Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  Two of the women Kerry recognized as bearers of titles, and one was familiar to him as a screen-beauty. The others were unclassifiable, but all were fashionably dressed with the exception of a masculine-looking lady who had apparently come straight off a golf course, and who later was proved to be a well-known advocate of woman’s rights. The men all belonged to familiar types. Some of them were Jews.

  Kerry, his feet widely apart and his hands thrust in his overcoat pockets, stood staring at face after face and chewing slowly. The proprietor glanced apologetically at his patrons and shrugged. Silence fell upon the company. Then:

  “I am a police officer,” said Kerry sharply. “You will file out past me, and I want a card from each of you. Those who have no cards will write name and address here.”

  He drew a long envelope and a pencil from a pocket of his dinner jacket. Laying the envelope and pencil on one of the little tables:

  “Quick march!” he snapped. “You, sir!” shooting out his forefinger in the direction of a tall, fair young man, “step out!”

  Glancing helplessly about him, the young man obeyed, and approaching Kerry:

  “I say, officer,” he whispered nervously, “can’t you manage to keep my name out of it? I mean to say, my people will kick up the deuce. Anything up to a tenner....”

  The whisper faded away. Kerry’s expression had grown positively ferocious.

  “Put your card on the table,” he said tersely, “and get out while my hands stay in my pockets!”

  Hurriedly the noble youth (he was the elder son of an earl) complied, and departed. Then, one by one, the rest of the company filed past the Chief Inspector. He challenged no one until a Jew smilingly laid a card on the table bearing the legend: “Mr. John Jones, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

  “Hi!” rapped Kerry, grasping the man’s arm. “One moment, Mr. ‘Jones’! The card I want is in the other case. D’you take me for a mug? That ‘Jones’ trick was tried on Noah by the blue-faced baboon!”

  His perception of character was wonderful. At some of the cards he did not even glance; and upon the women he wasted no time at all. He took it for granted that they would all give false names, but since each of them would be followed it did not matter. When at last the room was emptied, he turned to the scowling proprietor, and:

  “That’s that!” he said. “I’ve had no instructions about your establishment, my friend, and as I’ve seen nothing improper going on I’m making no charge, at the moment. I don’t want to know what sort of show takes place on your platform, and I don’t want to know anything about you that I don’t know already. You’re a Swiss subject and a dark horse.”

  He gathered up the cards from the table, glancing at them carelessly. He did not expect to gain much from his possession of these names and addresses. It was among the women that he counted upon finding patrons of Kazmah and Company. But as he was about to drop the cards into his overcoat pocket, one of them, which bore a written note, attracted his attention.

  At this card he stared like a man amazed; his face grew more and more red, and:

  “Hell!” he said— “Hell! which of ’em was it?”

  The card contained the following: —

  Lord Wrexborough

  Great Cumberland Place, V. 1

  “To introduce 719. W.”

  CHAPTER XXVI. THE MOODS OF MOLLIE

  Early the following morning Margaret Halley called upon Mollie Gretna.

  Mollie’s personality did not attract Margaret. The two had nothing in common, but Margaret was well aware of the nature of the tie which had bound Rita Irvin to this empty and decadent representative of English aristocracy. Mollie Gretna was entitled to append the words “The Honorable” to her name, but not only did she refrain from doing so but she even preferred to be known as “Gretna” — the style of one of the family estates.

  This pseudonym she had adopted shortly after her divorce, when she had attempted to take up a stage career. But although the experience had proved disastrous, she had retained the nom de guerre, and during the past four years had several times appeared at war charity garden-parties as a classical dancer — to the great delight of the guests and greater disgust of her family. Her maternal uncle, head of her house, said to be the most blase member of the British peerage and known as “the noble tortoise,” was generally considered to have pronounced the final verdict upon his golden-haired niece when he declared “she is almost amusing.”

  Mollie received her visitor with extravagant expressions of welcome.

  “My dear Miss Halley,” she cried, “how perfectly sweet of you to come to see me! of course, I can guess what you have called about. Look! I have every paper published this morning in London! Every one! Oh! poor, darling little Rita! What can have become of her!”

  Tears glistened upon her carefully made-up lashes, and so deep did her grief seem to be that one would never have suspected that she had spent the greater part of the night playing bridge at a “mixed” club in Dover Street, and from thence had proceeded to a military “breakfast-dance.”

  “It is indeed a ghastly tragedy,” said Margaret. “It seems incredible that she cannot be traced.”

  “Absolutely incredible!” declared Mollie, opening a large box of cigarettes. “Will you have one, dear?”

  “No, thanks. By the way, they are not from Buenos Ayres, I suppose?”

  Mollie, cigarette in hand, stared, round-eyed, and:

  “Oh, my dear Miss Halley!” she cried, “what an idea! Such a funny thing to suggest.”

  Margaret smiled coolly.

  “Poor Sir Lucien used to smoke cigarettes of that kind,” she explained, “and I thought perhaps you smoked them, too.”

  Mollie shook her head and lighted the cigarette.

  “He gave me one once, and it made me feel quite sick,” she declared.

  Margaret glanced at the speaker, and knew immediately that Mollie had determined to deny all knowledge of the drug coterie. Because there is no problem of psychology harder than that offered by a perverted mind, Margaret was misled in ascribing this secrecy to a desire to avoid becoming involved in a scandal. Therefore:

  “Do you quite realize, Miss Gretna,” she said quietly, “that every hour wasted now in tracing Rita may mean, must mean, an hour of agony for her?”

  “Oh, don’t! please don’t!” cried Mollie, clasping her hands. “I cannot bear to think of it.”

  “God knows in whose hands she is. Then there is poor Mr. Irvin. He is utterly prostrated. One shudders to contemplate his torture as the hours and the days go by and no news comes of Rita.”

  “Oh, my dear! you are making me cry!” exclaimed Mollie. “If only I could do something to help....”

  Margaret was studying her closely, and now for the first time she detected sincere emotion in Mollie’s voice — and unforced tears in her eyes. Hope was reborn.

  “Perhaps you can,” she continued, speaking gently. “You knew all Rita’s friends and all Sir Lucien’s. You must have met the woman called Mrs. Sin?”

  “Mrs. Sin,” whispered Mollie, staring in a frightened way so that the pupils of her eyes slowly enlarged. “What about Mrs. Sin?”

  “Well, you see, they seem to think that through Mrs. Sin they will be able to trace Kazmah; and wherever Kazmah is one would expect to find poor Rita.”

  Mollie lowered her head for a moment, then glanced quickly at the speaker, and quickly away again.

  “Please let me explain just what I mean,” continued Margaret. “It seems to be impossible to find anybody in London who will admit having known Mrs. Sin or Kazmah. They are all afraid of being involved in the case, of course. Now, if you can help, don’t hesitate for that reason. A special commission has been appointed by Lord Wrexborough to deal with the case, and their agent is working quite independently of the police. Anything which you care to tell him will be treated as strictly confidential; but think what it may mean to Rita.”

  Mollie clasped her hands about her right knee and rocked t
o and fro in her chair.

  “No one knows who Kazmah is,” she said.

  “But a number of people seem to know Mrs. Sin. I am sure you must have met her?”

  “If I say that I know her, shall I be called as a witness?”

  “Certainly not. I can assure you of that.”

  Mollie continued to rock to and fro.

  “But if I were to tell the police I should have to go to court, I suppose?”

  “I suppose so,” replied Margaret. “I am afraid I am dreadfully ignorant of such matters. It might depend upon whether you spoke to a high official or to a subordinate one; an ordinary policeman for instance. But the Home office agent has nothing whatever to do with Scotland Yard.”

  Mollie stood up in order to reach an ash-tray, and:

  “I really don’t think I have anything to say, Miss Halley,” she declared. “I have certainly met Mrs. Sin, but I know nothing whatever about her, except that I believe she is a Jewess.”

  Margaret sighed, looking up wistfully into Mollie’s face. “Are you quite sure?” she pleaded. “Oh, Miss Gretna, if you know anything — anything — don’t hide it now. It may mean so much.”

  “Oh, I quite understand that,” cried Mollie. “My heart simply aches and aches when I think of poor, sweet little Rita. But — really I don’t think I can be of the least tiny bit of use.”

  Their glances met, and Margaret read hostility in the shallow eyes. Mollie, who had been wavering, now for some reason had become confirmed in her original determination to remain silent. Margaret stood up.

  “It is no good, then,” she said. “We must hope that Rita will be traced by the police. Good-bye, Miss Gretna. I am so sorry you cannot help.”

  “And so am I!” declared Mollie. “It is perfectly sweet of you to take such an interest, and I feel a positive worm. But what can I do?”

  As Margaret was stepping into her little runabout car, which awaited her at the door, a theory presented itself to account for Mollie’s sudden hostility. It had developed, apparently, as a result of Margaret’s reference to the Home office inquiry. Of course! Mollie would naturally be antagonistic to a commission appointed to suppress the drug traffic.

  Convinced that this was the correct explanation, Margaret drove away, reflecting bitterly that she had been guilty of a strategical error which it was now too late to rectify.

  In common with others, Kerry among them, who had come in contact with that perverted intelligence, she misjudged Mollie’s motives. In the first place, the latter had no wish to avoid publicity, and in the second place — although she sometimes wondered vaguely what she should do when her stock of drugs became exhausted — Mollie was prompted by no particular animosity toward the Home office inquiry. She had merely perceived a suitable opportunity to make the acquaintance of the fierce red Chief Inspector, and at the same time to secure notoriety for herself.

  Ere Margaret’s car had progressed a hundred yards from the door, Mollie was at the telephone.

  “City 400, please,” she said.

  An interval elapsed, then:

  “Is that the Commissioner’s office, New Scotland Yard?” she asked.

  A voice replied that it was.

  “Could you put me through to Chief Inspector Kerry?”

  “What name?” inquired the voice.

  Mollie hesitated for three seconds, and then gave her family name.

  “Very well, madam,” said the voice respectfully. “Please hold on, and I will enquire if the Chief Inspector is here.”

  Mollie’s heart was beating rapidly with pleasurable excitement, and she was as confused as a maiden at her first rendezvous. Then:

  “Hello,” said the voice.

  “Yes?”

  “I am sorry, madam. But Chief Inspector Kerry is off duty.”

  “Oh, dear!” sighed Mollie, “what a pity. Can you tell me where I could find him?”

  “I am afraid not, madam. It is against the rules to give private addresses of members of any department.”

  “Oh, very well.” She sighed again. “Thank you.”

  She replaced the receiver and stood biting her finger thoughtfully. She was making a mental inventory of her many admirers and wondering which of them could help her. Suddenly she came to a decision on the point. Taking up the receiver:

  “Victoria 8440, please,” she said.

  Still biting one finger she waited, until:

  “Foreign office,” announced a voice.

  “Please put me through to Mr. Archie Boden-Shaw,” she said.

  Ere long that official’s secretary was inquiring her name, and a moment later:

  “Is that you, Archie?” said Mollie. “Yes! Mollie speaking. No, please listen, Archie! You can get to know everything at the Foreign office, and I want you to find out for me the private address of Chief Inspector Kerry, who is in charge of the Bond Street murder case. Don’t be silly! I’ve asked Scotland Yard, but they won’t tell me. You can find out.... It doesn’t matter why I want to know.... Just ring me up and tell me. I must know in half an hour. Yes, I shall be seeing you tonight. Good-bye....”

  Less than half an hour later, the obedient Archie rang up, and Mollie, all excitement, wrote the following address in a dainty scented notebook which she carried in her handbag.

  CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY,

  67 Spenser Road, Brixton.

  CHAPTER XXVII. CROWN EVIDENCE

  The appearance of the violet-enamelled motor brougham upholstered in cream, and driven by a chauffeur in a violet and cream livery, created some slight sensation in Spenser Road, S.E. Mollie Gretna’s conspicuous car was familiar enough to residents in the West End of London, but to lower middle-class suburbia it came as something of a shock. More than one window curtain moved suspiciously, suggesting a hidden but watchful presence, when the glittering vehicle stopped before the gate of number 67; and the lady at number 68 seized an evidently rare opportunity to come out and polish her letter-box.

  She was rewarded by an unobstructed view of the smartest woman in London (thus spake society paragraphers) and of the most expensive set of furs in Europe, also of a perfectly gowned slim figure. Of Mollie’s disdainful face, with its slightly uptilted nose, she had no more than a glimpse.

  A neat maid, evidently Scotch, admitted the dazzling visitor to number 67; and Spenser Road waited and wondered. It was something to do with the Bond Street murder! Small girls appeared from doorways suddenly opened and darted off to advise less-watchful neighbors.

  Kerry, who had been at work until close upon dawn in the mysterious underworld of Soho was sleeping, but Mrs. Kerry received Mollie in a formal little drawing-room, which, unlike the cosy, homely dining-room, possessed that frigid atmosphere which belongs to uninhabited apartments. In a rather handsome cabinet were a number of trophies associated with the detective’s successful cases. The cabinet itself was a present from a Regent Street firm for whom Kerry had recovered valuable property.

  Mary Kerry, dressed in a plain blouse and skirt, exhibited no trace of nervousness in the presence of her aristocratic and fashionable caller. Indeed, Mollie afterwards declared that “she was quite a ladylike person. But rather tin tabernacley, my dear.”

  “Did ye wish to see Chief Inspector Kerry parteecularly?” asked Mary, watching her visitor with calm, observant eyes.

  “Oh, most particularly!” cried Mollie, in a flutter of excitement. “Of course I don’t know what you must think of me for calling at such a preposterous hour, but there are some things that simply can’t wait.”

  “Aye,” murmured Mrs. Kerry. “‘Twill be yon Bond Street affair?”

  “Oh, yes, it is, Mrs. Kerry. Doesn’t the very name of Bond Street turn your blood cold? I am simply shivering with fear!”

  “As the wife of a Chief Inspector I am maybe more used to tragedies than yoursel’, madam. But it surely is a sair grim business. My husband is resting now. He was hard at work a’ the night. Nae doubt ye’ll be wishin’ tee see him privately?”


  “Oh, if you please. I am so sorry to disturb him. I can imagine that he must be literally exhausted after spending a whole night among dreadful people.”

  Mary Kerry stood up.

  “If ye’ll excuse me for a moment I’ll awaken him,” she said. “Our household is sma’.”

  “Oh, of course! I quite understand, Mrs. Kerry! So sorry. But so good of you.”

  “Might I offer ye a glass o’ sherry an’ a biscuit?”

  “I simply couldn’t dream of troubling you! Please don’t suggest such a thing. I feel covered with guilt already. Many thanks nevertheless.”

  Mary Kerry withdrew, leaving Mollie alone. As soon as the door closed Mollie stood up and began to inspect the trophies in the cabinet. She was far too restless and excited to remain sitting down. She looked at the presentation clock on the mantelpiece and puzzled over the signatures engraved upon a large silver dish which commemorated the joy displayed by the Criminal Investigation Department upon the occasion of Kerry’s promotion to the post of Chief Inspector.

  The door opened and Kerry came in. He had arisen and completed his toilet in several seconds less than five minutes. But his spotlessly neat attire would have survived inspection by the most lynx-eyed martinet in the Brigade of Guards. As he smiled at his visitor with fierce geniality, Mollie blushed like a young girl.

  Chief Inspector Kerry was a much bigger man than she had believed him to be. The impression left upon her memory by his brief appearance at the night club had been that of a small, dapper figure. Now, as he stood in the little drawing-room, she saw that he was not much if anything below the average height of Englishmen, and that he possessed wonderfully broad shoulders. In fact, Kerry was deceptive. His compact neatness and the smallness of his feet and hands, together with those swift, lithe movements which commonly belong to men of light physique, curiously combined to deceive the beholder, but masked eleven stones (*note: 1 stone = 14 pounds) of bone and muscle.

  “Very good of you to offer information, miss,” he said. “I’m willing to admit that I can do with it.”