by Sax Rohmer
Somewhere in this blackness, almost defying scrutiny, objects were stacked against a further wall. Specks of color became discernible, vague forms.
Intently Smith stared into the darkness, picking out shapes, dim lines.
At last he understood.
He was looking at a pile of Chinese coffins…
The sound made by a heavy, unseen door warned him of the fact that someone had entered the cellar.
Long before a tall figure came silently out of the shadows, Nayland Smith knew who had entered. The quality of the atmosphere had changed, become charged with new portent.
Wearing a dark, fur-collared topcoat and carrying a black hat in one long, yellow hand, Nayland Smith’s ancient adversary faced him.
A tense, silent moment passed.
“I confess that I had not expected to meet you, Sir Denis.”
The words were spoken softly, the sibilants marked.
Nayland Smith met the regard of half-closed eyes.
“I, on the contrary, had hoped to meet you, Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“Your star above mine. The meeting has taken place. If it is not as you had foreseen it, blame only that blind Fate which disturbs your foolish plans. Because our destinies were woven on the same loom, perhaps I should have known that you would be here — to obstruct me when the survival of mankind is at stake.”
He stepped aside, and brought a rough wooden box. Upon this he sat down.
“You are compelled to remain seated,” he explained. “Courtesy forbids me to stand.”
And those words were a key to open memory’s door. Nayland Smith, in one magical glimpse, lived again through a hundred meetings with Dr. Fu-Manchu, through years in which he had labored to rid the world of this insane genius. He saw him as an assassin, as a torturer, as the most dangerous criminal the law had ever known; but always as an aristocrat.
“You honor me,” he said drily. “How am I to die?”
Dr. Fu-Manchu fully opened his strange eyes and fixed a gaze upon Smith which few men could have hoped to sustain.
“That rests with you, Sir Denis,” he replied, and spoke even more softly than he had spoken before.
* * * *
It is at least possible that the disappearance of Nayland Smith might have gone onto the unsolved list if any detective officer other than George Moreno (already back on duty) had been assigned to a certain post that night.
The shop of Huan Tsung, for which Smith had set out the night before, was being kept under routine observation. And at ten o’clock Moreno relieved a man who had been on duty since six. Chinatown was Moreno’s special stamping ground, and his orders were to make a record of visitors, and to note particularly any movements of the mysterious proprietor.
The small and stuffy room from which he operated put up a blend of odors uniquely sick-making. It was one of several in the house commanding an excellent view of part of the Asiatic quarter, and this was not the first time it had been used for police surveillance. But the dangerous days of tong wars seemed to be over. Chinatown was as gently mannered as Park Avenue.
He had been there for a long time when old Huan Tsung’s antique Ford was brought around to the front of the shop. Assisted by a yellow-complexioned driver of ambiguous nationality, and a spruce young shopman, the aged figure came out and entered the car. Huan Tsung wore a heavy, dark topcoat with a fur collar; the wide brim of a soft black hat half concealed his features. His eyes were protected by owlish spectacles.
The Ford was driven off. The shopman returned to the shop.
Moreno knew that the journey would be kept under observation. But he doubted if any evidence of value would result. In all likelihood, these drives were purely constitutional. The old man believed in the merit of night air.
After his departure, little more occurred for some time. Chinatown displayed a deadly respectability. Moreno, who had a pair of powerful glasses, began to grow restive. He learned that he could read even the smaller lettering on shop signs across the street. Faces of passers-by might be inspected minutely. But no one of particular interest came within range of the Zeiss lenses.
There were callers at Huan Tsung’s, Asiatic and Occidental, some, at least, legitimate customers; but none to excite suspicion…
A small truck drew up before the shop. The young Oriental opened a cellar trap and assisted a truckman to lower a big packing-case covered with Chinese lettering into the basement.
Evidently a consignment of goods of some kind. Moreno wondered vaguely what kind. Something uncommonly heavy.
The trap was reclosed. The truck went away.
Moreno, in the airless room, began to grow sleepy. Then, in a flash, he was wide awake.
A tall man had just come out of Huan Tsung’s. He wore a dark topcoat, a white scarf, and a neat black hat. He carried a leather case. Moreno, in the first place, hadn’t seen this man go in; therefore he instantly focussed the glasses on his face. And, as he did so, his hands shook slightly.
It was the first face he had seen when he had opened his eyes in the hospital.
The man was “Dr. Malcolm”!
Moreno was hurrying downstairs when Huan Tsung’s time-honored Ford returned, and the shopman came out to aid a dark-coated figure to alight. It had been driven away before Moreno reached the street — and Dr. Malcolm had disappeared.
* * * *
“My mission,” said Fu-Manchu, “is to save the world from the leprosy of Communism. Only I can do this. And I do it, not because of any love I have for the American people, but because if the United States fall, the whole world falls. In this task, Sir Denis, I shall brook no interference.”
Nayland Smith made no reply. He was listening, not only to the sibilant, incisive voice, but also to certain vague sounds which penetrated the cellar. He was trying to work out where the place was located.
“Morris Craig, a physicist touched with genius, is perfecting a device which, in the hands of warmongers, would wreck those fragments of civilization which survive the maniac, Hitler. News of this pending disaster brought me here. I am inadequately served. There has been no time to organize a suitable staff. My aims you know.”
Nayland Smith nodded. From faint sounds detected, he had deduced the fact that the cellar lay near a busy street.
“I appreciate your aims. I don’t like your methods.”
“We shall not discuss them. They are effective. Your recent visit to Teheran (I regret that I missed you there) failed to save Omar Khan. He was the principal Soviet agent in that area. Power is strong wine even for men of culture. When it touches the lips of those unaccustomed to it, power drives them mad. Such a group of power-drunk fools threatens today the future of man. One of its agents is watching Craig’s experiments. He must be silenced.”
“Why don’t you silence him?”
The brilliant green eyes almost closed, so that they became mere slits in an ivory mask. It is possible that Nayland Smith was the only man of his acquaintance who assumed, although he didn’t feel, complete indifference in the presence of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
“I have always respected your character, Sir Denis.” The words were no more than whispered. “It has that mulish stupidity which won the Battle of Britain. The incompetents who serve me have failed, so far, to identify this agent. I still believe that if you could appreciate my purpose, you would become of real use to a world hurtling headlong to disaster. I repeat — I respect your character.”
“It was this respect, no doubt, which prompted you to attempt my murder?”
“The attempt was clumsy. It was undertaken contrary to my wishes. You can be of greater use to me alive than dead.”
And those softly spoken words were more terrifying to Nayland Smith than any threat.
Had Fu-Manchu decided to smuggle him into his Far Eastern base, by that mysterious subway which so far had defied all inquiry?
As the dreadful prospect flashed to his mind, Fu-Manchu exercised one of his many uncanny gifts, that of answering an unspoken questi
on.
“Yes — such is my present intention, Sir Denis. I have work for you to do. This cellar is shared by several Asiatic tradesmen, one of whom is an importer of Chinese coffins. A death has occurred in the district, and the deceased — a man of means — expressed a wish to be buried in his birthplace. When his coffin is sent there, via Hong Kong — he will not be in it…”
There was an interruption.
Heralded by the sound of an opening door, two stockily built, swarthy figures entered. One of them limped badly. Between them they carried an ornate coffin. This they set down on the concrete floor and saluted Dr. Fu-Manchu profoundly.
Nayland Smith clenched his fists, straining briefly but uselessly, at the slender, remorseless strands which held him. The men were Burmese ruffians of the dacoit class from which Fu-Manchu had formerly recruited his bodyguard. One of them — the one who limped and who had a vicious cast in his right eye — spoke rapidly.
Fu-Manchu silenced him with a gesture. But Nayland Smith had heard — and understood. His heart leapt. Hope was reborn. But Fu-Manchu remained unmoved. He spoke calmly.
“The preparation for your long journey,” he said, “is one calling for time and care. It must be postponed. In the past, I believe, you have had opportunities to study examples of that synthetic death (a form of catalepsy) which I can induce. I hope to operate in the morning. This” — he extended a long-nailed forefinger in the direction of the coffin— “will be your wagon-lit. You will require no passport…”
Nayland Smith detected signs of uneasiness in the two Burmese. The one who limped and squinted was watching him murderously — for this was the man upon whom he had registered a kick the night before. Faintly he could hear sounds of passing traffic, but nothing else. The odds against his survival were high.
Dr. Fu-Manchu signalled again — and the two Burmese stepped forward to where the helpless prisoner sat watching them…
* * * *
The life of Chinatown apparently pursued its normal midnight course. Smartly dressed Orientals, inscrutably reserved, passed along the streets, as well as less smartly dressed Westerners. Some of the shops and restaurants continued to do business. Others were closing. There was nothing to indicate that Chinatown was covered, that every man and woman leaving it did so under expert scrutiny.
“If Nayland Smith’s here,” said the grim deputy commissioner, who had arrived to direct operations in person, “they won’t get him out — alive or dead.”
He spoke with the full knowledge which experience had given him, that practically every inhabitant knew that a cordon had been thrown around the whole area.
When Police Captain Rafferty walked into Huan Tsung’s shop, he found a young Oriental there, writing by the poor light of a paper-shaded lamp. He glanced up at Rafferty without apparent interest.
“Where’s Huan Tsung?”
“Not home.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“Don’t know.”
“When did he go?”
“Ten minute — quarter hour.”
This confirmed reports. The Ford exhibit had appeared again. Old Huan Tsung had sallied forth a second time.
“When’s he coming back?”
“Don’t know.”
“Suppose you try a guess, Charlie. Expect him tonight?”
“Sure.”
The shopman resumed his writing.
“While we’re waiting,” said Police Captain Rafferty, “we’ll take a look around. Lead the way upstairs. You can finish that ballad when we come down.”
The young shopman offered no protest. He put his brush away and stood up.
“If you please,” he said, and opened a narrow door at the back of the counter.
At about the time that Rafferty started upstairs, a radio message came through to the car which served the deputy commissioner as mobile headquarters. It stated that Huan Tsung’s vintage Ford was parked on lower Fifty Avenue just above Washington Square. Inquiries brought to light the fact that it stood before an old brick house. The officer reporting didn’t know who occupied this house. Huan Tsung had called there earlier that night and had returned to Pell Street. He was now presumably there again.
“Do I go in and get him?” the officer inquired.
“No. But keep him covered when he comes out.”
This order of the deputy commissioner’s was one of those strategic blunders which have sometimes lost wars…
Police Captain Rafferty found little of note in the rooms above the shop. They resembled hundreds of such apartments to be seen in that neighborhood. The sanctum of Huan Tsung, with its silk-covered walls and charcoal brazier, arrested his attention for a while. At the crystal globe he stared with particular interest, then glanced at his guide, whose name (or so he said) was Lao Tai.
“Fortuneteller work here?”
Lao Tai shook his head.
“Here Huan Tsung meditate. Huan Tsung great thinker.”
“He’ll have to think fast tonight. You have a cellar down below. Show me the way in.”
Lao Tai obeyed, leading Rafferty through to the back of the shop where a narrow wooden stair was almost hidden behind piles of merchandise. He switched up a light at the bottom of the stair and Rafferty went clattering down.
He found himself in a cellar not much greater in area than the shop above. A chute communicated with a trap in the sidewalk overhead. Cartons and crates bearing Chinese labels and lettering nearly filled the place. It smelled strongly of spice and rotten fish.
One long, narrow packing-case seemed to have been recently opened. Rafferty examined it with some care, then turned to Lao Tai, who watched him disinterestedly.
“When did this thing come?”
“Come tonight.”
Rafferty was beginning to wonder. All this man’s answers added up correctly — for he knew that such a crate had been delivered earlier that night.
“What was in it?”
“This and that.”
Lao Tai vaguely indicated the litter around.
“Well, show me some ‘this.’ Then we can take a look at any ‘that’ you’ve got handy.”
Lao Tai touched a chest of tea with a glossily disdainful shoe, and pointed to a number of bronze bowls stacked up on a rough wooden bench. His slightly slanting eyes held no message but one of a boredom too deep for expression. And it was while Police Captain Rafferty was wondering what lay hidden under this crust and how to break through to it, that Huan Tsung’s remarkable chariot returned to Pell Street and the old man was helped out.
He expressed neither surprise nor interest at finding police on the premises. He bowed courteously when Raymond Harkness stated that he had some questions to put to him, and, leaning on the arm of his Mongolian driver, led the way upstairs. Seating himself on the cushioned divan in the silk-lined room, he dismissed the driver, offered cigarettes, and suggested tea.
“Thanks — no,” said Harkness in his quiet way. “Just a few questions. You are acquainted with a doctor; a European, I believe. He is tall, dark, and wears a slight moustache. He called here tonight. I should be glad of his address.”
Huan Tsung began to fill a long-stemmed pipe. He had extraordinarily slender, adroit fingers.
“I fear I cannot help you,” he replied in his courteous, exact English. “A European physician, you say?” He shook his head. “It is possible, if he came here, that he came only to make a purchase. Have you questioned my assistant?”
“I haven’t. The man I mean is employed by Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
Not one of Huan Tsung’s thousand wrinkles stirred. His benevolent gaze became fixed upon Harkness.
“A strange name,” he murmured. “No doubt a nom de guerre. Tell me more of this strangely named doctor, if I am to help you.”
“It’s for you to tell me more. Will you tell me now, or will you come along and tell the boys at Centre Street?”
“Why, may I ask, should I drag my old bones to Centre Street?”
“It won’t
be necessary, if you care to talk. You are an educated man, and I’m prepared to treat you that way if you behave sensibly.”
Huan Tsung went on filling his pipe. The illegible parchment of his features became creased by what might have been a smile.
“It is true. I formerly administered a large province of China, probably with justice, and certainly with success. Events, however, necessitated my departure without avoidable delay.”
“Did you know Dr. Fu-Manchu in China?”
Huan Tsung ignited a paper spill in the brazier and began to light his pipe.
“I regret deeply that your question is a foolish one. I thought I had made it clear that I am unacquainted with this person.”
“Pity your memory’s getting so unreliable,” said Harkness.
“Alas, after seventy, each succeeding year robs us of a hundred delights.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Captain Rafferty came in.
“Listen — there’s a door down in the basement leading to some other place — another cellar, I guess. Let’s have the key, or shall I break it open?”
Huan Tsung regarded the intruder mildly.
“I fear you have no choice,” he said. “The door leads, as you say, into the storeroom of my neighbor, Kwee Long, whose premises are on the adjoining street. He will have gone, no doubt. The door is locked from the other side. I possess no key to this door.”
“Sure of that, Huan Tsung?” Harkness asked quietly.
“Unless my failing memory betrays me.”
The door in the cellar was forced. It proved no easy job: it was a strong, heavy door. The police found themselves in a much larger cellar, which evidently ran under several stores and was of irregular shape. Part of it seemed to be used by a caterer, for there were numerous cases of imported delicacies. They could find no switches and worked by the light of their lamps.
Then they came to the part where Chinese coffins were stacked.
This place struck a chill — to the spirit as well as to the body. The deputy commissioner had just joined the party. Their only clues, so far, led to Huan Tsung’s. Hope rested on the report of Officer Moreno, that the pseudo-doctor had been seen leaving there that night.