“But Singu was a Cold Man, a mere automaton under your direction,” Fu Manchu spoke softly. “If anything failed, Matsukata, it was your direction.”
“That is not so. Master. Something unforeseen occurred. Where, I cannot tell. But when more than ten minutes over his allotted time had elapsed. Ok, who was watching from the point of entry, reported a man with a flashlamp approaching. I ordered Ok to give the warning to which Singu should have replied. There was no reply. I ordered Ok to remove evidence of our mode of entry. It was just in time. A party of men was searching the grounds.”
Dr. Fu Manchu stood up slowly. He folded his arms.
“Is that all your news?” he asked in a sibilant whisper. “The Si-Fan register is lost?”
“That is all. Master.”
“You may go. Await other orders.”
Matsukata bowed deeply, and went out . . .
* * *
In Lao Tse-Mung’s library, Nayland Smith was speaking. Grey ghostly daylight peered in at the windows.
“Dacoits never work alone. During my official years in Burma, I furnished reports to London which proved, conclusively, that Dacoity was not dead. I also discovered that, like Thuggee, it was not merely made up of individual gangs of hoodlums, but was a religious cult. Dr. Fu Manchu, many years ago, obtained absolute control of the dacoits and also of the thugs. He has a bodyguard of dacoits. Probably the Cold Man, who lies dead out there, was formerly one of them.”
Lao Tse-Mung’s alert, wrinkle-framed eyes were fixed upon Sir Denis. Tony chain-smoked.
“Of the powers of these creatures, called, locally. Cold Men, we know nothing. But we do know, now, that they are—or were—normal human beings. By some hellish means they have been converted to this form. But certainly their powers are supernormal, and the temperature of their bodies is phenomenal. I have never heard that the fabulous zombies of Haiti are cold as blocks of ice!”
Tony found himself shuddering. His first encounter with a Cold Man had made an impression that would last forever.
“How you got on to the fact that he was lying somewhere on that path is beyond me,” he declared.
“It was a theory, McKay, based on experience. Whenever I have heard that call it has always been a warning to one dacoit, who was operating, from another who was watching. As it’s getting light, I hope to find out shortly how the Cold Man got into the grounds.”
“But how did he get into the office?”
“That,” Nayland Smith rapped, “is not so difficult. There is a tall tulip tree growing close to the house some twenty yards from the window. These Burmese experts often operate from the roof. Evidently, even when changed to Cold Men, they retain these acrobatic powers.”
“Professional thieves in this Province,” Lao Tse-Mung remarked, “use much the same methods. But how they do it, I have yet to learn.”
“I hope I may be able to explain later,” Nayland Smith told him. “So that although the Cold Man may have dropped from the office window, for dacoits are capable of performing astonishing falls, it’s more likely that he returned to the roof. Your lucky shot with the metal bowl registered,” he turned to Tony—”it would have killed a normal man. It only dazed the dacoit. He got back as far as the tall tulip tree, sprang to a high branch—and missed it.”
He knocked ashes from his pipe and began to reload the charred bowl.
“Your analysis of the night’s events,” came Lao Tse-Mung’s mellow voice, “is entirely credible. But there’s one mystery which you have not cleared up. I refer to the fact that those who instructed this man (if he ;’s a man) must have known that the document in cipher was here.”
Nayland Smith paused in the act of pressing down tobacco in the bowl of his pipe.
“I don’t think they knew it,” he replied thoughtfully. “But as McKay was identified in Niu-fo-Tu as the escaped prisoner, and as the dying Skobolov was in the neighborhood at the same time, Fu Manchu may have surmised that McKay had got possession of the document and brought it to me . . .”
In the early morning, a party of frightened and shivering men under Nayland Smith’s direction carried a long, heavy wooden box out from the main gate and across the narrow road. In a cypress wood bordering the road they dug a deep grave, and buried the Cold Man.
The body remained supernaturally chilled.
Sir Denis, having dismissed the burial party, set off at a rapid pace in the direction of the gate lodge. A man now was in charge there, old Mai Cha having moved up to the big house to look after Moon Flower.
They passed the silent bungalow and went on to the spot where the gardeners had placed the ladder that night. Nayland Smith quickly identified it by marks on the soil where it had rested. Then, foot by foot, he examined every inch of ground under the wall for several yards east and west of it. And at last:
“Look!” he cried triumphantly and pointed down. “As I thought!”
Tony looked. He saw two narrow holes in the earth, as if made by the penetration of a walking stick.
“What does this mean?”
“It means what I expected, McKay. I have the key of the main gate. Here it is. Go out and walk back along the road. I’ll sing out to guide you. When you get to the spot where I’m standing inside, look for similar marks, outside.”
Tony took the key and ran to the gate. He unlocked it and began to do as Nayland Smith had directed. When he reached a point which he judged to be near that where Sir Denis waited, he called out.
“Three paces more,” came crisply.
He took three paces. “Here I am.”
“Search.”
Tony found the job no easy one. Coarse grass and weeds grew beside the road close up to the wall. But, persevering, he noticed a patch which seemed to have been trodden down. He stooped, parted the tangled undergrowth with his fingers, and at last found what he was looking for:
Two identical holes in the earth!
“Found ‘em?” Nayland Smith rapped from the other side of the wall.
“Yes, Sir Denis. They’re here!”
“Come back, and relock the gate. It isn’t supposed to be opened until the gate porter is on duty.”
Tony obeyed; rejoined Nayland Smith. “What does all this mean?”
Sir Denis grinned impishly. “It means two light bamboo ladders, long enough to clear the wiring and meeting above it on top. It’s as easy as that!”
Tony gaped for a moment; then he began to laugh.
“So much for Lao Tse-Mung’s fortress!”
“Quite so.” Nayland Smith spoke grimly. “It could be entered by an agile man using only one ladder. But he would have to stay inside until he found another way out. So that’s that. Now, to find the last piece of evidence on which my analysis of this business rests. I have examined the wall below the office window, and no one could reach the window from the ground. Therefore, he reached it from the roof.”
They returned to the house, where Wong was waiting for them.
“The trap to the roof,” he reported, “is above the landing of the east wing. I have had a step-ladder put there and have unbolted the trap.”
“Good.” Nayland Smith lighted his pipe. “Lead the way.”
The opening above the ladder gave access to a low, stuffy loft formed by the curved, tiled roof which projected over the house like an umbrella. Wong carried a flashlamp, directing its light on to the cross-beams and warning them to stoop. Four of the many ornamental brackets supporting the eaves—viewed from outside, a picturesque feature of Chinese architecture—masked traps by which it was possible to get on to the upturned lip of the curving roof, and so inspect or repair the tiles.
Lao Tse-Mung had gently grafted modern efficiency on to ancient feudalism.
“This is the nearest,” Nayland Smith muttered, and turned to Wong. “Open this one up.”