by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER XLI. THE FINDING OF KAZMAH
At a point just above the sweep of Limehouse Reach a watchful riverpolice patrol observed a moving speck of light on the right bank of theThames. As if in answer to the signal there came a few moments later asecond moving speck at a point not far above the district once notoriousin its possession of Ratcliff Highway. A third light answered from theSurrey bank, and a fourth shone out yet higher up and on the oppositeside of the Thames.
The tide had just turned. As Chief Inspector Kerry had once observed,"there are no pleasure parties punting about that stretch," and,consequently, when George Martin tumbled into his skiff on the Surreyshore and began lustily to pull up stream, he was observed almostimmediately by the River Police.
Pulling hard against the stream, it took him a long time to reach hisdestination--stone stairs near the point from which the second light hadbeen shown. Rain had ceased and the mist had cleared shortly afterdusk, as often happens at this time of year, and because the night wascomparatively clear the pursuing boats had to be handled with care.
George did not disembark at the stone steps, but after waiting there forsome time he began to drop down on the tide, keeping close inshore.
"He knows we've spotted him," said Sergeant Coombes, who was in one ofthe River Police boats. "It was at the stairs that he had to pick up hisman."
Certainly, the tactics of George suggested that he had recognizedsurveillance, and, his purpose abandoned, now sought to efface himselfwithout delay. Taking advantage of every shadow, he resigned his boatto the gentle current. He had actually come to the entrance of GreenwichReach when a dock light, shining out across the river, outlined the boatyellowly.
"He's got a passenger!" said Coombes amazedly.
Inspector White, who was in charge of the cutter, rested his arm onCoombes' shoulder and stared across the moving tide.
"I can see no one," he replied. "You're over anxious,Detective-Sergeant--and I can understand it!"
Coombes smiled heroically.
"I may be over anxious, Inspector," he replied, "but if I lost Sin SinWa, the River Police had never even heard of him till the C.I.D. put 'emwise."
"H'm!" muttered the Inspector. "D'you suggest we board him?"
"No," said Coombes, "let him land, but don't trouble to hide any more.Show him we're in pursuit."
No longer drifting with the outgoing tide, George Martin had now boldlytaken to the oars. The River Police boat close in his wake, he headedfor the blunt promontory of the Isle of Dogs. The grim pursuit went onuntil:
"I bet I know where he's for," said Coombes.
"So do I," declared Inspector White; "Dougal's!"
Their anticipations were realized. To the wooden stairs which served asa water-gate for the establishment on the Isle of Dogs, George Martinran in openly; the police boat followed, and:
"You were right!" cried the Inspector, "he has somebody with him!"
A furtive figure, bearing a burden upon its shoulder, moved up the slopeand disappeared. A moment later the police were leaping ashore. Georgedeserted his boat and went running heavily after his passenger.
"After them!" cried Coombes. "That's Sin Sin Wa!"
Around the mazey, rubbish-strewn paths the pursuit went hotly. In sightof Dougal's Coombes saw the swing door open and a silhouette--that of aman who carried a bag on his shoulder--pass in. George Martin followed,but the Scotland Yard man had his hand upon his shoulder.
"Police!" he said sharply. "Who's your friend?"
George turned, red and truculent, with clenched fists.
"Mind your own bloody business!" he roared.
"Mind yours, my lad!" retorted Coombes warningly. "You're no Thameswaterman. Who's your friend?"
"Wotcher mean?" shouted George. "You're up the pole or canned you are!"
"Grab him!" said Coombes, and he kicked open the door and entered thesaloon, followed by Inspector White and the boat's crew.
As they appeared, the Inspector conspicuous in his uniform, backed bythe group of River Police, one of whom grasped George Martin by his coatcollar:
"Splits!" bellowed Dougal in a voice like a fog-horn.
Twenty cups of tea, coffee and cocoa, too hot for speedy assimilation,were spilled upon the floor.
The place as usual was crowded, more particularly in the neighborhood ofthe two stoves. Here were dock laborers, seamen and riverside loafers,lascars, Chinese, Arabs, negroes and dagoes. Mrs. Dougal, defiant andred, brawny arms folded and her pose as that of one contemplating aphysical contest, glared from behind the "solid" counter. Dougal restedhis hairy hands upon the "wet" counter and revealed his defective teethin a vicious snarl. Many of the patrons carried light baggage, since a Pand O boat, an oriental, and the S. S. Mahratta, were sailing that nightor in the early morning, and Dougal's was the favorite house of call fora doch-an-dorrich for sailormen, particularly for sailormen of color.
Upon the police group became focussed the glances of light eyes and darkeyes, round eyes, almond-shaped eyes, and oblique eyes. Silence fell.
"We are police officers," called Coombes formally. "All papers, please."
Thereupon, without disturbance, the inspection began, and among thepapers scrutinized were those of one, Chung Chow, an able-bodied Chineseseaman. But since his papers were in order, and since he possessed twoeyes and wore no pigtail, he excited no more interest in the mind ofDetective-Sergeant Coombes than did any one of the other Chinamen in theplace.
A careful search of the premises led to no better result, and GeorgeMartin accounted for his possession of a considerable sum of money foundupon him by explaining that he had recently been paid off after a longvoyage and had been lucky at cards.
The result of the night's traffic, then, spelled failure for Britishjustice, the S.S. Mahratta sailed one stewardess short of hercomplement; but among the Chinese crew of another steamer Eastward boundwas one, Chung Chow, formerly known as Sin Sin Wa. And sometimes in thenight watches there arose before him the picture of a black bird restingupon the knees of an aged Chinaman. Beyond these figures dimly heperceived the paddy-fields of Ho-Nan and the sweeping valley of theYellow River, where the opium poppy grows.
It was about an hour before the sailing of the ship which numbered ChungChow among the yellow members of its crew that Seton Pasha returnedonce more to the deserted wharf whereon he had found Mrs. Monte Irvin'sspaniel. Afterwards, in the light of ascertained facts, he condemnedhimself for a stupidity passing the ordinary. For while he had conducteda careful search of the wharf and adjoining premises, convinced thatthere was a cellar of some kind below, he had omitted to look for awater-gate to this hypothetical cache.
Perhaps his self-condemnation was deserved, but in justice to the agentselected by Lord Wrexborough, it should be added that Chief InspectorKerry had no more idea of the existence of such an entrance, and exit,than had Seton Pasha.
Leaving the dog at Leman Street then, and learning that there was nonews of the missing Chief Inspector, Seton had set out once more. He hadbeen informed of the mysterious signals flashed from side to side of theLower Pool, and was hourly expecting a report to the effect that SinSin Wa had been apprehended in the act of escaping. That Sin Sin Wahad dropped into the turgid tide from his underground hiding-place,and pushing his property--which was floatable--before him, encased in awaterproof bag, had swum out and clung to the stern of George Martin'sboat as it passed close to the empty wharf, neither Seton Pasha nor anyother man knew--except George Martin and Sin Sin Wa.
At a suitably dark spot the Chinaman had boarded the little craft, notwithout difficulty, for his wounded shoulder pained him, and had changedhis sodden attire for a dry outfit which awaited him in the locker atthe stern of the skiff. The cunning of the Chinese has the simplicity oftrue genius.
Not two paces had Seton taken on to the mystifying wharf when:
"Sam Tuk barber! Entrance in cellar!" rapped a ghostly, muffled voicefrom beneath his feet. "Sam Tuk barber! Entrance in cellar!"
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sp; Seton Pasha stood still, temporarily bereft of speech. Then, "Kerry!" hecried. "Kerry! Where are you?"
But apparently his voice failed to reach the invisible speaker, for:
"Sam Tuk barber! Entrance in cellar!" repeated the voice.
Seton Pasha wasted no more time. He ran out into the narrow street. Aman was on duty there.
"Call assistance!" ordered Seton briskly, "Send four men to join me atthe barber's shop called Sam Tuk's! You know it?"
"Yes, sir; I searched it with Chief Inspector Kerry."
The note of a police whistle followed.
Ten minutes later the secret of Sam Tuk's cellar was unmasked. The placewas empty, and the subterranean door locked; but it succumbed to thepersistent attacks of axe and crowbar, and Seton Pasha was the first ofthe party to enter the vault. It was laden with chemical fumes....
He found there an aged Chinaman, dead, seated by a stove in which thefire had burned very low. Sprawling across the old man's knees was thebody of a raven. Lying at his feet was a woman, lithe, contorted, theface half hidden in masses of bright red hair.
"End case near the door!" rapped the voice of Kerry. "Slides to theleft!"
Seton Pasha vaulted over the counter, drew the shelves aside, andentered the inner room.
By the dim light of a lantern burning upon a moorish coffee-table hediscerned an untidy bed, upon which a second woman lay, pallid.
"God!" he muttered; "this place is a morgue!"
"It certainly isn't healthy!" said an irritable voice from the floor."But I think I might survive it if you could spare a second to untieme."
Kerry's extensive practice in chewing and the enormous development ofhis maxillary muscles had stood him in good stead. His keen, strongteeth had bitten through the extemporized gag, and as a result thetension of the handkerchief which had held it in place had becomerelaxed, enabling him to rid himself of it and to spit out the fragmentsof filthy-tasting wood which the biting operation had left in his mouth.
Seton turned, stooped on one knee to release the captive... and foundhimself looking into the face of someone who sat crouched upon the divanbehind the Chief Inspector. The figure was that of an oriental, richlyrobed. Long, slim, ivory hands rested upon his knees, and on the firstfinger of the right hand gleamed a big talismanic ring. But the face,surmounted by a white turban, was wonderful, arresting in its immobileintellectual beauty; and from under the heavy brows a pair of abnormallylarge eyes looked out hypnotically.
"My God!" whispered Seton, then:
"If you've finished your short prayer," rapped Kerry, "set about mylittle job."
"But, Kerry--Kerry, behind you!"
"I haven't any eyes in my back hair!"
Mechanically, half fearfully, Seton touched the hands of the crouchingoriental. A low moan came from the woman in the bed, and:
"It's Kazmah!" gasped Seton. "Kerry... Kazmah is--a wax figure!"
"Hell!" said Chief Inspector Kerry.
