The man handed the passport back, clearly disappointed.
“Who is this boy?” he asked roughly. “Has he any official permit to travel?”
Thanks to Ray Jenkins, who had influential, and corruptible, friends in Chungking, “he” had. Tony produced a certificate for travel, signed by a member of the security bureau, authorizing Lo Hung-Chang, aged I4, to leave his native town of Yung Chuan but to report to security police at the Burma frontier before leaving China.
The disappointed policeman returned the certificate. Evidently he could read, for:
“You have only seven days to reach the frontier,” he growled. “If it takes you any longer, look out for trouble.”
“If I have earned this trouble, brother,” Tony told him piously, “undoubtedly it will come to me, for my benefit. Have you not sought the Path?”
“Your path is straight ahead,’ the surly officer declared, furious because he had found nothing wrong. “You’ll have to walk to Lung Chang and then on to Niu-fo-Tu to reach the river.” He dropped the last fragment of his odorous cigarette and put his foot on it as Tony rumbled to return the certificate to his inside pocket. “You seem to have a lot of things in that pouch of yours. I have heard of lama priests getting away with pounds of opium that never saw the Customs. Turn out all you have there!”
Tony’s pulse galloped. He heard Moon Flower catch her breath. And he had to conquer a mad impulse to crash his fist into the face of this servant of Red China. As he had done in jail at Chia-Ting, he reflected that Communist doctrines seemed to turn men into sadists, He hesitated. But only for a decimal of a second. He had money in a body belt, but carried nothing else, except the official (and forged) papers, and—the mystery manuscript.
He turned the big pocket out, handed the Chinese manuscript to the policeman.
If he attempted to confiscate it. Tony knew that no choice would be left. He would have to knock the man out before he had time to reach for the revolver which he carried. He watched him thumbing over the pages in fading light, unticlass="underline"
“What is this?” he demanded.
Tony’s breath returned to normal. He remembered Nayland Smith’s advice.
“A religious writing in the hand of a great disciple of our Lord Buddha. A present from this inspired scholar to my principal. If you could understand it, brother, you would already be on the Path.”
“Brother” threw the manuscript down contemptuously. “Move on!” he directed, and turned to his bicycle.
Moon Flower breathed a long sigh of relief as he rode off. “I wonder if you can imagine, Chi Foh,” she said, “my feelings when you trusted that thing to him? I seemed to hear Sir Denis’s words, ‘the most powerful weapon against Fu Manchu which I ever held in my hands’. Did you realize, my dear, that he might have orders to look for it?”
“Yes. But the odds against it were heavy. And if he had tried anything, I was all set to make sure he didn’t get away with it.” The cyclist was nearly out of sight. Tony grasped Moon Flower and kissed her ardently. “I love the way you call me Chi Foh. It makes my heart jump, Yueh Hua!”
They reached their destination without further incident—to find Nayland Smith anxiously waiting for them . . .
Chapter XIII
For two days they remained in Lao Tse-Mung’s house, apparently inactive, except that Nayland Smith spent hours alone, smoking pipe after pipe, deep in thought. Tony deduced that he was trying to discover a plan to rescue Dr. Cameron-Gordon and found it no easy thing to do.
With Moon Flower, Tony roamed about the beautiful gardens, so that this brief interlude of peace was a chapter in his life which he knew he would always remember with happiness. Lao Tse-Mung had warned them all that Fu Manchu was by no means satisfied with what he had seen and heard.
“My house will be watched. I shall be spied upon. If he discovers that you are here, none of us will any longer be safe. So never show yourselves at any point which is visible from the road. The entire property is walled, and the wall-tops are wired. But at places there are tall trees outside which overlook the walls—and these trees I cannot wire . . ,’
Lao Tse-Mung’s talented secretary, Sun Shao-Tung, had translated all the Russian letters in Skobolov’s briefcase, and Nayland Smith had been lighted up on learning from the correspondence that the research scientist employed at the hidden Soviet plant was not a Russian, but a German, Dr. von Wehrner. But even more exciting was a penciled note which Sir Denis deduced to be a translation of a code message:
“If hidden MS. as reported secure at any cost. Proceed as arranged to governor’s villa to allay suspicion. Cancel further plans. Join plane at Huang Ko-Shu.”
“I was right, McKay!” Nayland Smith declared. “This Chinese document is dynamite!”
Sun Shao-Tung had gone to work on the mysterious manuscript. He had worked far into the night, only to find himself baffled.
Nayland Smith asked him to make a careful copy in case the original should be lost—or stolen. And it was late on the second night of their stay at Lao Tse-Mung’s hospitable house that something happened.
The secretary worked in a top room, equipped as an up to date office, with typewriter, filing cabinets, book-cases and a large desk. This betrayed the modern side of the old mandarin, and was in keeping with his private plane, his cars, his electrical lighting plant and other equipment; a striking contrast to the Oriental character of the reception rooms below.
Tony occupied a room next to the office. Nayland Smith was lodged in one on the other side of the corridor. He was unaccountably restless. Lao Tse-Mung’s guest-rooms had electric light and all the other facilities of a modern residence. It was very late when Tony switched off his bedside lamp and tried to sleep. But the night seemed to be haunted by strange sounds, furtive movements which he couldn’t identify, or place.
The shadow of Fu Manchu was creeping over him. He began thinking, again, about the dead Russian, seeing in his imagination the man’s ceaseless battle with clouds of invisible insects. Of course, it had been delirium. But what a queer kind of delirium. Skobolov had died at the hand of Dr. Fu Manchu. But of what had he died?
Tony found himself listening intently for a buzz of insects in the room.
He heard none. He tried to laugh at these phantom fears.
Then, he began to listen again.
There was a sound—a very faint sound. It was not a sound of insects, and it was not in his room. It came from the adjoining office.
He knew that Sun Shao-Tung had retired two hours before. He had heard him go . . . Yet, something or someone moved stealthily in the office!
Tony swung out of bed; stole to the door of his room; opened it cautiously.
Bare-footed, he crept along to the office door.
Silent, he stood listening.
Yes!—There was someone inside!
He began to turn the handle, gently open the door. And, as it opened, a draft of cold air swept into his face!
It brought with it a sense of horror. He shuddered—then fully opened the door.
The office was in darkness. But a beam of moonlight through the window, which he saw to be open, just brushed the top of the large desk. There was a dim figure in the shadow behind the desk—and two hands, which alone were in the moonlight, busily swept up a litter of papers lying there . . .
Perhaps the lighting created an illusion. But they were grey hands!
Tony clenched his fists, took a step forward—and a lean figure sprang over the desk, leapt upon him and had his throat in an icy grip!