by Frank Froest
‘You mean that Ling walked right through our men without being held up?’
‘Sure. If I’d have thought of the gag I’d have done it, too.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Can you figure it out?’
Menzies bit hard at a mouthful of moustache. Even Congreve had lost all interest in his fingernails. Suddenly the senior detective’s face lightened. ‘Congreve,’ he said. ‘Slip out and find what fire crews have gone away. If the divisional fire superintendent is still there ask him to have a roll-call taken.’
‘You’ve got it boss—at last,’ said Big Rufe.
CHAPTER XXIX
THERE was wailing and gnashing of teeth among the men of the C.I.D. as knowledge of Ling’s escape spread. Yet the simplicity and audacity with which it had been carried out earned for it a chagrined admiration. Luck had attended the crook better than he knew. The district fire call had brought steamers from many stations, and some of the firemen were strangers to each other—a fact which had made the risk of detection infinitely small.
Nevertheless, it must have needed an iron nerve to have waited as Ling had done in a back room of the blazing building till the moment was ripe for his expedient. He had reckoned astutely enough that the firemen would have their hands full at the front of the house at the commencement of operations, and that at the most only one or two would penetrate through by the blazing staircase to the back to have a look at things. On that hypothesis he had acted, and the first fireman to get through had never known what hit him, as Ling dropped a sandbag across the nape of his neck.
It had taken little enough time to change the man’s outer garments—the brass helmet, the heavy jacket, the trousers and the big sea boots—but even so, he had to fight his way choking and gasping through the smothering mixture of flame and smoke to the open air.
The uniformed police at the lower end of the street remembered a fireman with grimed face and bloodshot eyes—one keen-eyed officer had even noticed what he took to be a bandage under the helmet—come towards them at a lumbering trot. As Ling had calculated, there had not been the shadow of suspicion in their minds, as breathlessly he had ordered them to make way, muttering, ‘We want to see if we can get at it from the back.’ And so he had vanished, leaving one more victim to be buried in the ruins of the burning house.
Mortifying as it was, no one could justly be blamed. The uniformed police had acted hastily in cutting off access to and from Levoine Street, and though one end of the street which backed on to it—Paradise Street—had been included in the cordon, the other had been left open.
The mistake had been an easy one to make. Levoine Street itself ran straight as a pencil its entire length, and then swerved widely away at an obtuse angle which brought its bottom end out something more than half a mile from Levoine Street. If Gwennie Lyne had scaled the back walls safely she could have reached the house in Paradise Setreet from the back, and escaped through the front without anyone being a wit the wiser. Ling, too, would have made for Paradise Street, if only to effect change back into normal clothing.
All this had now become apparent to Weir Menzies, and blackened his brow and soured his temper as he reflected how easily it might have been avoided. His cordon of detectives had been wider, and had included Paradise Street, until he had weakened it by calling in some of the men. However, there was little to be gained by repining. The back yards of the houses in Levoine Street had already been scoured, and now a second party of searchers was at work, among them hope of picking up any trace of Gwennie was feeble. The only chance was that if she tried to get away from Paradise Street she might be brought up by one of the outlying detective patrols.
Although the search of the cut off area seemed now a waste of time, Menzies gave no instructions for it to cease. There was always a possiblity, however faint it might be. His main hopes were centred on Big Rufe.
‘What’s the number of that shanty in Paradise Street where you and Ling were hanging out?’ he asked.
Rufe gave it readily enough. ‘You don’t reckon they’ll be waiting there for you, do you?’ he asked. ‘I guess you’ll find the kerb scorched, they got away so fast.’
The same idea was in Menzies’ mind. He would cheerfully have given odds of a million to one on it, but nevertheless the place had to be gone through. He drew his chair a little closer to the prisoner.
‘What did you mean just now by “en she quay”?’ he asked.
Rufe shook his head, doggedly. ‘No guy ain’t going to say I gave Ling away,’ he persisted. He was apparently obsessed with something of that curious trick of mind which will induce a dishonest witness with some shreds of conscience to kiss a thumb instead of the testament in court under the impression that perjury is thereby avoided.
Menzies recognised the attitude. Rufe had had no objections to betraying Ling, but he would not definitely give away his fresh hiding place. He wanted to feel that he could deny having done so if occasion warranted, and he was giving a hint capable of only one construction. A less self-controlled, less experienced man than Menzies might have been exasperated. The crook had been plain enough except on this one point. To argument and expostulation alike he blandly shook his head.
There was it seemed to Menzies a chance that it might be a piece of recondite American slang. If that was so it was new to him, and he had had much experience of the other side.
He sent Rufe away to the police-station under escort, and strolled out himself to see how things were progressing. It was getting on for one o’clock, and the house-to-house search was on the point of finishing. Congreve loomed up through the drizzle.
‘No go, sir,’ he reported. ‘House as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, except for some tinned stuff, some stale bread, and half a dozen travelling rugs. Front door and the yard door were both open.’
‘I was afraid so,’ said Menzies. ‘We don’t seem to have any luck, do we?’
‘I don’t know.’ Congreve smiled behind his hand at his chief’s impatience. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, it seems to me we haven’t much to grumble about. A week ago we were right in the cart. Now we do know the story, and we know the murderer.’
‘Yep. And you’ve been long enough in the service, Congreve, to know that troubles only begin when a man is spotted. Tell me what “en she quay” means, and you’ll be talking sense.’
‘Give it up,’ said Congreve, decisively.
‘Well, I’m going to knock off now, and go up and see Mr Foyle. We’ve about cleared up here. You might ask some of the boys about that. Perhaps some of ’em may know. Where’s Royal?’
‘Dry nursing Hallett in the “Three Kings”.’
‘On my soul I nearly forgot him,’ declared Menzies, and hurried away.
He found Hallett and Royal, who appeared to have become fairly intimate, swopping tall stories in the public house with Cincinnati Red as an interested onlooker. Peggy Greye-Stratton had long ago been sent away to Menzies’ house. Royal stopped in the middle of a creditable imitation of the pecularities of a certain famous judge. The chief-inspector stood regarding them for a minute. ‘Well, boys,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I suppose you know the show is over for tonight? We’ve been diddled again.’
‘Some gink,’ murmured Hallett, softly.
‘You don’t get my goat, my lad,’ smiled Menzies.
‘Ling seemed to manage fairly well,’ smiled Jimmie. ‘You’re finding out you’ve got a man’s sized job, aren’t you? All right’—as Menzies moved threateningly towards him—‘I take it all back. You’re it. The real Sherlock. You could eat a dozen Lings before breakfast, just to get an appetite. Keep off. I apologise. I beg pardon. I eat dirt. I—’ he gurgled.
‘Seriously though,’ said Menzies. ‘I’m shutting up shop for tonight. It’s after closing hours, but we’ll see if we can get one drink if we talk kindly to the landlord—all except Hallett.’
‘Me,’ said Jimmie. ‘You think I’m drunk?’
‘Well,’ Menzies drawled. ‘I’ve known men go up in the
air with less reason. Say, I’ll let you have that drink, and own up you’re sober if you’ll answer one question.’
‘Shoot,’ said Hallett.
‘What does “en she quay” mean?’
Jimmie bent his brows in painful thought. At last he shook his head. ‘That’s one on me. I’ll buy it.’ He waited expectant.
‘It isn’t a catch,’ explained Menzies. ‘I want to know.’
Cincinnati Red look up. ‘I’ve got an idea what you’re driving at,’ he said. ‘I ought to have caught on before, only I didn’t think of it. I’ve heard that Ling hits the pipe. I don’t know for sure. He’s never let on.’
‘An opium smoker?’
‘Sure. That’s what “en she quay” means. They say that he’s been a dope fiend for years. That explains why he goes all to pieces sometimes. He can’t keep away from it for long.’
There was dead silence for a moment. Both Menzies and Hallett had forgotten their duel of badinage. The chief-inspector’s face was very thoughtful. There could be no over-estimating the value of the knowledge—knowledge which was likely to shorten the pursuit by no one knew how long. Like many important clues it had come out as it were by accident—an accident, nevertheless, that would not have happened but for the search of Levoine Street.
Instead of having to begin again, the hunt for Ling—anywhere, everywhere—there was a fixed point on which to focus. From all points of view Ling would be driven to an opium den. Menzies knew something of the craving which men will take terrible risks to satisfy. Even in flight no man ridden by the habit would put himself out of reach of the drug. Reasoning as he imagined Ling would reason, it would be perfect policy to lay up in one of those illicit dens which, in spite of police vigilance, exist near the docks of every great port. For his own sake the versatile Chinese takes ample precautions against a raid. In ordinary circumstances such a place would be the last in which Ling would be looked for.
‘That looks good to me,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to stop for that drink after all. You never smoked opium?’ He addressed Cincinnati.
‘I’ve tried the dope,’ admitted the ‘con’ man. ‘I keep off it now. Bad for the nerves.’
‘Then you’re the man I want. You’ll know the gags, and’ll be able to prompt me. Come along.’ He seized the other’s coat-sleeve. Cincinnati sat tight, passively resisting the pressure.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Find if there’s any opium joint round about here, and run through it with you.’
Cincinnati did not seem to find the programme enticing. He was too close to the bad quarter of an hour spent recently on the same quest. ‘No,’ he said, emphatically. ‘It’s your business, Mr Menzies, and maybe you’d like to see it through. But it isn’t mine by a long chalk. I’ve had all the excitement I want tonight, and the quaint little yellow man won’t be disturbed by me.’
‘Afraid?’ sneered Menzies.
‘I am,’ admitted the ‘con’ man, bluntly. ‘I’ve done all you asked me to, but I’m no sleuth, and there won’t be any pension for my widows and orphans if somebody hands me one. Why don’t you take one of your staff?’
‘Because they’ve mostly cleared away home, and I don’t want to spend an hour or two hunting for the right man. I want to get after Ling right now.’
‘Say,’ drawled Jimmie. ‘Aren’t you getting on too fast? You don’t even know that Ling is in an opium joint, and if you did you don’t know where the joint is.’
Menzies’ brow corrugated. ‘I’ll find it,’ he answered grimly. ‘It isn’t the finding of it that worries me.’
‘Then, Sherlock,’ said Jimmie, ‘since our friend Whiffen has waived the honour why not let me be M.C.? I’ll own that I didn’t know or have forgotten the meaning of “en she quay”, but I’m no tenderfoot when it come to opium joints. I think I might bluff any Chinaman you’re likely to run across. I have had some experience in San Francisco.’
‘You think you can get us in if I find the joint? I don’t want any trouble, so that he can slip out a back way while we’re arguing at the front. It’s got to be done quietly. Remember he’s killed one man in order to get away tonight, and he won’t stand on ceremony with us.’
‘I’ll be discreet,’ promised Jimmie. ‘I shan’t make any trouble unless it comes. You bank on little Willie.’
Menzies gave a curt nod. ‘Very well. That’s a bet. You wait here, and I’ll be back in an hour or less. You needn’t stop unless you want to, Cincinnati. I’ll not forget you did your best for us tonight.’ He moved swiftly away.
‘Queer chap your chief,’ commented Jimmie to Royal. ‘How can he expect to find the place in an hour? If the police had any information about one, I suppose they’d have raided it long ago.’
‘If he says he’ll locate one in an hour you bet he’ll do it,’ declared Royal. ‘He’s that kind of man. There’s very few people who can walk over Weir Menzies and get away with it, and Ling isn’t one. The guvnor’s always got something up his sleeve. Once he gets his teeth into a case like his one you can break his jaw, but you won’t make him let go.’
‘I owe him something,’ said Jimmie, ‘though I like getting at that everlasting dignity of his. He doesn’t seem willing to admit that he can make a mistake. Here’s a bad blunder tonight for instance. Surely on a job like this it would have been simpler to take the house with a rush instead of messing around and letting everybody of any importance slip through his fingers?’
‘I wish I was an amateur detective,’ said Royal, solemnly. ‘It looks easy, don’t it? Just chew on this though. All Mr Menzies knew about that house was that Ling had been there last night. That was no proof that he was there tonight. If we’d raided that place, and found neither Gwennie nor Ling there, where would we have been now?’
‘Just where you are,’ argued Hallett, doggedly. ‘You haven’t got ’em now, have you?’
‘Oh, deliver us,’ ejaculated Royal, wearily, ‘Can’t you see that he had to make certain before running a raid? The news would have been all over the shop in two ticks, and if our birds had been laying up elsewhere they’d have flown, and we wouldn’t have stood the ghost of a chance of catching up with ’em. Got that? Very well. The guvnor arranges to see if they’re at home before jumping. If they hadn’t been we’d have waited for ’em to walk into the trap. You turn that endways and upside down and inside out, and see if there’s any flaw in it. As it is, we’ve bagged one of the small fry of the gang, filled up practically all our evidence, and got the tip where to look for Ling.’
‘Luck,’ persisted Jimmie. ‘I never said he had no luck.’
‘It’s the sort of luck that’s got a way of following Weir Menzies. Of course he goes off the line sometimes, but he’s only human. It’s only in books that detectives never go wrong. If Weir Menzies was that sort of detective—why, he wouldn’t be in the C.I.D.; he’d have Rockefeller and Vanderbilt and Rothschild in his vest pocket. The C.I.D.,’ he concluded, gloomily, ‘never gets justice done to ’em in print—except perhaps in Judicial Statistics.’
Jimmie grinned at the heat of Menzies’ defender. ‘I never said he was a dud,’ he declared.
‘You never said so. That’s what you meant all the same,’ replied Royal, with warmth. ‘You’ve just seen some of the surface parts of his operations, and you don’t know either the resources or the limitations of the machine he is driving. No detective that was ever built could stand for a day alone against organised crime. You let a marked grasshopper down in a ten-acre field, and set somebody else the business of catching him. That’s about as easy as some of the jobs that come our way. Luck! Huh!’
‘You’ve convinced me,’ said Jimmie, solemnly. ‘You’ve got Vidocq, Sherlock Holmes, Dupin, Cleek, Sexton Blake, and all the rest of ’em beaten to a frazzle.
‘You ready?’ said the voice of Menzies from the doorway.
CHAPTER XXX
IT is no reflection upon the activity of the divisional police
that there should be an undiscovered opium joint in Shadwell. There is all the difference in the world between a deliberate search with a definite object and a preventive vigilance much spread out. Menzies had special reason to believe that an opium den existed somewhere in the district, and it became a question merely of locating it.
That problem was not so formidable as it looked. It all turned on a question of advertisement.
Even illicit trades must advertise. A gambling house, a whisky still, or an opium joint do it in different ways to the proprietors of a breakfast food, but in essence it is the same. They must have their public—a definite circle of patrons to keep trade humming. And the advertisement is by word of mouth, at first discreet, but getting less discreet as time goes on, and the circle broadens. Sooner or later some hint inevitably reaches the ear of authority, and the cleverest keepers of such places time their flittings accordingly.
No precautions can avert that unless the police be venal. But precautions can be taken to prevent evidence being obtained by a surprise raid, and no one is more fertile in these measures than the Chinese owner of an East End opium den.
Although Menzies did not analyse the mental process that had made him so confidently assert that he would find the opium den in an hour it is probable that he relied on these facts rather than on any hope of melodramatic deductions. It is a pity to spoil a popular illusion, but it is true that the greatest detective successes in real life are achieved simply by asking questions in the right way of the right person.
An opium joint undoubtedly existed. Equally undoubtedly there were some scores, likely enough hundreds, of persons who knew where it was. All that Menzies had to do was to keep on asking until he hit someone who could tell. His starting point was the landlord of the ‘Three Kings’ public house.
That gentleman, an elderly hatchet-faced individual with a temper much soured by dyspepsia, was in his shirt sleeves, leaning on the counter of the public bar. Formally the place was closed in accordance with the licensing regulations, and he was simply waiting until it pleased Menzies and his companions to turn out. Had they been other than police officials they would have been shunted into the cold street at the stroke of half past twelve.