with the river and place-names. He masticated 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 as before—stood by while the chain was unfastened, 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 (and sympathize) 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 made him useless, helpless; his memory would be gone. He would be a mere parody 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 vice-like grip by a Nubian of enormous physique, a man built like the executioner but on a much larger scale. This 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 became electrified. In a matter of seconds Tony found himself free, 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 of culture. If harsh means must be used to extract the truth, at least let them be refined. Brutality without purpose is neither enjoyable nor artistic. Remain in your quarters until I send for you.”
Colonel Soong retired, followed by his lieutenant.
“I will interview the prisoner.”
Chapter III
No one else was there—until the man who had ordered his release came in.
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 couldn’t mistake the tall, lean figure of which he had a glimpse in the courtyard. He recognized a 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 which had once distinguished Prussian officers, with glossy top boots. And 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 wonderful 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, eyes of a phenomenal green color, completed the impression
Then suddenly he spoke.
“Well, my friend, I think the time has come 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, as well as countless dialects. He has the brains of any three men of genius embodied in one man . . .”
Tony found it impossible to sustain the stare of those hypnotic eyes. But he knew, and counted himself lost, that here was Number One, The Master, the driving power behind the Communist regime—for the words had been spoken in perfect English. He had succeeded—but too late.
This was Dr. Fu Manchu!
The shock of that question in 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 became 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, his imprisonment, had stolen his stamina.
He was recalled by a brusque question in Chinese.
“Your name is Wu Chi Foh? You are accused of spying?”
He met the hypnotic stare.
“Yes,Excellency”
In that fleeting second he had discovered something. The disturbing quality of Fu Manchu’s gaze was that he seemed to be looking not at him, but through him.
“Are you guilty?”
“No, Excellency”
“For a humble fisherman, you have a pure accent. You interest me. Take him back to his cell.”
For once. Tony was glad to throw himself wearily on the filthy mattress, glad to find even brief sanctuary in his dungeon from those dreadful eyes.
He jumped up and stared at the barred window. He could see the stars against a grey background. Dawn was breaking . . .
Had the arrival—clearly unexpected—of The Master, put the scheme out of gear? Had the guard on the gate been changed? Was the sampan still lying in the river?
Well, he could find out.
The key of the leg iron worked rather stiffly, gave him uneasy moments. But at last came a welcome click, and his leg was free. His heart pounded hard as he fitted the second key into the keyhole of the door. It turned without a hitch. He swung the heavy door open and looked out cautiously into the stone-paved passage.
