Emperor Fu Manchu

said. “But at this point we’re not in view from the house.”

“There isn’t a light in the house,” Tony pointed out.

“That’s what frightens me. Let’s make a dash for it!”

They raced across the moon bright patch and into the shadow of the trees.

Two windows of the laboratory building were lighted; a small one near the door; a larger at the side of the hut. Tony pushed forward. But Nayland Smith stood still, looking back, listening. He said nothing, but joined Tony on a narrow path which led to the door.

He rapped on the panels. The light in the window disappeared. The door was opened, and a man in a white coat peered out.

“Smith!”

“Cameron-Gordon!”

“Quick! Come in! Who’s with you?”

“Tony McKay, one of us.”

They entered in darkness. The door was closed again and a light sprang up.

* * *

Tony saw a tiny room, with a table and two chairs, such as Shun-Hi had described. The man in the white coat spoke hoarsely:

“Thank God you found me, Smith! I didn’t know you were in China. And God bless Jeanie for getting my message through! I didn’t want to show a light when I opened the door. I never know when I’m watched.”

“Nor do I,” Nayland Smith rapped. “I suggest we start.” Cameron-Gordon had his hand in a fervent grip of greeting. “Wait just a few moments, Smith. I want you to see the kind of work I do.” He transferred the hand grip to Tony. “You must be a sound man to be here, and I’m glad to meet you.”

He opened a door, beckoned them to follow. They did so, reluctantly.

On the threshold they halted, both together. There was a muffled buzzing sound, and a strange, repulsive odor The place was lined by glass cases, in which, as Cameron-Gordon switched light on, a feverish activity came to life. The cases were filled with insects, some with wings and some without; huge flies, bloated spiders, ants, centipedes, scorpions!

“My God!” Tony muttered.

“I have seen something like this before,” Nayland Smith said; “in another of Fu Manchu’s establishments.”

“My dear Smith”—Cameron-Gordon was alight with the enthusiasm of the specialist—”he is doing work here which, if it were used for the good of humanity would make his name immortal. His knowledge of entomology is stupendous.”

“I have had some experience of it,” Nayland Smith rapped dryly “ ‘My little allies’, he once called these horrors.”

Cameron-Gordon ignored the interruption. “His experiments, Smith, are daring beyond what is allowed to God-fearing men. He has bred hybrids of the insect world which never before existed except for sufferers from delirium tremors I’ll show you some. But he has also prepared drugs from these sources which, if made available to physicians, would almost certainly wipe out the ravages of many fatal diseases.”

“Tell me, Doctor,” Tony said faintly, “what is that?”

He was staring at a case which contained an enormous centipede of a dull red color It was fully a foot long and was moving around its glass prison with horrible, febrile activity.

“A Mexican specimen of the morsitans species. Twice its hitherto known largest size. From its toxin he hopes to prepare an inoculation giving immunity from cholera. One of my duties is to extract the toxin!”

“And what about this hideous spider?”

“Known in New Zealand as a katipo, but in this instance, crossed with a tarantula! Its sting is deadly. Dr. Fu Manchu has a poison made from that creature’s toxin which, swallowed—and it’s tasteless—would kill in five minutes; injected, kill instantly! Look at that colony of red ants! Another hybrid species. They multiply from hundreds to millions in a short time. They eat anything. Set loose here in China, they would turn Asia into a desert from the sea to the Himalayas in a few months!”

Nayland Smith was glancing anxiously at his watch. But Cameron-Gordon remained in the grip of professional enthusiasm.

“These”—he pointed—”are plague fleas. They are reinforced with plague-cultures. One bite would mean the end—I have to feed them!”

Sir Denis broke in: “These cases rilled with buzzing flies particularly interest me. What are they?”

“ Tsetse flies,” Cameron-Gordon told him, turning. “Each one of the cases is kept at a different temperature, which I regulate. The first, at which you are looking, is kept at tropical heat, the normal temperature for these insects. The second is sub-tropical. The third is temperate. And the fourth is arctic. So far, we have failed with the fourth. But some of the flies in there are still alive.”

“So I see.”

“They are fed on blood plasma, charged with the trypanosome of sleeping-sickness. They are so reinforced that their bite would induce a form of the disease which would pass through its entire course in a matter of days instead of months! They could operate anywhere short of the Arctic Circle. They are utterly damnable!”

Nayland Smith looked grimly at Tony. “Now we know how Skobolov died!”

And, as he spoke, the light went out.

“I fear,” came a cold, sibilant voice, “that you know too much. Sir Denis . . .”

In complete darkness. Tony, his heart beating a tattoo, realized that he stood nearest to the door. He reached it—to find it unopenable.

“We’re trapped, McKay!” Nayland Smith said. “What about—”

“What about the other door, you were thinking. Sir Denis?” came the mocking voice. “Unfortunately, as it belongs to my laboratory, I make a point of keeping it locked.

Tony, cool again after that first shock, began to peer through the darkness in the direction from which the voice came. His hand closed over the butt of his automatic. He had seen something.

High up at the end of this home of insect horrors, he saw a square patch of dim light. He raised his automatic and fired.

The odor of the discharge mingled with the other unpleasant smell which haunted the place. Vibration caused a rattle of glass, but it came from the surrounding cases. Then, the silence was complete again, except for faint buzzing of the tsetse flies and whispering sounds made by some of the other inhabitants of the cases.

“No good, McKay,” Nayland Smith said sharply. “I saw that opening, too.”

“It’s over the door of my workroom,” Cameron-Gordon whispered. “That’s where he is.”

His words were answered by a harsh laugh from Dr. Fu Manchu.

“Since the arrival of my old acquaintance. Sir Denis, in China, I have made it a practice to look in unobtrusively whenever you have remained late at work. Dr. Cameron-Gordon. To-night I seem to have disturbed you showing your friends around this small collection of rare specimens.”

“Enough of idle chatter!” Nayland Smith cried angrily. “You have trapped us. Very well—come and take us!”

“Sir Denis, how strangely you misread my purpose. If I desired your death, it would be necessary only to shatter any one of the cases of specimens surrounding you—which I assure you I could do without exposing myself to your fire. Should you prefer the tsetse flies? This would be a lingering death. Or, perhaps, the fleas and the painful result of bubonic plague?”

“You’re not a man, you’re a demon!” Tony rasped.

“I have knowledge which few men possess, Mr. McKay—that, I understand, is your name. And as you are clearly a man of courage, possibly you would prefer to try to repel in the dark the attack of my katipo tarantula? He is a strangely active nocturnal creature.”

“Stop talking!” Nayland Smith shouted. “Words don’t frighten us. Smash everything in the place, if you like, but stop talking!”

“That is indeed the familiar language of the British policeman! But for your very stubbornness I admire you.