The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu - Sax Rohmer (best ebook reader TXT) 📗

CHAPTER XX

IT was with my mind in a condition of unique perplexity that I hurried

with Nayland Smith into the cab which waited and dashed off through

the streets in which the busy life of London just stirred into being.

I suppose I need not say that I could penetrate no farther into this,

Fu-Manchu’s latest plot, than the drugging of Norris West with hashish?

Of his having been so drugged with Indian hemp—that is,

converted temporarily into a maniac—would have been evident to any

medical man who had heard his statement and noted the distressing

after-effects which conclusively pointed to Indian hemp poisoning.

Knowing something of the Chinese doctor’s powers, I could understand that

he might have extracted from West the secret of the combination by sheer

force of will whilst the American was under the influence of the drug.

But I could not understand how Fu-Manchu had gained access to locked

chambers on the third story of a building.

 

“Smith,” I said, “those bird tracks on the window-sill—

they furnish the key to a mystery which is puzzling me.”

 

“They do,” said Smith, glancing impatiently at his watch.

“Consult your memories of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s habits—especially your

memories of his pets.”

 

I reviewed in my mind the creatures gruesome and terrible which

surrounded the Chinaman—the scorpions, the bacteria, the noxious

things which were the weapons wherewith he visited death upon

whomsoever opposed the establishment of a potential Yellow Empire.

But no one of them could account for the imprints upon the dust

of West’s window-sill.

 

“You puzzle me, Smith,” I confessed. “There is much in this extraordinary

case that puzzles me. I can think of nothing to account for the marks.”

 

“Have you thought of Fu-Manchu’s marmoset?” asked Smith.

 

“The monkey!” I cried.

 

“They were the footprints of a small ape,” my friend continued.

“For a moment I was deceived as you were, and believed them

to be the tracks of a large bird; but I have seen the footprints

of apes before now, and a marmoset, though an American variety,

I believe, is not unlike some of the apes of Burma.”

 

“I am still in the dark,” I said.

 

“It is pure hypothesis,” continued Smith, “but here is the theory—

in lieu of a better one it covers the facts. The marmoset—

and it is contrary from the character of Fu-Manchu to keep any

creature for mere amusement—is trained to perform certain duties.

 

“You observed the waterspout running up beside the window; you observed

the iron bar intended to prevent a window-cleaner from falling out?

For an ape the climb from the court below to the sill above was

a simple one. He carried a cord, probably attached to his body.

He climbed on to the sill, over the bar, and climbed down again.

By means of this cord a rope was pulled up over the bar,

by means of the rope one of those ladders of silk and bamboo.

One of the Doctor’s servants ascended—probably to

ascertain if the hashish had acted successfully.

That was the yellow dream-face which West saw bending over him.

Then followed the Doctor, and to his giant will the drugged brain

of West was a pliant instrument which he bent to his own ends.

The court would be deserted at that hour of the night, and,

in any event, directly after the ascent the ladder probably

was pulled up, only to be lowered again when West had revealed

the secret of his own safe and Fu-Manchu had secured the plans.

The reclosing of the safe and the removing of the hashish tabloids,

leaving no clew beyond the delirious ravings of a drug slave—

for so anyone unacquainted with the East must have construed

West’s story—is particularly characteristic. His own tabloids

were returned, of course. The sparing of his life alone is

a refinement of art which points to a past master.”

 

“Karamaneh was the decoy again?” I said shortly.

 

“Certainly. Hers was the task to ascertain West’s habits and to

substitute the tabloids. She it was who waited in the luxurious car—

infinitely less likely to attract attention at that hour in

that place than a modest taxi—and received the stolen plans.

She did her work well.

 

“Poor Karamaneh; she had no alternative! I said I would have given a hundred

pounds for a sight of the messenger’s face—the man to whom she handed them.

I would give a thousand now!”

 

“ANDAMAN—SECOND,” I said. “What did she mean?”

 

“Then it has not dawned upon you?” cried Smith excitedly, as the cab

turned into the station. “The ANDAMAN, of the Oriental Navigation

Company’s line, leaves Tilbury with the next tide for China ports.

Our man is a second-class passenger. I am wiring to delay her departure,

and the special should get us to the docks inside of forty minutes.”

 

Very vividly I can reconstruct in my mind that dash to the docks

through the early autumn morning. My friend being invested

with extraordinary powers from the highest authorities,

by Inspector Weymouth’s instructions the line had been cleared

all the way.

 

Something of the tremendous importance of Nayland Smith’s mission came home

to me as we hurried on to the platform, escorted by the stationmaster,

and the five of us—for Weymouth had two other C.I.D. men with him—

took our seats in the special.

 

Off we went on top speed, roaring through stations,

where a glimpse might be had of wondering officials upon

the platforms, for a special train was a novelty on the line.

All ordinary traffic arrangements were held up until we had

passed through, and we reached Tilbury in time which I doubt

not constituted a record.

 

There at the docks was the great liner, delayed in her passage

to the Far East by the will of my royally empowered companion.

It was novel, and infinitely exciting.

 

“Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith?” said the captain interrogatively,

when we were shown into his room, and looked from one to another and back

to the telegraph form which he held in his hand.

 

“The same, Captain,” said my friend briskly. “I shall not detain

you a moment. I am instructing the authorities at all ports

east of Suez to apprehend one of your second-class passengers,

should he leave the ship. He is in possession of plans

which practically belong to the British Government!”

“Why not arrest him now?” asked the seaman bluntly.

 

“Because I don’t know him. All second-class passengers’

baggage will be searched as they land. I am hoping something from that,

if all else fails. But I want you privately to instruct your stewards

to watch any passenger of Oriental nationality, and to cooperate

with the two Scotland Yard men who are joining you for the voyage.

I look to you to recover these plans, Captain.”

 

“I will do my best,” the captain assured him.

 

Then, from amid the heterogeneous group on the dockside, we were watching

the liner depart, and Nayland Smith’s expression was a very singular one.

Inspector Weymouth stood with us, a badly puzzled man. Then occurred

the extraordinary incident which to this day remains inexplicable, for,

clearly heard by all three of us, a guttural voice said:

 

“Another victory for China, Mr. Nayland Smith!”

 

I turned as though I had been stung. Smith turned also.

My eyes passed from face to face of the group about us.

None was familiar. No one apparently had moved away.

 

But the voice was the voice of DOCTOR FU-MANCHU.

 

As I write of it, now, I can appreciate the difference

between that happening, as it appealed to us, and as it must

appeal to you who merely read of it. It is beyond my powers

to convey the sense of the uncanny which the episode created.

Yet, even as I think of it, I feel again, though in lesser degree,

the chill which seemed to creep through my veins that day.

 

From my brief history of the wonderful and evil man who once walked,

by the way unsuspected, in the midst of the people of England—

near whom you, personally, may at some time unwittingly, have been—

I am aware that much must be omitted. I have no space for lengthy

examinations of the many points but ill illuminated with which it is dotted.

This incident at the docks is but one such point.

 

Another is the singular vision which appeared to me whilst I lay in

the cellar of the house near Windsor. It has since struck me that it

possessed peculiarities akin to those of a hashish hallucination.

Can it be that we were drugged on that occasion with Indian hemp? Cannabis

indica is a treacherous narcotic, as every medical man knows full well;

but Fu-Manchu’s knowledge of the drug was far in advance of our slow science.

West’s experience proved so much.

 

I may have neglected opportunities—later, you shall judge if I did so—

opportunities to glean for the West some of the strange knowledge of

the secret East. Perhaps, at a future time, I may rectify my errors.

Perhaps that wisdom—the wisdom stored up by Fu-Manchu—is lost forever.

There is, however, at least a bare possibility of its survival, in part;

and I do not wholly despair of one day publishing a scientific sequel

to this record of our dealings with the Chinese doctor.