by Sax Rohmer
“God bless us all!” he said, kissed her heartily, and stood up. “Back to bed you go, my dear. I must be off. There’s Mr. Irvin to see in the morning, too.”
A few minutes later he was swinging through the deserted streets, his mind wholly occupied with lover-like reflections to the exclusion of those professional matters which properly should have been engaging his attention. As he passed the end of a narrow court near the railway station, the gleam of his silver mounted malacca attracted the attention of a couple of loafers who were leaning one on either side of an iron pillar in the shadow of the unsavory alley. Not another pedestrian was in sight, and only the remote night-sounds of London broke the silence.
Twenty paces beyond, the footpads silently closed in upon their prey. The taller of the pair reached him first, only to receive a back-handed blow full in his face which sent him reeling a couple of yards.
Round leapt the assaulted man to face his second assailant.
“If you two smarts really want handling,” he rapped ferociously, “say the word, and I’ll bash you flat.”
As he turned, the light of a neighboring lamp shone down upon the savage face, and a smothered yell came from the shorter ruffian:
“Blimey, Bill! It’s Red Kerry!”
Whereupon, as men pursued by devils, the pair made off like the wind!
Kerry glared after the retreating figures for a moment, and a grin of fierce satisfaction revealed his gleaming teeth. He turned again and swung on his way toward the main road. The incident had done him good. It had banished domestic matters from his mind, and he was become again the highly trained champion of justice, standing, an unseen buckler, between society and the criminal.
CHAPTER IX. A PACKET OF CIGARETTES
Following their dismissal by Chief Inspector Kerry, Seton and Gray walked around to the latter’s chambers in Piccadilly. They proceeded in silence, Gray too angry for speech, and Seton busy with reflections. As the man admitted them:
“Has anyone ‘phoned, Willis?” asked Gray.
“No one, sir.”
They entered a large room which combined the characteristics of a library with those of a military gymnasium. Gray went to a side table and mixed drinks. Placing a glass before Seton, he emptied his own at a draught.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he said, “I should like to ring up and see if by any possible chance there’s news of Rita.”
He walked out to the telephone, and Seton heard him making a call. Then:
“Hullo! Is that you, Hinkes?” he asked.... “Yes, speaking. Is Mrs. Irvin at home?”
A few moments of silence followed, and:
“Thanks! Good-bye,” said Gray.
He rejoined his friend.
“Nothing,” he reported, and made a gesture of angry resignation. “Evidently Hinkes is still unaware of what has happened. Irvin hasn’t returned yet. Seton, this business is driving me mad.”
He refilled his glass, and having looked in his cigarette-case, began to ransack a small cupboard.
“Damn it all!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t got a cigarette in the place!”
“I don’t smoke them myself,” said Seton, “but I can offer you a cheroot.”
“Thanks. They are a trifle too strong. Hullo! here are some.”
From the back of a shelf he produced a small, plain brown packet, and took out of it a cigarette at which he stared oddly. Seton, smoking one of the inevitable cheroots, watched him, tapping his teeth with the rim of his eyeglass.
“Poor old Pyne!” muttered Gray, and, looking up, met the inquiring glance. “Pyne left these here only the other day,” he explained awkwardly. “I don’t know where he got them, but they are something very special. I suppose I might as well.”
He lighted one, and, uttering a weary sigh, threw himself into a deep leather-covered arm-chair. Almost immediately he was up again. The telephone bell had rung. His eyes alight with hope, he ran out, leaving the door open so that his conversation was again audible to the visitor.
“Yes, yes, speaking. What?” His tone changed “Oh, it’s you, Margaret. What?... Certainly, delighted. No, there’s nobody here but old Seton Pasha. What? You’ve heard the fellows talk about him who were out East.... Yes, that’s the chap.... Come right along.”
“You don’t propose to lionise me, I hope, Gray?” said Seton, as Gray returned to his seat.
The other laughed.
“I forgot you could hear me,” he admitted. “It’s my cousin, Margaret Halley. You’ll like her. She’s a tip-top girl, but eccentric. Goes in for pilling.”
“Pilling?” inquired Seton gravely.
“Doctoring. She’s an M.R.C.S., and only about twenty-four or so. Fearfully clever kid; makes me feel an infant.”
“Flat heels, spectacles, and a judicial manner?”
“Flat heels, yes. But not the other. She’s awfully pretty, and used to look simply terrific in khaki. She was an M.O. in Serbia, you know, and afterwards at some nurses’ hospital in Kent. She’s started in practice for herself now round in Dover Street. I wonder what she wants.”
Silence fell between them; for, although prompted by different reasons, both were undesirous of discussing the tragedy; and this silence prevailed until the ringing of the doorbell announced the arrival of the girl. Willis opening the door, she entered composedly, and Gray introduced Seton.
“I am so glad to have met you at last, Mr. Seton,” she said laughingly. “From Quentin’s many accounts I had formed the opinion that you were a kind of Arabian Nights myth.”
“I am glad to disappoint you,” replied Seton, finding something very refreshing in the company of this pretty girl, who wore a creased Burberry, and stray locks of whose abundant bright hair floated about her face in the most careless fashion imaginable.
She turned to her cousin, frowning in a rather puzzled way.
“Whatever have you been burning here?” she asked. “There is such a curious smell in the room.”
Gray laughed more heartily than he had laughed that night, glancing in Seton’s direction.
“So much for your taste in cigars!” he cried
“Oh!” said Margaret, “I’m sure it’s not Mr. Seton’s cigar. It isn’t a smell of tobacco.”
“I don’t believe they’re made of tobacco!” cried Gray, laughing louder yet, although his merriment was forced.
Seton smiled good-naturedly at the joke, but he had perceived at the moment of Margaret’s entrance the fact that her gaiety also was assumed. Serious business had dictated her visit, and he wondered the more to note how deeply this odor, real or fancied, seemed to intrigue her.
She sat down in the chair which Gray placed by the fireside, and her cousin unceremoniously slid the brown packet of cigarettes across the little table in her direction.
“Try one of these, Margaret,” he said. “They are great, and will quite drown the unpleasant odor of which you complain.”
Whereupon the observant Seton saw a quick change take place in the girl’s expression. She had the same clear coloring as her cousin, and now this freshness deserted her cheeks, and her pretty face became quite pale. She was staring at the brown packet. “Where did you get them?” she asked quietly.
A smile faded from Gray’s lips. Those five words had translated him in spirit to that green-draped room in which Sir Lucien Pyne was lying dead. He glanced at Seton in the appealing way which sometimes made him appear so boyish.
“Er — from Pyne,” he replied. “I must tell you, Margaret—”
“Sir Lucien Pyne?” she interrupted.
“Yes.”
“Not from Rita Irvin?”
Quentin Gray started upright in his chair.
“No! But why do you mention her?”
Margaret bit her lip in sudden perplexity.
“Oh, I don’t know.” She glanced apologetically toward Seton. He rose immediately.
“My dear Miss Halley,” he said, “I perceive, indeed I had perceived all along, that you
have something of a private nature to communicate to your cousin.”
But Gray stood up, and:
“Seton!... Margaret!” he said, looking from one to the other. “I mean to say, Margaret, if you’ve anything to tell me about Rita... Have you? Have you?”
He fixed his gaze eagerly upon her.
“I have — yes.”
Seton prepared to take his leave, but Gray impetuously thrust him back, immediately turning again to his cousin.
“Perhaps you haven’t heard, Margaret,” he began. “I have heard what has happened tonight — to Sir Lucien.”
Both men stared at her silently for a moment.
“Seton has been with me all the time,” said Gray. “If he will consent to stay, with your permission, Margaret, I should like him to do so.”
“Why, certainly,” agreed the girl. “In fact, I shall be glad of his advice.”
Seton inclined his head, and without another word resumed his seat. Gray was too excited to sit down again. He stood on the tiger-skin rug before the fender, watching his cousin and smoking furiously.
“Firstly, then,” continued Margaret, “please throw that cigarette in the fire, Quentin.”
Gray removed the cigarette from between his lips, and stared at it dazedly. He looked at the girl, and the clear grey eyes were watching him with an inscrutable expression.
“Right-o!” he said awkwardly, and tossed the cigarette in the fire. “You used to smoke like a furnace, Margaret. Is this some new ‘cult’?”
“I still smoke a great deal more than is good for me,” she confessed, “but I don’t smoke opium.”
The effect of these words upon the two men who listened was curious. Gray turned an angry glance upon the brown packet lying on the table, and “Faugh!” he exclaimed, and drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve began disgustedly to wipe his lips. Seton stared hard at the speaker, tossed his cheroot into the fire, and taking up the packet withdrew a cigarette and sniffed at it critically. Margaret watched him.
He tore the wrapping off, and tasted a strand of the tobacco.
“Good heavens!” he whispered. “Gray, these things are doped!”
CHAPTER X. SIR LUCIEN’S STUDY WINDOW
Old Bond Street presented a gloomy and deserted prospect to Chief Inspector Kerry as he turned out of Piccadilly and swung along toward the premises of Kazmah. He glanced at the names on some of the shop windows as he passed, and wondered if the furriers, jewelers and other merchants dealing in costly wares properly appreciated the services of the Metropolitan Police Force. He thought of the peacefully slumbering tradesmen in their suburban homes, the safety of their stocks wholly dependent upon the vigilance of that Unsleeping Eye — for to an unsleeping eye he mentally compared the service of which he was a member.
A constable stood on duty before the door of the block. Red Kerry was known by sight and reputation to every member of the force, and the constable saluted as the celebrated Chief Inspector appeared.
“Anything to report, constable?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
“The ambulance has been for the body, and another gentleman has been.”
Kerry stared at the man.
“Another gentleman? Who the devil’s the other gentleman?”
“I don’t know, sir. He came with Inspector Whiteleaf, and was inside for nearly an hour.”
“Inspector Whiteleaf is off duty. What time was this?”
“Twelve-thirty, sir.”
Kerry chewed reflectively ere nodding to the man and passing on.
“Another gentleman!” he muttered, entering the hallway. “Why didn’t Inspector Warley report this? Who the devil—” Deep in thought he walked upstairs, finding his way by the light of the pocket torch which he carried. A second constable was on duty at Kazmah’s door. He saluted.
“Anything to report?” rapped Kerry.
“Yes, sir. The body has been removed, and the gentleman with Inspector—”
“Damn that for a tale! Describe this gentleman.”
“Rather tall, pale, dark, clean-shaven. Wore a fur-collared overcoat, collar turned up. He was accompanied by Inspector Whiteleaf.”
“H’m. Anything else?”
“Yes. About an hour ago I heard a noise on the next floor—”
“Eh!” snapped Kerry, and shone the light suddenly into the man’s face so that he blinked furiously.
“Eh? What kind of noise?”
“Very slight. Like something moving.”
“Like something! Like what thing? A cat or an elephant?”
“More like, say, a box or a piece of furniture.”
“And you did — what?”
“I went up to the top landing and listened.”
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing at all.”
Chief Inspector Kerry chewed audibly.
“All quiet?” he snapped.
“Absolutely. But I’m certain I heard something all the same.”
“How long had Inspector Whiteleaf and this dark horse in the fur coat been gone at the time you heard the noise?”
“About half an hour, sir.”
“Do you think the noise came from the landing or from one of the offices above?”
“An office I should say. It was very dim.”
Chief Inspector Kerry pushed upon the broken door, and walked into the rooms of Kazmah. Flashing the ray of his torch on the wall, he found the switch and snapped up the lights. He removed his overall and tossed it on a divan with his cane. Then, tilting his bowler further forward, he thrust his hands into his reefer pockets, and stood staring toward the door, beyond which lay the room of the murder, in darkness.
“Who is he?” he muttered. “What’s it mean?”
Taking up the torch, he walked through and turned on the lights in the inner rooms. For a long time he stood staring at the little square window low down behind the ebony chair, striving to imagine uses for it as his wife had urged him to do. The globular green lamp in the second apartment was worked by three switches situated in the inside room, and he had discovered that in this way the visitor who came to consult Kazmah was treated to the illusion of a gradually falling darkness. Then, the door in the first partition being opened, whoever sat in the ebony chair would become visible by the gradual uncovering of a light situated above the chair. On this light being covered again the figure would apparently fade away.
It was ingenious, and, so far, quite clear. But two things badly puzzled the inquirer; the little window down behind the chair, and the fact that all the arrangements for raising and lowering the lights were situated not in the narrow chamber in which Kazmah’s chair stood, and in which Sir Lucien had been found, but in the room behind it — the room with which the little window communicated.
The table upon which the telephone rested was set immediately under this mysterious window, the window was provided with a green blind, and the switchboard controlling the complicated lighting scheme was also within reach of anyone seated at the table.
Kerry rolled mint gum from side to side of his mouth, and absently tried the handle of the door opening out from this interior room — evidently the office of the establishment — into the corridor. He knew it to be locked. Turning, he walked through the suite and out on to the landing, passing the constable and going upstairs to the top floor, torch in hand.
From the main landing he walked along the narrow corridor until he stood at the head of the back stairs. The door nearest to him bore the name: “Cubanis Cigarette Company.” He tried the handle. The door was locked, as he had anticipated. Kneeling down, he peered into the keyhole, holding the electric torch close beside his face and chewing industriously.
Ere long he stood up, descended again, but by the back stair, and stood staring reflectively at the door communicating with Kazmah’s inner room. Then walking along the corridor to where the man stood on, the landing, he went in again to the mysterious apartments, but only to get his cane and his
overall and to turn out the lights.
Five minutes later he was ringing the late Sir Lucien’s door-bell.
A constable admitted him, and he walked straight through into the study where Coombes, looking very tired but smiling undauntedly, sat at a littered table studying piles of documents.
“Anything to report?” rapped Kerry.
“The man, Mareno, has gone to bed, and the expert from the Home office has been—”
Inspector Kerry brought his cane down with a crash upon the table, whereat Coombes started nervously.
“So that’s it!” he shouted furiously, “an ‘expert from the Home office’! So that’s the dark horse in the fur coat. Coombes! I’m fed up to the back teeth with this gun from the Home office! If I’m not to have entire charge of the case I’ll throw it up. I’ll stand for no blasted overseer checking my work! Wait till I see the Assistant Commissioner! What the devil has the job to do with the Home office!”
“Can’t say,” murmured Coombes. “But he’s evidently a big bug from the way Whiteleaf treated him. He instructed me to stay in the kitchen and keep an eye on Mareno while he prowled about in here.”
“Instructed you!” cried Kerry, his teeth gleaming and his steel-blue eyes creating upon Coombes’ mind an impression that they were emitting sparks. “Instructed you! I’ll ask you a question, Detective-Sergeant Coombes: Who is in charge of this case?”
“Well, I thought you were.”
“You thought I was?”
“Well, you are.”
“I am? Very well — you were saying — ?”
“I was saying that I went into the kitchen—”
“Before that! Something about ‘instructed.’”
Poor Coombes smiled pathetically.
“Look here,” he said, bravely meeting the ferocious glare of his superior, “as man to man. What could I do?”
“You could stop smiling!” snapped Kerry. “Hell!” He paced several times up and down the room. “Go ahead, Coombes.”
“Well, there’s nothing much to report. I stayed in the kitchen, and the man from the Home office was in here alone for about half an hour.”
