The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu, Sax Rohmer [nonfiction book recommendations .txt] 📗

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 as brief as you possibly can.”

 

“I came in, as I said,” explained West “about eleven o’clock and having

made some notes relating to an interview arranged for this morning,

I locked the plans in the safe and turned in.”

 

“There was no one hidden anywhere in your chambers?” snapped Smith.

 

“There was not,” replied West. “I looked. I invariably do.

Almost immediately, I went to sleep.”

 

“How many chloral tabloids did you take?” I interrupted.

 

Norris West turned to me with a slow smile.

 

“You’re cute, Doctor,” he said. “I took two. It’s a bad habit,

but I can’t sleep without. They are specially made up for me

by a firm in Philadelphia.”

 

“How long sleep lasted, when it became filled with uncanny dreams,

and when those dreams merged into reality, I do not know—

shall never know, I suppose. But out of the dreamless void

a face came to me—closer—closer—and peered into mine.

 

“I was in that curious condition wherein one knows

that one is dreaming and seeks to awaken—to escape.

But a nightmare-like oppression held me. So I must lie

and gaze into the seared yellow face that hung over me,

for it would drop so close that I could trace the cicatrized

scar running from the left ear to the corner of the mouth,

and drawing up the lip like the lip of a snarling cur.

I could look into the malignant, jaundiced eyes;

I could hear the dim whispering of the distorted mouth—

whispering that seemed to counsel something—something evil.

That whispering intimacy was indescribably repulsive.

Then the wicked yellow face would be withdrawn, and would recede

until it became as a pin’s head in the darkness far above me—

almost like a glutinous, liquid thing.

 

“Somehow I got upon my feet, or dreamed I did—God knows where dreaming ended

and reality began. Gentlemen maybe you’ll conclude I went mad last night,

but as I stood holding on to the bedrail I heard the blood throbbing through

my arteries with a noise like a screw-propeller. I started laughing.

The laughter issued from my lips with a shrill whistling sound that pierced

me with physical pain and seemed to wake the echoes of the whole block.

I thought myself I was going mad, and I tried to command my will—

to break the power of the chloral—for I concluded that I had accidentally

taken an overdose.

 

“Then the walls of my bedroom started to recede, till at last I

stood holding on to a bed which had shrunk to the size of a

doll’s cot, in the middle of a room like Trafalgar Square!

That window yonder was such a long way off I could scarcely see it,

but I could just detect a Chinaman—the owner of the evil

yellow face—creeping through it. He was followed by another,

who was enormously tall—so tall that, as they came towards me

(and it seemed to take them something like half-an-hour to cross

this incredible apartment in my dream), the second Chinaman

seemed to tower over me like a cypress-tree.

 

“I looked up to his face—his wicked, hairless face.

Mr. Smith, whatever age I live to, I’ll never forget

that face I saw last night—or did I see it? God knows!

The pointed chin, the great dome of a forehead, and the eyes—

heavens above, the huge green eyes!”

 

He shook like a sick man, and I glanced at Smith significantly.

Inspector Weymouth was stroking his mustache, and his mingled

expression of incredulity and curiosity was singular to behold.

 

“The pumping of my blood,” continued West, “seemed to be

bursting my body; the room kept expanding and contracting.

One time the ceiling would be pressing down on my head,

and the Chinamen—sometimes I thought there were two of them,

sometimes twenty—became dwarfs; the next instant it shot up

like the roof of a cathedral.

 

“`Can I be awake,’ I whispered, `or am I dreaming?’

 

“My whisper went sweeping in windy echoes about the walls,

and was lost in the shadowy distances up under the invisible roof.

 

“`You are dreaming—yes.’ It was the Chinaman with the green

eyes who was addressing me, and the words that he uttered

appeared to occupy an immeasurable time in the utterance.

‘But at will I can render the subjective objective.’

I don’t think I can have dreamed those singular words, gentlemen.

“And then he fixed the green eyes upon me—the blazing green eyes.

I made no attempt to move. They seemed to be draining me

of something vital—bleeding me of every drop of mental power.

The whole nightmare room grew green, and I felt that I was being

absorbed into its greenness.

 

“I can see what you think. And even in my delirium—

if it was delirium—I thought the same. Now comes the climax

of my experience—my vision—I don’t know what to call it.

I SAW some WORDS issuing from my own mouth!”

 

Inspector Weymouth coughed discreetly. Smith whisked round upon him.

 

“This will be outside your experience, Inspector, I know,” he said,

“but Mr. Norris West’s statement does not surprise me in the least.

I know to what the experience was due.”

 

Weymouth stared incredulously, but a dawning perception of the truth

was come to me, too.

 

“How I SAW a SOUND I just won’t attempt to explain;

I simply tell you I saw it. Somehow I knew I had betrayed myself—

given something away.”

 

“You gave away the secret of the lock combination!” rapped Smith.

 

“Eh!” grunted Weymouth.

 

But West went on hoarsely:

 

“Just before the blank came a name flashed before my eyes.

It was `Bayard Taylor.’”

 

At that I interrupted West.

 

“I understand!” I cried. “I understand! Another name has just occurred

to me, Mr. West—that of the Frenchman, Moreau.”

 

“You have solved the mystery,” said Smith. “It was natural

Mr. West should have thought of the American traveler,

Bayard Taylor, though. Moreau’s book is purely scientific.

He has probably never read it.”

 

“I fought with the stupor that was overcoming me,” continued West,

“striving to associate that vaguely familiar name with the fantastic things

through which I moved. It seemed to me that the room was empty again.

I made for the hall, for the telephone. I could scarcely drag my feet along.

It seemed to take me half-an-hour to get there. I remember calling up

Scotland Yard, and I remember no more.”

 

There was a short, tense interval.

 

In some respects I was nonplused; but, frankly, I think Inspector Weymouth

considered West insane. Smith, his hands locked behind his back,

stared out of the window.

 

“ANDAMAN—SECOND” he said suddenly. “Weymouth, when is the first

train to Tilbury?”

 

“Five twenty-two from Fenchurch Street,” replied the Scotland

Yard man promptly.

 

“Too late!” rapped my friend. “Jump in a taxi and pick up

two good men to leave for China at once! Then go and charter

a special to Tilbury to leave in twenty-five minutes.

Order another cab to wait outside for me.”

 

Weymouth was palpably amazed, but Smith’s tone was imperative.

The Inspector departed hastily.

 

I stared at Smith, not comprehending what prompted this singular course.

 

“Now that you can think clearly, Mr. West,” he said, “of what

does your experience remind you? The errors of perception

regarding time; the idea of SEEING A SOUND; the illusion

that the room alternately increased and diminished in size;

your fit of laughter, and the recollection of the name Bayard Taylor.

Since evidently you are familiar with that author’s work—

‘The Land of the Saracen,’ is it not?—these symptoms of the attack

should be familiar, I think.”

 

Norris West pressed his hands to his evidently aching head.

 

“Bayard Taylor’s book,” he said dully. “Yes!…I know of what my brain

sought to remind me—Taylor’s account of his experience under hashish.

Mr. Smith, someone doped me with hashish!”

 

Smith nodded grimly.

 

“Cannabis indica,” I said—“Indian hemp. That is what you were

drugged with. I have no doubt that now you experience a feeling of nausea

and intense thirst, with aching in the muscles, particularly the deltoid.

I think you must have taken at least fifteen grains.”

 

Smith stopped his perambulations immediately in front of West,

looking into his dulled eyes.

 

“Someone visited your chambers last night,” he said slowly,

“and for your chloral tabloids 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.”

 

“Karamaneh!” 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 someone 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 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 an 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