He uttered a stifled shriek as that ghastly grip closed on him: it was a cry of loathing rather than of fear. But, in the face of what he knew to be deathly peril, his brain remained clear. He struck up, a right, a left, to the jaw of his antagonist. The blows registered. The grip on his throat relaxed. He struck again. But he was becoming dizzy.
Desperately, he threw himself on the vague figure which was strangling him. He touched a naked body—and this body was cold.
* * *
He was fighting with a living corpse!
Very near the end of his resources, he used his knee viciously. The Thing grunted, fell back, and sprang toward the open window.
Swaying like a drunken man, he saw dimly a grey figure sweep up something from the desk and leap to the window. Tony tottered—fell—threw out his arms to save himself and collapsed on the floor. His outstretched hands touched a heavy bronze bowl which the secretary used as a waste-basket.
Pain, anger, gave him a brief renewal of strength. He grasped the bowl, forced himself to his feet, and hurled the bowl at the head of the retreating Thing.
It reached its target. He heard the dull thud. It rebounded and crashed against the glass of the opened window.
But the living dead horror vanished . . .
Lights . . . voices . . . arms which lifted him . . . the tang of brandy.
Tony came to life.
The lighted office looked red. His head swam. Through this red mist he saw Nayland Smith bending over him.
“A close call, McKay! Take it easy”
Tony found himself in a deep rest-chair. He had some difficulty in swallowing. He managed to sit up.
“It went through the window,” he croaked hoarsely; “although . . . I hit it on the head with . . . that.”
The bronze bowl lay amongst a litter of glass.
“I know,” Sir Denis snapped. “It’s phenomenal. We have search parties out.”
“But—”
“Don’t strain your throat, McKay. Yes. It has the cipher manuscript . . .”
* * *
In Lao Tse-Mung’s library, surrounded by an imposing collection of books in many languages, four men assembled. A servant, awakened for the purpose, placed a variety of refreshments on a low table around which they sat, and was dismissed. The staff’s quarters were separated from the house, and the disturbance in the office had not reached them. Mercifully, it had failed to arouse Moon Flower, whose apartment was in the west wing. So that the thing which had happened in the night was known only to these four who met in the library.
Lao Tse-Mung and his frightened secretary sipped tea. Tony and Nayland Smith drank Scotch and soda. Tony smoked a cigarette and Sir Denis smoked his pipe.
“My chief mechanic reports,” their host stated in his calm voice and perfect English, “that the connections are undisturbed. Six men are now examining the possible points of entry, and if anything is discovered to account for the presence of this thief in my house, I shall be notified immediately.”
“When it’s daylight,” Nayland Smith said, “I’ll take a look, myself.”
“Of course you understand. Sir Denis, what has happened? We have had a visit from a Cold Man. These creatures have been reported in the neighborhood of Chia-Ting on more than one occasion, but never here. It is a punishable offense to touch them. If seen, the police must be informed. An ambulance from a hospital established recently in that area by the governor, Huan Tsung-Chao, is soon on the scene, I understand; the attendants seem to know how to deal with these ghastly phenomena. They are believed, by the ignorant people, to be vampires and are known as ‘the living-dead’. “
“The ignorant people have my sympathy!” Tony declared hoarsely.
“Personally,” Nayland Smith snapped, “I’m not surprised. That master of craft. Dr. Fu Manchu, has discovered that I am here. That it was he who murdered Skobolov in order to recover this manuscript is beyond dispute. But how he found out that it had fallen into my hands is a mystery.”
“I warned you,” Lao Tse-Mung pointed out in his quiet way, “that my house would be watched.”
“You did,” Nayland Smith agreed, bitterly. “But even so, how did the watcher discover the very room in which this manuscript lay? And, crowning mystery, how did the Cold Man get in to steal it? Damn the cunning devil! He has tricked me again!”
As he ceased speaking, the large room seemed to become eerily still. And this stillness was broken by a sound which sent a chill through Tony’s nerves. Although a long way off, it was clearly audible, penetrating, and horrifying as the wail of a banshee.
A long minor cry, rising to a high final note on which it died away.
Even Lao Tse-Mung clutched the arms of his chair. Nayland Smith sprang up as if electrified.
“You heard it, McKay?”
“Of course I heard it. For God’s sake, what was it?”
“A sound I hadn’t heard for years and never expected to hear in China. It was the warning cry of a dacoit. Fu Manchu has always employed these Burmese robbers and assassins. Come on McKay! I have a revolver in my pocket. Are you armed?”
“No.”
“Allow me to arm you,” Lao Tse-Mung volunteered, entirely restored to his normal calm. From under his robe he produced a small but serviceable automatic. “It is fully charged. What do you propose to do, Sir Denis?”
“To try to find the spot from which that call came.”
Nayland Smith was heading for the door when a faint bell note detained him.
“Wait,” Lao Tse-Mung directed.
The old mandarin drew back the loose sleeve of his robe. Tony saw that he wore one of the phenomenal two-way radios on his wrist. He listened, spoke briefly, then disconnected.
“My chief mechanic reports. Sir Denis, that the cry we heard came from a point between the main gate and the drive-in to the garage. He is there now.”
“Come on, McKay!” Nayland Smith repeated, and ran out, followed by Tony.
They headed for the main gate, a spot which Tony was never likely to forget, two figures grotesque in their pajamas and robes. Sir Denis ran at a steady jog trot, harboring his resources.
“These radios,” Tony said as he ran, “are supernormal. On what frequency do they operate and where does the power come from?”
“We don’t know !” Nayland Smith replied jerkily. “Our technicians worked for over a year on the only one we ever captured from a Fu Manchu agent. Gave up trying to find out. Concentrated on making an exact duplicate. At last, got contact between the two. Found it had an unlimited range. No blind spots. No interference.”
“Not from Fu Manchu?”
“Nothing. Entirely new principle . . . Here we are!”
They slowed down as they reached the main gate, stood still, and listened. A sound of voices reached them from somewhere ahead.
And Tony found himself retracing that sloping path which, behind the high wall, led to the garage, the path along which Mai Cha had taken him on the memorable night he had escaped the Master.
The light of a flashlamp presently led them to Lao Tse-Mung’s chief mechanic, who answered to the name of Wong. He had two other men with him. A tall ladder was propped against the wall, and another man could be seen on the top staring over. Sir Denis was expected, for Wong saluted and reported. He spoke Chinese with a Szechuan accent which seemed to puzzle Sir Denis but with which Tony’s travels in the area had made him fairly familiar. Fortunately, he also spoke fairly good English.
He had been walking toward this point, scanning the parapet of the wall with his flashlamp, when that awful cry broke the silence, and died away. “It came from about here. I called out, and the nearest man of the search party ran to join me. My orders were not to open the gates and not to disconnect the wiring. The gardeners brought a ladder so that we could look into the road. It is set so that the rungs don’t touch the wires. But the man up there can see nothing and I have ordered him to come down.”