Emperor Fu-Manchu (21 page)

“You’re telling me nothing,” Tony broke in. “But there’s one thing you might tell me: What is a Japanese doing in Fu-Manchu’s gang?”

“For a friend of Sir Denis Nayland Smith, you betray remarkable ignorance of the Order of the Si-Fan,” Matsukata answered heatedly. “Its membership is not confined to China. It includes the whole of Asia, the Near East, many parts of Europe, and America. Its secret power is at least equal to that of Communism.”

Light sprang up in the dim place below, and Tony found himself looking down into a morgue.

Nearly a score of gray bodies lay there in two rows, one row on the right and one on the left. But here the resemblance to a morgue ended. They lay, not on stone slabs, but on neat hospital cots.

“The
necropolites
,” said Matsukata. “This clinic was constructed for the purpose of creating and maintaining them. They represent the Master’s supreme achievement, for they are dead men who live again at his command. The process of reducing their bodies to the low temperature, at which, alone, reanimation can be brought about is too technical for description here. But I should be glad to discuss it, later, with Dr. Cameron-Gordon.”

“Thank you, no,” Cameron-Gordon muttered. “I want to keep what little sanity I have left.”

“Be good enough to watch closely what takes place now. I must explain that a
necropolite
retains in his living-death state, whatever useful qualities were his in normal life, as well as his physical appetites or vices. Without occasional gratification of the latter, the creature’s usefulness deteriorates. Watch carefully.”

Tony was watching more than carefully. He was trying hard to convince himself that this thing was reality, that he wasn’t lost again in a nightmare. Nayland Smith’s crisp voice came to reassure him.

“I warned you, McKay, that if we made a mistake, we should walk into hell.”

Dr. Fu-Manchu came into the ward below with its rows of gray corpses. He wore a white coat, and his manner showed the cool detachment that marks the specialist visiting a hospital ward. A white-coated orderly followed, pushing a glass-topped cabinet on rubber wheels. He was sallow-faced, but looked European.

Not a sound penetrated to the observation room, and Matsukata remained silent.

Dr. Fu-Manchu stopped beside the first cadaver at the end of the row and made a swift, skillful examination. He spoke over his shoulder to the orderly. The man charged a hypodermic syringe; handed it to him. Fu-Manchu gave an injection, not in the arm, but in the breast of the still body, and passed on to the next.

This singular proceeding continued until every cot had been visited. Two of the Cold Men received no injection.

As Fu-Manchu walked out with his strange, feline step, followed by the orderly wheeling the glass cabinet, three or four of the Cold Men first treated began to stir.

Tony found himself shivering.

“My God, it’s insane!” Cameron-Gordon whispered.

Matsukata spoke again. “The Master has detected symptoms in two of the
necropolites
which necessitated their removal to surgery for further examination.”

Almost as he ceased speaking, two stretchers were carried in and the two Cold Men placed on them and carried out.

“The most instructive feature of the treatment,” the smooth Japanese voice went on, “will now begin. The Master will project to each creature the images appropriate to its particular appetite when it was a normal man. To one, the figure of its enemy; to another, a banquet of its favorite food; to a third, the image of a seductive woman—and so forth.”

Now the Cold Men were rising up, moving gray arms convulsively. All seemed to be crying out.

“They are calling for
Looma
,” Matsukata explained. “By this name they know a drink which transports them to a dream life where there is no satiety. One can kill his enemy a hundred times, another eat and drink without experiencing repletion, a third enjoy the pleasures of love indefinitely. Something like the promised paradise of Mohammed.”

“Don’t they murder one another?” Tony asked shakily.

“They cannot leave their cots. Their movements are restricted by a length of slender cord, such as that which is attached to your ankles. They are about to receive their instructions.”

Dr. Fu-Manchu returned, alone. He carried a lamp of unusual design. The light of this lamp was shone into the face of the Cold Man until his twitching and mouthing ceased. Then, Fu-Manchu rested his long fingers on the creature’s temples and stared into its eyes. This routine was continued until all had been dealt with.

“Now comes
Looma
, their wine of paradise,” Matsukata said softly.

As Dr. Fu-Manchu went out, a nurse in a trim white uniform came in, followed by the same orderly pushing the glass cabinet. It now carried a large glass jug filled with some liquid of a color resembling chartreuse, and some small glasses. The orderly filled the glasses and the nurse carried each to a Cold Man. In every case it was grasped avidly and swallowed in one eager draft.

But Tony scarcely followed what took place after the appearance of the nurse.

For the nurse was
Moon Flower.

T
ony’s impressions of the next few minutes were chaotic. The frantic behavior of Cameron-Gordon, the crisp, soothing words of Nayland Smith, the tumult in his own mind, built up a jungle of frustrated hopes, terror, and abject misery in which the details of what actually occurred were lost.

He knew that the tiny tough shackles which confined their ankles had been dexterously and swiftly removed by a smiling Chinese mechanic. The man used an instrument resembling a small electric buzz saw.

And now the three of them were assembled in a room which reminded him of that in which he had been confined, except that it was larger. There was a low, round table in the center, and on it lay a note in small, legible characters which Nayland Smith picked up and read aloud.

“You may refresh yourselves as you please. I beg you to do so. Chinese hospitality forbids me to poison my guests. Sir Denis will assure you that my word is inviolable, Fu-Manchu.”

Nayland Smith had just finished reading the letter when the door opened and two Chinese servants came in carrying full trays. They placed on the table a delicate meal of assorted dishes, a variety of wines, a bottle of Napoleon brandy, Scotch whiskey, a number of glasses and an English siphon of soda water. One of the servants uncorked all the bottles, placing the white wines in ice, and withdrew.

Nayland Smith grinned almost happily. “Let’s make the best of it, and prepare for the worst.”

“We’ll all be drugged,” Cameron-Gordon said.

Sir Denis held up the note. “This is the first example of Fu-Manchu’s handwriting I have seen,” he declared. “But it must obviously be genuine. I accept his word for I have never known him to break it.”

Cameron-Gordon groaned. “Right or wrong, a shot of brandy is what I need.”

“It would do none of us any harm,” Sir Denis agreed, and poured out three liberal tots. “A compromise is going to be offered. It will be one we can’t accept. But let us all sharpen our wits, and have something to eat.”

But Cameron-Gordon made a very poor attempt. “How did that cunning fiend get his hands on Jeanie?” he asked in a voice of despair.

“I suspect,” Sir Denis told him, “because of her own obstinacy.”

“Meaning what?” Tony wanted to know.

“Meaning that I detected, or thought that I detected, the footsteps of someone following us. Jeanie is high spirited, and as nearly fearless as any woman I ever met. My guess is that Jeanie was the follower. We have even to suppose that she climbed the bamboo ladder and was actually in the garden when Fu-Manchu saw her.”

“God help her,” Cameron-Gordon groaned, “no one else can, now.”

“I don’t agree,” Nayland Smith rapped in his sudden fashion. “There are weak spots in Fu-Manchu’s armor. I think I can find one. But leave the talking to me.”

Presently the Chinese servants reappeared, cleared the table, leaving only the brandy, and served coffee. They also brought cigars and cigarettes, port and a number of liqueurs.

“It’s evidently dinner time,” Sir Denis remarked when they went out. “I had an idea it might be luncheon.”

“I have lost all track of time,” Tony confessed. “My wrist watch is missing.”

“All our watches are missing. We’re not intended to know the time.”

They had finished their coffee, and Cameron-Gordon sat deep in silent gloom, when the door opened again.

The huge Nubian stepped in. He wore some kind of uniform, had a revolver in a holster and a tarboosh on his head.

“March out.” He had a deep, negroid voice. “One at a time. I will follow.”

Nayland Smith glanced wryly at Tony, shrugged his shoulders. “You go first, McKay, then Cameron-Gordon. I’ll bring up the rear.”

The big man stood stiffly beside the open door, his hand on the butt of his revolver, as they filed out. Tony was seized by sudden misgivings. To what ordeal were they being taken? He dared not allow himself to think of Moon Flower.

At the end of a short passage he came to a flight of stairs.

“Go down,” the deep voice ordered.

Tony went down. He was in one of the white-walled corridors which he had seen before. His fellow captives followed silently. He came to a cross-passage.

“Right turn.”

He obeyed. He was a cadet again, being ordered about by a drill-sergeant.

The cross-passage ended in what appeared to be a vestibule. It was well lighted. He could see a large double door which might be the main entrance to the building.

“Halt.”

The tone of command was unmistakable. This big African was an ex-soldier.

Tony halted, standing stiffly upright, then recovered himself, turned, and looked back. Cameron-Gordon was grim and angry, but Nayland Smith grinned reassuringly. The Nubian pointed to a long wooden bench.

“Sit down.”

They sat down. Tony was assessing their chances of overpowering the man by a simultaneous attack. But even assuming that the double doors opened on freedom, how far could they go, and how would it help Moon Flower?

Nayland Smith seemed to read his thoughts, for he caught his eye and shook his head as a side door opened and two stocky Burmese came out.

Tony submitted to having his eyes scientifically bandaged. He imagined, rather than knew, that his companions were undergoing the same indignity. Next he was raised to his feet and led out into the open air. He was helped into a vehicle. A slight odor of petrol told him that it was an automobile. He guessed it was a limousine.

All three were packed into the back seat, the door was closed, and the car started. The engine had the velvet action of a Rolls.

“No talking,” came the deep African voice.

The big Nubian was still with them.

A dreadful idea crossed Tony’s mind. They were being taken to the jail at Chia-Ting! The thought seemed to chill his blood. Once inside that grim prison they would be lost to the world. Even Sir Denis, with all the power of Great Britain behind him, would merely be listed as missing.

But the horror was quickly dismissed. The car stopped long before they could have reached Chia-Ting, and he was hauled out. Unseen hands guided him through what he knew was a garden by the faint fragrance of flowers.

He was led onto a softly carpeted floor and piloted upstairs. He could hear the stumbling footsteps of his friends who followed. He was thrust down in a chair. And at last, the bandage was removed from his eyes.

Tony blinked, for a light shone directly on his face. For a while, he couldn’t get accustomed to the glare after the complete darkness. But at last he did.

* * *

He saw a luxuriously furnished room. There were rich Chinese rugs, cabinets in which rare porcelain vases gleamed, trophies of arms, openings veiled by silk curtains. The lighting was peculiar. It came from a shaded lamp, the shade so constructed that light shone fully on his face and on the faces of his two companions. This lamp stood on a long lacquered desk, its gleaming surface littered with a variety of objects: books, manuscripts, some curious antique figures on pedestals, a small gong, and several queer-looking objects which were completely strange to him.

But these things he saw clearly later. His first impression of them was a vague one. For his attention became focused upon the man who sat behind the lacquered desk, wearing a plain yellow robe, his long-fingered hands resting on the desk before him. Owing to the cunning construction of the lampshade, his face was half shadowed.

With green eyes glinting under partly lowered lids, Dr. Fu-Manchu sat passively regarding the three trapped men.

“It is a long time, Sir Denis,” he said softly, “since I had the privilege of entertaining you. I trust you enjoyed your supper?”

“Oh, it was supper? It was excellent.”

“Prepared by a first-class French chef.”

“Tell him if he cares to come to London, I can find him better employment.”

Dr. Fu-Manchu took a pinch of snuff. “Incorrigible as always. In our many years’ association I cannot recall that you ever admitted defeat.”