Dragon in the Snow

by Forrest Dylan Bryant

  Doyle’s theory, as he explained it to Dr. Hu, was that any conductive metal could become a working radio receiver given the proper conditions and resonant frequencies. And there was no doubt that the singing stone conducted energy in some form, so perhaps finely-tuned radio waves would give them some measure of control over it. “Like a sonic screwdriver, eh?” quipped Dr. Hu.

  Doyle was putting the finishing touches on his device while Armbruster continued the daily argument.

  “Oh, yes, I can see it now,” said the Professor, mockingly. “Marx, Lenin, and some Chinese fellow in a little suit. They’ll hang their portraits in the public square and sing songs. Ridiculous. My dear Captain, you really are a fool.”

  But Captain Doyle wasn’t listening. He was gazing through the window; something outside had caught his attention. Heavy clouds were scudding in, obscuring the sun, but it was not yet raining; Doyle’s view remained clear. Down on the creek, a boat was paddling up to the banks. A man sat in the bow, tall and gaunt, dressed in loose-fitting black clothes like pyjamas. Four other men dressed all in black, with black masks obscuring their faces, clambered out and tied the boat to a tree.

  “My dear Professor, I think we have company,” said Doyle.

  The Professor followed Doyle’s gaze and banged the table with his fist. “How the devil did they find us?” he roared.

  There was no time to debate the question. Doyle and Armbruster ran to Dr. Hu’s office and quickly explained the situation as best they could, which wasn’t very well at all. The good doctor was taken aback, but this was Shanghai after all, where kidnappings and gang raids were not uncommon occurrences. He told them the best route to safety and bade them good luck. But as they were making for the door, Doyle’s radio transmitter in hand, Hu suddenly thought of something and called them back.

  “This story of yours is fantastic,” he said, “And I can’t say I understand it. But if there’s anyone in this town who can help you get to the bottom of it, I know the man. He used to teach here...” Hu scribbled a name and address on a scrap of paper and passed it to Armbruster. “Go see him. I think it’s your best chance.”

  Armbruster looked at the paper. “My dear sir,” he said, “I’m beginning to think it’s our only chance.”

  * * *

  Captain Doyle poked his head through the window and quickly ducked back inside. The Shadow Order men had spread out and were disappearing into the trees, covering every exit from the building. They were incredibly well armed: in just a moment’s glance Doyle had spotted flame-throwing orbs, swords in scabbards, and what looked like a Thompson submachine gun.

  Like the other soldiers they’d seen, these four wore the face-obscuring black masks, leaving only eyes, mouths and jaws visible. But that was bad enough: their eyes all radiated pure hatred, and the mouth of the nearest man was a silvery mass of metallic false teeth, gleaming like fangs. A long, jagged scar ran down from his cheek, connecting with his lips to give the effect of a permanent sneer.

  “If we could only create a diversion,” said the Professor, we could get onto that footpath and away from here. It’s less than a hundred yards to the street.”

  “I could chuck this radio at one of them,” offered Doyle. “That might knock him out, if he didn’t kill us first.”

  “Well, you did just tell me radio could be a weapon,” Armbruster replied. “Maybe you should have worried less about bouncing radio waves off of dental fillings and tried doing something useful for a change.”

  Doyle suddenly broke into a grin.

  “My dear Professor, did you say dental fillings?”

  * * *

  The four soldiers were in position. All was ready. The moment the Americans emerged from the building they would be captured; every possible exit was covered. The black-robed Chenggi in charge of the squad was pleased. He had already neutralized the big man and the Negro, and now he would eliminate two more, perhaps even grab the singing stone if they had it. The Master would reward him greatly.

  The men crouched and waited. A light drizzle of rain began to fall. And then one of them, the one with the mouth full of metal teeth, did something unbelievable. He started to sing.

  “E-e-e-very night I bring her frankfurter sandwiches, frankfurter sandwiches!” warbled the soldier. What madness was this?

  “How my baby loves those frankfurter sandwiches, frankfurter sandwiches!” he sang. The soldier looked as confused as anybody. He clutched at his throat, covered his metallic mouth, but it was no use.

  “I’m an American!” he shouted. “I love baseball and Betty Boop! I wear cowboy hats! Chinese people talk funny, y’all!”

  The soldier was in a panic now, utterly confused by the foreign words issuing from his own mouth. He ran, and the other soldiers followed.

  “The Shadow Order wears ladies’ petticoats! I’m an American! Catch me if you can, boys!”

  The soldier jumped into the creek, and the others came up close behind, shouting and waving their swords. Their boss could do nothing but watch, befuddled, from the banks. Not even the Master could seize a man’s mind like this, make him spout nonsense in a foreign language. Clearly they had underestimated the power of these American scientists.

  The Chenggi ordered an immediate retreat. The remaining soldiers ran back to the boat and pulled away at top speed, leaving their panicked comrade floundering in the creek.

  “So long, suckers!” said the soldier.

  Doyle lowered the radio beam transmitter from his mouth and shut off the power.

  “Goodness, that was fun!” he said. “Now let’s get out of here before they figure it out.”

  Professor Armbruster consulted Dr. Hu’s slip of paper, and the adventurers ran out of the building, down the footpath and into the nearest street, heading for an address in the French Concession.

  Chapter XXII

  THE TEMPLE TRAP

  —

  RAINDROPS SPATTERED THE PAVEMENT of Shanghai’s Chinese City as a cab from the Efficient Hire Car Service cruised up to the ancient North Gate. The wet season was winding down in late September, but it looked like Mother Nature had one more storm up her sleeve: the drops fell more heavily by the minute.

  Joe looked nervous behind the wheel; the normally crowded streets were strangely quiet as people fled the approaching cloudburst. In a city of three million, they seemed utterly alone. It gave him an eerie feeling.

  The Baroness’s face was stony, her expression fixed and unreadable. She did not speak during the trip from the lane house, nor did she watch the scenery roll by as she had that morning. She simply stared straight ahead, lost in troubled thought, the familiar canvas bundle clutched tightly to her chest.

  In the back seat, Sid and Rosie were having a disagreement. Sid was energized, almost hyperactive, stimulated by the prospect of finally solving the many mysteries that had brought them halfway around the world. Su-Xi Chang would reveal all to them: the meaning of the object, the nature of the danger they faced, and the whereabouts of the Baron, whom she had said was still alive. He looked forward to the thrilling conclusion to a long, difficult story.

  Rosie, who tended to be pessimistic in these situations, was not so sure. She remembered all too well the incident on the train, when Sid’s cockiness had led them straight into a trap. She had the feeling it was happening again.

  “I don’t like it,” she whispered. “And you’re the writer, you shouldn’t like it neither. You think Doc Savage would bring that blue rock to a strange place just ’cause some broad said to? Over the phone, no less! How do you know it ain’t a trap?”

  “I don’t,” he replied. “And yes, I do think Doc would show up, and he’d bring the singing stone, too. If it wasn’t a trap, he’d solve the mystery.”

  “And if it was a trap?”

  “Then he’d bring the enemy out into the open, find out who they were and what they wanted, and then he’d beat the tar out of ’em.”

  “Oh, that’s rich, Mister Writer Man. Yeah, we’ll just be
at the tar out of ’em. Two skinny guys and a couple of dames up against the ancient Shadow army and those walking cadavers who hired ’em.”

  “We’ve beaten them before,” Sid said confidently. “We’ve outsmarted them, outflanked them and, when necessary, outrun them. We can do it again. But this is all academic. I trust Madame Chang.”

  “Yeah? Well I don’t. I trust that secretary, is who I trust. Mai-Lin. Didja notice the first thing that dragon lady on the phone did was turn Angelica against her?”

  “I can hear you, you know,” said the Baroness. “Will you both kindly shut up? We’ve arrived.”

  * * *

  The Da Ching Temple was probably quite beautiful. Sid couldn’t really tell, not with fat raindrops falling like coins onto his hatless head and dark clouds casting the city into premature twilight. The building was very old, built in the traditional style with a gracefully curved roof and small windows — at one time it had been an archers’ fort — guarding the old city gate. Now it was a sort of museum. He was aware of sculpted gardens and a pond, the latter dissolving into a riot of tiny splashes as the rain continued to gather force.

  Inside, the temple was deserted and silent. No tourists ogled its artworks or scrutinized the typed cards explaining what the various artifacts represented. There was a vague chill in the air now, the atmosphere heavy with moisture from the rain. But the thick walls reduced the sound of the downpour to a dull, distant patter.

  Madame Chang had given no specifics about where the meeting should take place, and they were a few minutes early, so Sid began to explore the temple. He turned a corner and nearly jumped out of his skin: a fierce-looking Chinese general stood at the far end of a hall in full regalia, ready to strike him down if he came any closer. But the apparition was merely a statue, identified by his placard as one General Chow, dead for many centuries.

  In the next room were several more statues, more brightly colored than the glowering General, commemorating the great teachers of the Taoist faith, and opposite these was a terrifying figurine of a bizarre beast, half snake and half man. Sid, who had entered the temple with such confidence, was becoming unnerved. His writer’s mind wondered what would happen if the angry General Chow and this snake king ever teamed up. He tried to dismiss the thought.

  There was a narrow stairway at the far end, and Sid climbed it. The others, becoming increasingly convinced of the need for safety in numbers, followed close behind.

  The upstairs room was breathtaking: bright red and gold paint matched with rich brown wood and ornately carved images of dragons and flames. An entire entourage of statues ringed the room, centered by a massive, fearsome figure. The great statue had an intimidating red face and a long, flowing beard. It was dressed in heavy golden armor over robes so perfectly carved and painted as to look like real silk. And it held a formidable weapon, like a pikestaff, with a long wooden handle leading to a curved blade, perfect for beheading enemies in the tumultuous confusion of a battlefield.

  “Kwang-Ti.”

  The voice seemed to come at them out of thin air, making everybody jump. The four visitors instinctively came together in the center of the room as they looked for the source of the voice, gathering around the Baroness and the singing stone.

  “Kwang-Ti,” the voice repeated, “The general who became a god.”

  The voice was deep and powerful, yet had an otherworldly quality to it, almost a detachment, as if it had come down to earth from some higher plane. It spoke with a high, clipped undertone that had become familiar. They had heard this accent once before in New York, and Sid had heard it again in San Francisco.

  The men materialized on all sides as if from nowhere, slipping from behind the statues. There were six in all. Three were black-clad soldiers of the Shadow Order, but these were not like the others they had met: the golden weave in their uniforms was more prominent, their manner more confident and menacing. These were officers, not foot soldiers.

  Two others were tall, gaunt and grave. They appeared to be unarmed, but Sid wouldn’t count on it. They watched without emotion, one standing on either side of the man who had spoken.

  This last man was the most impressive of all, his presence dominating even the deified Kwang-Ti. He stood well over six feet tall. His face was impassive but his strange gray eyes blazed with an inner fire. He had a short beard like a goatee, jet black, with a thin mustache to match. On his head was a close-fitting cap in brilliant hues of green and gold against a black background, and he wore robes in similar colors. All his clothing was made from some lush, woven material: not silk, something even more rare and valuable. His steely, hypnotic gaze rooted the band of adventurers to the spot.

  “Wh-who are you?” breathed Sid.

  The man was silent for a moment, and then roared his answer with a vehemence that threatened to shake the temple to the ground.

  “I am the Glorious Dragon of Black Aspect, Wo Then-Liang!”

  “Yes sir,” muttered Rosie.

  “And you are the pitiful insects who dare to oppose me. A weakling, two women and...” — he looked at Joe — “a Shanghai street rat. Leave, boy. This does not concern you.”

  “No can do,” said Joe defiantly. “I working for these fine Americans. For Mister Solomon and Miss Angel. Where they go, I go.”

  The Black Dragon’s expression grew darker.

  “Then you go to hell,” he said simply.

  It happened so quickly they barely saw it. One of the Black Dragon’s tall attendants lashed out with his right hand, sending a silvery blur flying across the room. Joe dropped to the floor without a sound, with something sleek and horrible projecting from his neck. He convulsed once, and then he was dead.

  Rosie screamed. The Baroness nearly dropped the singing stone; she held on, but the canvas fell away, revealing the stone’s bright blue glow. For several moments afterward there was no sound but the muffled patter of pouring rain and a vague humming noise coming from the stone.

  At the sight of the singing stone, the Black Dragon’s eyes locked. The object transfixed him, consumed him. He addressed his next words as if to the glowing rock itself.

  “I could have sent a hundred men here and been done with you. Even now, I could kill you all as a man stomps upon a cockroach and take what is mine.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Now it was the Baroness’s turn to be defiant. Rosie wanted to smack her, but she was too terrified to move.

  The Black Dragon’s expression changed again; was he smiling?

  “Curiosity,” he said. “You transmuted the stone to its blue aspect. I would know how. You defy me when you could surrender. I would know why. And you have brought the stone halfway round the world, right into my grasp. I would know what you are planning. And then I shall destroy you.”

  Wo Then-Liang’s gaze rose slowly from the stone and met the wide, frozen eyes of the Baroness.

  “But I will have the singing stone. Now.”

  Sid looked around: it was hopeless. In front of him stood a living demon and his two deadly attendants. Behind him, three men of the Shadow Order, swords drawn and ready to kill, blocking the only exit. All three of the adventurers had guns, but reaching for them now would be suicide. Besides, only the Baroness had any experience with firearms, and her hands were full.

  “Tell me one thing,” said the Baroness, her face glowing bright blue in the singing stone’s strange light. “Where is my father?”

  The Black Dragon held his strange non-smile.

  “Baron de Rothburg is in heaven, my dear. And so shall you be, soon enough. Give me the stone, and live a little longer.”

  The man’s strange eyes sapped her willpower. She could see no way out. It was over; the Black Dragon had won.

  She surrendered the singing stone.

  Chapter XXIII

  FROM A DISTANT LAND

  —

  WO THEN-LIANG, the Glorious Dragon of Black Aspect, accepted the singing stone not as Sid would have expected — like a greedy, grasping child
— but solemnly, even reverentially, reaching out with both hands and cradling the object as if it were an infant. The thing glowed, pulsing and humming to itself, unmoved by the symbolism.

  Events moved quickly after that. The Black Dragon gestured with his head as he issued terse orders in a strange language to his flanking attendants, then barked what sounded like Chinese to the three Shadow Order soldiers.

  Two of the masked men searched and disarmed the prisoners, then began the unpleasant task of removing all evidence of Joe’s murder: one dealt with the body while the other found something to clean up the bright red puddle on the floor. Sid grew queasy just thinking about it.

  The Black Dragon abruptly strode out of the room, the singing stone still in his arms, with the third Shadow man acting as his bodyguard. This left Sid, Rosie and the Baroness in the care of the two tall, gaunt men. The one who had thrown the murder weapon glowered while the other looked on gravely. They looked very much like each other, and not dissimilar to their leader, though they lacked his rich garb and commanding presence.

  Sid began to notice something else. He had always viewed these tall, stern-looking men as Chinese, but looking at them now, in a Chinese city, he could see that they were as foreign to this land as he was. They didn’t look or act anything like the locals he’d met; they were more like some stylized Hollywood idea of Chinese villains. Indeed, now that he thought about it, they all looked like rather like Boris Karloff, the movie actor.

  It was a remarkable coincidence: not only had Karloff once portrayed Fu Manchu, the very archetype of “yellow peril” Oriental intrigue, but Myrna Loy, who looked just like the Baroness, played the role of Manchu’s daughter in the same film. How had he not realized this before? The thought made Sid giggle involuntarily. Rosie elbowed him in the ribs.

  The prisoners were marched to a small truck parked in an alleyway near Joe’s “hire car,” where their wrists and ankles were tied with sturdy rope and their mouths gagged as the heavy rain began to soak through their clothes. They were loaded roughly into the back of the truck, tossed in like sacks of wet rice. The man who had killed Joe climbed in after them and closed the door, while his comrade took the wheel and drove out into the gathering night.