by Sax Rohmer
Tony did so, and Nayland Smith shone a momentary light from a flashlamp on to the dial of his wrist-radio, then switched it off. Tony crouched close beside him, listening intently.
And presently came the faint voice of Dr. von Wehmer. “I’m waiting in the power house. Sir Denis. If you’re ready, I’ll make the connection, run back to my bungalow and get what I want, then steal through the bamboos to join you.”
“Wait until clouds cover the moon,” Nayland Smith warned.
“Trust me to be careful!”
“Phew!” Nayland Smith breathed. “So far, all according to plan.”
Tony experienced a sensation not unlike that he had known when awaiting the signal for a raid into the enemy lines; exultation and tingling apprehension. Storm clouds were sweeping the sky. “Shall we move over. Sir Denis?”
“Yes—crawl. And lie flat if the moon breaks through.”
Their dingy-hued Chinese clothes were admirable camouflage, and they crept across into the tangle of undergrowth fringing the fence without difficulty.
They had no more than reached this cover when from the direction of the distant gate came the sound of a choking scream. It broke off suddenly, as if the one who screamed had been swiftly silenced.
“What the devil’s that!” Nayland Smith growled.
Whatever it was it had alerted the sentries to their right and left. Two shouts came simultaneously. Then one of the voices shouted alone—and silence fell.
“I wish I knew Russian,” Tony muttered.
“So do I,” Nayland Smith rapped back. “But it doesn’t matter.
The men aren’t moving. We daren’t use a light out here. So I can’t call von Wehmer. We can only wait and hope for the best.”
They lay there, waiting—and listening.
To Tony, strung up to a high pitch, it seemed that every passing minute was ten. And presently, to enhance the stress, he seemed to become conscious of a vague, muffled tumult somewhere inside the wired enclosure.
“You hear it?” Nayland Smith whispered. “God knows what’s going on—but it’s something we don’t want!”
Through a break in the clouds moon rays peeped out for a few fleeting seconds. Tony stared anxiously into the bamboo plantation masking von Wehrner’s bungalow; but saw nothing. The muted, indescribable disturbance continued.
Darkness again.
“Sir Denis!” It was a husky whisper.
“Von Wehmer!”
“Move a few yards to your left. I’m throwing a weighted line across. Be quick!”
Tony’s heart leapt with excitement as they scuffled at speed toward where, now, a shadowy figure showed on the other side of the fence. When they reached the spot:
“Here’s the line,” von Wehrner’s voice told them. “Catch it and pull!”
Some heavy object was thrown over the fence. It fell almost into Tony’s hands. He grabbed it—a bronze paperweight—and pulled on the line to which it was tied. He had the end of a rope ladder in his hands when it stuck!
“Stop pulling,” von Wehmer 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 rapped softly. “I think the moon’s breaking through!”
He and Tony hung on to the end of the ladder as von Wehmer mounted on the other side. Astride the top of the fence, he tossed a briefcase into the tangled grass near Tony, 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!”
And as they released their hold, von Wehrner dropped beside them.
“Flat down!” Nayland Smith whispered. “We must chance the ladder.”
They were none too soon, for 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 certainly be seen.
The next few minutes were amongst 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 power house . . . hurried back to the bungalow. I went in, using a flashlamp. 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. And when it was returned:
“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 grey 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 fell at my feet. For heaven’s sake, what was it?”
“I know what it was!” Nayland Smith rapped grimly. “And it means we have to move—fast! Dark enough now. Crawl after me, Doctor.”
And 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!
And they had not long reached cover when there was evidence that they 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 be with us!”
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 muttered. “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 grey phantoms became detached from the shadows like floating vapor or evil spirits materializing, and swept into the open gateway . . .
Chapter XXIV
“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.”
There proved to be such a path, 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 they hoped 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 Wehmer said hoarsely.
“Back into cover!” Sir Denis rapped. “
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 on to the road, and in a minimum of 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 which 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. And fiery fragments began to fall in the road and on the roof of the car.
“First-class show, von Wehmer.” Nayland Smith grinned. “One big good deed to your credit!”
“Two things are worrying me,” Tony broke in, staring back at the raging inferno which had been the Soviet research center “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. “That Fu Manchu may have followed on I think probable. 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 suggested, “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 judge, 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 asked 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 Matsukata along with them. I’m worried.”
“Where are they going?” Tony asked, blankly.
“That’s just what worries 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 Wehmer. 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 to Moon Flower . . .
His pleasant musing had lasted a long time. Von Wehrner had become silent. Nayland Smith’s pipe was smoked out. 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 rapped. “Look!”
The long, grey truck stood before the gate . . .
* * *
“God’s mercy!” Nayland Smith whispered. “Truly, hell’s loose 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 fear the gate is locked.” Von Wehrner spoke on 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” And together they got the limp body out. “Dr. von Wehrner, this is your job. Tell me—is he alive?”
The German biologist who was also a physician bent over the Japanese, examined him briefly, and nodded.
“Tough they are, 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, 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. I was forced to open 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 Wehmer volunteered to look after Matsukata, and Tony and Nayland Smith started off towards the house.
Tony saw that every window in the large building was lighted!
“What’s this?” he muttered.
“My guess is that the Cold Men are inside—looting!” Nay land Smith told him 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 its 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, its exquisite tapestries and trophies of arms—from one of which he guessed that 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 rapped. “What did you do?”
“I ordered the resid
ent 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 murmured.
“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 grey horrors, who attacked me with a dagger. Although apparently immune to bullets, I am a saber expert, and I struck the things heads off without difficulty.”
Tony gasped. He had seen such a feat performed by the executioner in the prison yard at Chia-Ting. But General Huan he judged to be all of seventy years old!
“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 Chateau 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 the way, sir! Where is she?”
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; threw the door open. It was their former apartment.
The effect resembled that caused by opening a refrigerator. Through a window having a balcony outside Tony saw the starry sky, and knew immediately how the Cold Man had got in. The room showed a scene of crazy disorder. Dr. Cameron-Gordon lay face-down by the window. But he had no time to observe details . . .
A necropolite, a grey, corpselike figure, was forcing Moon Flower back on to 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 grey 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.