He overcame that helpless inertia, which had seized him; took a deep breath. Dead or alive, the creature which had said “Follow” offered a way out of the prison in which he was trapped . . . But perhaps this was another dream, a further example of Dr. Fu Manchu’s psychological examinations—a test of his courage!
Tony followed; slowly, because of the fastenings around his ankles, fearfully because uncertain if he dreamed or was awake.
Ahead, silhouetted against a lighted opening, he could see the mummylike figure moving. He kept his distance. Even the narrow passage was chilled by the creature’s presence. There was a short stair. He allowed the grey thing to reach the top before he followed, and found himself in a white-walled corridor, doors opening to right and left. The corridor was empty.
Before one of these doors, the grey figure paused, pressed a bell and went on, moving mechanically like an automaton. When Tony came to the door—it was a sliding door—he found it wide-open. He hesitated, glanced along the lighted passage. His phantom guide had disappeared.
He looked into a small room. The only illumination came from one wall of the room which appeared to be made of glass.
Three chairs were set facing the glass wall; and two of them were occupied.
“Hullo, McKay!” Nayland Smith’s unmistakably snappy speech! “You’re rather late. But the curtain hasn’t gone up yet . . .”
* * *
As Tony stepped in, the sliding door closed noiselessly behind him.
He made his way to the vacant chair next to Nayland Smith; sat down. Dr. Cameron-Gordon, his head in his hands, occupied the third chair. Somewhere below Tony could see, through the glass wall, a large, dimly lighted place masked in vague shadows. Sir Denis grasped his hand.
“Keep smiling, McKay! I don’t know what all this is about any more than you do. But we’re still alive.”
Came Cameron-Gordon’s voice: “It’s all over. Smith! What will become of Jeanie when we disappear for good?”
“Don’t worry,” Nayland Smith said. “We’re in a tight comer, but I have got out of tighter ones.”
Cameron-Gordon sighed and dropped his head into his hands again.
“I was led here by the dacoit we buried in the cypress grove!” Tony whispered to Sir Denis. “It’s supernatural!”
“Nothing is supernatural where Dr. Fu Manchu is concerned. You may recall that the dacoit was dug up again?”
“What about it?”
“I have known of others buried as dead who have been disinterred by Fu Manchu and restored to life.”
“But a man with a broken neck!”
“Clever surgeons have mended broken necks before now. And Dr. Fu Manchu is probably the greatest surgeon the world has ever known.”
As Nayland Smith stopped speaking. Tony noted for the first time how completely silent the cabinet in which they were assembled seemed to be. Not a sound was audible from outside its walls . . . until suddenly the stillness was broken by a voice, apparently the voice of someone in the room. But no one else was in the room!
“I am instructed,” this modulated voice said, “to explain the purpose of what you are about to see. This is a sound-proof observation room which both I and The Master use frequently. He is about to pay his daily visit to the necropolites, known locally as Cold Men—a duty which devolves on me when The Master is absent.”
“Dr. Matsukata,” Cameron-Gordon muttered, “Fu Manchu’s chief technical assistant.”
“Is that so?” Nayland Smith rapped. “Why don’t you join us. Dr. Matsukata, instead of speaking on radio?”
“I am following my instructions. Be so good. Sir Denis, as to listen to what I am here to tell you.”
“Seems we have no choice!” Tony commented.
The precise voice continued: “I believe you have already made the acquaintance of a necropolite and must have noted the unusual qualities which these creatures possess. In certain respects they resemble the Haitian zombies, whose existence has been disputed in some quarters. In fact, in certain respects, the process of reanimation is similar, but superior. They work as automata, being entirely under control of the power miscalled hypnotic suggestion. Otherwise than by complete disintegration, their faculties are indestructible. So that the necropolite is perfectly equipped to carry out dangerous missions.”
“You’re telling me nothing!” Tony broke in. “But there’s one thing you might tell me—what a Japanese is doing in Fu Manchu’s gang!”
“For a friend of Sir Denis Nayland Smith, you betray remarkable ignorance of the Order of the Si-Fan,” Matsukata answered heatedly. “Its membership is not confined to China. It includes the whole of Asia, the Near East, many parts of Europe and America. Its secret power is at least equal to that of Communism . . .”
Light sprang up in the dim place below—and Tony found himself looking down upon a morgue!
Nearly a score of grey bodies lay there in two rows, one row on the right and one on the left. But here the resemblance to a morgue ended. They lay, not on stone slabs, but on neat hospital cots.
“The necropolites,” came Matsukata’s voice. “This clinic was constructed for the purpose of creating and maintaining them. They represent The Master’s supreme achievement; for they are dead men who live again at his command. The process of reducing their bodies to the low temperature at which alone reanimation can be brought about is too technical for description here. But I should be glad to discuss it, later, with Dr. Cameron-Gordon.”
“Thank you, no,” Cameron-Gordon muttered. “I want to keep what little sanity I have left.”
“Be good enough to watch closely what now takes place. I must explain that a necropolite retains in his living-death whatever useful qualities were his in normal life—also his physical appetites or vices. Without occasional gratification of the latter, the creature’s usefulness deteriorates. Watch carefully.”
Tony was watching more than carefully. He was trying hard to convince himself that this thing was reality, that he wasn’t lost again in a nightmare dream. Nayland Smith’s crisp voice came to reassure him.
“I warned you, McKay, that if we made a mistake, we should walk into hell!”
Dr. Fu Manchu came into the ward below with its rows of grey corpses. He wore a white coat, and his manner was that of cool detachment which marks the specialist visiting a hospital ward. A white-coated orderly followed, pushing a glass-topped cabinet on rubber-tired wheels. He was sallow-faced, but looked European.
Not a sound penetrated to the observation room, and Matsukata remained silent.
Dr. Fu Manchu stopped beside the first cadaver at the end of the row and made a swift, skillful examination. He spoke over his shoulder to the orderly. The man charged a hypodermic syringe; handed it to him. Fu Manchu gave an injection, not in the arm, but in the breast of me still body, and passed on to the next.
This singular proceeding continued until every cot had been visited. Two of the Cold Men received no injection.
And, as Fu Manchu walked out with his strange, feline step, followed by the orderly wheeling the glass trolley . . . three or four of those Cold Men first treated began to stir!
Tony found himself shivering.
“My God! It’s unholy!” Cameron-Gordon whispered.
Matsukata spoke again. “The Master has detected signs in two of the necropolites which necessitate their removal to the surgery for further examination.”