The Chaos of Chung-Fu. Edmund Glasby
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The Chaos of Chung-Fu
BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY EDMUND GLASBY
The Ash Murders: Supernatural Mystery Stories
The Chaos of Chung-Fu: Weird Mystery Stories
The Dyrysgol Horror and Other Weird Tales
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2013 by Edmund Glasby
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
To the Memory of John S. Glasby
THE CHAOS OF CHUNG-FU
Jack Murphy’s investigations into the disappearances were to lead him into a shadowy and dangerous world of Oriental horror, sorcery, and madness.
It was in a litter-strewn back alley in downtown Chicago that private investigator Jack Murphy first saw the poster. Damp and tattered, pinned to the wall of a squalid Chinese takeaway, it looked like something from a hundred years ago.
The evening was quite dark and it was raining heavily. Water ran from the brim of his hat and he pulled up the collar of his long coat before crossing over to take a closer look.
He flicked his torch on and shone the beam directly at the poster, grimacing somewhat at what he saw. For the poster was a flyer, an advertisement for a forthcoming theatrical event and one, which, judging by the images depicted, was not for the faint of heart.
Emblazoned along the top, in stark, slanting lettering was:
THE SORCERY OF CHUNG-FU
An evening of Oriental magic and mystery
Chung-Fu. Now there was a name he had heard whispered on the streets.
The image that dominated the garish poster was of a sly-looking Chinese man with a tasselled skullcap and an expensive, embroidered silk robe. Below him were a series of alarming, theatrical scaled-down drawings; a scantily-clad woman shown in mid-scream, strapped to a rack as a pendulum blade swung low; a grinning, hideous puppet-like thing, its dagger held aloft; a man cowering from two tigers; and, in the bottom left corner, another man, open-mouthed, vomiting a stream of spiders. Columns around which massive pythons coiled bordered the central theme.
There was a bizarreness to it that unnerved even him, filled him with an uneasy sensation, which sent a shiver through his body. Whether there was any connection between it and the rash of disappearances in this area that he was investigating he didn’t know, but as he had so little to go on, it was a line of enquiry he would keep open.
From the details he had managed to piece together, the disappearances had been happening for several years and there were some common features that made him think that there was definitely something sinister behind them. All of the missing were lowlifes: those social unfortunates that the police were not overly concerned with, the downtrodden demi-monde—vagrants, ladies of easy virtue, and drunks for the main part. And, had it not been for the disappearance of Harry ‘Two-Bellies’ Lafayette—a local gangster with high-up friends, he doubted whether anyone would have bothered to investigate at all.
Murphy found himself reflecting on this as he studied the poster. There was a forthcoming show scheduled for a week’s time and, after confirming the venue, he decided it was a show he was going to attend. That being the case, he thought it prudent to see what, if anything, he could discover about this enigmatic Chinese showman and his magic show.
‘Big’ Teddy Maxwell, the head of the local mob, afraid that a gang war might be starting on his turf, was paying him good money and he wanted results. As things currently stood he had no other avenues of investigation, everything so far turning out to be dead ends.
Removing the poster from the wall, Murphy rolled it up and stuck it into an inside coat pocket. The rain was becoming heavier, drenching him in its miserable deluge. He stepped closer to the wall and reached for a cigarette, lighting it with a deft flick of a match. He inhaled, taking the smoke into his lungs before exhaling a cloud of blue smoke from his nostrils.
Some inner intuition, one that he had learned to trust over his years as a private investigator, told him that there was something highly suspect about this Chung-Fu, something that definitely warranted deeper investigation. Just what it was, well, that was something he hoped to discover.
With that thought, he hunched his shoulders and stalked, broodingly, back to his apartment, completely unaware of the pair of dark eyes that watched his every movement, tracking him with an intensity of purpose.
* * * * * * *
It was the sound of the creak of the seventh tread on the stairs that made Murphy look up from where he sat at the table, on which his half-empty bottle of cheap whisky rested. The sound of a careless footfall.
Immediately, he got up and sidestepped to his right, towards where his coat, and more importantly his holstered gun, lay. He was halfway there when the door burst open and an Oriental-looking thug rushed in, a knife in his hand. Clearly this was something other than a social visit.
The knife came flying and Murphy ducked so that it went clear of his head and juddered into the far wall. He fumbled for his gun, but the man launched a spinning kick that caught him high in the chest, knocking the air from him and sending him back. Toppling over a chair, he just had time to roll aside to avoid another savage kick.
Scrambling to his feet, Murphy raised his fists. A self-trained pugilist, he adopted a defensive stance, ready and more than willing to give his attacker what for. The man came forward, making a series of vicious swings, his piggy, close-set eyes filled with hatred.
He came at a rush. Murphy saw his arm go back as he made to bring down a chop with the side of his right hand. Shifting nimbly to the side, Murphy blocked the attack, biting back the agony in his arm. He then wrong-footed his attacker, grabbed him and, using his raw strength, swung him back towards the door.
There was a cry of pain as the two collided. The private investigator sprang forward, delivering a solid right hook to the unfortunate’s back. He briefly considered getting his gun. He was just about to, when the man sprang to his feet with the agility of a wild cat and leapt forward in an acrobatic move that took him by surprise. He tried to block the sudden flurry of kicks that struck him, forcing him back. The back of his legs struck the table. Reaching out with his right hand, he made a grab for the whisky bottle. Swinging it down he crashed it over the man’s head. Glass shattered.
Dazed and hurt, the Chinese man shook his head, trying to refocus. He recovered quickly and came at Murphy again, his hands weaving in deft movements before him.
And then there were hands at Murphy’s throat, ragged nails biting into the flesh at his neck. Fighting back the hurt, he jabbed a clenched fist into the man’s stomach, making him release his hold.
Uttering a curse, the thug staggered back, falling to his knees under the force of the punch. A tough and wiry opponent, he lunged forward, arms flailing, head down, pummelling into Murphy as he pushed himself upright, catching him before he could dispatch him with a hefty kick. Together they crashed back, colliding with a chest of drawers and falling to the floor.
Scrambling to his feet, Murphy grabbed his attacker by his shirt collar. He himself was then smacked in the stomach. There was a dull roaring in his ears and all of the wind seemed to rush from his lungs. A follow-up chop sent Murphy reeling back against the window, his head temporarily swimming. Like striking snakes, more blows blurred before his eyes, swings and jabs that he had trouble countering.
Murphy’s ribs and stomach ached and things were now getting desperate. He would have to resort to a bit of dirty fighting, the style he had learnt on the mean streets of Brooklyn where he had been raised. Catching hold of one of the man’s arms, he hauled him close, his other hand reaching out and grabbing a handful of unwashed, greasy hair. He pulled violently, ripping hair from his assailant’s scalp, before bringing the head down to meet his rising knee.
Howling in agony, the man tried to break free, smacking