Back the way we came,” Nayland Smith spoke between clenched teeth. “And God help us now.”

  Then began the detour around the plant by which they had come. Von Wehrner had recovered from the horror of an encounter with a Cold Man and they made good going. Once, Tony heard von Wehrner mutter, “There was no hemorrhage.” And he knew that he was still thinking about the necropolite.

  But at last they reached the point where the road from the Russian camp ended before the gate of the enclosure.

  “The gate’s open,” Nayland Smith said. “They must have overpowered the sergeant, and he must have had the key.”

  Tony found it hard to credit what he saw. Just before a trailing cloud obscured the moon again, a company of gray phantoms became detached from the shadows like floating vapor or evil spirits materializing, and swept into the open gateway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “What’s this?” Nayland Smith’s voice was grim. They had reached the foot of the path, which came out at one end of the village street. The Russian camp lay behind them silent and evidently undisturbed. On a path of scrub near the river bank a truck was parked.

  “It wasn’t here before,” Tony muttered.

  “There’s probably someone in the cab,” Sir Denis muttered. “We shall have to find a way behind the houses. The truck must be waiting for the Cold Men.”

  They discovered the path they were looking for, and they followed it to a point where a bend made it safe to return to the crooked street. They had just done so and were headed for the spot where Tung awaited them, when something happened which brought them to a sudden halt.

  A piercing scream came from the other end of the village.

  “Mahmud!… Master! Help! Help!”

  The cry was checked in a significant way.

  “It was the Japanese, Matsukata,” Tony spoke in a hushed voice. “What the devil does it mean?”

  “It means,” Nayland Smith explained savagely, “that hell’s let loose. Matsukata has lost control of the Cold Men. No time to talk. Listen!”

  They heard the grating roar of a heavy engine starting.

  “It is the big truck,” von Wehrner said hoarsely.

  “Back into cover!” Sir Denis ordered. “There’s just time.”

  They ran back to the opening between two small houses from which they had just come out, as the heavy vehicle appeared along the street. Tony tried to see the man in the cab, but failed to identify him. And as the truck passed, from its interior came a sort of muffled chant: “Looma! Looma!”

  Shocked into silence, they saw the vehicle with its load of living-dead demons speeding up the winding road.

  All three were listening in tense suspense. But when the sound of the motor died away in the distance their tension relaxed.

  “They have passed Tung.” Sir Denis sighed with relief. “Come on. This place isn’t healthy.”

  * * *

  Tung was waiting in the plantation of alders, and Tony felt so relieved that he wanted to cheer.

  “A big truck,” the man reported, “passed here soon after you left. It has just passed again. Soon after the first time, a small car also went by. It has not returned.”

  Tung drove the Buick onto the road, and in a short time they were on their way. Their driver did his best on the gradient, for Tony had urged him to hurry. Nayland Smith consulted his watch.

  “We made a record coming down, von Wehrner. Just twenty-seven minutes since we picked you up.”

  “I was delayed joining you. I set the clock for thirty minutes. But those creatures who entered the plant may have…”

  His words were drowned in a shattering explosion that shook the solid earth. All four wheels momentarily left the surface, then dropped back with a sickening thud. Storm clouds, still moving overhead, became ruddy as though a setting sun burned under them. Fiery fragments began to fall in the road and on the roof of the car.

  “First class show, von Wehrner,” Nayland Smith grinned.

  “Two things are worrying me,” Tony broke in, staring back at the raging inferno which had been the Soviet research centre. “Why did Matsukata yell for Mahmud and the Master? Was Mahmud the driver of the car Tung saw? In that case, Dr. Fu-Manchu was at the plant when we left! The other thing—who’s driving the truck and where are they going?”

  Sir Denis began to fill his pipe before replying. “I think it’s probable that Fu-Manchu may have followed on. These unhappy creatures he has created are very near to jungle beasts. And the jungle becomes strangely disturbed during an electric storm.”

  “You think,” von Wehrner asked, “that these living-dead have gone berserk and overcome their controllers?”

  “I do. I think that Dr. Fu-Manchu, tonight, has overreached himself. Hitherto, I suppose, he has used these ghastly zombies for solo performances, such as the affair at Lao Tse-Mung’s house, when it has been possible for Matsukata to maintain control. But a party of necropolites poses a different problem—particularly in a thunderstorm.”

  “Then you do believe,” Tony questioned eagerly, “that Fu-Manchu was there tonight in person?”

  “I have said that I think it probable. What is certain is that a party of Cold Men—we don’t know how many—has taken charge of the truck and taken Matsuk
ata along with them. I’m worried.”

  “Where are they going?” Tony asked, blankly.

  “That’s just what disturbs me.”

  The drive back was all too long for Tony. Already he was living in the future and paid little attention to a conversation, in low tones, between Sir Denis and von Wehrner. They had carried out their part of the bargain, for they had the cipher manuscript, and if Dr. Fu-Manchu was the man of his word which Nayland Smith believed him to be—they were free.

  They could all return to Hong Kong for his wedding.

  His pleasant musing had lasted a long time. Von Wehrner had become silent. Nayland Smith’s pipe was smoked. The storm clouds had quite disappeared, and in bright moonlight he saw that they had nearly reached the main gate of General Huan’s house.

  “I was afraid of this,” Sir Denis said grimly. “Look!”

  The long gray truck stood before the gate.

  * * *

  “God’s mercy!” Nayland Smith whispered. “Truly, hell’s on the rampage tonight.”

  The truck driver lay slumped in his cab. He was dead.

  “What’s happened?” Tony cried out. “We must get into the house!”

  “I’m afraid the gate is locked,” von Wehrner spoke in a note of despair.

  “Wait!”

  Nayland Smith was opening the rear door of the truck.

  Matsukata lay prone on the floor inside.

  “Get him out,” Sir Denis called. “Lend a hand, McKay.” Together they got the limp body out. “Dr. von Wehrner, this is your job. Tell me, is he alive?”

  The German biologist bent over the Japanese, examined him briefly, and nodded.

  “They are tough, these Japanese. It is extreme nervous exhaustion. Is your flask empty, Sir Denis?”

  It wasn’t. And the doctor went to work to revive Matsukata.

  “McKay,” Nayland Smith said, supporting the inert body. “There must be some kind of bell, or something, to arouse the gate porter. Tung may know.”

  But Tung knew of no bell, so he began to rattle the bars and shout.

  “Open the gate! Open the gate!”

  He was still shouting when a light sprang up in the lodge, and a door was unlocked. An old man looked out, cautiously.

  “Quick. Let us in.”

  “It is Dr. Matsukata,” Tony called in Chinese. “We have business with his Excellency.”

  The ancient porter came to the gate. “Gladly, for the place is taken over by demons!” He peered about, fearfully. “I saw them, leaping over the wall.”

  He opened the heavy gate almost at the moment that Matsukata revived enough to speak.

  “They meant to kill me,” he whispered. “They forced the driver to take the truck to the clinic. I was helpless. They can communicate with one another in some way. I knew this. They acted together. They got at the store of Looma. They drank it all. Then they forced the driver to come here. I do not know why they compelled me to come. Perhaps to torture me. From the roof of the truck they sprang over into the governor’s garden. All of them, like apes. I know no more, except that the Master…”

  Matsukata passed out again.

  McKay and Tung carried him into the gate lodge. Then Tung drove the car in and the gate was relocked. Dr. von Wehrner volunteered to look after Matsukata, and Tony and Nayland Smith started off toward the house.

  Tony saw that every window in the lodge building was lighted.

  “What’s this?” he muttered.

  “My guess is that the Cold Men are inside. Looting.” Nayland Smith spoke rapidly. “By the way, hide your radio.”

  He began to run. So did Tony.

  A gong hung on the flower-draped terrace before the main door. Nayland Smith struck it a blow with the butt of his revolver.

  Before the vibration had died away, the big, heavy door was thrown open, and a terrifying figure stood before them; a lean, muscular figure of a man wearing a shirt of chain mail, baggy trousers and some kind of metal helmet. He held a heavy sword having a curved blade from which certain stains had been imperfectly removed!

  “You are welcome, gentlemen.”

  It was General Huan Tsung-Chao!

  As the door was reclosed, Tony glanced around the lighted lobby with its exquisite tapestries, trophies, and arms, from one of which, he guessed, General Huan had taken his queer equipment. Nayland Smith was staring at the general in an odd way.

  “I can assure you, Sir Denis,” the old soldier said in his excellent English, “that I have not taken leave of my senses. But my house was invaded some time ago by creatures not of this world. My steward, an excellent and faithful servant, detecting one of them entering through a window, shot him. The thing ignored the wound, sprang on my steward, and strangled him!”

  “The Cold Men,” Nayland Smith commented. “What did you do?”

  “I ordered the resident staff to lock themselves in their quarters, and took the same precautions with my guests, Dr. Cameron-Gordon and his daughter. I locked the door of their apartment.”

  “Thank God for that!” Tony breathed with relief.

  “Some of the creatures,” General Huan went on in unruffled calm, “had obtained knives. Hence this.” He tapped the shirt of mail. “It was worn by an ancestor many centuries ago. I called for aid from Chia-Ting and was interrupted by one of the gray horrors, who attacked me with a dagger. They are apparently immune to bullets, but I am a saber expert and I struck the thing’s head off without difficulty.”

  Tony recalled with horror the same feat performed by the executioner in the prison yard at Chia-Ting.

  “Listen,” Nayland Smith snapped.

  A faint sound of maniacal laughter sent an icy chill down Tony’s spine.

  “Some of them are upstairs,” General Huan declared. “They move like shadows. I beheaded another in the wine cellar. The creature was pouring a rare Château d’Yquem down his throat. But there are more to be accounted for. This imbecile laughter—”

  A stifled shriek checked him.

  “Moon Flower!” Tony shouted. “Lead me to her!”

  But that strange figure of a medieval Chinese warrior already led the way. Before a door carved in fanciful geometrical designs, he halted and took a key from a pocket in his baggy trousers. He threw the door open.

  It was as if he had opened a refrigerator. Through a window with a balcony outside Tony saw the starry sky, and knew immediately how the Cold Men had got in. The room was a scene of crazy disorder. Dr. Cameron-Gordon lay face down by the window.

  A necropolite—a gray, corpselike figure—was forcing Moon Flower back onto a divan; his lean left arm locked around her. She was past speech, but her feeble moans stung Tony to fighting madness. With his right hand the Cold Man stripped the clothing from her shoulders, pressing his loathsome lips to the soft curves he found.

  Tony leapt forward and pumped three bullets into the Cold Man’s sinewy gray shoulder. The creature uttered no cry of pain, but its left arm relaxed and then fell limply. Moon Flower staggered back, collapsing on the cushioned divan.

  As Nayland Smith sprang forward, the Cold Man turned, a murderous grin on its face.

  “Oblige me by stepping aside, gentlemen,” General Huan cried in a tone of command.

  Both twisted around, astounded by the words and the manner.

  General Huan thrust himself before them. The necropolite plucked a knife from his loincloth. And at that same moment the long, curved blade of the great sword whistled through the air—and the grinning head rolled on the rug-covered floor. The trunk collapsed slowly, then slumped over.

  “See,” General Huan held up the blade. “No more blood than if one carved a fish. The creatures are not human.”

  * * *

  Cameron-Gordon had been stunned by a blow on his skull from the Cold Man who had silently entered through the window. Tony knelt beside the divan whispering soothing words to Moon Flower. Her experience with a necropolite had brought her to the verge of hysteria, a feminine weakness which
she despised.

  The icy remains of her attacker, in two parts, had been removed before she recovered from the faint, and General Huan had gone to call those male members of his staff who slept in the servants’ annex to assist in the search for the Cold Men still at large.

  Assured by Cameron-Gordon that he had suffered no physical injury, Nayland Smith jumped up and glanced quizzically at Tony.

  “Come on, McKay,” he called. “Jeanie will be all right now with her father. We’ve got to get downstairs.”

  “Close those shutters,” Tony called to Cameron-Gordon as he started, “and lock the door after us.”

  Their assistance proved to be unnecessary, however. Matsukata, fully restored, and Dr. von Wehrner, on their way to the house, had almost stumbled over several Cold Men lying in a state of coma induced by a surfeit of looted food and wine. Another, making his exit in the same way from an upstairs window, had fallen on his head and lay unconscious on a tiled path.

  Matsukata’s manner was furtive. From the way in which he glanced at von Wehrner, Tony knew that there were questions he wanted to ask, and from the way he avoided meeting Nayland Smith’s eyes, that there were inquiries he didn’t want to answer. In fact, he seemed to be half dazed.

  * * *

  In the light of early morning, Nayland Smith and Tony sat in Huan Tsung-Chao’s study, the room with the large lacquered desk. General Huan was seated behind the desk.

  “Isn’t it remarkable, General,” Sir Denis asked, “that Dr. Fu-Manchu should have chosen last night for an attempt on the Soviet station? I had supposed the return of the manuscript before you to be of paramount interest.” General Huan rested his hand on the parchment-bound Si-Fan Register.

  “It is of great interest to me, also, Sir Denis. But the Master accepted your word that it would be restored as you accepted his that you and your friends should be free to leave. His reason for moving last night was that he feared the replacement of Dr. von Wehrner might result in more stringent precautions being taken.”

  “You tell me you have no news of him. This I don’t understand.”

  The lined, remarkable old face relaxed in a smile.