Almost as he ceased speaking, two stretchers were carried in and the two Cold Men placed on them and carried out.
“The most instructive feature of the treatment,” the smooth Japanese voice went on, “will now begin. The Master will project to each creature the images appropriate to his particular appetite when a normal man. To one, the figure of his enemy; to another, a banquet of his favorite food; to a third, the image of a seductive woman—and so forth.”
Now, the Cold Men were rising up, moving grey arms convulsively; and all seemed to be crying out.
“They are calling for Looma,’ Matsukata explained. “By this name they know a drink which transports them to a dream life where there is no satiety. One can kill his enemy a hundred times, another eat and drink without experiencing repletion, a third enjoy the pleasures of love indefinitely. Something like the promised paradise of Mohammed.”
“Don’t they murder one another?” Tony asked shakily.
“They cannot leave their cots. Their movements are restricted by a length of slender cord, such as that which is attached to your ankles. They are about to receive their instructions.”
Dr. Fu Manchu returned, alone. He carried a lamp of unusual design. The light of this lamp was shone into the face of the Cold Man until his twitching and mouthing ceased. Then, Fu Manchu rested his long fingers on the creature’s temples and stared into his eyes. This routine was continued until all had been dealt with.
“Now comes Looma, their wine of paradise,” Matsukata said softly.
And, as Dr. Fu Manchu went out, a nurse in a trim white uniform came in, followed by the same orderly pushing the glass trolley. It carried, now, a large glass jug filled with some liquid of a color resembling green Chartreuse, and a number of small glasses. The orderly filled the glasses and the nurse carried each to a Cold Man. In every case it was grasped avidly and swallowed in one eager draft.
But Tony scarcely followed what took place after the appearance of the nurse.
For the nurse was Moon Flower . . .
Chapter XX
Tony’s impressions of the next few minutes were chaotic. The frantic behavior of Cameron-Gordon, the crisp, soothing words of Nayland Smith, the tumult in his own mind, had built up a jungle of frustrated hopes, terror and abject misery in which the details of what actually occurred were lost.
He knew that the tiny but tough shackles which confined their ankles had been removed by a smiling Chinese mechanic, dexterously and swiftly. The man used an instrument resembling a small electric buzz-saw.
And now the three of them were assembled in a room which reminded him of that in which he had been confined, except that it was larger. There was a low, round table in the center, and on it lay a note in small, legible characters which Nayland Smith picked up and read aloud:
“You may refresh yourselves as you please. I beg you to do so. Chinese hospitality forbids me to poison my guests. Sir Denis will assure you that my word is inviolable. Fu Manchu.”
Nayland Smith had just finished reading the letter when the door opened and two Chinese servants came in carrying laden trays. They placed on the table a delicate meal of assorted dishes, also a variety of wines, a bottle of Napoleon brandy, Scotch whiskey, a number of glasses and an English siphon of soda water. One of the servants uncorked all the bottles, placing the white wines in ice, and withdrew.
Nayland Smith grinned almost happily. “Let’s make the best of it, and prepare for the worst!,,
“We’ll all be drugged!” Cameron-Gordon said.
Sir Denis held up the note. “This is the first example of Fu Manchu’s handwriting which I have seen,” he declared. “But it must obviously be genuine. I accept his word—for I have never known him to break it.”
Cameron-Gordon groaned. “Right or wrong, a shot of brandy is what I need.”
“It would do none of us any harm,” Sir Denis agreed, and poured out three liberal tots. “A compromise is going to be offered. It will be one we can’t accept. But let us all sharpen our wits, and have something to eat.”
But Cameron-Gordon made a very poor attempt. “How did that cunning fiend get his hands on Jeanie?” he asked in a voice of despair.
“I suspect,” Sir Denis told him, “owing to her own obstinacy.”
“Meaning what?” Tony wanted to know.
“Meaning that I detected, or thought that I detected, the footsteps of someone following us. Jeanie is high-spirited, and as nearly fearless as any woman I ever met. My guess is that Jeanie was the follower. We have even to suppose that she climbed the bamboo ladder and was actually in the garden when Fu Manchu saw her.”
“God help her!” Cameron-Gordon groaned; “for no one else can, now.”
“I don’t agree,” Nayland Smith rapped in his sudden fashion. “There are weak spots in Fu Manchu’s armor I think I can find one. But leave the talking to me.”
Nayland Smith, alone of the three, did justice to the smörgåsbord He particularly favored, too, an excellent bottle of burgundy.
And presently the Chinese servants reappeared, cleared the table, leaving only the brandy, and served coffee. They also brought cigars and cigarettes, port and a number of liqueurs. When they went out:
“It’s evidently dinner time,” Sir Denis remarked. “I had an idea it might be luncheon.”
“I have lost all track of time,” Tony confessed. “My wrist watch is missing.”
“All our watches are missing. We’re not intended to know the time.”
They had finished their coffee, and Cameron-Gordon sat deep in • silent gloom, when the door opened again.
The huge Nubian stepped in. He wore some kind of uniform, had a revolver in a holster and a tarbush on his head.
“March out!” He had a deep, negroid voice. “One at a time. I will follow.”
Nayland Smith glanced wrily at Tony, shrugged his shoulders. “You go first, McKay; then Cameron-Gordon. I’ll bring up the rear.”
The big colored man stood stiffly beside the open door, his hand on the butt of his revolver, as they filed out. Tony was seized by sudden misgiving. To what ordeal were they being taken? He dared not allow himself to think of Moon Flower . . .
At the end of a short passage he came to a flight of stairs.
“Go down!” came the deep voice.
Tony went down. He was in one of the white-walled corridors which he had seen before. His fellow captives followed silently. He came to a cross-passage.
“Right turn!”
He obeyed. He was a cadet again, being ordered about by a drill-sergeant.
The cross-passage ended in what appeared to be a vestibule. It was well lighted. He could see a large double door which might be the main entrance to the building.
“Halt!”
The tone of command was unmistakable. This big African was an ex-soldier.
Tony halted, standing stiffly upright, then recovered himself, turned, looked back. Cameron-Gordon, grim and angry, growled, “Impudent swine!” Nayland Smith grinned reassuringly. The Nubian stepped forward and pointed to a long, wooden bench.
“Sit down.”
They sat down. Tony was assessing their chances of overpowering the man by a simultaneous attack. But even assuming that the double-doors opened on freedom, how far could they go . . . and how would it help Moon Flower?
Nayland Smith seemed to read his thoughts, for he caught his eye and shook his head, as a side door opened and two stocky Burmese came out.
Tony submitted to having his eyes scientifically bandaged. He divined rather than knew that his companions were undergoing the same indignity. Next, he was raised to his feet and led out into the open air. He was helped into a vehicle which he judged to be a limousine. A slight odor of petrol told him that it was an automobile.