There was a short, tense interval.
In some respects I was nonplussed; 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.”
“Karamanèh!” 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 who has the plans. Come along, Petrie; we must be at Tilbury within the hour. There is just a bare chance.”
XX
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 farther 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 aftereffects 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 windowsill—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 windowsill.
“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?”
