Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  He was a clever man within his limitations, and cultured up to a point; but he was not philosopher enough to know that he viewed the purlieus of Limehouse through a haze of Oriental mystery conjured up by the conversation of his companion. Temple bells there were in the clangour of the road cars. The smoke-stacks had a semblance of pagodas. Burma she had conjured up before him, and China, and the soft islands where she had first seen the light. For as well as a streak of European, there was Kanaka blood in Lala, which lent her an appeal quite new to Durham, insidious and therefore dangerous.

  “Not China,” she replied. “Somehow I don’t think I shall ever see China again. But my father is rich, and it is dreadful to think that we live here when there are so many more beautiful places to live in.”

  “Then why does he stay?” asked Durham with curiosity.

  “For money, always for money,” answered Lala, shrugging her shoulders. “Yet if it is not to bring happiness, what good is it?”

  “What good indeed?” murmured Durham.

  “There is no fun for me,” said the girl pathetically. “Sometimes someone nice comes to do business, but mostly they are Jews, Jews, always Jews, and —— —” Again she shrugged eloquently.

  Durham perceived the very opening for which he had been seeking..

  “You evidently don’t like Jews,” he said endeavouring to speak lightly.

  “No,” murmured the girl, “I don’t think I do. Some are nice, though. I think it is the same with every kind of people — there are good and bad.”

  “Were you ever in America?” asked Durham.

  “No.”

  “I was just thinking,” he explained, “that I have known several American Jews who were quite good fellows.”

  “Yes?” said Lala, looking up at him naively, “I met one not long ago. He was not nice at all.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Durham, startled by this admission, which he had not anticipated. “One of your father’s customers?”

  “Yes, a man named Cohen.”

  “Cohen?”

  “A funny little chap,” continued the girl. “He tried to make love to me.” She lowered her lashes roguishly. “I knew all along he was pretending. He was a thief, I think. I was afraid of him.”

  Durham did some rapid thinking, then:

  “Did you say his name was Cohen?” he asked.

  “That was the name he gave.”

  “A man named Cohen, an American, was found dead in the river quite recently.”

  Lala stopped dead and clutched his arm.

  “How do you know?” she demanded.

  “There was a paragraph in this morning’s paper.”

  She hesitated, then:

  “Did it describe him?” she asked.

  “No,” replied Durham, “I don’t think it did in detail. At least, the only part of the description which I remember is that he wore a large and valuable diamond on his left hand.”

  “Oh!” whispered Lala.

  She released her grip of Durham’s arm and went on.

  “What?” he asked. “Did you think it was someone you knew?”

  “I did know him,” she replied simply. “The man who was found drowned. It is the same. I am sure now, because of the diamond ring. What paper did you read it in? I want to read it myself.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t remember. It was probably the Daily Mail.”

  “Had he been drowned?”

  “I presume so — yes,” replied Durham guardedly.

  Lala Huang was silent for some time while they paced on through the dusk. Then:

  “How strange!” she said in a low voice.

  “I am sorry I mentioned it,” declared Durham. “But how was I to know it was your friend?”

  “He was no friend of mine,” returned the girl sharply. “I hated him. But it is strange nevertheless. I am sure he intended to rob my father.”

  “And is that why you think it strange?”

  “Yes,” she said, but her voice was almost inaudible.

  They were come now to the narrow street communicating with the courtway in which the great treasure-house of Huang Chow was situated, and Lala stopped at the corner.

  “It was nice of you to walk along with me,” she said. “Do you live in Limehouse?”

  “No,” replied Durham, “I don’t. As a matter of fact, I came down here to-night in the hope of seeing you again.”

  “Did you?”

  The girl glanced up at him doubtfully, and his distaste for the task set him by his superior increased with the passing of every moment. He was a man of some imagination, a great reader, and ambitious professionally. He appreciated the fact that Chief Inspector Kerry looked for great things from him, but for this type of work he had little inclination.

  There was too much chivalry in his make-up to enable him to play upon a woman’s sentiments, even in the interests of justice. By whatever means the man Cohen had met his death, and whether or no the Chinaman Pi Lung had died by the same hand, Lala Huang was innocent of any complicity in these matters, he was perfectly well assured.

  Doubts were to come later when he was away from her, when he had had leisure to consider that she might regard him in the light of a third potential rifler of her father’s treasure-house. But at the moment, looking down into her dark eyes, he reproached himself and wondered where his true duty lay.

  “It is so gray and dull and sordid here,” said the girl, looking down the darkened street. “There is no one much to talk to.”

  “But you have your business interests to keep you employed during the day, after all.”

  “I hate it all. I hate it all.”

  “But you seem to have perfect freedom?”

  “Yes. My mother, you see, was not Chinese.”

  “But you wish to leave Limehouse?”

  “I do. I do. Just now it is not so bad, but in the winter how I tire of the gray skies, the endless drizzling rain. Oh!” She shrank back into the shadow of a doorway, clutching at Durham’s arm. “Don’t let Ah Fu see me.”

  “Ah Fu? Who is Ah Fu?” asked Durham, also drawing back as a furtive figure went slinking down the opposite side of the street.

  “My father’s servant. He let you in this morning.”

  “And why must he not see you?”

  “I don’t trust him. I think he tells my father things.”

  “What is it that he carries in his hand?”

  “A birdcage, I expect.”

  “A birdcage?”

  “Yes!”

  He caught the gleam of her eyes as she looked up at him out of the shadow.

  “Is he, then, a bird-fancier?”

  “No, no, I can’t explain because I don’t understand myself. But Ah Fu goes to a place in Shadwell regularly and buys young birds, always very young ones and very little ones.”

  “For what or for whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you an aviary in your house?”

  “No.”

  “Do you mean that they disappear, these purchases of Ah Fu’s?”

  “I often see him carrying a cage of young birds, but we have no birds in the house.”

  “How perfectly extraordinary!” muttered Durham.

  “I distrust Ah Fu,” whispered the girl. “I am glad he did not see me with you.”

  “Young birds,” murmured Durham absently. “What kind of young birds? Any particular breed?”

  “No; canaries, linnets — all sorts. Isn’t it funny?” The girl laughed in a childish way. “And now I think Ah Fu will have gone in, so I must say good night.”

  But when presently Detective Durham found himself walking back along West India Dock Road, his mind’s eye was set upon the slinking figure of a Chinaman carrying a birdcage.

  VI

  A HINT OF INCENSE

  One Chinaman more or less does not make any very great difference to the authorities responsible for maintaining law and order in Limehouse. Asiatic settlers are at liberty to follow their nation
al propensities, and to knife one another within reason. This is wisdom. Such recreations are allowed, if not encouraged, by all wise rulers of Eastern peoples.

  “Found drowned,” too, is a verdict which has covered many a dark mystery of old Thames, but “Found in the river, death having been due to the action of some poison unknown,” is a finding which even in the case of a Chinaman is calculated to stimulate the jaded official mind.

  New Scotland Yard had given Durham a roving commission, and had been justified in the fact that the second victim, and this time not a Chinaman, had been found under almost identical conditions. The link with the establishment of Huang Chow was incomplete, and Durham fully recognized that it was up to him to make it sound and incontestable.

  Jim Poland was not the only man in the East End who knew that the dead Chinaman had been in negotiation with Huang Chow. Kerry knew it, and had passed the information on to Durham.

  Some mystery surrounded the life of the old dealer, who was said to be a mandarin of high rank, but his exact association with the deaths first of the Chinaman Pi Lung, and second of Cohen, remained to be proved. Certain critics have declared the Metropolitan detective service to be obsolete and inefficient. Kerry, as a potential superintendent, resented these criticisms, and in his protege Durham, perceived a member of the new generation who was likely in time to produce results calculated to remove this stigma.

  Durham recognized that a greater responsibility rested upon his shoulders than the actual importance of the case might have indicated; and now, proceeding warily along the deserted streets, he found his brain to be extraordinarily active and his imagination very much alive.

  There is a night life in Limehouse, as he had learned, but it is a mole life, a subterranean life, of which no sign appears above ground after a certain hour. Nevertheless, as he entered the area which harbours those strange, hidden resorts the rumour of which has served to create the glamour of Chinatown, he found himself to be thinking of the great influence said to be wielded by Huang Chow, and wondering if unseen spies watched his movements.

  Lala was Oriental, and now, alone in the night, distrust leapt into being within him. He had been attracted by her and had pitied her. He told himself now that this was because of her dark beauty and the essentially feminine appeal which she made. She was perhaps a vampire of the most dangerous sort, one who lured men to strange deaths for some sinister object beyond reach of a Western imagination.

  He found himself doubting the success of those tactics upon which, earlier in the day, he had congratulated himself. Perhaps beneath the guise of Hampden, who bought antique furniture on commission, those cunning old eyes beneath the horn-rimmed spectacles had perceived the detective hidden, or at least had marked subterfuge.

  While he could not count Lala a conquest — for he had not even attempted to make love to her — the ease with which he had developed the acquaintance now, afforded matter for suspicion.

  At the entrance to the court communicating with the establishment of Huang Chow he paused, looking cautiously about him. The men on the Limehouse beats had been warned of the investigation afoot tonight, and there was a plain-clothes man on point duty at no great distance away, although carefully hidden, so that Durham had quite failed to detect his presence.

  Durham wore rough clothes and rubber-soled shoes; and now, as he entered the court, he was thinking of the official report of the police sergeant who, not so many hours before, had paid a visit to the house of Huang Chow in order to question him respecting his knowledge of the dead man Cohen, and to learn when last he had seen him.

  Old Huang, who had received his caller in the large room upstairs, the room which boasted the presence of the writing-dais, had exhibited no trace of confusion, assuring the sergeant that he had not seen the man Cohen for several days. Cohen had come to him with an American introduction, which he, Huang, believed to be forged, and had wanted him to undertake a shady agency, respecting the details of which he remained peculiarly reticent. In short, nothing had been gained by this official interrogation, and Huang blandly denied any knowledge of an attempted burglary of his establishment.

  “What have I to lose?” he had asked the inquirer. “A lot of old lumber which I have accumulated during many years, and a reputation for being wealthy, due to my lonely habits and to the ignorance of those who live around me.”

  Durham, mentally reviewing the words of the report, reconstructed the scene in his mind; and now, having come to the end of the lane where the iron post rested, he stood staring up at a place in the ancient wall where several bricks had decayed, and where it was possible, according to the statement of the man Poland, to climb up on to a piece of sloping roof, and thence gain the skylight through which Cohen had obtained admittance on the night of his death.

  He made sure that his automatic pistol was in his pocket, questioned the dull sounds of the riverside for a moment, looking about him anxiously, and then, using the leaning post as a stepping-stone, he succeeded in wedging his foot into a crevice in the wall. By the exercise of some agility he scrambled up to the top, and presently found himself lying upon a sloping roof.

  The skylight remained well out of reach, but his rubber-soled shoes enabled him to creep up the slates until he could grasp the framework with his hands. Presently he found himself perched upon the trap which, if his information could be relied upon, possessed no fastener, or one so faulty that the trap could be raised by means of a brad-awl. He carried one in his pocket, and, screwing it into the framework, he lifted it cautiously, making very little noise.

  The trap opened, and up to his nostrils there stole a queer, indefinable odour, partly that which belongs to old Oriental furniture and stuffs, but having mingled with it a hint of incense and of something else not so easily named. He recognized the smell of that strange store-room, which, as Mr. Hampden, he had recently visited.

  For one moment he thought he could detect the distant note of a bell. But, listening, he heard nothing, and was reassured.

  He rested the trap back against the frame, and shone the ray of an electric torch down into the darkness beneath him. The light fell upon the top of a low carven table, dragon-legged and gilded. Upon it rested the model pagoda constructed of human teeth, and there was something in this discovery which made Durham feel inclined to shudder. However, the impulse was only a passing one.

  He measured the distance with his eye. The little table stood beside a deep divan, and he saw that with care it would be possible to drop upon this divan without making much noise. He calculated its exact position before replacing the torch in his pocket, and then, resting back against one side of the frame, he clutched the other with his hands. He wriggled gradually down until further purchase became impossible. He then let himself drop, and swung for a moment by his hands before releasing his hold.

  He fell, as he had calculated, upon the divan. It creaked ominously. Catching his foot in the cushions, he stumbled and lay forward for a moment upon his face, listening intently.

  The room was very hot but nothing stirred.

  VII

  THE SCUFFLING SOUND

  Detective Durham, as he lay there inhaling the peculiar perfume of the place, recognized that he had put himself outside the pale of official protection, and was become technically a burglar.

  He wondered if Chief Inspector Kerry would have approved; but he had outlined this plan of investigation for himself, and knew well that, if it were crowned by success, the end would be regarded as having justified the means. On the other hand, in the event of detention he must personally bear the consequences of such irregular behaviour. He knew well, however, that his celebrated superior had achieved promotion by methods at least as irregular; and he knew that if he could but obtain evidence to account for the death of the man Cohen, and of the Chinaman Pi Lung, who had preceded him by the same mysterious path, the way of his obtaining it would not be too closely questioned.

  He was an ambitious man, and consequently one who took big
chances. Nothing disturbed the silence; he sat upon the divan and again pressed the button of his torch, shining it all about the low-beamed apartment and peering curiously into the weird shadows of the place. He calculated he was now in the position which Cohen had occupied during the last moments of his life, and a sense of the uncanny touched him coldly.

  As he thought of the unnatural screams spoken of by Poland, some strange instinct prompted him to curl up his feet upon the divan again, as though a secret menace crawled upon the floor amid its many rugs and carpets.

  He must now endeavour to reconstruct the plan upon which the American cracksman had operated. Poland had a persistent belief that Cohen had known where the fabled hoard of Huang Chow was concealed.

  Durham began a deliberate inspection of the place. He thought it unlikely that a wily old Chinaman, assuming that he possessed hidden wealth, would keep it in so accessible a spot as this. It was far more probable that he had a fireproof safe in the room upstairs, perhaps built into the wall. Yet, according to Poland’s account, it was in this room and not in any other that death came to Diamond Fred.

  The wall-hangings first engaged Durham’s attention. He moved them aside systematically, one after another, seeking for any hiding-place, but failing to find one. The door communicating with the outer office he found to be locked, but he did not believe for a moment that the office would be worthy of inspection.

  There were cases containing jewelled weapons and cups and goblets inlaid with precious stones, but none of these seemed to have been tampered with, and all were locked, as was the big cabinet filled with snuff bottles.

  Many of the larger pieces about the place contained drawers and cupboards, and these he systematically opened one after another, without making any discovery of note. Some of the cupboards contained broken pieces of crockery, and more or less damaged curios of one kind and another, but none of them gave him the clue for which he was seeking.

  He examined the couch upon which Huang Chow had been seated when first he had met him, but although he searched it scientifically he was rewarded by no discovery.