Emperor Fu Manchu f-13

by Sax Rohmer

  “What is this?” he demanded.

  Tony’s breath returned to normal. He remembered Nayland Smith’s advice.

  “A religious writing in the hand of a great disciple of our Lord Buddha. A present from this inspired scholar to my principal. If you could understand it, brother, you would already be on the Path.”

  “Brother” threw the manuscript down contemptuously. “Move on!” he directed, and turned to his bicycle.

  Moon Flower breathed a long sigh of relief as he rode off. “I wonder if you can imagine, Chi Foh,” she said, “my feelings when you trusted that thing to him? I seemed to hear Sir Denis’s words, ‘the most powerful weapon against Fu Manchu which I ever held in my hands’. Did you realize, my dear, that he might have orders to look for it?”

  “Yes. But the odds against it were heavy. And if he had tried anything, I was all set to make sure he didn’t get away with it.” The cyclist was nearly out of sight. Tony grasped Moon Flower and kissed her ardently. “I love the way you call me Chi Foh. It makes my heart jump, Yueh Hua!”

  They reached their destination without further incident—to find Nayland Smith anxiously waiting for them . . .

  Chapter XIII

  For two days they remained in Lao Tse-Mung’s house, apparently inactive, except that Nayland Smith spent hours alone, smoking pipe after pipe, deep in thought. Tony deduced that he was trying to discover a plan to rescue Dr. Cameron-Gordon and found it no easy thing to do.

  With Moon Flower, Tony roamed about the beautiful gardens, so that this brief interlude of peace was a chapter in his life which he knew he would always remember with happiness. Lao Tse-Mung had warned them all that Fu Manchu was by no means satisfied with what he had seen and heard.

  “My house will be watched. I shall be spied upon. If he discovers that you are here, none of us will any longer be safe. So never show yourselves at any point which is visible from the road. The entire property is walled, and the wall-tops are wired. But at places there are tall trees outside which overlook the walls—and these trees I cannot wire . . ,’

  Lao Tse-Mung’s talented secretary, Sun Shao-Tung, had translated all the Russian letters in Skobolov’s briefcase, and Nayland Smith had been lighted up on learning from the correspondence that the research scientist employed at the hidden Soviet plant was not a Russian, but a German, Dr. von Wehrner. But even more exciting was a penciled note which Sir Denis deduced to be a translation of a code message:

  “If hidden MS. as reported secure at any cost. Proceed as arranged to governor’s villa to allay suspicion. Cancel further plans. Join plane at Huang Ko-Shu.”

  “I was right, McKay!” Nayland Smith declared. “This Chinese document is dynamite!”

  Sun Shao-Tung had gone to work on the mysterious manuscript. He had worked far into the night, only to find himself baffled.

  Nayland Smith asked him to make a careful copy in case the original should be lost—or stolen. And it was late on the second night of their stay at Lao Tse-Mung’s hospitable house that something happened.

  The secretary worked in a top room, equipped as an up to date office, with typewriter, filing cabinets, book-cases and a large desk. This betrayed the modern side of the old mandarin, and was in keeping with his private plane, his cars, his electrical lighting plant and other equipment; a striking contrast to the Oriental character of the reception rooms below.

  Tony occupied a room next to the office. Nayland Smith was lodged in one on the other side of the corridor. He was unaccountably restless. Lao Tse-Mung’s guest-rooms had electric light and all the other facilities of a modern residence. It was very late when Tony switched off his bedside lamp and tried to sleep. But the night seemed to be haunted by strange sounds, furtive movements which he couldn’t identify, or place.

  The shadow of Fu Manchu was creeping over him. He began thinking, again, about the dead Russian, seeing in his imagination the man’s ceaseless battle with clouds of invisible insects. Of course, it had been delirium. But what a queer kind of delirium. Skobolov had died at the hand of Dr. Fu Manchu. But of what had he died?

  Tony found himself listening intently for a buzz of insects in the room.

  He heard none. He tried to laugh at these phantom fears.

  Then, he began to listen again.

  There was a sound—a very faint sound. It was not a sound of insects, and it was not in his room. It came from the adjoining office.

  He knew that Sun Shao-Tung had retired two hours before. He had heard him go . . . Yet, something or someone moved stealthily in the office!

  Tony swung out of bed; stole to the door of his room; opened it cautiously.

  Bare-footed, he crept along to the office door.

  Silent, he stood listening.

  Yes!—There was someone inside!

  He began to turn the handle, gently open the door. And, as it opened, a draft of cold air swept into his face!

  It brought with it a sense of horror. He shuddered—then fully opened the door.

  The office was in darkness. But a beam of moonlight through the window, which he saw to be open, just brushed the top of the large desk. There was a dim figure in the shadow behind the desk—and two hands, which alone were in the moonlight, busily swept up a litter of papers lying there . . .

  Perhaps the lighting created an illusion. But they were grey hands!

  Tony clenched his fists, took a step forward—and a lean figure sprang over the desk, leapt upon him and had his throat in an icy grip!

  He uttered a stifled shriek as that ghastly grip closed on him: it was a cry of loathing rather than of fear. But, in the face of what he knew to be deathly peril, his brain remained clear. He struck up, a right, a left, to the jaw of his antagonist. The blows registered. The grip on his throat relaxed. He struck again. But he was becoming dizzy.

  Desperately, he threw himself on the vague figure which was strangling him. He touched a naked body—and this body was cold.

  * * *

  He was fighting with a living corpse!

  Very near the end of his resources, he used his knee viciously. The Thing grunted, fell back, and sprang toward the open window.

  Swaying like a drunken man, he saw dimly a grey figure sweep up something from the desk and leap to the window. Tony tottered—fell—threw out his arms to save himself and collapsed on the floor. His outstretched hands touched a heavy bronze bowl which the secretary used as a waste-basket.

  Pain, anger, gave him a brief renewal of strength. He grasped the bowl, forced himself to his feet, and hurled the bowl at the head of the retreating Thing.

  It reached its target. He heard the dull thud. It rebounded and crashed against the glass of the opened window.

  But the living dead horror vanished . . .

  Lights . . . voices . . . arms which lifted him . . . the tang of brandy.

  Tony came to life.

  The lighted office looked red. His head swam. Through this red mist he saw Nayland Smith bending over him.

  “A close call, McKay! Take it easy”

  Tony found himself in a deep rest-chair. He had some difficulty in swallowing. He managed to sit up.

  “It went through the window,” he croaked hoarsely; “although . . . I hit it on the head with . . . that.”

  The bronze bowl lay amongst a litter of glass.

  “I know,” Sir Denis snapped. “It’s phenomenal. We have search parties out.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t strain your throat, McKay. Yes. It has the cipher manuscript . . .”

  * * *

  In Lao Tse-Mung’s library, surrounded by an imposing collection of books in many languages, four men assembled. A servant, awakened for the purpose, placed a variety of refreshments on a low table around which they sat, and was dismissed. The staff’s quarters were separated from the house, and the disturbance in the office had not reached them. Mercifully, it had failed to arouse Moon Flower, whose apartment was in the west wing. So that the thing which had happened in
the night was known only to these four who met in the library.

  Lao Tse-Mung and his frightened secretary sipped tea. Tony and Nayland Smith drank Scotch and soda. Tony smoked a cigarette and Sir Denis smoked his pipe.

  “My chief mechanic reports,” their host stated in his calm voice and perfect English, “that the connections are undisturbed. Six men are now examining the possible points of entry, and if anything is discovered to account for the presence of this thief in my house, I shall be notified immediately.”

  “When it’s daylight,” Nayland Smith said, “I’ll take a look, myself.”

  “Of course you understand. Sir Denis, what has happened? We have had a visit from a Cold Man. These creatures have been reported in the neighborhood of Chia-Ting on more than one occasion, but never here. It is a punishable offense to touch them. If seen, the police must be informed. An ambulance from a hospital established recently in that area by the governor, Huan Tsung-Chao, is soon on the scene, I understand; the attendants seem to know how to deal with these ghastly phenomena. They are believed, by the ignorant people, to be vampires and are known as ‘the living-dead’. “

  “The ignorant people have my sympathy!” Tony declared hoarsely.

  “Personally,” Nayland Smith snapped, “I’m not surprised. That master of craft. Dr. Fu Manchu, has discovered that I am here. That it was he who murdered Skobolov in order to recover this manuscript is beyond dispute. But how he found out that it had fallen into my hands is a mystery.”

  “I warned you,” Lao Tse-Mung pointed out in his quiet way, “that my house would be watched.”

  “You did,” Nayland Smith agreed, bitterly. “But even so, how did the watcher discover the very room in which this manuscript lay? And, crowning mystery, how did the Cold Man get in to steal it? Damn the cunning devil! He has tricked me again!”

  As he ceased speaking, the large room seemed to become eerily still. And this stillness was broken by a sound which sent a chill through Tony’s nerves. Although a long way off, it was clearly audible, penetrating, and horrifying as the wail of a banshee.

  A long minor cry, rising to a high final note on which it died away.

  Even Lao Tse-Mung clutched the arms of his chair. Nayland Smith sprang up as if electrified.

  “You heard it, McKay?”

  “Of course I heard it. For God’s sake, what was it?”

  “A sound I hadn’t heard for years and never expected to hear in China. It was the warning cry of a dacoit. Fu Manchu has always employed these Burmese robbers and assassins. Come on McKay! I have a revolver in my pocket. Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  “Allow me to arm you,” Lao Tse-Mung volunteered, entirely restored to his normal calm. From under his robe he produced a small but serviceable automatic. “It is fully charged. What do you propose to do, Sir Denis?”

  “To try to find the spot from which that call came.”

  Nayland Smith was heading for the door when a faint bell note detained him.

  “Wait,” Lao Tse-Mung directed.

  The old mandarin drew back the loose sleeve of his robe. Tony saw that he wore one of the phenomenal two-way radios on his wrist. He listened, spoke briefly, then disconnected.

  “My chief mechanic reports. Sir Denis, that the cry we heard came from a point between the main gate and the drive-in to the garage. He is there now.”

  “Come on, McKay!” Nayland Smith repeated, and ran out, followed by Tony.

  They headed for the main gate, a spot which Tony was never likely to forget, two figures grotesque in their pajamas and robes. Sir Denis ran at a steady jog trot, harboring his resources.

  “These radios,” Tony said as he ran, “are supernormal. On what frequency do they operate and where does the power come from?”

  “We don’t know !” Nayland Smith replied jerkily. “Our technicians worked for over a year on the only one we ever captured from a Fu Manchu agent. Gave up trying to find out. Concentrated on making an exact duplicate. At last, got contact between the two. Found it had an unlimited range. No blind spots. No interference.”

  “Not from Fu Manchu?”

  “Nothing. Entirely new principle . . . Here we are!”

  They slowed down as they reached the main gate, stood still, and listened. A sound of voices reached them from somewhere ahead.

  And Tony found himself retracing that sloping path which, behind the high wall, led to the garage, the path along which Mai Cha had taken him on the memorable night he had escaped the Master.

  The light of a flashlamp presently led them to Lao Tse-Mung’s chief mechanic, who answered to the name of Wong. He had two other men with him. A tall ladder was propped against the wall, and another man could be seen on the top staring over. Sir Denis was expected, for Wong saluted and reported. He spoke Chinese with a Szechuan accent which seemed to puzzle Sir Denis but with which Tony’s travels in the area had made him fairly familiar. Fortunately, he also spoke fairly good English.

  He had been walking toward this point, scanning the parapet of the wall with his flashlamp, when that awful cry broke the silence, and died away. “It came from about here. I called out, and the nearest man of the search party ran to join me. My orders were not to open the gates and not to disconnect the wiring. The gardeners brought a ladder so that we could look into the road. It is set so that the rungs don’t touch the wires. But the man up there can see nothing and I have ordered him to come down.”

  “You have heard no other sound?” Tony asked him.

  “Not a movement,” the man assured him. “Nothing stirred

  When the gardener descended from the long ladder and was about to remove it:

  “One moment,” Nayland Smith rapped. “I want to take a look. This interests me.”

  “Be careful of the wiring!” Wong warned. “It carries a high voltage and a touch is enough!”

  “That wouldn’t interest you!” Tony called out as Nayland Smith started up the ladder.

  “That’s just what does interest me!” Sir Denis called back.

  He mounted right to the top of the ladder. He didn’t look out on to the road he looked fixedly at the parapet where the wires were stretched. Then he came down. From a pocket of his gown he took his pipe and his pouch.

  “There are two other things I must know, McKay. For one of them we have to wait for daylight. The other it’s just possible we might find tonight.” He turned to Wong. “Take the ladder away. I’m glad you brought it.”

  He grasped Tony’s arm. “I have a flashlamp in my pocket. Walk slowly back to the house—not by the route we came, but the nearest way to the windows of your room and the office.”

  And so they started, Nayland Smith, pipe in mouth, flashing light into shadowy shrubberies which bordered the path:

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for,” Tony declared.

  “I may be wrong, McKay. It’s no more than what you call a hunch. But I do know what I’m looking for. It’s a hundred to one chance and if I’m wrong, I’ll tell you. If I’m right, you’ll see for yourself.”

  They walked slowly on. There was little breeze. Sometimes the flashlamp created queer rustling in the shrubberies as of sleeping creatures disturbed or nocturnal things scuffling to shelter. In the light of a declining moon, bats could be seen swooping, silent, overhead.

  His gruesome experience with a Cold Man vividly in mind. Tony found himself threatened, as they moved slowly along, by a shapeless terror. Partly, it was a creation of the dark and the stillness, an upsurge of hereditary superstition. Things he couldn’t explain had happened. At any moment, he thought, icy fingers might clutch his throat again. Of human enemies he had no fear. But what were these Cold Men? Were they human—or were they as some who had seen them believed, animated dead men, zombies?

  His own encounter with a Cold Man suggested that they were not mortal.

  But Nayland Smith worked diligently along, yard by yard.

  He found nothing.

  And Tony knew,
by noting the furious way in which he puffed at his pipe, that he was disappointed

  They had reached the gate lodge, which was in darkness, and had turned left, instead of to the right, which was the way they had come, before Sir Denis uttered a word. Then:

  “Here’s our last chance!” he said rapidly.

  They were in a narrow path, little used, overgrown by wild flowers. It led to the east wing of the house but to no entrance. It would, though, as Tony realized, lead them to a point directly below the window of his own room and that of the office.

  Tirelessly, Nayland Smith explored every shadow with his flash-lamp, but found nothing, until, in a clump of tangled undergrowth surrounding a tall tulip tree, he pulled up.

  “I was right!”

  The ray of the lamp lighted a grisly spectacle.

  A man lay there, a man whose body was grey, whose only clothing consisted of a loin cloth, and this was grey, and a tightly knotted grey turban. He lay in a contorted attitude, his head twisted half under his body.

  “This is what I was looking for!” Nayland Smith rapped. “Look! His neck’s broken!”

  “Good God! Is this—”

  “The Cold Man who attacked you? Yes. And you killed him! “

  Tony stood, hands clenched, looking at the ghastly object under the tulip tree. Suddenly, in that warm night, he felt chilled.

  “The first specimen,” Nayland Smith stated grimly, “to fall into my hands. Rumor hasn’t exaggerated. I can feel the chill even here.” He stepped forward.

  “Sir Denis!”

  Nayland Smith turned. “The poor devil’s harmless—now—McKay. He’s out of the clutches of Dr. Fu Manchu at last. Some day, I hope, we shall know how these horrors are created. His skin is an unnatural grey, but I recognize the features. The man is Burmese.” He stooped over the contorted body. “Hullo! Thank heaven, McKay, the hundred to one chance has come off!”

  From the grey loin cloth he dragged out a bundle of papers, shone the ray of the lamp on to it—and sprang upright so unusually excited that he dropped his pipe.