by Sax Rohmer
He raised his hand and blew imaginary fluff into space. Kerry stared down at him with an expression in which animal ferocity and helplessness were oddly blended. Then:
“Bryce,” he said, “stay here. I’m going to search the house.”
“Very good, sir.”
Kerry turned again to the Chinaman.
“Is there anyone upstairs?” he demanded.
“Nobody hate. Sin Sin Wa alla samee lonesome. Catchee shinum him joss.”
Kerry dropped the handcuffs back into the pocket of his overall and took out an electric torch. With never another glance at Sin Sin Wa he went out into the passage and began to mount the stairs, presently finding himself in a room filled with all sorts of unsavory rubbish and containing a large cupboard. He uttered an exclamation of triumph.
Crossing the littered floor, and picking his way amid broken cane chairs, tea-chests, discarded garments and bedlaths, he threw open the cupboard door. Before him hung a row of ragged clothes and a number of bowler hats. Directing the ray of the torch upon the unsavory collection, he snatched coats and hats from the hooks upon which they depended and hurled them impatiently upon the floor.
When the cupboard was empty he stepped into it and began to bang upon the back. The savagery of his expression grew more marked than usual, and as he chewed his maxillary muscles protruded extraordinarily.
“If ever I sounded a brick wall,” he muttered, “I’m doing it now.”
Tap where he would — and he tapped with his knuckles and with the bone ferrule of his cane — there was nothing in the resulting sound to suggest that that part of the wall behind the cupboard was less solid than any other part.
He examined the room rapidly, then passed into another one adjoining it, which was evidently used as a bedroom. The latter faced towards the court and did not come in contact with the wall of the neighboring house. In both rooms the windows were fastened, and judging from the state of the fasteners were never opened. In that containing the cupboard outside shutters were also closed. Despite this sealing-up of the apartments, traces of fog hung in the air. Kerry descended the stairs.
Snapping off the light of his torch, he stood, feet wide apart, staring at Sin Sin Wa. The latter, smiling imperturbably, yellow hands resting upon knees, sat quite still on the tea-chest. Constable Bryce was seated on a corner of the table, looking curiously awkward in his tweed overcoat and bowler hat, which garments quite failed to disguise the policeman. He stood up as Kerry entered. Then:
“There used to be a door between this house and the next,” said Kerry succinctly. “My information is exact and given by someone who has often used that door.”
“Bloody liar,” murmured Sin Sin Wa.
“What!” shouted Kerry. “What did you say, you yellow-faced mongrel!”
He clenched his fists and strode towards the Chinaman.
“Sarcee feller catchee pullee leg,” explained the unmoved Sin Sin Wa. “Velly bad man tellee lie for makee bhoberry — getchee poor Chinaman in tlouble.”
In the fog-bound silence Kerry could very distinctly be heard chewing. He turned suddenly to Bryce.
“Go back and fetch two men,” he directed. “I should never find my way.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bryce stepped to the door, unable to hide the relief which he experienced, and opened it. The fog was so dense that it looked like a yellow curtain hung in the opening.
“Phew!” said Bryce. “I may be some little time, sir.”
“Quite likely. But don’t stop to pick daisies.”
The constable went out, closing the door. Kerry laid his cane on the table, then stooped and tossed a cud of chewing-gum into the stove. From his waistcoat pocket he drew out a fresh piece and placed it between his teeth. Drawing a tea-chest closer to the stove, he seated himself and stared intently into the glowing heart of the fire.
Sin Sin Wa extended his arm and opened the little cupboard.
“Number one p’lice,” croaked the raven drowsily.
“You catchee sleepee, Tling-a-Ling,” said Sin Sin Wa.
He took out the green-eyed joss, set it tenderly upon a corner of the table, and closed the cupboard door. With a piece of chamois leather, which he sometimes dipped into a little square tin, he began to polish the hideous figure.
CHAPTER XXIX. DOUBTS AND FEARS
Monte Irvin raised his head and stared dully at Margaret Halley. It was very quiet in the library of the big old-fashioned house at Prince’s Gate. A faint crackling sound which proceeded from the fire was clearly audible. Margaret’s grey eyes were anxiously watching the man whose pose as he sat in the deep, saddle-back chair so curiously suggested collapse.
“Drugs,” he whispered. “Drugs.”
Few of his City associates would have recognized the voice; all would have been shocked to see the change which had taken place in the man.
“You really understand why I have told you, Mr. Irvin, don’t you?” said Margaret almost pleadingly. “Dr. Burton thought you should not be told, but then Dr. Burton did not know you were going to ask me point blank. And I thought it better that you should know the truth, bad as it is, rather than—”
“Rather than suspect — worse things,” whispered Irvin. “Of course, you were right, Miss Halley. I am very, very grateful to you for telling me. I realize what courage it must have called for. Believe me, I shall always remember—”
He broke off, staring across the room at his wife’s portrait. Then:
“If only I had known,” he added.
Irvin exhibited greater composure than Margaret had ventured to anticipate. She was confirmed in her opinion that he should be told the truth.
“I would have told you long ago,” she said, “if I had thought that any good could result from my doing so. Frankly, I had hoped to cure Rita of the habit, and I believe I might have succeeded in time.”
“There has been no mention of drugs in connection with the case,” said Monte Irvin, speaking monotonously. “In the Press, I mean.”
“Hitherto there has not,” she replied. “But there is a hint of it in one of this evening’s papers, and I determined to give you the exact facts so far as they are known to me before some garbled account came to your ears.”
“Thank you,” he said, “thank you. I had felt for a long time that I was getting out of touch with Rita, that she had other confidants. Have you any idea who they were, Miss Halley?”
He raised his eyes, looking at her pathetically. Margaret hesitated, then:
“Well,” she replied, “I am afraid Nina knew.”
“Her maid?”
“I think she must have known.”
He sighed.
“The police have interrogated her,” he said. “Probably she is being watched.”
“Oh, I don’t think she knows anything about the drug syndicate,” declared Margaret. “She merely acted as confidential messenger. Poor Sir Lucien Pyne, I am sure, was addicted to drugs.”
“Do you think” — Irvin spoke in a very low voice— “do you think he led her into the habit?”
Margaret bit her lip, staring down at the red carpet.
“I would hate to slander a man who can never defend himself,” she replied finally. “But — I have sometimes thought he did.”
Silence fell. Both were contemplating a theory which neither dared to express in words.
“You see,” continued Margaret, “it is evident that this man Kazmah was patronized by people so highly placed that it is hopeless to look for information from them. Again, such people have influence. I don’t suggest that they are using it to protect Kazmah, but I have no doubt they are doing so to protect themselves.”
Monte Irvin raised his eyes to her face. A weary, sad look had come into them.
“You mean that it may be to somebody’s interest to hush up the matter as much as possible?”
Margaret nodded her head.
“The prevalence of the drug habit in society — especially in London soci
ety — is a secret which has remained hidden so long from the general public,” she replied, “that one cannot help looking for bribery and corruption. The stage is made the scapegoat whenever the voice of scandal breathes the word ‘dope,’ but we rarely hear the names of the worst offenders even whispered. I have thought for a long time that the authorities must know the names of the receivers and distributors of cocaine, veronal, opium, and the other drugs, huge quantities of which find their way regularly to the West End of London. Pharmacists sometimes experience the greatest difficulty in obtaining the drugs which they legitimately require, and the prices have increased extraordinarily. Cocaine, for instance, has gone up from five and sixpence an ounce to eighty-seven shillings, and heroin from three and sixpence to over forty shillings, while opium that was once about twenty shillings a pound is now eight times the price.”
Monte Irvin listened attentively.
“In the course of my Guildhall duties,” he said slowly, “I have been brought in contact frequently with police officers of all ranks. If influential people are really at work protecting these villains who deal illicitly in drugs, I don’t think, and I am not prepared to believe, that they have corrupted the police.”
“Neither do I believe so, Mr. Irvin!” said Margaret eagerly.
“But,” Irvin pursued, exhibiting greater animation, “you inform me that a Home office commissioner has been appointed. What does this mean, if not that Lord Wrexborough distrusts the police?”
“Well, you see, the police seemed to be unable, or unwilling, to do anything in the matter. Of course, this may have been due to the fact that the traffic was so skilfully handled that it defied their inquiries.”
“Take, as an instance, Chief Inspector Kerry,” continued Irvin. “He has exhibited the utmost delicacy and consideration in his dealings with me, but I’ll swear that a whiter man never breathed.”
“Oh, really, Mr. Irvin, I don’t think for a moment that men of that class are suspected of being concerned. Indeed, I don’t believe any active collusion is suspected at all.”
“Lord Wrexborough thinks that Scotland Yard hasn’t got an officer clever enough for the dope people?”
“Quite possibly.”
“I take it that he has put up a secret service man?”
“I believe — that is, I know he has.”
Monte Irvin was watching Margaret’s face, and despite the dull misery which deadened his usually quick perceptions, he detected a heightened color and a faint change of expression. He did not question her further upon the point, but:
“God knows I welcome all the help that offers,” he said. “Lord Wrexborough is your uncle, Miss Halley; but do you think this secret commission business quite fair to Scotland Yard?”
Margaret stared for some moments at the carpet, then raised her grey eyes and looked earnestly at the speaker. She had learned in the brief time that had elapsed since this black sorrow had come upon him to understand what it was in the character of Monte Irvin which had attracted Rita. It afforded an illustration of that obscure law governing the magnetism which subsists between diverse natures. For not all the agony of mind which he suffered could hide or mar the cleanness and honesty of purpose which were Monte Irvin’s outstanding qualities.
“No,” Margaret replied, “honestly, I don’t. And I feel rather guilty about it, too, because I have been urging uncle to take such a step for quite a long time. You see” — she glanced at Irvin wistfully— “I am brought in contact with so many victims of the drug habit. I believe the police are hampered; and these people who deal in drugs manage in some way to evade the law. The Home office agent will report to a committee appointed by Lord Wrexborough, and then, you see, if it is found necessary to do so, there will be special legislation.”
Monte Irvin sighed wearily, and his glance strayed in the direction of the telephone on the side-table. He seemed to be constantly listening for something which he expected but dreaded to hear. Whenever the toy spaniel which lay curled up on the rug before the fire moved or looked towards the door, Irvin started and his expression changed.
“This suspense,” he said jerkily, “this suspense is so hard to bear.”
“Oh, Mr. Irvin, your courage is wonderful,” replied Margaret earnestly. “But he” — she hastily corrected herself— “everybody is convinced that Rita is safe. Under some strange misapprehension regarding this awful tragedy she has run away into hiding. Probably she has been induced to do so by those interested in preventing her from giving evidence.”
Monte Irvin’s eyes lighted up strangely. “Is that the opinion of the Home office agent?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Inspector Kerry shares it,” declared Irvin. “Please God they are right.”
“It is the only possible explanation,” said Margaret. “Any hour now we may expect news of her.”
“You don’t think,” pursued Monte Irvin, “that anybody — anybody — suspects Rita of being concerned in the death of Sir Lucien?”
He fixed a gaze of pathetic inquiry upon her face.
“Of course not!” she cried. “How ridiculous it would be.”
“Yes,” he murmured, “it would be ridiculous.”
Margaret stood up.
“I am quite relieved now that I have done what I conceived to be my duty, Mr. Irvin,” she said. “And, bad as the truth may be, it is better than doubt, after all. You must look after yourself, you know. When Rita comes back we shall have a big task before us to wean her from her old habits.” She met his glance frankly. “But we shall succeed.”
“How you cheer me,” whispered Monte Irvin emotionally. “You are the truest friend that Rita ever had, Miss Halley. You will keep in touch with me, will you not?”
“Of course. Next to yourself there is no one so sincerely interested as I am. I love Rita as I should have loved a sister if I had had one. Please don’t stand up. Dr. Burton has told you to avoid all exertion for a week or more, I know.”
Monte Irvin grasped her outstretched hand.
“Any news which reaches me,” he said, “I will communicate immediately. Thank you. In times of trouble we learn to know our real friends.”
CHAPTER XXX. THE FIGHT IN THE DARK
Towards eleven o’clock at night the fog began slightly to lift. As Kerry crossed the bridge over Limehouse Canal he could vaguely discern the dirty water below, and street lamps showed dimly, surrounded each by a halo of yellow mist. Fog signals were booming on the railway, and from the great docks in the neighborhood mechanical clashings and hammerings were audible.
Turning to the right, Kerry walked on for some distance, and then suddenly stepped into the entrance to a narrow cul-de-sac and stood quite still.
A conviction had been growing upon him during the past twelve hours that someone was persistently and cleverly dogging his footsteps. He had first detected the presence of this mysterious follower outside the house of Sin Sin Wa, but the density of the fog had made it impossible for him to obtain a glimpse of the man’s face. He was convinced, too, that he had been followed back to Leman Street, and from there to New Scotland Yard. Now, again he became aware of this persistent presence, and hoped at last to confront the spy.
Below footsteps, the footsteps of someone proceeding with the utmost caution, came along the pavement. Kerry stood close to the wall of the court, one hand in a pocket of his overall, waiting and chewing.
Nearer came the footsteps — and nearer. A shadowy figure appeared only a yard or so away from the watchful Chief Inspector. Thereupon he acted.
With one surprising spring he hurled himself upon the unprepared man, grasped him by his coat collar, and shone the light of an electric torch fully into his face.
“Hell!” he snapped. “The smart from Spinker’s!”
The ray of the torch lighted up the mean, pinched face of Brisley, blanched now by fright, gleamed upon the sharp, hooked nose and into the cunning little brown eyes. Brisley licked his lips. In Kerry’s muscular grip he bore
quite a remarkable resemblance to a rat in the jaws of a terrier.
“Ho, ho!” continued the Chief Inspector, showing his teeth savagely. “So we let Scotland Yard make the pie, and then we steal all the plums, do we?”
He shook the frightened man until Brisley’s broad-brimmed bowler was shaken off, revealing the receding brow and scanty neutral-colored hair.
“We let Scotland Yard work night and day, and then we present our rat-faced selves to Mr. Monte Irvin and say we have ‘found the lady’ do we?” Another vigorous shake followed. “We track Chief Inspectors of the Criminal Investigation Department, do we? We do, eh? We are dirty, skulking mongrels, aren’t we? We require to be kicked from Limehouse to Paradise, don’t we?” He suddenly released Brisley. “So we shall be!” he shouted furiously.
Hot upon the promise came the deed.
Brisley sent up a howl of pain as Kerry’s right brogue came into violent contact with his person. The assault almost lifted him off his feet, and hatless as he was he set off, running as a man runs whose life depends upon his speed. The sound of his pattering footsteps was echoed from wall to wall of the cul-de-sac until finally it was swallowed up in the fog.
Kerry stood listening for some moments, then, directing a furious kick upon the bowler which lay at his feet, he snapped off the light of the torch and pursued his way. The lesser mystery was solved, but the greater was before him.
He had made a careful study of the geography of the neighborhood, and although the fog was still dense enough to be confusing, he found his way without much difficulty to the street for which he was bound. Some fifteen paces along the narrow thoroughfare he came upon someone standing by a closed door set in a high brick wall. The street contained no dwelling houses, and except for the solitary figure by the door was deserted and silent. Kerry took out his torch and shone a white ring upon the smiling countenance of Detective-Sergeant Coombes.
“If that smile gets any worse,” he said irritably, “they’ll have to move your ears back. Anything to report?”
“Sin Sin Wa went to bed an hour ago.”
