Emperor Fu-Manchu Read online

  The road ended before a gate in the wire fence. There was a wooden hut beside the gate, and a Russian soldier stood there, his rifle resting against the hut. He was smoking a cigarette.

  Presently another man appeared walking briskly along outside the wire. The smoker carefully stubbed out his cigarette, stuck it behind his ear, and shouldered his rifle. The other man stepped into the hut. Evidently, he was the corporal in charge who had posted the remaining five men in his squad at points around the fence.

  The cunning of Soviet propaganda! Leprosy is a frightening word, although leprosy had rarely appeared in Szechuan. But the mere name was enough to keep all at a distance.

  This was the germ factory.

  Where had he gone wrong?

  Chung Wah-Su? Was it possible that Chung had betrayed him? It would be in line with Chinese thinking (if he, Tony, had aroused suspicion) to plant a pretended helper in his path. Yet all that Chung Wah-Su had done was to admit that he worked for Free China and to give him directions how best to cross the Yangtze into Szechuan without meeting with frontier guards.

  It was hard to believe.

  There was the man he knew simply as Li. Who was Li? True, Tony hadn’t trusted him very far although he had given sign and countersign, but all the same it was Li who had put him in touch with Chung Wah-Su.

  Had Li been seized, forced to speak? Or was it possible that a report of Tony’s visit to Hua-Tzu had preceded him down the river? Questioned, he had spoken freely about the visit; for although he knew, now, what was hidden there, he couldn’t go back on his original plan without destroying the carefully planned evidence of the purpose of his long journey.

  He fell into an uneasy doze. He could hear and smell the rats in his rice bowl. As he slipped into sleep, his mind carried him back to his last examination by the dreadful creature called Colonel Soong…

  “If you searched this village you speak of, looking for some girl, you can tell me the name of the former mandarin who lives in the big house.”

  “There is no large house in Hua-Tzu.”

  “I mean the house in the hills.”

  “I saw no house in the hills.”

  His heart warmed again in his near-dream state. There were few Americans, or Europeans either, who could have sustained the character of a lovelorn fisherman from Hong Kong under the fire of those oblique, ferocious eyes.

  Yes, Sir Denis Nayland Smith was a good picker. No man could be better fitted for the job than one born in China, one whose maternal grandmother had belonged to an old Manchurian family.

  * * *

  In a small room, otherwise plainly furnished, a man sat in a massive, high-backed ebony chair behind a lacquer desk. The desk glistened in the light of a silk shaded lantern which hung from the ceiling in such a way that the golden dragons, designed on the lacquer panels, seemed to stir mysteriously.

  The man seated there wore a loose yellow robe. His elbows rested on the desk, and his fingers—long, yellow fingers—were pressed together; he might have reminded an observer of a praying mantis. He had the high brow of a philosopher and features suggesting great intellectual power. This aura of mental force seemed to be projected by his eyes, which were of a singular green color. As he stared before him as if at some distant vision, from time to time his eyes filmed over in an extraordinary manner.

  The room, in which there lingered a faint, sickly smell of opium, was completely silent.

  This silence was scarcely disturbed when a screen door opened and an old Chinese came in on slippered feet. His face, in which small, twinkling eyes looked out from an incredible map of wrinkles, was that of a man battered in a long life of action, but still unbowed, undaunted. He wore an embroidered robe and a black cap topped by a coral bead.

  He dropped down onto cushions heaped on the rugs, tucking his hands into the loose sleeves of his robe, and remained there, still as a painted Buddha, watching the other man.

  The silence was suddenly and harshly broken by the voice of the dreamer at the lacquer desk. It was a strange voice, stressing the many sibilants in the Chinese language and emphasizing the gutturals.

  “And so, Tsung-Chao, I am back again in China—a fugitive from the West, but a power in the East. You, my old friend, are restored to favor. General Huan Tsung-Chao, a former officer of the Chinese Empire, now Communist governor of a province! A triumph for the Si-Fan. But similar phenomena have appeared in Soviet Russia. You have converted Szechuan into a fortress in which I am secure. You have done well.”

  “Praise from the Master warms my old heart.”

  “It is a stout heart, and not so old as mine.”

  “All that I have done has been under your direction.”

  “What of the reorganization of the People’s Army? You are too modest, Tsung-Chao. But between us we have gained the confidence of Peiping. I have unlimited authority, for Peiping remains curiously, but fortunately, ignorant of the power of the Si-Fan.”

  “I pray that their ignorance may continue.”

  “I have inspected many provinces and have found our work progressing well. I detected several United States agents, and many from Free China. But Free China fights for the same goal as the Si-Fan.”

  “But not for the same leader, Master!”

  Dr. Fu-Manchu smiled. His smile was more terrifying than his frown.

  “You mean for the same Emperor! We must be patient.” His voice rose in exaltation. “I shall restore this ancient Empire to more than its former glory! Communism, with its vulgarity, its glorification of the worker, I shall sweep from the earth! What Buonaparte did, I shall do, and as he did, I shall win control of the West as well as of the East!”

  “I await the day, Master!”

  “It will come. But if the United States, Britain, or especially Soviet Russia, should unmask the worldwide conspiracy of the Si-Fan, all our plans would be laid in ashes! So, when I am in China, my China, I must travel incognito; I must be a shadow.”

  The old general gave a wrinkled and humorous smile. “I can answer for most of our friends in Formosa. From the United States agents you have little to fear. None of them know you by sight, only by name. I have entertained several Soviet visitors and your name stands high with the Kremlin. But news reached me yesterday that Nayland Smith has left England, and I believe he is in Hong Kong.”

  “Tehee!” It was a hiss. “The old hound is hot on my trail. He will not be working alone. We must take precautions. He lacks genius. He is a product of the Scotland Yard tradition. But he has inexhaustible patience. Heed this, Tsung-Chao: any suspect arrested by the blundering Communists in or near Szechuan must be reported to me at once. I shall interrogate such suspects personally.”

  * * *

  Tony awoke with a start, and shot upright in bed.

  It wasn’t the rats or the lice. It was a woman’s scream that had pierced his sleep like a hot blade.

  Everything was silent again, the night hot and still. His cell stank foully. But he knew he had not dreamt it. He had heard a woman’s scream—a sudden, agonized scream. He clenched his fists and found that his palms were clammy. And he listened—listened.

  He had no means of knowing what time it was or how long he had slept. The barred window resembled a black hole in the wall. It overlooked a small courtyard and he could barely see the sky.

  Further sleep was out of the question. His brain was on fire. Somewhere, in this hell hole, they were tormenting a woman.

  Footsteps and voices broke the silence. He recognized one voice, that of his jailer.

  They were coming for him! This would be the great test.

  The heavy door was unlocked. Two armed men wearing the uniform of the Red Army held up lanterns. His thickset, leering jailer opened the padlock which confined McKay’s ankle.

  “This way, Chi Foh. They want to ask you something about fishing!”

  He assumed that air of stony passivity which belonged to his role. Head held low, he went out between the two guards. Quite unnecessarily, t
hey prodded him with their rifle butts to keep him moving. Strange how Soviet training dehumanized men.

  Colonel Soong sat at a bamboo table in the lighted courtyard. The governor, an older man, sat on the colonel’s right. A junior officer, who looked like a coolie in uniform, was on his left. Two soldiers stood behind them.

  “Stand him there,” Colonel Soong commanded, pointing, “where he can see what we do with spies!”

  The governor had put on thick-rimmed spectacles and was trying to read some document which lay before him—probably the several examinations of Suspect Wu Chi Foh. The junior officer watched Tony with the kind of expression a gourmet might have when beholding a choice meal.

  “Those who admit their guilt, Chi Foh,” the colonel was saying, “die an easy death. I recommend an open confession. Bring in the prisoners.”

  Escorted by four soldiers, two men came into the courtyard, their hands tied behind their backs.

  Tony saw the elderly Chung Wah-Su and the younger Li. He had covered many hundreds of miles by road, river and canal since his dealings with them. Yet here they were to confront him, lined up no more than three paces away.

  “Wu Chi Foh, do you know these men? Make them look up.”

  Guards prodded the prisoners. Both stared impassively at Tony.

  “No, Excellency.”

  “You are a lying son of a pig! Again I ask you—and this is your last chance for an easy death—do you know these men?”

  “No, Excellency.”

  Colonel Soong fired a harsh order. The official executioner came in, a stocky, muscular figure stripped to the waist and showing a torso and arms like a gorilla’s. He carried a short, curved sword.

  Neither of the prisoners displayed the slightest interest in the proceedings.

  After, with an efficiency that stunned Tony, Chung Wah-Su and Li had been beheaded and their bodies hauled from the courtyard, Colonel Soong told him, “That is the easy death, Chi Foh. I am returning you to your cell to consider. Be prepared at any hour to find the same painless end.”

  Tony was dragged back to the smelly dungeon which had confined him for so long and was thrown in with such sudden violence that he fell on his face. The chain was relocked to his ankle.

  He dropped onto the bed and held his head in his hands.

  Even supposing that neither Chung Wah-Su nor Li had involved him in their confessions (and it was possible), he was marked for death. He could admit what little he had learned and have his head neatly lopped off by an expert, or he could persist in his story that he was a harmless fisherman. Then he would be put in the stocks, and—

  They had no evidence whatever to connect him with Sir Denis Nayland Smith. The wonderful little long-range walkie-talkie which Sir Denis had entrusted to him before he set out, he had, mercifully, managed to drop in the river when he saw them coming to arrest him.

  He seemed to hear again that snappy voice. “If anything goes wrong, get rid of it, fast.” It had helped him in many emergencies, made him feel that he wasn’t alone. Now…

  He could, of course, reveal his true identity and challenge Soong to execute a United States officer. But even that probably wouldn’t stop the colonel.

  This was the end.

  Something came through the window bars and fell right at his feet.

  It made a dull thud, but there was a faint metallic jingle, too. Tony stooped eagerly and picked up a piece of thin paper wrapped around two keys and another metal object.

  His hands shook as he unrolled the parcel. The third object was a cigarette-lighter.

  He snapped up the thin rice paper and read:

  From Nayland Smith.

  The smaller key frees your chain. The other opens the door. Leave before daylight. The guard on the gate is bribed. Your boat still lies where you left it. Money and some food aboard. Follow Min River left bank, down to any navigable creek, then use irrigation canals to Niu-fo-tu on Lu Ho River. Ask for the house of the Lama. He expects you. Memorize and swallow message.

  His heart leapt madly. Thank God! Nayland Smith hadn’t lost contact with him. His last message on the walkie-talkie had placed his location, and he was no longer alone.

  Tony had little difficulty in memorizing the directions, for his journey up to Chia-Ting had made him familiar with the river and villages. He swallowed the piece of rice paper, then had to make a lightning decision about the keys. Footsteps sounded in the passage. Voices. They were coming back for him.

  He thrust the keys and the lighter under his mattress.

  But in his heart he knew help had come too late.

  “Colonel Soong is asking for you, fisherman!”

  His leering jailer threw open the cell door. Two men, the same ones as before, stood by while the chain was unfastened, then banged his ribs with their rifle butts as he was marched along the passage and out again into the courtyard.

  Many men have been condemned for cowardice in the face of the enemy. But knowing what was in store for him, Tony wondered if Nayland Smith would understand if he simply accepted “the easy death” and became another missing agent. For he couldn’t hope to survive the ordeal ahead.

  If he could, and did, stay silent, and they released him, which was unlikely, his sufferings would have rendered him useless, helpless; his memory gone. He would be a mere shell of a man.

  * * *

  “Have you anything more to say, Chi Foh?”

  “No, Excellency.”

  Tony was forced onto his knees in front of the stocks, facing outward, and his feet were clamped in the openings provided. Then, wrists pinioned behind, his body was drawn as far back as it would go without something snapping, and the rope was tied to a crossbeam.

  The executioner, satisfied, awaited orders.

  “For the last time, Wu Chi Foh, have you anything to say?”

  “Nothing, Excellency.”

  Colonel Soong raised his hand.

  “Release the prisoner!”

  Colonel Soong’s hand remained raised. It was held in a viselike grip by a Nubian of enormous stature. The ebony giant had rested his free hand on the shoulder of the Chinese lieutenant, who was clearly unable to stir.

  “I gave an order.”

  The mist was dispersing more and more. Now, half in the shadow of an archway behind the table, Tony could see a tall figure. The executioner was electrified. In a matter of seconds Tony found himself free and saw the executioner bowing humbly to the man who stood motionless in the archway.

  Another crisp command, not spoken in Chinese, resulted in the Nubian’s stepping back. Both officers sprang to their feet, spun around and stood at the salute.

  “Colonel Soong,” the imperious tones carried clearly all over the courtyard, “it is contrary to my wishes that these primitive methods of questioning be employed. China will flower again as a land of beauty and culture. If harsh means must be used to extract the truth, at least let them be refined. Brutality without purpose is neither successful nor artistic. Remain in your quarters until I send for you.”

  Colonel Soong retired, followed by his lieutenant.

  “I will interview the prisoner.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tony, dazed, bewildered, and with the numb calm of utter desperation, found himself in an elaborately furnished room, most likely the prison governor’s study. He was facing a long desk, overly ornamented in the Burmese manner, behind which was a commodious chair. He was tinglingly conscious of the giant Nubian at his elbow.

  No one else was there until the man who had ordered his release entered.

  He came in from the other end of the room and walked to the desk. His movements had a catlike quality; his step was feline, silent. Tony could not mistake the tall, lean figure which he had glimpsed in the courtyard. He recognized the sort of cavalry cloak in which the man with the imperious voice had been wrapped and which he now discarded and dropped on the rug beside the chair.

  Tony saw that he wore a uniform resembling those worn by Prussian officers.
He had glossy top boots. As he took his seat, resting his elbows on the desk and pressing his long, yellow fingertips together, Tony experienced a fluttering in the stomach.

  He was looking at one of the most fascinating faces he had ever seen. The high forehead, the chiseled, aggressive nose, the thin lips, were those of an aristocrat, a thinker and a devil. But the long, half-closed eyes of an astonishingly green color completed the impression of force which radiated from this man’s personality, as he sat there, perfectly still.

  Suddenly he spoke.

  “Well, my friend, I think the time has come for you to lay your cards on the table. Don’t you agree with me?”

  The last shadow of doubt was swept from Tony’s mind. He recalled fragments of Nayland Smith’s vivid word picture of the person he was seeking. “A brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan. Eyes of the true cat-green. He speaks every civilized language with near perfection, and knows countless dialects as well. He has the brains of any three men of genius.”

  Tony found it impossible to sustain the stare of those hypnotic eyes. But he knew that here was Number One, the Master.

  This was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  The shock of hearing the question in perfect English was so unexpected that he nearly betrayed himself by replying in the same language.

  It was a crucial test. And he survived it.

  “I don’t understand, Excellency,” he said in Chinese.

  “Don’t be a fool. You understand well enough.”

  Tony shook his head in a bewildered way. Meeting the intolerable stare of those green eyes, he was aware that, again, his life hung on a thread.

  Silence. The Negro behind him made no sound. He could hear the faint spluttering of perfume sticks set before a shrine at one end, of the room. The air was oppressive. He was becoming dizzy. His appalling experience and imprisonment had stolen his stamina.

  He was brought back by a brusque question in Chinese.

  “Your name is Wu Chi Foh? You are accused of spying?”