Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “Course I can. ‘E lives hat num’er 36 Forth Street, Brixton, and ‘e’s out o’ the big Brixton depot.”

  “Oh!” said Dunbar, dryly. “Does he owe you anything?”

  “Wotcher say, guv’nor?”

  “I say, it’s very good of you to take all this trouble and whatever it has cost you in time, we shall be pleased to put right.”

  Mr. Hamper spat in his right palm, and rubbed his hands together, appreciatively.

  “Make it five bob!” he said.

  “Wait downstairs,” directed Dunbar, pressing a bell-push beside the door. “I’ll get it put through for you.”

  “Right ‘o!” rumbled the cabman, and went lurching from the room as a constable in uniform appeared at the door. “Good mornin’, guv’nor. Good mornin’!”

  The cabman having departed, leaving in his wake a fragrant odor of fourpenny ale: —

  “Here you are, Sowerby!” cried Dunbar. “We are moving at last! This is the address of the late Mrs. Vernon’s maid. See her; feel your ground, carefully, of course; get to know what clothes Mrs. Vernon took with her on her periodical visits to Scotland.”

  “What clothes?”

  “That’s the idea; it is important. I don’t think the girl was in her mistress’s confidence, but I leave it to you to find out. If circumstances point to my surmise being inaccurate — you know how to act.”

  “Just let me glance over your notes, bearing on the matter,” said Sowerby, “and I’ll be off.”

  Dunbar handed him the bulging notebook, and Sergeant Sowerby lowered his inadequate eyebrows, thoughtfully, whilst he scanned the evidence of Mr. Debnam. Then, returning the book to his superior, and adjusting the peculiar bowler firmly upon his head, he set out.

  Dunbar glanced through some papers — apparently reports — which lay upon the table, penciled comments upon two of them, and then, consulting his notebook once more in order to refresh his memory, started off for Forth Street, Brixton.

  Forth Street, Brixton, is a depressing thoroughfare. It contains small, cheap flats, and a number of frowsy looking houses which give one the impression of having run to seed. A hostelry of sad aspect occupies a commanding position midway along the street, but inspires the traveler not with cheer, but with lugubrious reflections upon the horrors of inebriety. The odors, unpleasantly mingled, of fried bacon and paraffin oil, are wafted to the wayfarer from the porches of these family residences.

  Number 36 proved to be such a villa, and Inspector Dunbar contemplated it from a distance, thoughtfully. As he stood by the door of the public house, gazing across the street, a tired looking woman, lean and anxious-eyed, a poor, dried up bean-pod of a woman, appeared from the door of number 36, carrying a basket. She walked along in the direction of the neighboring highroad, and Dunbar casually followed her.

  For some ten minutes he studied her activities, noting that she went from shop to shop until her basket was laden with provisions of all sorts. When she entered a wine-and-spirit merchant’s, the detective entered close behind her, for the place was also a post-office. Whilst he purchased a penny stamp and fumbled in his pocket for an imaginary letter, he observed, with interest, that the woman had purchased, and was loading into the hospitable basket, a bottle of whisky, a bottle of rum, and a bottle of gin.

  He left the shop ahead of her, sure, now, of his ground, always provided that the woman proved to be Mrs. Brian. Dunbar walked along Forth Street slowly enough to enable the woman to overtake him. At the door of number 36, he glanced up at the number, questioningly, and turned in the gate as she was about to enter.

  He raised his hat.

  “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Brian?”

  Momentarily, a hard look came into the tired eyes, but Dunbar’s gentleness of manner and voice, together with the kindly expression upon his face, turned the scales favorably.

  “I am Mrs. Brian,” she said; “yes. Did you want to see me?”

  “On a matter of some importance. May I come in?”

  She nodded and led the way into the house; the door was not closed.

  In a living-room whereon was written a pathetic history — a history of decline from easy circumstance and respectability to poverty and utter disregard of appearances — she confronted him, setting down her basket on a table from which the remains of a fish breakfast were not yet removed.

  “Is your husband in?” inquired Dunbar with a subtle change of manner.

  “He’s lying down.”

  The hard look was creeping again into the woman’s eyes.

  “Will you please awake him, and tell him that I have called in regard to his license?”

  He thrust a card into her hand: —

  DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR DUNBAR, C. I. D. NEW SCOTLAND YARD. S. W.

  IX

  THE MAN IN BLACK

  Mrs. Brian started back, with a wild look, a trapped look, in her eyes.

  “What’s he done?” she inquired. “What’s he done? Tom’s not done anything!”

  “Be good enough to waken him,” persisted the inspector. “I wish to speak to him.”

  Mrs. Brian walked slowly from the room and could be heard entering one further along the passage. An angry snarling, suggesting that of a wild animal disturbed in its lair, proclaimed the arousing of Taximan Thomas Brian. A thick voice inquired, brutally, why the sanguinary hell he (Mr. Brian) had had his bloodstained slumbers disturbed in this gory manner and who was the vermilion blighter responsible.

  Then Mrs. Brian’s voice mingled with that of her husband, and both became subdued. Finally, a slim man, who wore a short beard, or had omitted to shave for some days, appeared at the door of the living-room. His face was another history upon the same subject as that which might be studied from the walls, the floor, and the appointments of the room. Inspector Dunbar perceived that the shadow of the neighboring hostelry overlay this home.

  “What’s up?” inquired the new arrival.

  The tone of his voice, thickened by excess, was yet eloquent of the gentleman. The barriers passed, your pariah gentleman can be the completest blackguard of them all. He spoke coarsely, and the infectious Cockney accent showed itself in his vowels; but Dunbar, a trained observer, summed up his man in a moment and acted accordingly.

  “Come in and shut the door!” he directed. “No” — as Mrs. Brian sought to enter behind her husband— “I wish to speak with you, privately.”

  “Hop it!” instructed Brian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder — and Mrs. Brian obediently disappeared, closing the door.

  “Now,” said Dunbar, looking the man up and down, “have you been into the depot, to-day?”

  “No.”

  “But you have heard that there’s an inquiry?”

  “I’ve heard nothing. I’ve been in bed.”

  “We won’t argue about that. I’ll simply put a question to you: Where did you pick up the fare that you dropped at Palace Mansions at twelve o’clock last night?”

  “Palace Mansions!” muttered Brian, shifting uneasily beneath the unflinching stare of the tawny eyes. “What d’you mean? What Palace Mansions?”

  “Don’t quibble!” warned Dunbar, thrusting out a finger at him. “This is not a matter of a loss of license; it’s a life job!”

  “Life job!” whispered the man, and his weak face suddenly relaxed, so that, oddly, the old refinement shone out through the new, vulgar veneer.

  “Answer my questions straight and square and I’ll take your word that you have not seen the inquiry!” said Dunbar.

  “Dick Hamper’s done this for me!” muttered Brian. “He’s a dirty, low swine! Somebody’ll do for him one night!”

  “Leave Hamper out of the question,” snapped Dunbar. “You put down a fare at Palace Mansions at twelve o’clock last night?”

  For one tremendous moment, Brian hesitated, but the good that was in him, or the evil — a consciousness of wrongdoing, or of retribution pending — respect for the law, or fear of its might — decided his course.


  “I did.”

  “It was a man?”

  Again Brian, with furtive glance, sought to test his opponent; but his opponent was too strong for him. With Dunbar’s eyes upon his face, he chose not to lie.

  “It was a woman.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  “In a fur motor-coat — civet fur.”

  The man of culture spoke in those two words, “civet fur”; and Dunbar nodded quickly, his eyes ablaze at the importance of the evidence.

  “Was she alone?”

  “She was.”

  “What fare did she pay you?”

  “The meter only registered eightpence, but she gave me half-a-crown.”

  “Did she appear to be ill?”

  “Very ill. She wore no hat, and I supposed her to be in evening dress. She almost fell as she got out of the cab, but managed to get into the hall of Palace Mansions quickly enough, looking behind her all the time.”

  Inspector Dunbar shot out the hypnotic finger again.

  “She told you to wait!” he asserted, positively. Brian looked to right and left, up and down, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, and taking them out again to stroke his collarless neck. Then: —

  “She did — yes,” he admitted.

  “But you were bribed to drive away? Don’t deny it! Don’t dare to trifle with me, or by God! you’ll spend the night in Brixton Jail!”

  “It was made worth my while,” muttered Brian, his voice beginning to break, “to hop it.”

  “Who paid you to do it?”

  “A man who had followed all the way in a big car.”

  “That’s it! Describe him!”

  “I can’t! No, no! you can threaten as much as you like, but I can’t describe him. I never saw his face. He stood behind me on the near side of the cab, and just reached forward and pushed a flyer under my nose.”

  Inspector Dunbar searched the speaker’s face closely — and concluded that he was respecting the verity.

  “How was he dressed?”

  “In black, and that’s all I can tell you about him.”

  “You took the money?”

  “I took the money, yes”...

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Simply: ‘Drive off.’”

  “Did you take him to be an Englishman from his speech?”

  “No; he was not an Englishman. He had a foreign accent.”

  “French? German?”

  “No,” said Brian, looking up and meeting the glance of the fierce eyes. “Asiatic!”

  Inspector Dunbar, closely as he held himself in hand, started slightly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certainly. Before I — when I was younger — I traveled in the East, and I know the voice and intonation of the cultured Oriental.”

  “Can you place him any closer than that?”

  “No, I can’t venture to do so.” Brian’s manner was becoming, momentarily, more nearly that of a gentleman. “I might be leading you astray if I ventured a guess, but if you asked me to do so, I should say he was a Chinaman.”

  “A CHINAMAN?” Dunbar’s voice rose excitedly.

  “I think so.”

  “What occurred next?”

  “I turned my cab and drove off out of the Square.”

  “Did you see where the man went?”

  “I didn’t. I saw nothing of him beyond his hand.”

  “And his hand?”

  “He wore a glove.”

  “And now,” said Dunbar, speaking very slowly, “where did you pick up your fare?”

  “In Gillingham Street, near Victoria Station.”

  “From a house?”

  “Yes, from Nurse Proctor’s.”

  “Nurse Proctor’s! Who is Nurse Proctor?”

  Brian shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant manner, which obviously belonged to an earlier phase of existence.

  “She keeps a nursing home,” he said— “for ladies.”

  “Do you mean a maternity home?”

  “Not exactly; at least I don’t think so. Most of her clients are society ladies, who stay there periodically.”

  “What are you driving at?” demanded Dunbar. “I have asked you if it is a maternity home.”

  “And I have replied that it isn’t. I am only giving you facts; you don’t want my surmises.”

  “Who hailed you?”

  “The woman did — the woman in the fur coat. I was just passing the door very slowly when it was flung open with a bang, and she rushed out as though hell were after her. Before I had time to pull up, she threw herself into my cab and screamed: ‘Palace Mansions! Westminster!’ I reached back and shut the door, and drove right away.”

  “When did you see that you were followed?”

  “We were held up just outside the music hall, and looking back, I saw that my fare was dreadfully excited. It didn’t take me long to find out that the cause of her excitement was a big limousine, three or four back in the block of traffic. The driver was some kind of an Oriental, too, although I couldn’t make him out very clearly.”

  “Good!” snapped Dunbar; “that’s important! But you saw nothing more of this car?”...

  “I saw it follow me into the Square.”

  “Then where did it wait?”

  “I don’t know; I didn’t see it again.”

  Inspector Dunbar nodded rapidly.

  “Have you ever driven women to or from this Nurse Proctor’s before?”

  “On two other occasions, I have driven ladies who came from there. I knew they came from there, because it got about amongst us that the tall woman in nurse’s uniform who accompanied them was Nurse Proctor.”

  “You mean that you didn’t take these women actually from the door of the house in Gillingham Street, but from somewhere adjacent?”

  “Yes; they never take a cab from the door. They always walk to the corner of the street with a nurse, and a porter belonging to the house brings their luggage along.”

  “The idea is secrecy?”

  “No doubt. But as I have said, the word was passed round.”

  “Did you know either of these other women?”

  “No; but they were obviously members of good society.”

  “And you drove them?”

  “One to St. Pancras, and one to Waterloo,” said Brian, dropping back somewhat into his coarser style, and permitting a slow grin to overspread his countenance.

  “To catch trains, no doubt?”

  “Not a bit of it! To MEET trains!”

  “You mean?”

  “I mean that their own private cars were waiting for them at the ARRIVAL platform as I drove ’em up to the DEPARTURE platform, and that they simply marched through the station and pretended to have arrived by train!”

  Inspector Dunbar took out his notebook and fountain-pen, and began to tap his teeth with the latter, nodding his head at the same time.

  “You are sure of the accuracy of your last statement?” he said, raising his eyes to the other.

  “I followed one of them,” was the reply, “and saw her footman gravely take charge of the luggage which I had just brought from Victoria; and a pal of mine followed the other — the Waterloo one, that was.”

  Inspector Dunbar scribbled busily. Then: —

  “You have done well to make a clean breast of it,” he said. “Take a straight tip from me. Keep off the drink!”

  X

  THE GREAT UNDERSTANDING

  It was in the afternoon of this same day — a day so momentous in the lives of more than one of London’s millions — that two travelers might have been seen to descend from a first-class compartment of the Dover boat-train at Charing Cross.

  They had been the sole occupants of the compartment, and, despite the wide dissimilarity of character to be read upon their countenances, seemed to have struck up an acquaintance based upon mutual amiability and worldly common sense. The traveler first to descend and gallantly to offer his hand to his companion in order t
o assist her to the platform, was the one whom a casual observer would first have noted.

  He was a man built largely, but on good lines; a man past his youth, and somewhat too fleshy; but for all his bulk, there was nothing unwieldy, and nothing ungraceful in his bearing or carriage. He wore a French traveling-coat, conceived in a style violently Parisian, and composed of a wonderful check calculated to have blinded any cutter in Savile Row. From beneath its gorgeous folds protruded the extremities of severely creased cashmere trousers, turned up over white spats which nestled coyly about a pair of glossy black boots. The traveler’s hat was of velour, silver gray and boasting a partridge feather thrust in its silken band. One glimpse of the outfit must have brought the entire staff of the Tailor and Cutter to an untimely grave.

  But if ever man was born who could carry such a make-up, this traveler was he. The face was cut on massive lines, on fleshy lines, clean-shaven, and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue tinge about the jaw and lips helped to accentuate the virile strength of the long, flexible mouth, which could be humorous, which could be sorrowful, which could be grim. In the dark eyes of the man lay a wealth of experience, acquired in a lifelong pilgrimage among many peoples, and to many lands. His dark brows were heavily marked, and his close-cut hair was splashed with gray.

  Let us glance at the lady who accepted his white-gloved hand, and who sprang alertly onto the platform beside him.

  She was a woman bordering on the forties, with a face of masculine vigor, redeemed and effeminized, by splendid hazel eyes, the kindliest imaginable. Obviously, the lady was one who had never married, who despised, or affected to despise, members of the other sex, but who had never learned to hate them; who had never grown soured, but who found the world a garden of heedless children — of children who called for mothering. Her athletic figure was clothed in a “sensible” tweed traveling dress, and she wore a tweed hat pressed well on to her head, and brown boots with the flattest heels conceivable. Add to this a Scotch woolen muffler, and a pair of woolen gloves, and you have a mental picture of the second traveler — a truly incongruous companion for the first.

  Joining the crowd pouring in the direction of the exit gates, the two chatted together animatedly, both speaking English, and the man employing that language with a perfect ease and command of words which nevertheless failed to disguise his French nationality. He spoke with an American accent; a phenomenon sometimes observable in one who has learned his English in Paris.