The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu by Sax Rohmer (ebook reader below 3000 .TXT) 📕

the car had been driven, tugging at

the lobe of his ear, as was his habit in such moments of perplexity,

and sharply clicking his teeth together. I, too, was very thoughtful.

Clews were few enough in those days of our war with that giant antagonist.

The mere thought that our trifling error of judgment tonight in tarrying

a moment too long might mean the victory of Fu-Manchu, might mean the turning

of the balance which a wise providence had adjusted between the white

and yellow races, was appalling.

 

To Smith and me, who knew something of the secret influences

at work to overthrow the Indian Empire, to place, it might be,

the whole of Europe and America beneath an Eastern rule,

it seemed that a great yellow hand was stretched out over London.

Doctor Fu-Manchu was a menace to the civilized world.

Yet his very existence remained unsuspected by the millions

whose fate he sought to command.

 

“Into what dark scheme have we had a glimpse?” said Smith.

“What State secret is to be filched? What faithful servant

of the British Raj to be spirited away? Upon whom now has

Fu-Manchu set his death seal?”

 

“Karamaneh on this occasion may not have been acting as an emissary

of the Doctor’s.”

 

“I feel assured that she was, Petrie. Of the many whom this yellow

cloud may at any moment envelop, to which one did her message refer?

The man’s instructions were urgent. Witness his hasty departure.

Curse it!” He dashed his right clenched fist into the palm of his

left hand. “I never had a glimpse of his face, first to last.

To think of the hours I have spent in that place, in anticipation

of just such a meeting—only to bungle the opportunity when it arose!”

Scarce heeding what course we followed, we had come now to Piccadilly

Circus, and had walked out into the heart of the night’s traffic.

I just dragged Smith aside in time to save him from the off-front

wheel of a big Mercedes. Then the traffic was blocked, and we found

ourselves dangerously penned in amidst the press of vehicles.

 

Somehow we extricated ourselves, jeered at by taxi-drivers,

who naturally took us for two simple Oriental visitors,

and just before that impassable barrier the arm of a London

policeman was lowered and the stream moved on a faint breath

of perfume became perceptible to me.

 

The cabs and cars about us were actually beginning to move again,

and there was nothing for it but a hasty retreat to the curb.

I could not pause to glance behind, but instinctively I knew

that someone—someone who used that rare, fragrant essence—

was leaning from the window of the car.

 

“ANDAMAN—SECOND!” floated a soft whisper.

 

We gained the pavement as the pent-up traffic roared upon its way.

 

Smith had not noticed the perfume worn by the unseen

occupant of the car, had not detected the whispered words.

But I had no reason to doubt my senses, and I knew beyond

question that Fu-Manchu’s lovely slave, Karamaneh, had been

within a yard of us, had recognized us, and had uttered

those words for our guidance.

 

On regaining my rooms, we devoted a whole hour to considering

what “ANDAMAN—SECOND” could possibly mean.

 

“Hang it all!” cried Smith, “it might mean anything—

the result of a race, for instance.”

 

He burst into one of his rare laughs, and began to stuff broadcut mixture

into his briar. I could see that he had no intention of turning in.

 

“I can think of no one—no one of note—in London at present

upon whom it is likely that Fu-Manchu would make an attempt,”

he said, “except ourselves.”

 

We began methodically to go through the long list of names

which we had compiled and to review our elaborate notes.

When, at last, I turned in, the night had given place to a new day.

But sleep evaded me, and “ANDAMAN—SECOND” danced like a

mocking phantom through my brain.

 

Then I heard the telephone bell. I heard Smith speaking.

 

A minute afterwards he was in my room, his face very grim.

 

“I knew as well as if I’d seen it with my own eyes that some

black business was afoot last night,” he said. “And it was.

Within pistol-shot of us! Someone has got at Frank Norris West.

Inspector Weymouth has just been on the ‘phone.”

 

“Norris West!” I cried, “the American aviator—and inventor—”

“Of the West aero-torpedo—yes. He’s been offering it to the English

War Office, and they have delayed too long.”

 

I got out of bed.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean that the potentialities have attracted the attention

of Dr. Fu-Manchu!”

 

Those words operated electrically. I do not know how long I was in dressing,

how long a time elapsed ere the cab for which Smith had ‘phoned arrived,

how many precious minutes were lost upon the journey; but, in a nervous whirl,

these things slipped into the past, like the telegraph poles seen from

the window of an express, and, still in that tense state, we came upon

the scene of this newest outrage.

 

Mr. Norris West, whose lean, stoic face had latterly figured so often

in the daily press, lay upon the floor in the little entrance hall

of his chambers, flat upon his back, with the telephone receiver

in his hand.

 

The outer door had been forced by the police. They had

had to remove a piece of the paneling to get at the bolt.

A medical man was leaning over the recumbent figure in the striped

pajama suit, and Detective-Inspector Weymouth stood watching

him as Smith and I entered.

 

“He has been heavily drugged,” said the Doctor, sniffing at

West’s lips, “but I cannot say what drug has been used.

It isn’t chloroform or anything of that nature.

He can safely be left to sleep it off, I think.”

 

I agreed, after a brief examination.

 

“It’s most extraordinary,” said Weymouth. “He rang up the Yard

about an hour ago and said his chambers had been invaded by Chinamen.

Then the man at the ‘phone plainly heard him fall. When we got here his

front door was bolted, as you’ve seen, and the windows are three floors up.

Nothing is disturbed.”

 

“The plans of the aero-torpedo?” rapped Smith.

 

“I take it they are in the safe in his bedroom,”

replied the detective, “and that is locked all right. I think

he must have taken an overdose of something and had illusions.

But in case there was anything in what he mumbled (you could

hardly understand him) I thought it as well to send for you.”

 

“Quite right,” said Smith rapidly. His eyes shone like steel.

“Lay him on the bed, Inspector.”

 

It was done, and my friend walked into the bedroom.

 

Save that the bed was disordered, showing that West had been

sleeping in it, there were no evidences of the extraordinary

invasion mentioned by the drugged man. It was a small room—

the chambers were of that kind which are let furnished—and very neat.

A safe with a combination lock stood in a corner. The window was open

about a foot at the top. Smith tried the safe and found it fast.

He stood for a moment clicking his teeth together, by which I knew

him to be perplexed. He walked over to the window and threw it up.

We both looked out.

 

“You see,” came Weymouth’s voice, “it is altogether too far from

the court below for our cunning Chinese friends to have fixed a ladder

with one of their bamboo rod arrangements. And, even if they could

get up there, it’s too far down from the roof—two more stories—

for them to have fixed it from there.”

 

Smith nodded thoughtfully, at the same time trying the strength of an iron

bar which ran from side to side of the window-sill. Suddenly he stooped,

with a sharp exclamation. Bending over his shoulder I saw what it was

that had attracted his attention.

 

Clearly imprinted upon the dust-coated gray stone of the sill was a confused

series of marks—tracks call them what you will.

 

Smith straightened himself and turned a wondering look upon me.

 

“What is it, Petrie?” he said amazedly. “Some kind of bird has been here,

and recently.” Inspector Weymouth in turn examined the marks.

 

“I never saw bird tracks like these, Mr. Smith,” he muttered.

 

Smith was tugging at the lobe of his ear.

 

“No,” he returned reflectively; “come to think of it, neither did I.”

 

He twisted around, looking at the man on the bed.

 

“Do you think it was all an illusion?” asked the detective.

 

“What about those marks on the window-sill?” jerked Smith.

 

He began restlessly pacing about the room, sometimes stopping

before the locked safe and frequently glancing at Norris West.

 

Suddenly he walked out and briefly examined the other apartments,

only to return again to the bedroom.

 

“Petrie,” he said, “we are losing valuable time.

West must be aroused.”

 

Inspector Weymouth stared.

 

Smith turned to me impatiently. The doctor summoned by the police had gone.

“Is there no means of arousing him, Petrie?” he said.

 

“Doubtless,” I replied, “he could be revived if one but knew

what drug he had taken.”

 

My friend began his restless pacing again, and suddenly pounced upon

a little phial of tabloids which had been hidden behind some books

on a shelf near the bed. He uttered a triumphant exclamation.

 

“See what we have here, Petrie!” he directed, handing the phial to me.

“It bears no label.”

 

I crushed one of the tabloids in my palm and applied my tongue

to the powder.

 

“Some preparation of chloral hydrate,” I pronounced.

 

“A sleeping draught?” suggested Smith eagerly.

 

“We might try,” I said, and scribbled a formula upon a leaf of my notebook.

I asked Weymouth to send the man who accompanied him to call up the nearest

chemist and procure the antidote.

 

During the man’s absence Smith stood contemplating the unconscious inventor,

a peculiar expression upon his bronzed face.

 

“ANDAMAN—SECOND,” he muttered. “Shall we find the key

to the riddle here, I wonder?”

 

Inspector Weymouth, who had concluded, I think, that the mysterious

telephone call was due to mental aberration on the part of Norris West,

was gnawing at his mustache impatiently when his assistant returned.

I administered the powerful restorative, and although,

as later transpired, chloral was not responsible for West’s condition,

the antidote operated successfully.

 

Norris West struggled into a sitting position, and looked about him

with haggard eyes.

 

“The Chinamen! The Chinamen!” he muttered.

 

He sprang to his feet, glaring wildly at Smith and me, reeled,

and almost fell.

 

“It is all right,” I said, supporting him. “I’m a doctor.

You have been unwell.”

 

“Have the police come?” he burst out. “The safe—try the safe!”

 

“It’s all right,” said Inspector Weymouth. “The safe is locked—

unless someone else knows the combination, there’s nothing

to worry about.”

 

“No one else knows it,” said West, and staggered unsteadily to the safe.

Clearly his mind was in a dazed condition, but, setting his jaw with

a curious expression of grim determination, he collected his thoughts

and opened the safe.

 

He bent down, looking in.

 

In some way the knowledge came to me that the curtain was about to rise

on a new and surprising act in the Fu-Manchu drama.

 

“God!” he whispered—we could scarcely hear him—“the plans are gone!”