use to others.”
Tony dropped down on a stool and faced the Lama who had resumed his seat behind the low table. A faint smell of incense which pervaded the air carried him back to his first interview with Dr. Li Wong Chang.
“Certain perfumes stimulate the subconscious,” the Lama said, as if reading his thoughts. “What troubles your mind?”
“Tell me, first. Doctor, what is this manuscript?”
“It is a Register of the Order of the Si-Fan—one of the most powerful secret societies in the world. It contains the names of every lodge-master in China, some of them men of great influence. It includes the name of the Grand Master . . . General Huan Tsung-Chao, governor of the province!”
Tony’s brain was in a whirl.
“Confide your problem to me. Captain McKay,” the gentle voice urged. “For I see you have one. It may be I can help you to solve it.”
And Tony, without hesitation, told him of Nayland Smith’s bargain with Dr. Fu Manchu . . . “Sir Denis has such a nice sense of honor,” he explained finally, “that if he knows the cipher has been broken, having told Fu Manchu that it was undecipherable, I’m uncertain of his reaction.”
The Lama closed his eyes for a few moments and evidently reflected deeply. Then, he spoke again.
“Sir Denis is a throwback to the age of chivalry. Your course is clear. Forget what I have told you. Take this decoding of the manuscript, but produce it only when you are all in safety. I set the overthrow of the archcriminal called Dr. Fu Manchu, obviously not his real name, above all subtleties of conscience. If I err, the error is mine. Go, Captain McKay, for I know time is of vital importance to you . . .”
Chapter XXIII
Tony was forever looking at his watch. The hours of waiting in the doctor’s house at Chia-Ting had been hours of torture. He was so near to Moon Flower, yet so far away; for not mileage but a touch-and-go midnight venture lay between them.
Nayland Smith had called von Wehrner on the secret radio soon after their arrival, but von Wehrner had explained, briefly, that while the technical staff remained he could not safely talk. Now, he was free to do so, and Sir Denis, notebook in hand, was riddling him with quick-fire questions and noting his replies.
They had met Tung, who had undertaken to drive them to their dangerous rendezvous. He was a competent- looking lad, not uneducated, although he had little English. He assured them that he knew the road to Hua-Tzu by day or night.
He was instructed to have the Buick in condition by ten o’clock.
Nayland Smith made a final note and turned to Tony.
“I have the essential facts, McKay. You’re all strung up. Take a drink while I make a rough sketch. Might as well finish the bottle. We shan’t be coming back!”
Tony mixed a drink, lighted a cigarette, and watched Sir Denis making a pencil sketch on a writing pad.
“I wonder what you’re doing,” he said, rather irritably.
Nayland Smith looked up, grinned. “You’ll be with Jeanie in a few hours, McKay. The symptoms stick out like brass knobs. Simmer down. Come here and let me explain.” Tony crossed and looked down at a crude plan. “This is the back of the enclosure you saw. Here is the bungalow where von Wehrner lives. Note that it’s a long way from the only gate, but quite near the wire fence. Here, and here”—he indicated two crosses—”are the spots at which sentries are posted at night. They operate on a circulatory system. A moves around to B’s post, B moves on, and so forth, every hour. So that they report one by one to the sergeant at the gate. All clear?”
Tony, now absorbed in the job before them, nodded. “It’s a routine we scrapped years ago.”
“Suits us!” Nayland Smith rapped. “Have you noticed the weather? It’s going to be a cloudy night. The fence, of course, is lethally electrified. But von Wehrner will switch the juice off. He’ll join us here.” He marked a point midway between the two crosses. “All clear?”
“Except the wire fence. Are we taking ladders?”
“Von Wehrner has made his own. He’s an active ten-stone man. Cord, with bamboo rungs. Easily tossed over the fence. Any questions?”
“No—except where do we park the Buick? Beyond the village there’s no road I know of. The Russian camp isn’t far up the hill and there’s a road from the camp to the research station. But even if we could reach it, we daren’t use it.”
“Too bad. We shall have to walk there and back!”
* * *
At ten o’clock they were on their way; Tung at the wheel, Sir Denis and Tony seated behind.
“We can’t use our radio until this man’s out of the way,” Tony whispered.
“I don’t intend to do so!” Nayland Smith rapped. “Have you noticed the weather?”
“Yes. There’s a hell of a thunderstorm brewing. We’ll probably be drenched.”
Nayland Smith was silent; began to charge his pipe.
Tony thought hard. There were many snags to be looked for. If the storm broke, a flash of lightning might reveal them to the sentries. There were other unpleasant possibilities . . .
As though a dam had burst in the sky, rain crashed down on to the roof of the car. In a white blaze of lightning he saw the road ahead. It led up into the hills, was little more than a goat track which no reasonably sane motorist would have fancied even in ideal weather. Now, it had become a raging cataract.
A crash of thunder came like that of a mighty bomb. Tony glanced at Nayland Smith. He was lighting his pipe. And the Chinese driver held steadily on his course, axle deep in water.
“I presume that this car belongs to General Huan, but I don’t want it to break down all the same,” Sir Denis remarked in his dry way.
The deluge ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The next roar of phantom artillery was farther away, the lightning less blinding. The storm was passing eastward. They had crossed the crest of the rocky hill, and Tony, in a moment of illumination, saw a densely wooded valley below, oak, aider, and other varieties he hadn’t time to identify.
They descended a road winding through trees, the driver picking
his way by the aid of powerful headlights. This road brought them at last to the bank of a sullenly running stream, and here the driver suddenly slowed down.
“This is Hua-Tzu, sir. Do you wish me to drive through?”
Tony and Nayland Smith stepped out on the muddy track. “I think,” Tony said, peering around in the gloom, “it might be wiser to park the car right here. The path to the Russian camp starts at the farther end of the village street, I remember.”
“Good,” Nayland Smith snapped, glanced at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch and instructed Tony to switch off the headlights. “Park here somewhere”—he spoke Chinese—”near the roadside, and for your life don’t be seen. Here is the parcel you have to deliver to General Huan. Does your watch keep good time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you understand—you wait for us until three o’clock. If we’re not here by three, you start for the governor’s house. For God’s sake don’t fall asleep!”
“I understand. I shall not fall asleep.”
“Now let’s find a spot to hide the car.”
They explored back up the slope, and Tony presently found an opening in a plantation of alders wide enough to admit the Buick. Tung brought the car up and backed in.
“Smoke if you like,” Sir Denis told him. “But stamp your cigarette out if anybody comes near.”
“I understand.”
And so they left Tung and moved on.
* * *
Not a light showed in the one straggling street of the riverside village. They reached the path which Tony remembered without meeting anything human or animal and began to climb the hill toward the Russian camp. Through a rift in the racing clouds the moon peeped out for a few seconds and Tony saw the group of huts just ahead.
“Here we take to the rough!” he said.
