by Sax Rohmer
Kerry stood up and slowly moved his square shoulders in the manner of an athlete about to attempt a feat of weight-lifting. From the Assistant Commissioner’s table he took the envelope which contained his resignation, and tore it into several portions. These he deposited in a waste-paper basket.
“That’s that!” he said. “I am very deeply indebted to you, sir. I know now what to tell the Press.”
The Assistant Commissioner glanced up.
“Not a word about 719,” he said, “of course, you understand this?”
“If we don’t exist as far as 719 is concerned, sir,” said Kerry in his most snappy tones, “719 means nothing to me!”
“Quite so — quite so. Of course, I may be wrong in the motives which I ascribe to this Whitehall agent, but misunderstanding is certain to arise out of a system of such deliberate mystification, which can only be compared to that employed by the Russian police under the Tsars.”
Half an hour later Chief Inspector Kerry came out of New Scotland Yard, and, walking down on to the Embankment, boarded a Norwood tramcar. The weather remained damp and gloomy, but upon the red face of Chief Inspector Kerry, as he mounted to the upper deck of the car, rested an expression which might have been described as one of cheery truculence. Where other passengers, coat collars upturned, gazed gloomily from the windows at the yellow murk overhanging the river, Kerry looked briskly about him, smiling pleasurably.
He was homeward bound, and when he presently alighted and went swinging along Spenser Road towards his house, he was still smiling. He regarded the case as having developed into a competition between himself and the man appointed by Whitehall. And it was just such a position, disconcerting to one of less aggressive temperament, which stimulated Chief Inspector Kerry and put him in high good humor.
Mrs. Kerry, arrayed in a serviceable rain-coat, and wearing a plain felt hat, was standing by the dining-room door as Kerry entered. She had a basket on her arm. “I was waiting for ye, Dan,” she said simply.
He kissed her affectionately, put his arm about her waist, and the two entered the cosy little room. By no ordinary human means was it possible that Mary Kerry should have known that her husband would come home at that time, but he was so used to her prescience in this respect that he offered no comment. She “kenned” his approach always, and at times when his life had been in danger — and these were not of infrequent occurrence — Mary Kerry, if sleeping, had awakened, trembling, though the scene of peril were a hundred miles away, and if awake had blanched and known a deadly sudden fear.
“Ye’ll be goin’ to bed?” she asked.
“For three hours, Mary. Don’t fail to rouse me if I oversleep.”
“Is it clear to ye yet?”
“Nearly clear. The dark thing you saw behind it all, Mary, was dope! Kazmah’s is a secret drug-syndicate. They’ve appointed a Home office agent, and he’s working independently of us, but...”
His teeth came together with a snap.
“Oh, Dan,” said his wife, “it’s a race? Drugs? A Home office agent? Dan, they think the Force is in it?”
“They do!” rapped Kerry. “I’m for Leman Street in three hours. If there’s double-dealing behind it, then the mugs are in the East End, and it’s folly, not knavery, I’m looking for. It’s a race, Mary, and the credit of the Service is at stake! No, my dear, I’ll have a snack when I wake. You’re going shopping?”
“I am, Dan. I’d ha’ started, but I wanted to see ye when ye came hame. If ye’ve only three hours go straight up the now. I’ll ha’ something hot a’ ready when ye waken.”
Ten minutes later Kerry was in bed, his short clay pipe between his teeth, and The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in his hand. Such was his customary sleeping-draught, and it had never been known to fail. Half a pipe of Irish twist and three pages of the sad imperial author invariably plunged Chief Inspector Kerry into healthy slumber.
CHAPTER XXV. NIGHT-LIFE OF SOHO
It was close upon midnight when Detective-Sergeant Coombes appeared in a certain narrow West End thoroughfare, which was lined with taxicabs and private cars. He wore a dark overcoat and a tweed cap, and although his chin was buried in the genial folds of a woollen comforter, and his cap was pulled down over his eyes, his sly smile could easily be detected even in the dim light afforded by the car lamps. He seemed to have business of a mysterious nature among the cabmen; for with each of them in turn he conducted a brief conversation, passing unobtrusively from cab to cab, and making certain entries in a notebook. Finally he disappeared. No one actually saw him go, and no one had actually seen him arrive. At one moment, however, he was there; in the next he was gone.
Five minutes later Chief Inspector Kerry entered the street. His dark overcoat and white silk muffler concealed a spruce dress suit, a fact betrayed by black, braided trousers, unusually tight-fitting, and boots which almost glittered. He carried the silver-headed malacca cane, and had retained his narrow-brimmed bowler at its customary jaunty angle.
Passing the lines of waiting vehicles, he walked into the entrance of a popular night-club which faced the narrow street. On a lounge immediately inside the doorway a heated young man was sitting fanning his dancing partner and gazing into her weakly pretty face in vacuous adoration.
Kerry paused for a moment, staring at the pair. The man returned his stare, looking him up and down in a manner meant to be contemptuous. Kerry’s fierce, intolerant gaze became transferred to the face and then the figure of the woman. He tilted his hat further forward and turned aside. The woman’s glance followed him, to the marked disgust of her companion.
“Oh,” she whispered, “what a delightfully savage man! He looks positively uncivilized. I have no doubt he drags women about by their hair. I do hope he’s a member!”
Mollie Gretna spoke loudly enough for Kerry to hear her, but unmoved by her admiration he stepped up to the reception office. He was in high good humor. He had spent the afternoon agreeably, interviewing certain officials charged with policing the East End of London, and had succeeded, to quote his own language, “in getting a gale up.” Despite the coldness of the weather, he had left two inspectors and a speechlessly indignant superintendent bathed in perspiration.
“Are you a member, sir?” inquired the girl behind the desk.
Kerry smiled genially. A newsboy thrust open the swing-door, yelling: “Bond Street murder! A fresh development. Late speshul!”
“Oh!” cried Mollie Gretna to her companion, “get me a paper. Be quick! I am so excited!”
Kerry took up a pen, and in large bold hand-writing inscribed the following across two pages of the visitors’ book:
“Chief Inspector Kerry. Criminal Investigation Department.”
He laid a card on the open book, and, thrusting his cane under his arm, walked to the head of the stairs.
“Cloak-room on the right, sir,” said an attendant.
Kerry paused, glancing over his shoulder and chewing audibly. Then he settled his hat more firmly upon his red head and descended the stairs. The attendant went to inspect the visitors’ book, but Mollie Gretna was at the desk before him, and:
“Oh, Bill!” she cried to her annoyed cavalier, “it’s Inspector Kerry — who is in charge of poor Lucy’s murder! Oh, Bill! this is lovely! Something is going to happen! Do come down!”
Followed by the obedient but reluctant “Bill,” Mollie ran downstairs, and almost into the arms of a tall dark girl, who, carrying a purple opera cloak, was coming up.
“You’re not going yet, Dickey?” said Mollie, throwing her arm around the other’s waist.
“Ssh!” whispered “Dickey.” “Inspector Kerry is here! You don’t want to be called as a witness at nasty inquests and things, do you?”
“Good heavens, my dear, no! But why should I be?”
“Why should any of us? But don’t you see they are looking for the people who used to go to Kazmah’s? It’s in the paper tonight. We shall all be served with subpoenas. I’m off!”
; Escaping from Mollie’s embrace, the tall girl ran up the stairs, kissing her hand to Bill as she passed. Mollie hesitated, looking all about the crowded room for Chief Inspector Kerry. Presently she saw him, standing nearly opposite the stairway, his intolerant blue eyes turning right and left, so that the fierce glance seemed to miss nothing and no one in the room. Hands thrust in his overcoat pockets and his cane held under his arm, he inspected the place and its occupants as a very aggressive country cousin might inspect the monkey-house at the Zoo. To Mollie’s intense disappointment he persistently avoided looking in her direction.
Although a popular dance was on the point of commencing, several visitors had suddenly determined to leave. Kerry pretended to be ignorant of the sensation which his appearance had created, passing slowly along the room and submitting group after group to deliberate scrutiny; but as news flies through an Eastern bazaar the name of the celebrated detective, whose association with London’s latest crime was mentioned by every evening paper in the kingdom, sped now on magic wings, so that there was a muted charivari out of which, in every key from bass to soprano, arose ever and anon the words “Chief Inspector Kerry.”
“It’s perfectly ridiculous but characteristically English,” drawled one young man, standing beside Mollie Gretna, “to send out a bally red-headed policeman in preposterous glad-rags to look for a clever criminal. Kerry is well known to all the crooks, and nobody could mistake him. Damn silly — damn silly!”
As “damn silly” Kerry’s open scrutiny of the members and visitors must have appeared to others, but it was a deliberate policy very popular with the Chief Inspector, and termed by him “beating.” Possessed of an undisguisable personality, Kerry had found a way of employing his natural physical peculiarities to his professional advantage. Where other investigators worked in the dark, secretly, Red Kerry sought the limelight — at the right time. That every hour lost in getting on the track of the mysterious Kazmah was a point gained by the equally mysterious man from Whitehall he felt assured, and although the elaborate but hidden mechanism of New Scotland Yard was at work seeking out the patrons of the Bond Street drug-shop, Kerry was indisposed to await the result.
He had been in the night club only about ten minutes, but during those ten minutes fully a dozen people had more or less hurriedly departed. Because of the arrangements already made by Sergeant Coombes, the addresses of many of these departing visitors would be in Kerry’s possession ere the night was much older. And why should they have fled, incontinent, if not for the reason that they feared to become involved in the Kazmah affair? All the cabmen had been warned, and those fugitives who had private cars would be followed.
It was a curious scene which Kerry surveyed, a scene to have interested philosopher and politician alike. For here were representatives of every stratum of society, although some of those standing for the lower strata were suitably disguised. The peerage was well represented, so was Judah; there were women entitled to wear coronets dancing with men entitled to wear the broad arrow, and men whose forefathers had signed Magna Charta dancing with chorus girls from the revues and musical comedies.
Waiting until the dance was fully in progress, Inspector Kerry walked slowly around the room in the direction of the stair. Parties seated at tables were treated each to an intolerant stare, alcoves were inspected, and more than one waiter meeting the gaze of the steely eyes, felt a prickling of conscience and recalled past peccadilloes.
Bill had claimed Mollie Gretna for the dance, but:
“No, Bill,” she had replied, watching Kerry as if enthralled; “I don’t want to dance. I am watching Chief Inspector Kerry.”
“That’s evident,” complained the young man. “Perhaps you would like to spend the rest of the night in Bow Street?”
“Oh,” whispered Mollie, “I should love it! I have never been arrested, but if ever I am I hope it will be by Chief Inspector Kerry. I am positive he would haul me away in handcuffs!”
When Kerry came to the foot of the stairs, Mollie quite deliberately got in his way, murmured an apology, and gave him a sidelong gaze through lowered lashes, which was more eloquent than any thesis. He smiled with fierce geniality, looked her up and down, and proceeded to mount the stairs, with never a backward glance.
His genius for criminal investigation possessed definite limitations. He could not perhaps have been expected in tactics so completely opposed to those which he had anticipated to recognize the presence of a valuable witness. Student of human nature though undoubtedly he was, he had not solved the mystery of that outstanding exception which seems to be involved in every rule.
Thus, a fellow with a low forehead and a weakly receding chin, Kerry classified as a dullard, a witling, unaware that if the brow were but low enough and the chin virtually absent altogether he might stand in the presence of a second Daniel. Physiognomy is a subtle science, and the exceptions to its rules are often of a sensational character. In the same way Kerry looked for evasion, and, where possible, flight, on the part of one possessing a guilty conscience. Mollie Gretna was a phenomenal exception to a rule otherwise sound. And even one familiar with criminal psychology might be forgiven for failing to detect guilt in a woman anxious to make the acquaintance of a prominent member of the Criminal Investigation Department.
Pausing for a moment in the entrance of the club, and chewing reflectively, Kerry swung open the door and walked out into the street. He had one more cover to “beat,” and he set off briskly, plunging into the mazes of Soho crossing Wardour Street into old Compton Street, and proceeding thence in the direction of Shaftesbury Avenue. Turning to the right on entering the narrow thoroughfare for which he was bound, he stopped and whistled softly. He stood in the entrance to a court; and from further up the court came an answering whistle.
Kerry came out of the court again, and proceeded some twenty paces along the street to a restaurant. The windows showed no light, but the door remained open, and Kerry entered without hesitation, crossed a darkened room and found himself in a passage where a man was seated in a little apartment like that of a stage-door keeper. He stood up, on hearing Kerry’s tread, peering out at the newcomer.
“The restaurant is closed, sir.”
“Tell me a better one,” rapped Kerry. “I want to go upstairs.”
“Your card, sir.”
Kerry revealed his teeth in a savage smile and tossed his card on to the desk before the concierge. He passed on, mounting the stairs at the end of the passage. Dimly a bell rang; and on the first landing Kerry met a heavily built foreign gentleman, who bowed.
“My dear Chief Inspector,” he said gutturally, “what is this, please? I trust nothing is wrong, eh?”
“Nothing,” replied Kerry. “I just want to look round.”
“A few friends,” explained the suave alien, rubbing his hands together and still bowing, “remain playing dominoes with me.”
“Very good,” rapped Kerry. “Well, if you think we have given them time to hide the ‘wheel’ we’ll go in. Oh, don’t explain. I’m not worrying about sticklebacks tonight. I’m out for salmon.”
He opened a door on the left of the landing and entered a large room which offered evidence of having been hastily evacuated by a considerable company. A red and white figured cloth of a type much used in Continental cafes had been spread upon a long table, and three foreigners, two men and an elderly woman, were bending over a row of dominoes set upon one corner of the table. Apparently the men were playing and the woman was watching. But there was a dense cloud of cigar smoke in the room, and mingled with its pungency were sweeter scents. A number of empty champagne bottles stood upon a sideboard and an elegant silk theatre-bag lay on a chair.
“H’m,” said Kerry, glaring fiercely from the bottles to the players, who covertly were watching him. “How you two smarts can tell a domino from a door-knocker after cracking a dozen magnums gets me guessing.”
He took up the scented bag and gravely handed it to the old woman.
“Y
ou have mislaid your bag, madam,” he said. “But, fortunately, I noticed it as I came in.”
He turned the glance of his fierce eyes upon the man who had met him on the landing, and who had followed him into the room.
“Third floor, von Hindenburg,” he rapped. “Don’t argue. Lead the way.”
For one dangerous moment the man’s brow lowered and his heavy face grew blackly menacing. He exchanged a swift look with his friends seated at the disguised roulette table. Kerry’s jaw muscles protruded enormously.
“Give me another answer like that,” he said in a tone of cold ferocity, “and I’ll kick you from here to Paradise.”
“No offense — no offense,” muttered the man, quailing before the savagery of the formidable Chief Inspector. “You come this way, please. Some ladies call upon me this evening, and I do not want to frighten them.”
“No,” said Kerry, “you wouldn’t, naturally.” He stood aside as a door at the further end of the room was opened. “After you, my friend. I said ‘lead the way.’”
They mounted to the third floor of the restaurant. The room which they had just quitted was used as an auxiliary dining and supper-room before midnight, as Kerry knew. After midnight the centre table was unmasked, and from thence onward to dawn, sometimes, was surrounded by roulette players. The third floor he had never visited, but he had a shrewd idea that it was not entirely reserved for the private use of the proprietor.
A babel of voices died away as the two men walked into a room rather smaller than that below and furnished with little tables, cafe fashion. At one end was a grand piano and a platform before which a velvet curtain was draped. Some twenty people, men and women, were in the place, standing looking towards the entrance. Most of the men and all the women but one were in evening dress; but despite this common armor of respectability, they did not all belong to respectable society.