The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (english novels for students .txt) 📕

“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 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 tabloids were returned, of course. The sparing of his life alone is a refinement of art which points to a past master.”

“Karamanèh 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 Karamanèh; 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