by Sax Rohmer
“Ah, Chief Inspector Kerry?” he said, with vague surprise. “Yes. I told you to come. Really, I ought to have been at home hours ago. It’s most unfortunate. I have to do the work of three men. This is your department, is it not, Chief Inspector?”
He handed Kerry a slip of paper, at which the Chief Inspector stared fiercely.
“Murder!” rapped Kerry. “Sir Lucien Pyne. Yes, sir, I am still on duty.”
His speech, in moments of interest, must have suggested to one overhearing him from an adjoining room, for instance, the operation of a telegraphic instrument. He gave to every syllable the value of a rap and certain words he terminated with an audible snap of his teeth.
“Ah,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner. “Yes. Divisional Inspector — Somebody (I cannot read the name) has detained all the parties. But you had better report at Vine Street. It appears to be a big case.”
He sighed wearily.
“Very good, sir. With your permission I will glance at Sir Lucien’s pedigree.”
“Certainly — certainly,” said the Assistant Commissioner, waving one large hand in the direction of a bookshelf.
Kerry crossed the room, laid his oilskin and cane upon a chair, and from the shelf where it reposed took a squat volume. The Assistant Commissioner, hand pressed to brow, began to study a document which lay before him.
“Here we are,” said Kerry, sotto voce. “Pyne, Sir Lucien St. Aubyn, fourth baronet, son of General Sir Christian Pyne, K.C.B. H’m! Born Malta.... Oriel College; first in classics.... H’m. Blue.... India, Burma.... Contested Wigan.... attached British Legation. ... H’m!...”
He returned the book to its place, took up his overall and cane, and:
“Very good, sir,” he said. “I will proceed to Vine Street.”
“Certainly — certainly,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner, glancing up absently. “Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
“Oh, Chief Inspector!”
Kerry turned, his hand on the door-knob.
“Sir?”
“I — er — what was I going to say? Oh, yes! The social importance of the murdered man raises the case from the — er — you follow me? Public interest will become acute, no doubt. I have therefore selected you for your well known discretion. I met Sir Lucien once. Very sad. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Kerry passed out into the corridor, closing the door quietly. The Assistant Commissioner was a man for whom he entertained the highest respect. Despite the bewildered air and wandering manner, he knew this big, tired-looking soldier for an administrator of infinite capacity and inexhaustive energy.
Proceeding to a room further along the corridor, Chief Inspector Kerry opened the door and looked in.
“Detective-Sergeant Coombes.” he snapped, and rolled chewing-gum from side to side of his mouth.
Detective-Sergeant Coombes, a plump, short man having lank black hair and a smile of sly contentment perpetually adorning his round face, rose hurriedly from the chair upon which he had been seated. Another man who was in the room rose also, as if galvanized by the glare of the fierce blue eyes.
“I’m going to Vine Street,” said Kerry succinctly; “you’re coming with me,” turned, and went on his way.
Two taxicabs were standing in the yard, and into the first of these Inspector Kerry stepped, followed by Coombes, the latter breathing heavily and carrying his hat in his hand, since he had not yet found time to put it on.
“Vine Street,” shouted Kerry. “Brisk.”
He leaned back in the cab, chewing industriously. Coombes, having somewhat recovered his breath, essayed speech.
“Is it something big?” he asked.
“Sure,” snapped Kerry. “Do they send me to stop dog-fights?”
Knowing the man and recognizing the mood, Coombes became silent, and this silence he did not break all the way to Vine Street. At the station:
“Wait,” said Chief Inspector Kerry, and went swinging in, carrying his overall and having the malacca cane tucked under his arm.
A few minutes later he came out again and reentered the cab.
“Piccadilly corner of Old Bond Street,” he directed the man.
“Is it burglary?” asked Detective-Sergeant Coombes with interest.
“No,” said Kerry. “It’s murder; and there seems to be stacks of evidence. Sharpen your pencil.”
“Oh!” murmured Coombes.
They were almost immediately at their destination, and Chief Inspector Kerry, dismissing the cabman, set off along Bond Street with his lithe, swinging gait, looking all about him intently. Rain had ceased, but the air was damp and chilly, and few pedestrians were to be seen.
A car was standing before Kazmah’s premises, the chauffeur walking up and down on the pavement and flapping his hands across his chest in order to restore circulation. The Chief Inspector stopped, “Hi, my man!” he said.
The chauffeur stood still.
“Whose car?”
“Mr. Monte Irvin’s.”
Kerry turned on his heel and stepped to the office door. It was ajar, and Kerry, taking an electric torch from his overall pocket, flashed the light upon the name-plate. He stood for a moment, chewing and looking up the darkened stairs. Then, torch in hand he ascended.
Kazmah’s door was closed, and the Chief Inspector rapped loudly. It was opened at once by Sergeant Burton, and Kerry entered, followed by Coombes.
The room at first sight seemed to be extremely crowded. Monte Irvin, very pale and haggard, sat upon the divan beside Quentin Gray. Seton was standing near the cabinet, smoking. These three had evidently been conversing at the time of the detective’s arrival with an alert-looking, clean-shaven man whose bag, umbrella, and silk hat stood upon one of the little inlaid tables. Just inside the second door were Brisley and Gunn, both palpably ill at ease, and glancing at Inspector Whiteleaf, who had been interrogating them.
Kerry chewed silently for a moment, bestowing a fierce stare upon each face in turn, then:
“Who’s in charge?” he snapped.
“I am,” replied Whiteleaf.
“Why is the lower door open?”
“I thought—”
“Don’t think. Shut the door. Post your Sergeant inside. No one is to go out. Grab anybody who comes in. Where’s the body?”
“This way,” said Inspector Whiteleaf hurriedly; then, over his shoulder: “Go down to the door, Burton.”
He led Kerry towards the inner room, Coombes at his heels. Brisley and Gunn stood aside to give them passage; Gray and Monte Irvin prepared to follow. At the doorway Kerry turned.
“You will all be good enough to stay where you are,” he said. He directed the aggressive stare in Seton’s direction. “And if the gentleman smoking a cheroot is not satisfied that he has quite destroyed any clue perceptible by the sense of smell I should be glad to send out for some fireworks.”
He tossed his oilskin and his cane on the divan and went into the room of seance, savagely biting at a piece of apparently indestructible chewing-gum.
The torn green curtain had been laid aside and the electric lights turned on in the inside rooms. Pallid, Sir Lucien Pyne lay by the ebony chair glaring horribly upward.
Always with the keen eyes glancing this way and that, Inspector Kerry crossed the little audience room and entered the enclosure contained between the two screens. By the side of the dead man he stood, looking down silently. Then he dropped upon one knee and peered closely into the white face. He looked up.
“He has not been moved?”
“No.”
Kerry bent yet lower, staring closely at a discolored abrasion on Sir Lucien’s forehead. His glance wandered from thence to the carved ebony chair. Still kneeling, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a powerful lens contained in a washleather bag. He began to examine the back and sides of the chair. Once he laid his finger lightly on a protruding point of the carving, and then scrutinised his finger through the glass. He examine
d the dead man’s hands, his nails, his garments. Then he crawled about, peering closely at the carpet.
He stood up suddenly. “The doctor,” he snapped.
Inspector Whiteleaf retired, but returned immediately with the clean-shaven man to whom Monte Irvin had been talking when Kerry arrived.
“Good evening, doctor,” said Kerry. “Do I know your name? Start your notes, Coombes.”
“My name is Dr. Wilbur Weston, and I live in Albemarle Street.”
“Who called you?”
“Inspector Whiteleaf telephoned to me about half an hour ago.”
“You examined the dead man?”
“I did.”
“You avoided moving him?”
“It was unnecessary to move him. He was dead, and the wound was in the left shoulder. I pulled his coat open and unbuttoned his shirt. That was all.”
“How long dead?”
“I should say he had been dead not more than an hour when I saw him.”
“What had caused death?”
“The stab of some long, narrow-bladed weapon, such as a stiletto.”
“Why a stiletto?” Kerry’s fierce eyes challenged him. “Did you ever see a wound made by a stiletto?”
“Several — in Italy, and one at Saffron Hill. They are characterised by very little external bleeding.”
“Right, doctor. It had reached his heart?”
“Yes. The blow was delivered from behind.”
“How do you know?”
“The direction of the wound is forward. I have seen an almost identical wound in the case of an Italian woman stabbed by a jealous rival.”
“He would fall on his back.”
“Oh, no. He would fall on his face, almost certainly.”
“But he lies on his back.”
“In my opinion he had been moved.”
“Right. I know he had. Good night, doctor. See him out, Inspector.”
Dr. Weston seemed rather startled by this abrupt dismissal, but the steel-blue eyes of Inspector Kerry were already bent again upon the dead man, and, murmuring “good night,” the doctor took his departure, followed by Whiteleaf.
“Shut this door,” snapped Kerry after the Inspector. “I will call when I want you. You stay, Coombes. Got it all down?”
Sergeant Coombes scratched his head with the end of a pencil, and:
“Yes,” he said, with hesitancy. “That is, except the word after ‘narrow-bladed weapon such as a’ I’ve got what looks like ‘steelhatto.’”
Kerry glared.
“Try taking the cotton-wool out of your ears,” he suggested. “The word was stiletto, s-t-i-l-e-t-t-o — stiletto.”
“Oh,” said Coombes, “thanks.”
Silence fell between the two men from Scotland Yard. Kerry stood awhile, chewing and staring at the ghastly face of Sir Lucien. Then:
“Go through all pockets,” he directed.
Sergeant Coombes placed his notebook and pencil upon the seat of the chair and set to work. Kerry entered the inside room or office. It contained a writing-table (upon which was a telephone and a pile of old newspapers), a cabinet, and two chairs. Upon one of the chairs lay a crush-hat, a cane, and an overcoat. He glanced at some of the newspapers, then opened the drawers of the writing-table. They were empty. The cabinet proved to be locked, and a door which he saw must open upon a narrow passage running beside the suite of rooms was locked also. There was nothing in the pockets of the overcoat, but inside the hat he found pasted the initials L. P. He rolled chewing-gum, stared reflectively at the little window immediately above the table, through which a glimpse might be obtained of the ebony chair, and went out again.
“Nothing,” reported Coombes.
“What do you mean — nothing?”
“His pockets are empty!”
“All of them?”
“Every one.”
“Good,” said Kerry. “Make a note of it. He wears a real pearl stud and a good signet ring; also a gold wrist watch, face broken and hands stopped at seven-fifteen. That was the time he died. He was stabbed from behind as he stood where I’m standing now, fell forward, struck his head on the leg of the chair, and lay face downwards.”
“I’ve got that,” muttered Coombes. “What stopped the watch?”
“Broken as he fell. There are tiny fragments of glass stuck in the carpet, showing the exact position in which his body originally lay; and for God’s sake stop smiling.”
Kerry threw open the door.
“Who first found the body?” he demanded of the silent company.
“I did,” cried Quentin Gray, coming forward. “I and Seton Pasha.”
“Seton Pasha!” Kerry’s teeth snapped together, so that he seemed to bite off the words. “I don’t see a Turk present.”
Seton smiled quietly.
“My friend uses a title which was conferred upon me some years ago by the ex-Khedive,” he said. “My name is Greville Seton.”
Inspector Kerry glanced back across his shoulder.
“Notes,” he said. “Unlock your ears, Coombes.” He looked at Gray. “What is your name?”
“Quentin Gray.”
“Who are you, and in what way are you concerned in this case?”
“I am the son of Lord Wrexborough, and I—”
He paused, glancing helplessly at Seton. He had recognized that the first mention of Rita Irvin’s name in the police evidence must be made by himself.
“Speak up, sir,” snapped Kerry. “Sergeant Coombes is deaf.”
Gray’s face flushed, and his eyes gleamed angrily.
“I should be glad, Inspector,” he said, “if you would remember that the dead man was a personal acquaintance and that other friends are concerned in this ghastly affair.”
“Coombes will remember it,” replied Kerry frigidly. “He’s taking notes.”
“Look here—” began Gray.
Seton laid his hand upon the angry man’s shoulder.
“Pull up, Gray,” he said quietly. “Pull up, old chap.” He turned his cool regard upon Chief Inspector Kerry, twirling the cord of his monocle about one finger. “I may remark, Inspector Kerry — for I understand this to be your name — that your conduct of the inquiry is not always characterised by the best possible taste.”
Kerry rolled chewing-gum, meeting Seton’s gaze with a stare intolerant and aggressive. He imparted that odd writhing movement to his shoulders.
“For my conduct I am responsible to the Commissioner,” he replied. “And if he’s not satisfied the Commissioner can have my written resignation at any hour in the twenty-four that he’s short of a pipe-lighter. If it would not inconvenience you to keep quiet for two minutes I will continue my examination of this witness.”
CHAPTER VII. FURTHER EVIDENCE
The examination of Quentin Gray was three times interrupted by telephone messages from Vine Street; and to the unsatisfactory character of these the growing irascibility of Chief Inspector Kerry bore testimony. Then the divisional surgeon arrived, and Burton incurred the wrath of the Chief Inspector by deserting his post to show the doctor upstairs.
“If inspired idiocy can help the law,” shouted Kerry, “the man who did this job is as good as dead!” He turned his fierce gaze in Gray’s direction. “Thank you, sir. I need trouble you no further.”
“Do you wish me to remain?”
“No. Inspector Whiteleaf, see these two gentlemen past the Sergeant on duty.”
“But damn it all!” cried Gray, his pent-up emotions at last demanding an outlet, “I won’t submit to your infernal dragooning! Do you realize that while you’re standing here, doing nothing — absolutely nothing — an unhappy woman is—”
“I realize,” snapped Kerry, showing his teeth in canine fashion, “that if you’re not outside in ten seconds there’s going to be a cloud of dust on the stairs!”
White with passion, Gray was on the point of uttering other angry and provocative words when Seton took his arm in a firm grip. “Gray!” he sai
d sharply. “You leave with me now or I leave alone.”
The two walked from the room, followed by Whiteleaf. As they disappeared:
“Read out all the times mentioned in the last witness’s evidence,” directed Kerry, undisturbed by the rencontre.
Sergeant Coombes smiled rather uneasily, consulting his notebook.
“‘At about half-past six I drove to Bond Street,’” he began.
“I said the times,” rapped Kerry. “I know to what they refer. Just give me the times as mentioned.”
“Oh,” murmured Coombes, “Yes. ‘About half-past six.’” He ran his finger down the page. “‘A quarter to seven.’ ‘Seven o’clock.’ ‘Twenty-five minutes past seven.’ ‘Eight o’clock.’”
“Stop!” said Kerry. “That’s enough.” He fixed a baleful glance upon Gunn, who from a point of the room discreetly distant from the terrible red man was watching with watery eyes. “Who’s the smart in all the overcoats?” he demanded.
“My name is James Gunn,” replied this greatly insulted man in a husky voice.
“Who are you? What are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m employed by Spinker’s Agency, and—”
“Oh!” shouted Kerry, moving his shoulders. He approached the speaker and glared menacingly into his purple face. “Ho, ho! So you’re one of the queer birds out of that roost, are you? Spinker’s Agency! Ah, yes!” He fixed his gaze now upon the pale features of Brisley. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
“Yes, Chief Inspector,” said Brisley, licking his lips. “Hayward’s Heath. We have been retained by—”
“You have been retained!” shouted Kerry. “You have!”
He twisted round upon his heel, facing Monte Irvin. Angry words trembled on his tongue. But at sight of the broken man who sat there alone, haggard, a subtle change of expression crept into his fierce eyes, and when he spoke again the high-pitched voice was almost gentle. “You had employed these men, sir, to watch—”
He paused, glancing towards Whiteleaf, who had just entered again, and then in the direction of the inner room where the divisional surgeon was at work.