outside as well. But when the lama reentered the room his calm remained unruffled.
“My door is still open. But no one will come in.”
“You have great courage, father, and I thank you.”
The priest returned to his place behind the low table.
“Courage is a myth. There is only faith and doubt. Nor have you cause to thank me. You owe me nothing. If what I do has merit, then mine is the debt to you.”
Tony dropped back on the stool, conscious of perspiration on his forehead. The noise of the crowd outside faded away. But, almost immediately, there was a swift step along the passage and Nayland Smith walked in. He nodded to Tony and addressed the old lama in English.
“Dr. Li Wu Chang, you are a magician. I was on the fringe of the crowd outside and heard you dismiss them. Those people would eat out of your hand.”
“Because they know, Sir Denis, that I never told them a lie.”
“Misdirection is an art.” Nayland Smith grinned at Tony. “I prefer to call it magic!”
“Between you,” Tony burst out, “you have saved my life. But what now?”
“First,” snapped Nayland Smith, “reverting to the last report I had before you were compelled to scrap your walkie-talkie. You explored some village on the pretext of looking for a mythical relative, or somebody. You reported that you came across a large barbed-wire enclosure on the outskirts, with several buildings resembling an isolation hospital. Guards. You retired unobserved. Remember?”
“Clearly.”
“What was the name of this village?”
Tony clutched his head, thought hard, and then, “Hua-Tzu,” he said.
“Good,” came the gentle voice of the lama. “As I suspected. That is the Soviet research plant.”
Nayland Smith, a strange figure with his shaven skull and monk’s robe, clapped Tony on the shoulder. “Sound work. And have you discovered the identity of the Master?”
“I have. He cross-examined me in jail. The Master is Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
* * *
Half an hour later, wearing a new outfit and a bamboo hat the size of a car tire, supplied by the lama, and bending under a load of lumber, Tony set out along a narrow track formed by a dried-up ditch which ran at the foot of the lama’s little garden. It joined the canal not far from the sampan.
He was sweating, his new suit soiled, when he broke out onto the bank above the boat.
“Yueh Hua. Yueh Hua.”
There was no reply.
“Yueh Hua!”
He couldn’t keep the sudden terror out of his voice as he jumped on board.
Then he dropped down and buried his face in his hands.
He had saved himself. But they had caught Moon Flower.
That abominable boy must have seen the boat and raced into the town to report it.
A wave of madness swept over him. He heard again the shrill voice of the fat wife of the jailer. He knew what Yueh Hua’s fate would be. And he had left her to it.
There was a mist before his eyes. He clenched his teeth, tried to think. He leaped ashore like a madman and began to run. He had reached the road when he stopped running and dropped into a slow walk. Sanity, of sorts, was returning.
Why, since he still remained free, had no watch been posted over the sampan?
If only he could think clearly. He had avoided any reference to Yueh Hua during his interview with Nayland Smith and the lama. So he must handle this situation alone.
He kept on his way toward the town. His huge hat and new clothes altered his appearance, but he was sure, by now, that his enemies would be hard to deceive.
Along the road ahead, he began to count the trees; one-two-three, up to seven, then straining his eyes, looking for the little figure.
He thought miserable thoughts as he walked past a bend in the tree-lined road. Then he looked up unhappily and began counting again—one-two-three-four-five… He stood still, as if checked by a blow in the face.
A small figure was hurrying along ahead, making for the town.
As if the sound of his racing footsteps had been a dreaded warning, the figure
“My door is still open. But no one will come in.”
“You have great courage, father, and I thank you.”
The priest returned to his place behind the low table.
“Courage is a myth. There is only faith and doubt. Nor have you cause to thank me. You owe me nothing. If what I do has merit, then mine is the debt to you.”
Tony dropped back on the stool, conscious of perspiration on his forehead. The noise of the crowd outside faded away. But, almost immediately, there was a swift step along the passage and Nayland Smith walked in. He nodded to Tony and addressed the old lama in English.
“Dr. Li Wu Chang, you are a magician. I was on the fringe of the crowd outside and heard you dismiss them. Those people would eat out of your hand.”
“Because they know, Sir Denis, that I never told them a lie.”
“Misdirection is an art.” Nayland Smith grinned at Tony. “I prefer to call it magic!”
“Between you,” Tony burst out, “you have saved my life. But what now?”
“First,” snapped Nayland Smith, “reverting to the last report I had before you were compelled to scrap your walkie-talkie. You explored some village on the pretext of looking for a mythical relative, or somebody. You reported that you came across a large barbed-wire enclosure on the outskirts, with several buildings resembling an isolation hospital. Guards. You retired unobserved. Remember?”
“Clearly.”
“What was the name of this village?”
Tony clutched his head, thought hard, and then, “Hua-Tzu,” he said.
“Good,” came the gentle voice of the lama. “As I suspected. That is the Soviet research plant.”
Nayland Smith, a strange figure with his shaven skull and monk’s robe, clapped Tony on the shoulder. “Sound work. And have you discovered the identity of the Master?”
“I have. He cross-examined me in jail. The Master is Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
* * *
Half an hour later, wearing a new outfit and a bamboo hat the size of a car tire, supplied by the lama, and bending under a load of lumber, Tony set out along a narrow track formed by a dried-up ditch which ran at the foot of the lama’s little garden. It joined the canal not far from the sampan.
He was sweating, his new suit soiled, when he broke out onto the bank above the boat.
“Yueh Hua. Yueh Hua.”
There was no reply.
“Yueh Hua!”
He couldn’t keep the sudden terror out of his voice as he jumped on board.
Then he dropped down and buried his face in his hands.
He had saved himself. But they had caught Moon Flower.
That abominable boy must have seen the boat and raced into the town to report it.
A wave of madness swept over him. He heard again the shrill voice of the fat wife of the jailer. He knew what Yueh Hua’s fate would be. And he had left her to it.
There was a mist before his eyes. He clenched his teeth, tried to think. He leaped ashore like a madman and began to run. He had reached the road when he stopped running and dropped into a slow walk. Sanity, of sorts, was returning.
Why, since he still remained free, had no watch been posted over the sampan?
If only he could think clearly. He had avoided any reference to Yueh Hua during his interview with Nayland Smith and the lama. So he must handle this situation alone.
He kept on his way toward the town. His huge hat and new clothes altered his appearance, but he was sure, by now, that his enemies would be hard to deceive.
Along the road ahead, he began to count the trees; one-two-three, up to seven, then straining his eyes, looking for the little figure.
He thought miserable thoughts as he walked past a bend in the tree-lined road. Then he looked up unhappily and began counting again—one-two-three-four-five… He stood still, as if checked by a blow in the face.
A small figure was hurrying along ahead, making for the town.
As if the sound of his racing footsteps had been a dreaded warning, the figure
Similar Books
