by Sax Rohmer
Suddenly over their bows uprose a black mass.
“My God!” cried Stringer, and fell back with upraised arms as if hoping to fend off that giant menace.
He lurched, as the cutter was again diverted sharply from its course, and must have fallen under the very bows of the oncoming liner, had not one of the lookouts caught him by the collar and jerked him sharply back into the boat.
A blaze of light burst out over them, and there were conflicting voices raised one in opposition to another. Above them all, even above the beating of the twin screws and the churning of the inky water, arose that of an officer from the bridge of the steamer.
“Where the flaming hell are YOU going?” inquired this stentorian voice; “haven’t you got any blasted eyes and ears”...
High on the wash of the liner rode the police boat; down she plunged again, and began to roll perilously; up again — swimming it seemed upon frothing milk.
The clangor of bells, of voices, and of churning screws died, remote, astern.
“Damn close shave!” cried Rogers. “It must be clear ahead; they’ve just run into it.”
One of the men on the lookout in the bows, who had never departed from his duty for an instant throughout this frightful commotion, now reported:
“Cutter crossing our bow, sir! Getting back to her course.”
“Keep her in view,” roared Rogers.
“Port, sir!”
“How’s that?”
“Starboard, easy!”
“Keep her in view!”
“As she is, sir!”
Again they settled down to the pursuit, and it began to dawn upon Stringer’s mind that the boat ahead must be engined identically with that of the police; for whilst they certainly gained nothing upon her, neither did they lose.
“Try a hail,” cried Rogers from the stern. “We may be chasing the wrong boat!”
“Cutter ‘hoy!” bellowed the man beside Stringer, using his hands in lieu of a megaphone— “heave to!”
“Give ’em ‘in the King’s name!’” directed Rogers again.
“Cutter ‘hoy,” roared the man through his trumpeted hands,— “heave to — in the King’s name!”
Stringer glared through the fog, clutching at the shoulder of the shouter almost convulsively.
“Take no notice, sir,” reported the man.
“Then it’s the gang!” cried Rogers from the stern; “and we haven’t made a mistake. Where the blazes are we?”
“Well on the way to Blackwall Reach, sir,” answered someone. “Fog lifting ahead.”
“It’s the rain that’s doing it,” said the man beside Stringer.
Even as he spoke, a drop of rain fell upon the back of Stringer’s hand. This was the prelude; then, with ever-increasing force, down came the rain in torrents, smearing out the fog from the atmosphere, as a painter, with a sponge, might wipe a color from his canvas. Long tails of yellow vapor, twining — twining — but always coiling downward, floated like snakes about them; and the oily waters of the Thames became pock-marked in the growing light.
Stringer now quite clearly discerned the quarry — a very rakish-looking motor cutter, painted black, and speeding seaward ahead of them. He quivered with excitement.
“Do you know the boat?” cried Rogers, addressing his crew in general.
“No, sir,” reported his second-in-command; “she’s a stranger to me. They must have kept her hidden somewhere.” He turned and looked back into the group of faces, all directed toward the strange craft. “Do any of you know her?” he demanded.
A general shaking of heads proclaimed the negative.
“But she can shift,” said one of the men. “They must have been going slow through the fog; she’s creeping up to ten or twelve knots now, I should reckon.”
“Your reckoning’s a trifle out!” snapped Rogers, irritably, from the stern; “but she’s certainly showing us her heels. Can’t we put somebody ashore and have her cut off lower down?”
“While we’re doing that,” cried Stringer, excitedly, “she would land somewhere and we should lose the gang!”
“That’s right,” reluctantly agreed Rogers. “Can you see any of her people?”
Through the sheets of rain all peered eagerly.
“She seems to be pretty well loaded,” reported the man beside Stringer, “but I can’t make her out very well.”
“Are we doing our damnedest?” inquired Rogers.
“We are, sir,” reported the engineer; “she hasn’t got another oat in her!”
Rogers muttered something beneath his breath, and sat there glaring ahead at the boat ever gaining upon her pursuer.
“So long as we keep her in sight,” said Stringer, “our purpose is served. She can’t land anybody.”
“At her present rate,” replied the man upon whose shoulders he was leaning, “she’ll be out of sight by the time we get to Tilbury or she’ll have hit a barge and gone to the bottom!”
“I’ll eat my hat if I lose her!” declared Rogers angrily. “How the blazes they slipped away from the wharf beats me!”
“They didn’t slip away from the wharf,” cried Stringer over his shoulder. “You heard what Sowerby said; they lay in the creek below the wharf, and there was some passageway underneath.”
“But damn it all, man!” cried Rogers, “it’s high tide; they must be a gang of bally mermaids. Why, we were almost level with the wharf when we left, and if they came from BELOW that, as you say, they must have been below water!”
“There they are, anyway,” growled Stringer.
Mile after mile that singular chase continued through the night. With every revolution of the screw, the banks to right and left seemed to recede, as the Thames grew wider and wider. A faint saltiness was perceptible in the air; and Stringer, moistening his dry lips, noted the saline taste.
The shipping grew more scattered. Whereas, at first, when the fog had begun to lift, they had passed wondering faces peering at them from lighters and small steamers, tow boats and larger anchored craft, now they raced, pigmy and remote, upon open waters, and through the raindrift gray hulls showed, distant, and the banks were a faint blur. It seemed absurd that, with all those vessels about, they nevertheless could take no steps to seek assistance in cutting off the boat which they were pursuing, but must drive on through the rain, ever losing, ever dropping behind that black speck ahead.
A faint swell began to be perceptible. Stringer, who throughout the whole pursuit thus far had retained his hold upon the man in the bows, discovered that his fingers were cramped. He had much difficulty in releasing that convulsive grip.
“Thank you!” said the man, smiling, when at last the detective released his grip. “I’ll admit I’d scarcely noticed it myself, but now I come to think of it, you’ve been fastened onto me like a vise for over two hours!”
“Two hours!” cried Stringer; and, crouching down to steady himself, for the cutter was beginning to roll heavily, he pulled out his watch, and in the gray light inspected the dial.
It was true! They had been racing seaward for some hours!
“Good God!” he muttered.
He stood up again, unsteadily, feet wide apart, and peered ahead through the grayness.
The banks he could not see. Far away on the port bow a long gray shape lay — a moored vessel. To starboard were faint blurs, indistinguishable, insignificant; ahead, a black dot with a faint comet-like tail — the pursued cutter — and ahead of that, again, a streak across the blackness, with another dot slightly to the left of the quarry...
He turned and looked along the police boat, noting that whereas, upon the former occasion of his looking, forms and faces had been but dimly visible, now he could distinguish them all quite clearly. The dawn was breaking.
“Where are we?” he inquired hoarsely.
“We’re about one mile northeast of Sheerness and two miles southwest of the Nore Light!” announced Rogers — and he laughed, but not in a particularly mirthful mann
er.
Stringer temporarily found himself without words.
“Cutter heading for the open sea, sir,” announced a man in the bows, unnecessarily.
“Quite so,” snapped Rogers. “So are you!”
“We have got them beaten,” said Stringer, a faint note of triumph in his voice. “We’ve given them no chance to land.”
“If this breeze freshens much,” replied Rogers, with sardonic humor, “they’ll be giving US a fine chance to sink!”
Indeed, although Stringer’s excitement had prevented him from heeding the circumstance, an ever-freshening breeze was blowing in his face, and he noted now that, quite mechanically, he had removed his bowler hat at some time earlier in the pursuit and had placed it in the bottom of the boat. His hair was blown in the wind, which sang merrily in his ears, and the cutter, as her course was slightly altered by Rogers, ceased to roll and began to pitch in a manner very disconcerting to the lands-man.
“It’ll be rather fresh outside, sir,” said one of the men, doubtfully. “We’re miles and miles below our proper patrol”...
“Once we’re clear of the bank it’ll be more than fresh,” replied Rogers; “but if they’re bound for France, or Sweden, or Denmark, that’s OUR destination, too!”...
On — and on — and on they drove. The Nore Light lay astern; they were drenched with spray. Now green water began to spout over the nose of the laboring craft.
“I’ve only enough juice to run us back to Tilbury, sir, if we put about now!” came the shouted report.
“It’s easy to TALK!” roared Rogers. “If one of these big ‘uns gets us broadside on, our number’s up!”...
“Cutter putting over for Sheppey coast, sir!” bellowed the man in the bows.
Stringer raised himself, weakly, and sought to peer through the driving spray and rain-mist.
“By God! THEY’VE TURNED — TURTLE!”...
“Stand by with belts!” bellowed Rogers.
Rapidly life belts were unlashed; and, ahead, to port, to starboard, brine-stung eyes glared out from the reeling craft. Gray in the nascent dawn stretched the tossing sea about them; and lonely they rode upon its billows.
“PORT! PORT! HARD A-PORT!” screamed the lookout.
But Rogers, grimly watching the oncoming billows, knew that to essay the maneuver at that moment meant swamping the cutter. Straight ahead they drove. A wave, higher than any they yet had had to ride, came boiling down upon them... and twisting, writhing, upcasting imploring arms to the elements — the implacable elements — a girl, a dark girl, entwined, imprisoned in silken garments, swept upon its crest!
Out shot a cork belt into the boiling sea... and fell beyond her reach. She was swept past the cutter. A second belt was hurled from the stern...
The Eurasian, uttering a wailing cry like that of a seabird, strove to grasp it...
Close beside her, out of the wave, uprose a yellow hand, grasping — seeking — clutching. It fastened itself into the meshes of her floating hair...
“Here goes!” roared Rogers.
They plunged down into an oily trough; they turned; a second wave grew up above them, threateningly, built its terrible wall higher and higher over their side. Round they swung, and round, and round...
Down swept the eager wave... down — down — down... It lapped over the stern of the cutter; the tiny craft staggered, and paused, tremulous — dragged back by that iron grip of old Neptune — then leaped on — away — headed back into the Thames estuary, triumphant.
“God’s mercy!” whispered Stringer— “that was touch-and-go!”
No living thing moved upon the waters.
XLI
WESTMINSTER — MIDNIGHT
Detective-Sergeant Sowerby reported himself in Inspector Dunbar’s room at New Scotland Yard.
“I have completed my inquiries in Wharf-end Lane,” he said; and pulling out his bulging pocketbook, he consulted it gravely.
Inspector Dunbar looked up.
“Anything important?” he asked.
“We cannot trace the makers of the sanitary fittings, and so forth, but they are all of American pattern. There’s nothing in the nature of a trademark to be found from end to end of the place; even the iron sluice-gate at the bottom of the brick tunnel has had the makers’ name chipped off, apparently with a cold chisel. So you see they were prepared for all emergencies!”
“Evidently,” said Dunbar, resting his chin on the palms of his hands and his elbows upon the table.
“The office and warehouse staff of the ginger importing concern are innocent enough, as you know already. Kan-Suh Concessions was conducted merely as a blind, of course, but it enabled the Chinaman, Ho-Pin, to appear in Wharf-end Lane at all times of the day and night without exciting suspicion. He was supposed to be the manager, of course. The presence of the wharf is sufficient to explain how they managed to build the place without exciting suspicion. They probably had all the material landed there labeled as preserved ginger, and they would take it down below at night, long after the office and warehouse staff of Concessions had gone home. The workmen probably came and went by way of the river, also, commencing work after nightfall and going away before business commenced in the morning.”
“It beats me,” said Dunbar, reflectively, “how masons, plumbers, decorators, and all the other artisans necessary for a job of that description, could have been kept quiet.”
“Foreigners!” said Sowerby triumphantly. “I’ll undertake to say there wasn’t an Englishman on the job. The whole of the gang was probably imported from abroad somewhere, boarded and lodged during the day-time in the neighborhood of Limehouse, and watched by Mr. Ho-Pin or somebody else until the job was finished; then shipped back home again. It’s easily done if money is no object.”
“That’s right enough,” agreed Dunbar; “I have no doubt you’ve hit upon the truth. But now that the place has been dismantled, what does it look like? I haven’t had time to come down myself, but I intend to do so before it’s closed up.”
“Well,” said Sowerby, turning over a page of his notebook, “it looks like a series of vaults, and the Rev. Mr. Firmingham, a local vicar whom I got to inspect it this morning, assures me, positively, that it’s a crypt.”
“A crypt!” exclaimed Dunbar, fixing his eyes upon his subordinate.
“A crypt — exactly. A firm dealing in grease occupied the warehouse before Kan-Suh Concessions rented it, and they never seem to have suspected that the place possessed any cellars. The actual owner of the property, Sir James Crozel, an ex-Lord Mayor, who is also ground landlord of the big works on the other side of the lane, had no more idea than the man in the moon that there were any cellars beneath the place. You see the vaults are below the present level of the Thames at high tide; that’s why nobody ever suspected their existence. Also, an examination of the bare walls — now stripped — shows that they were pretty well filled up to the top with ancient debris, to within a few years ago, at any rate.”
“You mean that our Chinese friends excavated them?”
“No doubt about it. They were every bit of twenty feet below the present street level, and, being right on the bank of the Thames, nobody would have thought of looking for them unless he knew they were there.”
“What do you mean exactly, Sowerby?” said Dunbar, taking out his fountain-pen and tapping his teeth with it.
“I mean,” said Sowerby, “that someone connected with the gang must have located the site of these vaults from some very old map or book.”
“I think you said that the Reverend Somebody-or-Other avers that they were a crypt?”
“He does; and when he pointed out to me the way the pillars were placed, as if to support the nave of a church, I felt disposed to agree with him. The place where the golden dragon used to stand (it isn’t really gold, by the way!) would be under the central aisle, as it were; then there’s a kind of side aisle on the right and left and a large space at top and bottom. The pillars are stone and of very earl
y Norman pattern, and the last three or four steps leading down to the place appear to belong to the original structure. I tell you it’s the crypt of some old forgotten Norman church or monastery chapel.”
“Most extraordinary!” muttered Dunbar.
“But I suppose it is possible enough. Probably the church was burnt or destroyed in some other way; deposits of river mud would gradually cover up the remaining ruins; then in later times, when the banks of the Thames were properly attended to, the site of the place would be entirely forgotten, of course. Most extraordinary!”
“That’s the reverend gentleman’s view, at any rate,” said Sowerby, “and he’s written three books on the subject of early Norman churches! He even goes so far as to say that he has heard — as a sort of legend — of the existence of a very large Carmelite monastery, accommodating over two hundred brothers, which stood somewhere adjoining the Thames within the area now covered by Limehouse Causeway and Pennyfields. There is a little turning not far from the wharf, known locally — it does not appear upon any map — as Prickler’s Lane; and my friend, the vicar, tells me that he has held the theory for a long time” — Sowerby referred to his notebook with great solemnity— “that this is a corruption of Pre-aux-Clerce Lane.”
“H’m!” said Dunbar; “very ingenious, at any rate. Anything else?”
“Nothing much,” said Sowerby, scanning his notes, “that you don’t know already. There was some very good stuff in the place — Oriental ware and so on, a library of books which I’m told is unique, and a tremendous stock of opium and hashish. It’s a perfect maze of doors and observation-traps. There’s a small kitchen at the end, near the head of the tunnel — which, by the way, could be used as a means of entrance and exit at low tide. All the electric power came through the meter of Kan-Suh Concessions.”
“I see,” said Dunbar, reflectively, glancing at his watch; “in a word, we know everything except”...
“What’s that?” said Sowerby, looking up.
“The identity of Mr. King!” replied the inspector, reaching for his hat which lay upon the table.
Sowerby replaced his book in his pocket.
