Emperor Fu Manchu

man wearing a cloak and a military cap. In the moonlight his eyes shone like emeralds. They seemed to be turned in my direction, and I shuddered. I knew it was The Master—the man my father had called a devil incarnate. You know what happened after that, Chi Foh . . .”

“And I thank God it did happen, Moon Flower—but you’re not really called Moon Flower, after all?”

Moon Flower drew nearer to him. “Don’t look so sad, dearest, I am. I was born on the night of a new moon, and to please my mother, my father agreed to name me Jean Yueh Hua. Oddly enough, I love the moon.”

“I know you do.” An ivory vision arose in Tony’s memory. “Will you marry me on the next day there’s a new moon?” Moon Flower took his hand in both her own.

“I’ll marry you, Chi Foh—but on the first day my father is free again . . .”

* * *

Dr. Fu Manchu sat in his favorite chair behind the lacquer desk. It was early dawn. But only one lamp relieved the gloom: a green-shaded lamp on the desk. This cast a sort of phantom light over the yellow-robed figure. Fu Manchu lay back, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, the tips of his bony fingers pressed together, his eyes half closed, but glinting like emeralds where the light touched them.

In the shadowy room, two paces from the desk, the gigantic figure of Mahmud the Nubian stood motionless.

Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff from the silver snuffbox. He spoke softly.

“Go to your quarters, Mahmud, and remain there until further orders.”

The big Nubian knelt on the rug, bent his head to the floor, stood up, made a deep salaam, and went out. He had a stealthy step, almost silent.

And, as he left by one door, another opened, and Huan Tsung-Chao came in. Fu Manchu lay back in his chair, with closed eyes. General Huan settled himself upon the divan facing the desk.

“The man is honest and devoted,” he said. “I have heard his account of all that happened, as you wished.”

Fu Manchu’s eyes opened widely. They stared into the shadows from which Huan Tsung-Chao had spoken. “You heard how Skobolov, a dying man, tricked him in Niu-fo-Tu and fled to some obscure rest house? You heard how the Russian escaped again, taking his papers with him?”

He almost hissed the words, stood up, a tall, menacing figure.

“I heard. Master. I heard, also, that the escaped prisoner, Wu Chi Foh, was seen in Niu-fo-Tu after Skobolov had arrived there.”

“So that the Si-Fan register may now be on its way to Moscow!”

“Or to London,” came placidly out of the shadows. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith is in China. A dying man is not hard to rob. And you suspected the prisoner called Wu Chi Foh to be working for British Intelligence in the first place.”

Fu Manchu dropped back in his chair.

“Perhaps, Tsung-Chao, the weight of years bears me down. My powers may be failing me at last. You know of my visit to Lao Tse-Mung. His behavior aroused deep suspicions. But he has the powers of a great diplomat. I have watched him for some years. Is he working with Nayland Smith? Is he opposed to Peiping? He remains impenetrable—and his estate is a fortress! To what party does he belong? These things we must find out, Tsung- Chao—or Lao Tse-Mung must be destroyed . . .

Chapter XII

“This man, Skobolov,” Nayland Smith snapped, “was one of the most trusted agents of the Kremlin.” He raised his eyes from the documents found in the portfolio. “Top marks to you, Jeanie, for taking care of such valuable evidence. I know very little Russian, but enough to recognize his name as the person to whom these letters are addressed.”

Tony nodded, smiling at Moon Flower.

“What I am anxious to know,” Sir Denis added, “is what Skobolov was doing in Szechuan. Why was he sent here? It’s a shot in the dark, but I venture to guess—for this.”

He held up the bound manuscript that was written in Chinese.

“I agree with you. Sir Denis,” Moon Flower said quietly, “I know written Chinese fairly well, but this is in cipher and quite beyond me. Why should it be in cipher if it weren’t something very secret?”

“Quite obvious, Jeanie. It can’t be a top secret dispatch from Peiping. In the first place, it couldn’t be in Chinese; in the second, he would have headed for Russia and not come wandering around this remote province. Therefore, he must have acquired it in Szechuan.” He dropped the manuscript on the table and pulled at the lobe of his ear. “There are three people known to me who might decipher it. Lao Tse-Mung—his secretary—or our friend the Lama in Niu-fo-Tu. What’s more, all of them speak Russian, and this correspondence interests me.”

“Let us go to my uncle’s,” Moon Flower said eagerly. “We shall at least be safe while we’re there, and Lao Tse-Mung’s secretary is very clever as you say, and knows many languages.”

“You’d be still safer with your aunt in Hong Kong, young lady,” Nayland Smith rapped.

Moon Flower smiled. “I shall never go back to Hong Kong until my father goes with me,” she assured him. And there was a note of finality in the soft voice which carried conviction.

“You’re going to be a big responsibility in the kind of work we have to do, Jeanie.”

Moon Flower turned to Tony. “Was I a big responsibility to you, Chi Foh, in the kind of work we had to do?”

And honesty forced Tony to answer, “I couldn’t have done it without you. Moon Flower.”

Nayland Smith took his old briar pipe out of his pocket and began to fill the bowl with coarse-cut mixture. His expression was very grim, but a smile lurked in the grey eyes.

“If McKay’s against me, too, I suppose I must compromise. From the moment we leave this house we all carry our lives in our hands. We don’t know what this Chinese manuscript is, but your account, McKay, of Skobolov’s behavior and his strange death, tells us plainly that it’s dynamite, and that somebody was following him to recover it. You agree?”

“I do. Sir Denis,” Tony told him. “But if it was of such value to the Kremlin, it may be of equal value to us.”

“If we can hang on to it,” Nayland Smith snapped, “and not go the way of Skobolov!”

There was a brief silence while he dropped his pouch back in his pocket and lighted his pipe.

“You have some theory about Skobolov?” Tony suggested.

Nayland Smith nodded. “I have. He was poisoned. The purpose of the poisoner was to recover this manuscript. I can think of only one man who is not only an expert poisoner but also a danger to the Soviet empire.”

“Dr. Fu Manchu!”

Nayland Smith blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke.

“If I’m right, and I think I am, we have here the most powerful weapon against Fu Manchu which I have ever held in my hands . . .”

* * *

Many hours later, the security police held up an old Ford car on a nearly impassible road some miles east of Lung Chang. The Chinese driver, whose shaved skull betrayed nothing but a stubble of hair, was a dull, taciturn fellow. His passengers were a lama, who wore glasses, and a Chinese boy. The lama did the talking.

“Where did you come from and where are you going?” the man in charge wanted to know.

“From Yung Chuan,” the Buddhist priest told him. “Are you a member of the faith, my son?”

“Never mind about that—”

“But it’s more important than anything else.”

“Who’s the boy?”

“My pupil. I am returning to my monastery in Burma, and I am happy to say that I bring a young disciple with me.”

The man, who evidently had special orders of some kind, looked from face to face.

“Who owns this car?”

“A good friend in Yung Chuan, and one of the faith. I have out-stayed my leave and am anxious to return.”