The Mystery Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Mystery Stories

by Talley, Marcia

  His diction was rapid and terse—so rapid as to create the impression that he bit off the ends of the longer words. He turned his fierce blue eyes upon the uniformed officer who stood at the end of the slab.

  “They are very few, Chief Inspector,” was the reply. “He was hauled out by the river police shortly after midnight, at the lower end of Limehouse Reach. He was alive then—they heard his cry—but he died while they were hauling him into the boat.”

  “Any statement?” rapped Kerry.

  “He was past it, Chief Inspector. According to the report of the officer in charge, he mumbled something which sounded like: ‘It has bitten me,’ just before he became unconscious.”

  “‘It has bitten me,’” murmured Kerry. “The divisional surgeon has seen him?”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector. And in his opinion the man did not die from drowning, but from some form of virulent poisoning.”

  “Poisoning?”

  “That’s the idea. There will be a further examination, of course. Either a hypodermic injection or a bite.”

  “A bite?” said Kerry. “The bite of what?”

  “That I cannot say, Chief Inspector. A venomous reptile, I suppose.”

  Kerry stared down critically at the swollen face of the victim, and then glanced sharply aside at Durham.

  “Accounts for his appearance, I suppose,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” said Durham quietly. “He hadn’t been in the water long enough to look like that.” He turned to the local officer. “Is there any theory as to the point at which he went in?”

  “Well, an arrest has been made.”

  “By whom? of whom?” rapped Kerry.

  “Two constables patrolling the Chinatown area arrested a man for suspicious loitering. He turned out to be a well-known criminal—Jim Poland, with a whole list of convictions against him. They’re holding him at Limehouse Station, and the theory is that he was operating with—” He nodded in the direction of the body.

  “Then who’s the smart with the swollen face?” inquired Kerry. “He’s a new one on me.”

  “Yes, but he’s been identified by one of the K Division men. He is an American crook with a clean slate, so far as this side is concerned. Cohen is his name. And the idea seems to be that he went in at some point between where he was found by the river police and the point at which Jim Poland was arrested.”

  Kerry snapped his teeth together audibly, and:

  “I’m open to learn,” he said, “that the house of Huang Chow is within that area.”

  “It is.”

  “I thought so. He died the same way the Chinaman died awhile ago,” snapped Kerry savagely.

  “It looks very queer.” He glanced aside at the local officer. “Cover him up,” he ordered, and, turning, he walked briskly out of the mortuary, followed by Detective Durham.

  Although dawn was not far off, this was the darkest hour of the night, so that even the sounds of dockland were muted and the riverside slept as deeply as the great port of London ever sleeps. Vague murmurings there were and distant clankings, with the hum of machinery which is never still.

  Few of London’s millions were awake at that hour, yet Scotland Yard was awake in the person of the fierce-eyed Chief Inspector and his subordinate. Perhaps those who lightly criticize the Metropolitan Force might have learned a new respect for the tireless vigilance which keeps London clean and wholesome, had they witnessed this scene on the borders of Limehouse, as Kerry, stepping into a waiting taxi-cab accompanied by Durham, proceeded to Limehouse Police Station in that still hour when the City slept.

  The arrival of Kerry created something of a stir amongst the officials on duty. His reputation in these days was at least as great as that of the most garrulous Labour member.

  The prisoner was in cells, but the Chief Inspector elected to interview him in the office; and accordingly, while the officer in charge sat at an extremely tidy writing-table, tapping the blotting-pad with a pencil, and Detective John Durham stood beside him, Kerry paced up and down the little room, deep in reflection, until the door opened and the prisoner was brought in.

  One swift glance the Chief Inspector gave at the battle-scarred face, and recognized instantly that this was a badly frightened man. Crossing to the table he took up a typewritten slip which lay there, and:

  “Your name is James Poland?” he said. “Four convictions; one, robbery with violence.”

  Jim Poland nodded sullenly.

  “You were arrested at the corner of Peking Street about midnight. What were you doing there?”

  “Taking a walk.”

  “I’ll say it again,” rapped Kerry, fixing his fierce eyes upon the man’s face. “What were you doing there?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “And I tell you you’re a liar. Where did you leave the man Cohen?”

  Poland blinked his small eyes, cleared his throat, and looked down at the floor uneasily. Then:

  “Who’s Cohen?” he grunted.

  “You mean, who was Cohen?” cried Kerry.

  The shot went home. The man clenched his fists and looked about the room from face to face.

  “You don’t tell me—” he began huskily.

  “I’ve told you,” said Kerry. “He’s on the slab. Spit out the truth; it’ll be good for your health.”

  The man hesitated, then looked up, his eyes half closed and a cunning expression upon his face.

  “Make out your own case,” he said. “You’ve got nothing against me.”

  Kerry snapped his teeth together viciously.

  “I’ve told you what happened to your pal,” he warned. “If you’re a wise man you’ll come in on our side, before the same thing happens to you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” growled Poland.

  Kerry nodded to the constable at the doorway.

  “Take him back,” he ordered.

  Jim Poland being returned to his cell, Kerry, as the door closed behind the prisoner and his guard, stared across at Durham where he stood beside the table.

  “An old hand,” he said. “But there’s another way.” He glanced at the officer in charge. “Hold him till the morning. He’ll prove useful.”

  From his waistcoat pocket he took out a slip of chewing gum, unwrapped it, and placed the mint-flavoured wafer between his large white teeth. He bit upon it savagely, settled his hat upon his head, and, turning, walked toward the door. In the doorway he paused.

  “Come with me, Durham,” he said. “I am leaving the conduct of the case entirely in your hands from now onward.”

  Detective Durham looked surprised and not a little anxious.

  “I am doing so for two reasons,” continued the Chief Inspector. “These two reasons I shall now explain.”

  III

  THE SECRET TREASURE-HOUSE

  Unlike its sister colony in New York, there are no show places in Limehouse. The visitor sees nothing but mean streets and dark doorways. The superficial inquirer comes away convinced that the romance of the Asiatic district has no existence outside the imaginations of writers of fiction. Yet here lies a secret quarter, as secret and as strange, in its smaller way, as its parent in China which is called the Purple Forbidden City.

  On a morning when mist lay over the Thames reaches, softening the harshness of the dock buildings and lending an air of mystery to the vessels stealing out upon the tide, a man walked briskly along Limehouse Causeway, looking about him inquiringly, as one unfamiliar with the neighbourhood. Presently he seemed to recognize a turning to the right, and he pursued this for a time, now walking more slowly.

  A European woman, holding a half-caste baby in her arms, stood in an open doorway, watching him uninterestedly. Otherwise, except for one neatly dressed young Chinaman, who passed him about halfway along the street, there was nothing which could have told the visitor that he had crossed the borderline dividing West from East and was now in an Oriental town.

  A very narrow alleyway between two dingy
houses proved to be the spot for which he was looking; and, having stared about him for a while, he entered this alleyway. At the farther end it was crossed T-fashion, by another alley, the only object of interest being an iron post at the crossing, and the scenery being made up entirely of hideous brick walls.

  About halfway along on the left, set in one of these walls, were strong wooden gates, apparently those of a warehouse. Beside them was a door approached by two very dirty steps. There was a bell-push near the door, but upon neither of these entrances was there any plate to indicate the name of the proprietor of the establishment.

  From his pocket-book the visitor extracted a card, consulted something written upon it, and then pressed the bell.

  It was very quiet in this dingy little court. No sound of the busy thoroughfares penetrated here; and although the passage forming the top of the “T” practically marked the river bank, only dimly could one discern the sounds which belong to a seaport.

  Presently the door was opened by a Chinese boy who wore the ordinary native working dress, and who regarded the man upon the step with oblique, tired-looking eyes.

  “Mr. Huang Chow?” asked the caller.

  The boy nodded.

  “You wantchee him see?”

  “If he is at home.”

  The boy glanced at the card, which the visitor still held between finger and thumb, and extended his hand silently. The card was surrendered. It was that of an antique dealer of Dover Street, Piccadilly, and written upon the back was the following: “Mr. Hampden would like to do business with you.” The signature of the dealer followed.

  The boy turned and passed along a dim and perfectly unfurnished passage which the opening of the door had revealed, while Mr. Hampden stood upon the step and lighted a cigarette.

  In less than a minute the boy returned and beckoned to him to come in. As he did so, and the door was closed, he almost stumbled, so dark was the passage.

  Presently, guided by the boy, he found himself in a very businesslike little office, where a girl sat at an American desk, looking up at him inquiringly.

  She was of a dark and arresting type. Without being pretty in the European sense, there was something appealing in her fine, dark eyes, and she possessed the inviting smile which is the heritage of Eastern women. Her dress was not unlike that of any other business girl, except that the neck of her blouse was cut very low, a fashion affected by many Eurasians, and she wore a gaily coloured sash, and large and very costly pearl earrings. As Mr. Hampden paused in the doorway:

  “Good morning,” said the girl, glancing down at the card which lay upon the desk before her. “You come from Mr. Isaacs, eh?”

  She looked at him with a caressing glance from beneath half-lowered lashes, but missed no detail of his appearance. She did not quite like his moustache, and thought that he would have looked better clean-shaven. Nevertheless, he was a well-set-up fellow, and her manner evidenced approval.

  “Yes,” he replied, smiling genially. “I have a small commission to execute, and I am told that you can help me.”

  The girl paused for a moment, and then:

  “Yes, very likely,” she said, speaking good English but with an odd intonation. “It is not jade? We have very little jade.”

  “No, no. I wanted an enamelled casket.”

  “What kind?”

  “Cloisonné.”

  “Cloisonné? Yes, we have several.”

  She pressed a bell, and, glancing up at the boy who had stood throughout the interview at the visitor’s elbow, addressed him rapidly in Chinese. He nodded his head and led the way through a second doorway. Closing this, he opened a third and ushered Mr. Hampden into a room which nearly caused the latter to gasp with astonishment.

  One who had blundered from Whitechapel into the Khan Khalil, who had been transported upon a magic carpet from a tube station to the Taj Mahal, of dropped suddenly upon Lebanon hills to find himself looking down upon the pearly domes and jewelled gardens of Damascus, could not well have been more surprised. This great treasure-house of old Huang Chow was one of Chinatown’s secrets—a secret shared only by those whose commercial interests were identical with the interests of Huang Chow.

  The place was artificially lighted by lamps which themselves were beautiful objects of art, and which swung from the massive beams of the ceiling. The floor of the warehouse, which was partly of stone, was covered with thick matting, and spread upon it were rugs and carpets of Karadagh, Kermanshah, Sultanabad, and Khorassan, with lesser-known loomings of almost equal beauty. Skins of rare beasts overlay the divans. Furniture of ivory, of ebony and lemonwood, preciously inlaid, gave to the place an air of cunning confusion. There were tall cabinets, there were caskets and chests of exquisite lacquer and enamel, loot of an emperor’s palace; robes heavy with gold; slippers studded with jewels; strange carven ivories; glittering weapons; pots, jars, and bowls, as delicate and as fragile as the petals of a lily.

  Last, but not least, sitting cross-legged upon a low couch, was old Huang Chow, smoking a great curved pipe, and peering half blindly across the place through large horn-rimmed spectacles. This couch was set immediately beside a wide ascending staircase, richly carpeted, and on the other side of the staircase, in a corresponding recess, upon a gilded trestle carved to represent the four claws of a dragon, rested perhaps the strangest exhibit of that strange collection—a Chinese coffin of exquisite workmanship.

  The boy retired, and Mr. Hampden found himself alone with Huang Chow. No word had been exchanged between master and servant, but:

  “Good morning, Mr. Hampden,” said the Chinaman in a high, thin voice. “Please be seated. It is from Mr. Isaacs you come?”

  IV

  PERSONAL REPORT OF DETECTIVE JOHN DURHAM TO CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY, OFFICER IN CHARGE OF LIMEHOUSE INQUIRY

  Dear Chief Inspector,—

  Following your instructions I returned and interviewed the prisoner Poland in his cell. I took the line which you had suggested, pointing out to him that he had nothing to gain and everything to lose by keeping silent.

  “Answer my questions,” I said, “and you can walk straight out. Otherwise, you’ll be up before the magistrate, and on your record alone it will mean a holiday which you probably don’t want.”

  He was very truculent, but I got him in a good humour at last, and he admitted that he had been cooperating with the dead man, Cohen, in an attempt to burgle the house of Huang Chow. His reluctance to go into details seemed to be due rather to fear of Huang Chow than to fear of the law, and I presently gathered that he regarded Huang as responsible for the death not only of Cohen, but also of the Chinaman who was hauled out of the river about three weeks ago, as you well remember. The post-mortem showed that he had died of some kind of poisoning, and when we saw Cohen in the mortuary, his swollen appearance struck me as being very similar to that of the Chinaman. (See my report dated 31st ultimo.)

  He finally agreed to talk if I would promise that he should not be charged and that his name should never be mentioned to anyone in connection with what he might tell me. I promised him that outside the ordinary official routine I would respect his request, and he told me some very curious things, which no doubt have a bearing on the case.

  For instance, he had discovered—I don’t know in what way—that the dead Chinaman, whose name was Pi Lung, had been in negotiation with Huang Chow for some sort of job in his warehouse. Poland had seen the man talking to Huang’s daughter, at the end of the alley which leads to the place. He seemed to attach extraordinary importance to this fact. At last:

  “I’ll tell you what it is,” he said. “That Chink was a stranger to Limehouse; I can swear to it. He was a gent of his hands; I reckon they’ve got ’em in China as well as here. He went out for the old boy’s money-box, and finished like Cohen finished.”

  “Make your meaning clearer,” I said.

  “My meaning’s this: Old Huang Chow is the biggest dealer in stolen and smuggled valuables from overseas we’ve got in L
ondon. He’s something else as well; he’s a big swell in China. But here’s the point. He’s got business with buyers all over London, and they have to pay cash—no checks. He doesn’t bank it: I’ve proved that. He’s got it in gold, or diamonds, or something, being wise to present conditions, hidden there in the house. Pi Lung was after his hoard. He didn’t get it. Cohen and me was after it. Where’s Cohen?”

  I agreed that it looked very suspicious, and presently:

  “When I went in with Cohen,” continued Poland, “I knew one thing he didn’t know—a short cut into the warehouse. He’s been playing pretty-like with Lala, old Huang’s daughter, and it’s my belief that he knew where the store was hidden; but he never told me. We knew there were special men on duty, and we’d arranged that I was to give a signal when the patrol had passed. Cohen all the time had planned to double on me. While I was watching down on the Causeway end he climbed up and got in through the skylight I’d shown him. When I got there he was missing, but the skylight was open. I started off after him.”

  Then Poland clutched me, and his fright was very real.

  “I heard a shriek like nothing I ever heard in my life. I saw a light shine through the trap, and then I heard a sort of moaning. Last, I heard a bang, and the light went out. I staggered down the passage half silly, started to run, and ran straight into the arms of two coppers.”

  This evidence I thought was conclusive, and in accordance with your instructions I proceeded to Mr. Isaacs in Dover Street. He didn’t seem too pleased at my suggestion, but when I pointed out to him that one good turn deserved another, he agreed to give me an introduction to Huang Chow.

  I adopted a very simple disguise, just altering my complexion and sticking on a moustache with spirit gum, hair by hair, and trimming it down military fashion. Everything ran smoothly, and I seemed to make a fairly favourable impression upon Lala Huang, the Chinaman’s daughter, who evidently interviews prospective customers before they are admitted to the warehouse.