A high, dim buzzing sound became audible in the suddenly chilly room.
The Cold Man, carrying the cage, crept back to the window, climbed out, and closed it. The keen ears of Dr. Fu Manchu heard a dull thud far below. The Cold Man had dropped from the balcony to the garden—where the Japanese, Matsukata, awaited him.
Dr. Fu Manchu watched and listened.
The high-pitched droning ceased by degrees . . . and suddenly the sleeper awoke.
Came a torrent of Russian curses, a sound of slapping . . . Skobolov was out of bed, the ray of his flashlamp shining now right, now left, now down below. With a slipper he began to kill flies, of which there seemed to be a number in the room, chasing them wherever that faint, high note led him.
When, at last, he had killed all he could find, shuddering coldly, he opened a bag and took out a tube of ointment which he began to rub on to his face, neck and arms.
Dr. Fu Manchu closed the little trap, smiling his mirthless smile . .
Chapter VII
It was a long way up the creek to the canal behind Niu-fo-Tu. And having found it. Tony had to go on for another mile or more before finding a suitable mooring where they might safely tie up. Dawn was very near by the time they made fast.
After a scant breakfast, he made Yueh Hua promise not to leave the boat until he returned. Reluctantly, she did so, and Tony set out.
He found a road lined with cypress trees which evidently led to the town. Already the sun was very warm. It promised to be a hot day. Soon he found himself in the shadow of one of several memorial arches which spanned the road outside the gate. Not without misgivings, for he was a marked man, he pressed on.
Entering the town, he saw the market place directly on his right, and the stalls of dealers in everything from sugar cane, water chestnuts, pork and pumpkins to clothing and millet whiskey
As he turned in, for he expected to get information here, a rickshaw coolie came out and nearly knocked him down. A fat Chinese woman smoking a cigarette sat in the rickshaw. The wife of some sort of official, he judged.
“Why don’t you look where you’re going?” she snapped at him.
He lowered his head humbly and passed on.
An old woman selling preserved duck stuck on long sticks and other Chinese hors d’oeuvres, gave him a toothless grin.
“There she goes! See what it is to be the wife of a jailer!”
“A jailer. Mother?”
“Don’t you know her? Her husband is head jailer at Chia-Ting! Give me the old days!”
Head jailer at Chia-Ting! The leering brute who used to gloat over his misery! The man Yueh Hua had claimed as her father!
Yueh Hua’s instincts hadn’t misled her. Niu-fo-Tu was dangerous.
“Can you tell me the way to the house of the Lama?” he asked.
“You can’t miss it, son. Straight up the main street. The second turning on the right, and his house faces you.”
He bought two of her smelly delicacies and returned to the main street.
It was just possible to see part of the waterfront, sails and masts of junks. Then, he saw the fat woman in the rickshaw. She was talking to an excited boy who stood beside her.
This time, his heart really seemed to miss a beat.
It was the cross-eyed little monster Tony had thought, and prayed, they had shaken off!
Under other circumstances he might have admired the deductive powers of this young Chinese Sherlock. As things stood, he could cheerfully have strangled him.
He must make a decision—and swiftly.
The group was some distance away down the narrow, crowded street. But even so, he heard the shrill voice of the fat woman.
“Impudent liar! My daughter indeed! My husband will flog the skin off her back!”
Tony cast one swift, longing glance toward the gate, and as he did so, Mahmud, Dr. Fu Manchu’s giant bodyguard, came in!
Instinctively, Tony swung around, forced his way through a surge of people hurrying in the direction of the disturbance, and plunged into a narrow and odorous alley on the right which would lead him from the point of danger. Some heads craned from windows, but they were all turned in the direction of the main street.
He cursed the hour that he had entered Niu-fo-Tu . . . for now, from behind, he heard a renewed uproar and detected the words, “Escaped prisoner! Reward . . .”
Swift footsteps were following him. To run would be to betray himself. But he knew that his life hung in the balance. He went on walking fast. The following footsteps drew nearer still. A hand touched his shoulder.
“Have you seen a man with a crutch?” came a crisp inquiry.
The password! Gulping in his relief. Tony gave the countersign:
“What is the name of his crutch?”
He twisted around. The speaker was a Buddhist lama, his head closely shaved; he wore horn-rimmed glasses. The proper reply was “Freedom”. But the monk gave another.
“Nayland Smith!” he snapped and went on in English, “I wasn’t sure, McKay, but, thank God! I was right. Your disguise is perfect. Keep calm, and keep walking. I came to look for you. Don’t bother to say anything. Look! We’re in another street. Walk on left two blocks and the lama’s house is right opposite. Jump to it! It’s urgent!”
Giving Tony’s arm a reassuring squeeze, Nayland Smith turned and hurried back along the way they had come.
Tony gave a parting glance to the tall figure, then turned left and hurried along the narrow street. He passed the first alley he came to, reached the second and pulled up, staring anxiously at the house indicated.
It was an old house, the front quaintly decorated, and as he slipped into a small passage, immediately he noticed a smell of incense.
The passage was very dark. He began to walk quietly along. As his eyes became used to this gloom, he saw two doors ahead. The one directly before him was closed. The other, on the right, was open a few inches, and light showed through the cranny.
Walking on tiptoe, he reached it, hesitated . . .
“Please come in,” a pleasant old voice invited, speaking a pure Chinese of a kind he rarely heard.
He pushed the door open.
He was in a room furnished as a library. Shelves were packed with scrolls of parchment and bound books. There was a shrine directly facing the door. Incense burned in a bronze bowl. And squatting behind a long, low table on which a yellow manuscript was spread, he saw a very old man who wore just such a lama robe as that which Nayland Smith had worn.
The old man removed his spectacles and looked up. Tony found himself being analyzed by a pair of eyes which seemed—like the dreadful eyes of Fu Manchu—to read his thoughts. But these were kindly eyes.
There was a wooden stool near the door. He sat down, and listened for sounds from the street. He had to say something.
“Your door was open. Excellency—”
“My door is always open to those who may need me. Nor have I achieved excellency, my son.”
Tony became tongue-tied.
“I perceive,” the gentle voice went on, “that you are in some urgent danger. Give me the facts, and leave it to me to decide if I may justly help you.”
“There are people out there who want to arrest me.”
This confession was considered quietly.
“Have you committed any crime?”
“No, my father. My only crime is that I tried to help China, where I was born.”
Then the lama smiled again and said an unexpected but welcome thing.
“Have you seen a man with a crutch?”
Tony jumped up in his glad excitement.
“What is the name of his crutch?” he asked hoarsely.
“Freedom, my son. You are welcome.” He began to speak almost faultless English. “You are Captain McKay, for whom Sir Denis Nayland Smith is searching.^