The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, Sax Rohmer [knowledgeable books to read TXT] 📗

“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 windowsill. 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 windowsill?” 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!”

I have never seen a man quite so surprised as Inspector Weymouth.

“This is absolutely incredible!” he said. “There’s only one door to your chambers. We found it bolted from the inside.”

“Yes,” groaned West, pressing his hand to his forehead. “I bolted it myself at eleven o’clock, when I came in.”

“No human being could climb up or down to your windows. The plans of the aero-torpedo were inside a safe.”

“I put them there myself,” said West, “on returning from the War Office, and I had occasion to consult them after I had come in and bolted the door. I returned them to the safe and locked it. That it was still locked you saw for yourselves, and no one else in the world knows the combination.”

“But the plans have gone,” said Weymouth. “It’s magic! How was it done? What happened last night, sir? What did you mean when you rang us up?”

Smith during this colloquy was pacing rapidly up and down the room. He turned abruptly to the aviator.

“Every fact you can remember, Mr. West, please,” he said tersely; “and be