by Sax Rohmer
“Someone visited your chambers last night,” he said slowly, “and for your chloral tablets substituted some containing hashish, or perhaps not pure hashish. Fu-Manchu is a profound chemist.”
Norris West started.
“Someone substituted—” he began.
“Exactly,” said Smith looking at him keenly, “someone who was here yesterday. Have you any idea whom it could have been?”
West hesitated. “I had a visitor in the afternoon,” he said, seemingly speaking the words unwillingly, “but—”
“A lady?” jerked Smith. “I suggest that it was a lady.”
West nodded.
“You’re quite right,” he admitted. “I don’t know how you arrived at the conclusion, but a lady whose acquaintance I made recently—a foreign lady—”
“Kâramenèh!” snapped Smith.
“I don’t know what you mean in the least; but she came here—knowing this to be my present address—to ask me to protect her from a mysterious man who had followed her right from Charing Cross. She said he was down in the lobby, and naturally I asked her to wait here whilst I went and sent him about his business.”
He laughed shortly.
“I am over-old,” he said, “to be guyed by a woman. You spoke just now of some one called Fu-Manchu. Is that the crook I’m indebted to for the loss of my plans? I’ve had attempts made by agents of two European governments, but a Chinaman is a novelty.”
“This Chinaman,” Smith assured him, “is the greatest novelty of his age. You recognize your symptoms now from Bayard Taylor’s account?”
“Mr. West’s statement,” I said “ran closely parallel with portions of Moreau’s book on Hashish Hallucinations. Only Fu-Manchu, I think, would have thought of employing Indian hemp. I doubt, though, if it was the pure Cannabis indica. At any rate, it acted as an opiate—”
“And drugged Mr. West,” interrupted Smith, “sufficiently to enable Fu-Manchu to enter unobserved.”
“Whilst it produced symptoms which rendered him an easy subject for the Doctor’s influence. It is difficult in this case to separate hallucination from reality, but I think, Mr. West, that Fu-Manchu must have exercised a hypnotic influence upon your drugged brain. We have evidence that he dragged from you the secret of the combination.”
“God knows we have!” said West. “But who is this Fu-Manchu, and how—how in the name of wonder did he get into my chambers?”
Smith pulled out his watch. “That,” he said rapidly, “I cannot delay to explain if I’m to intercept the man who has the plans. Come along, Petrie; we must be at Tilbury within the hour. There is just a bare chance.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
SOME THEORIES AND A FACT
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 further 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 tablets, leaving no clue 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 tablets were returned, of course. The sparing of his life alone is a refinement of art which points to a past master.”
“Kâramanèh was the decoy again?” I said shortly.
“Certainly. Hers was the task to ascertain West’s habits and to substitute the tablets. 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 Kâramanèh; 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 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 station-master, 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.
&n
bsp; Then, 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 co-operate 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—when 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 many 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 for ever. 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 dealing with the Chinese doctor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE HOME OF FU-MANCHU
Time wore on and seemingly brought us no nearer, or very little nearer, to our goal. So carefully had my friend Nayland Smith excluded the matter from the Press that, whilst public interest was much engaged with some of the events in the skein of mystery which he was come from Burma to unravel, outside the Secret Service and the special department of Scotland Yard few people recognized that the several murders, accomplished and attempted, robberies and disappearances formed each a link in a chain; fewer still were aware that a baneful presence was in our midst, that a past master of the evil arts lay concealed somewhere in the metropolis; searched for by the keenest wits which the authorities could direct to the task, but eluding all—triumphant, contemptuous.
One link in that chain Smith himself for long failed to recognize. Yet it was a big and important link.
“Petrie,” he said to me one morning, “listen to this:
“ ‘... In sight of Shanghai—a dark night. On board the deck of a junk passing close to seaward of the Andaman a blue flare started up. A minute later there was a cry of “Man overboard!”
“ ‘Inquiry showed the missing man to be a James Edwards, second class, booked to Shanghai. I think the name was assumed. The man was some sort of Oriental, and we had had him under close observation....’
“That’s the end of their report,” said Smith.
He referred to the two C.I.D. men who had joined the Andaman at the moment of her departure from Tilbury.
He carefully lighted his pipe.
“Is it a victory for China, Petrie?” he said softly.
“Until the great war reveals her secret resources—and I pray that the day be not in my time—we shall never know,” I replied.
Smith began striding up and down the room.
“Whose name,” he jerked abruptly, “stands now at the head of our danger list?”
He referred to a list which we had compiled of the notable men intervening between the evil genius who secretly had invaded London and the triumph of his cause—the triumph of the yellow races.
I glanced at our notes.
“Lord Southery,” I replied.
Smith tossed the morning paper across to me.
“Look,” he said shortly. “He’s dead.”
I read the account of the peer’s death, and glanced at the long obituary notice; but no more than glanced at it. He had but recently returned from the East, and now, after a short illness, had died from some affection of the heart. There had been no intimation that his illness was of a serious nature, and even Smith, who watched over his flock—the flock threatened by the wolf, Fu-Manchu—with jealous zeal, had not suspected that the end was so near.
“Do you think he died a natural death, Smith?” I asked.
My friend reached across the table and rested the tip of a long finger upon one of the sub-headings to the account:
SIR FRANK NARCOMBE SUMMONED TOO LATE!
“You see,” said Smith, “Southery died during the night, but Sir Frank Narcombe, arriving a few minutes later, unhesitatingly pronounced death to be due to syncope, and seems to have noticed nothing suspicious.”
I looked at him thoughtfully.
“Sir Frank is a great physician,” I said slowly, “but we must remember he would be looking for nothing suspicious.”
“We must remember,” rapped Smith, “that if Dr. Fu-Manchu is responsible for Southery’s death, except to the eye of an expert there would be nothing suspicious to see. Fu-Manchu leaves no clues.”
“Are you going around?” I asked.
Smith shrugged his shoulders.
“I think not,” he replied. “Either a greater one than Fu-Manchu has taken Lord Southery, or the yellow Doctor has done his work so well that no trace remains of his presence in the matter.”
Leaving his breakfast untasted, he wandered aimlessly about the room, littering the hearth with matches as he constantly relighted his pipe, which went out every few minutes.
“It’s no good, Petrie,” he burst out suddenly, “it cannot be a coincidence. We must go around and see him.”
An hour later we stood in the silent room, with its drawn blinds and its deathful atmosphere, looking down at the pale intellectual face of Henry Stradwick, Lord Southery, the greatest engineer of his day. The mind that lay behind that splendid brow had planned the construction of the railway for which Russia had paid so great a price, had conceived the scheme for the canal which, in the near future, was to bring two great continents a full week’s journey nearer one to the other. But now it would plan no more.
“He had latterly developed symptoms of angina pectoris
,” explained the family physician, “but I had not anticipated a fatal termination so soon. I was called about two o’clock this morning, and found Lord Southery in a dangerously exhausted condition. I did all that was possible, and Sir Frank Narcombe was sent for. But shortly before his arrival the patient expired.”
“I understand, Doctor, that you had been treating Lord Southery for angina pectoris?” I said.
“Yes,” was the reply, “for some months.”
“You regard the circumstances of his end as entirely consistent with a death from that cause?”
“Certainly, do you observe anything unusual yourself? Sir Frank Narcombe quite agrees with me. There is surely no room for doubt?”
“No,” said Smith, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear. “We do not question the accuracy of your diagnosis in any way, sir.”
“But am I not right in supposing that you are connected with the police?” asked the physician.
“Neither Dr. Petrie nor myself are in any way connected with the police,” answered Smith. “But, nevertheless, I look to you to regard our recent questions as confidential.”
As we were leaving the house, hushed awesomely in deference to the unseen visitor who had touched Lord Southery with grey, cold fingers, Smith paused, detaining a black-coated man who passed us on the stairs.
“You were Lord Southery’s valet?
The man bowed.
“Were you in the room at the moment of his fatal seizure?”
“I was, sir.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual—anything unaccountable?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“No strange sounds outside the house, for instance?”
The man shook his head, and Smith, taking my arm, passed out into the street
“Perhaps this business is making me imaginative,” he said, “but there seems to be something tainting the air in yonder—something peculiar to houses whose doors bear the invisible death-mark of FuManchu.”