The Yellow Claw gm-1

by Sax Rohmer

  "Undoubtedly in London. There was no address on the letter, and no date, and it was curiously signed: Mr. King."

  "Mr. King!"

  Dr. Cumberly rose slowly from his chair, and took a step toward M. Max.

  "You are interested?" said the detective, and shrugged his shoulders, whilst his mobile mouth shaped itself in a grim smile. "Pardieu! I knew you would be! Acting upon another clue which the letter—priceless letter—contained, I visited the Credit Lyonnais. I discovered that an account had been opened there by Mr. Henry Leroux of London on behalf of his wife, Mira Leroux, to the amount of a thousand pounds."

  "A thousand pounds—really!" cried Dr. Cumberly, drawing his heavy brows together—"as much as that?"

  "Certainly. It was for a thousand pounds," repeated Max, "and the whole of that amount had been drawn out."

  "The whole thousand?"

  "The whole thousand; nom d'un p'tit bonhomme! The whole thousand! Acting, as I have said, upon the information in this always priceless letter, I confronted Madame Jean and the manager of the bank with each other. Morbleu! 'This,' he said, 'is Mira Leroux of London!'"…

  "What!" cried Cumberly, seemingly quite stupefied by this last revelation.

  Max spread wide his palms, and the flexible lips expressed sympathy with the doctor's stupefaction.

  "It is as I tell you," he continued. "This Madame Jean had been posing as Mrs. Leroux, and in some way, which I was unable to understand, her signature had been accepted by the Credit Lyonnais. I examined the specimen signature which had been forwarded to them by the London County and Suburban Bank, and I perceived, at once, that it was not a case of common forgery. The signatures were identical"…

  "Therefore," said Cumberly, and he was thinking of Henry Leroux, whom Fate delighted in buffeting—"therefore, the Credit Lyonnais is not responsible?"

  "Most decidedly not responsible," agreed Max. "So you see I now have two reasons for coming to London: one, to visit the London County and Suburban Bank, and the other to find… Mr. King. The first part of my mission I have performed successfully; but the second"… again he shrugged, and the lines of his mouth were humorous.

  Dr. Cumberly began to walk up and down the carpet.

  "Poor Leroux!" he muttered—"poor Leroux."

  "Ah! poor Leroux, indeed," said Max. "He is so typical a victim of this most infernal group!"

  "What!" Dr. Cumberly turned in his promenade and stared at the detective—"he's not the only one?"

  "My dear sir," said Max, gently, "the victims of Mr. King are truly as the sands of Arabia."

  "Good heavens!" muttered Dr. Cumberly; "good heavens!"

  "I came immediately to London," continued Max, "and presented myself at New Scotland Yard. There I discovered that my inquiry was complicated by a ghastly crime which had been committed in the flat of Mr. Leroux; but I learned, also, that Mr. King was concerned in this crime—his name had been found upon a scrap of paper clenched in the murdered woman's hand!"

  "I was present when it was found," said Dr. Cumberly.

  "I know you were," replied Max. "In short, I discovered that the Palace Mansions murder case was my case, and that my case was the Palace Mansions case. Eh bien! the mystery of the Paris draft did not detain me long. A call upon the manager of the London County and Suburban Bank at Charing Cross revealed to me the whole plot. The real Mrs. Leroux had never visited that bank; it was Madame Jean, posing as Mrs. Leroux, who went there and wrote the specimen signature, accompanied by a certain Soames, a butler"…

  "I know him!" said Dr. Cumberly, grimly, "the blackguard!"

  "Truly a blackguard, truly a big, dirty blackguard! But it is such canaille as this that Mr. King discovers and uses for his own ends. Paris society, I know for a fact; has many such a cankerworm in its heart. Oh! it is a big case, a very big case. Poor Mr. Leroux being confined to his bed—ah! I pity him—I took the opportunity to visit his flat in Palace Mansions with Inspector Dunbar, and I obtained further evidence showing how the conspiracy had been conducted; yes. For instance, Dunbar's notebook showed me that Mr. Leroux was accustomed to receive letters from Mrs. Leroux whilst she was supposed to be in Paris. I actually discovered some of those letters, and they bore no dates. This, if they came from a woman, was not remarkable, but, upon one of them I found something that WAS remarkable. It was still in its envelope, you must understand, this letter, its envelope bearing the Paris post-mark. But impressed upon the paper I discovered a second post-mark, which, by means of a simple process, and the use of a magnifying glass, I made out to be Bow, East!"

  "What!"

  "Do you understand? This letter, and others doubtless, had been enclosed in an envelope and despatched to Paris from Bow, East? In short, Mrs. Leroux wrote those letters before she left London; Soames never posted them, but handed them over to some representative of Mr. King; this other, in turn, posted them to Madame Jean in Paris! Morbleu! these are clever rogues! This which I was fortunate enough to discover had been on top, you understand, this billet, and the outer envelope being very heavily stamped, that below retained the impress of the post-mark."

  "Poor Leroux!" said Cumberly again, with suppressed emotion. "That unsuspecting, kindly soul has been drawn into the meshes of this conspiracy. How they have been wound around him, until… "

  "He knows the truth about his wife?" asked Max, suddenly glancing up at the physician, "that she is not in Paris?"

  "I, myself, broke the painful news to him," replied Cumberly—"after a consultation with Miss Ryland and my daughter. I considered it my duty to tell him, but I cannot disguise from myself that it hastened, if it did not directly occasion, his breakdown."

  "Yes, yes," said Max; "we have been very fortunate however in diverting the attention of the press from the absence of Mrs. Leroux throughout this time. Nom d'un nom! Had they got to know about the scrap of paper found in the dead woman's hand, I fear that this would have been impossible."

  "I do not doubt that it would have been impossible, knowing the London press," replied Dr. Cumberly, "but I, too, am glad that it has been achieved; for in the light of your Paris discoveries, I begin at last to understand."

  "You were not Mrs. Leroux's medical adviser?"

  "I was not," replied Cumberly, glancing sharply at Max. "Good heavens, to think that I had never realized the truth!"

  "It is not so wonderful at all. Of course, as I have seen from the evidence which you gave to the police, you knew that Mrs. Vernon was addicted to the use of opium?"

  "It was perfectly evident," replied Cumberly; "painfully evident. I will not go into particulars, but her entire constitution was undermined by the habit. I may add, however, that I did not associate the vice with her violent end, except"…

  "Ah!" interrupted Max, shaking his finger at the physician, "you are coming to the point upon which you disagreed with the divisional surgeon! Now, it is an important point. You are of opinion that the injection in Mrs. Vernon's shoulder—which could not have been self-administered"…

  "She was not addicted to the use of the needle," interrupted Cumberly; "she was an opium SMOKER."

  "Quite so, quite so," said Max: "it makes the point all the more clear. You are of opinion that this injection was made at least eight hours before the woman's death?"

  "At least eight hours—yes."

  "Eh bien!" said Max; "and have you had extensive experience of such injections?"

  Dr. Cumberly stared at him in some surprise.

  "In a general way," he said, "a fair number of such cases have come under my notice; but it chances that one of my patients, a regular patient—is addicted to the vice."

  "Injections?"

  "Only as a makeshift. He has periodical bouts of opium smoking—what I may term deliberate debauches."

  "Ah!" Max was keenly interested. "This patient is a member of good society?"

  "He's a member of Parliament," replied Cumberly, a faint, humorous glint creeping into his gray eyes; "but, of course, that is not an answe
r to your question! Yes, he is of an old family, and is engaged to the daughter of a peer."

  "Dr. Cumberly," said Max, "in a case like the present—apart from the fact that the happiness—pardieu! the life—of one of your own friends is involved… should you count it a breach of professional etiquette to divulge the name of that patient?"

  It was a disturbing question; a momentous question for a fashionable physician to be called upon to answer thus suddenly. Dr. Cumberly, who had resumed his promenade of the carpet, stopped with his back to M. Max, and stared out of the window into Harley Street.

  M. Max, a man of refined susceptibilities, came to his aid, diplomatically.

  "It is perhaps overmuch to ask you," he said. "I can settle the problem in a more simple manner. Inspector Dunbar will ask you for this gentleman's name, and you, as witness in the case, cannot refuse to give it."

  "I can refuse until I stand in the witness-box!" replied Cumberly, turning, a wry smile upon his face.

  "With the result," interposed Max, "that the ends of justice might be defeated, and the wrong man hanged!"

  "True," said Cumberly; "I am splitting hairs. It is distinctly a breach of professional etiquette, nevertheless, and I cannot disguise the fact from myself. However, since the knowledge will never go any further, and since tremendous issues are at stake, I will give you the name of my opium patient. It is Sir Brian Malpas!"

  "I am much indebted to you, Dr. Cumberly," said Max; "a thousand thanks;" but in his eyes there was a far-away look. "Malpas—Malpas! Where in this case have I met with the name of Malpas?"

  "Inspector Dunbar may possibly have mentioned it to you in reference to the evidence of Mr. John Exel, M. P. Mr. Exel, you may remember"…

  "I have it!" cried Max; "Nom d'un nom! I have it! It was from Sir Brian Malpas that he had parted at the corner of Victoria Street on the night of the murder, is it not so?"

  "Your memory is very good, M. Max!"

  "Then Mr. Exel is a personal friend of Sir Brian Malpas?

  "Excellent! Kismet aids me still! I come to you hoping that you may be acquainted with the constitution of Mrs. Leroux, but no! behold me disappointed in this. Then—morbleu! among your patients I find a possible client of the opium syndicate!"

  "What! Malpas? Good God! I had not thought of that! Of course, he must retire somewhere from the ken of society to indulge in these opium orgies"…

  "Quite so. I have hopes. Since it would never do for Sir Brian Malpas to know who I am and what I seek, a roundabout introduction is provided by kindly Providence—Ah! that good little angel of mine!—in the person of Mr. John Exel, M. P."

  "I will introduce you to Mr. Exel with pleasure."

  "Eh bien! Let it be arranged as soon as possible," said M. Max. "To Mr. John Exel I will be, as to Miss Ryland (morbleu! I hate me!) and Miss Cumberly (pardieu! I loathe myself!), M. Gaston! It is ten o'clock, and already I hear your first patient ringing at the front-door bell. Good morning, Dr. Cumberly."

  Dr. Cumberly grasped his hand cordially.

  "Good morning, M. Max!"

  The famous detective was indeed retiring, when:

  "M. Max!"

  He turned—and looked into the troubled gray eyes of Dr. Cumberly.

  "You would ask me where is she—Mrs. Leroux?" he said. "My friend—I may call you my friend, may I not?—I cannot say if she is living or is dead. Some little I know of the Chinese, quite a little; nom de dieu!… I hope she is dead!"…

  Chapter 24 OPIUM

  Denise Ryland was lunching that day with Dr. Cumberly and his daughter at Palace Mansions; and as was usually the case when this trio met, the conversation turned upon the mystery.

  "I have just seen Leroux," said the physician, as he took his seat, "and I have told him that he must go for a drive to-morrow. I have released him from his room, and given him the run of the place again, but until he can get right away, complete recovery is impossible. A little cheerful company might be useful, though. You might look in and see him for a while, Helen?"

  Helen met her father's eyes, gravely, and replied, with perfect composure, "I will do so with pleasure. Miss Ryland will come with me."

  "Suppose," said Denise Ryland, assuming her most truculent air, "you leave off… talking in that… frigid manner… my dear. Considering that Mira… Leroux and I were… old friends, and that you… are old friends of hers, too, and considering that I spend… my life amongst… people who very sensibly call… one another… by their Christian names, forget that my name is Ryland, and call me… Denise!"

  "I should love to!" cried Helen Cumberly; "in fact, I wanted to do so the very first time I saw you; perhaps because Mira Leroux always referred to you as Denise"…

  "May I also avail myself of the privilege?" inquired Dr. Cumberly with gravity, "and may I hope that you will return the compliment?"

  "I cannot… do it!" declared Denise Ryland, firmly. "A doctor … should never be known by any other name than… Doctor. If I heard any one refer to my own… physician as Jack or… Bill, or Dick… I should lose ALL faith in him at once!"

  As the lunch proceeded, Dr. Cumberly gradually grew more silent, seeming to be employed with his own thoughts; and although his daughter and Denise Ryland were discussing the very matter that engaged his own attention, he took no part in the conversation for some time. Then:

  "I agree with you!" he said, suddenly, interrupting Helen; "the greatest blow of all to Leroux was the knowledge that his wife had been deceiving him."

  "He invited… deceit!" proclaimed Denise Ryland, "by his… criminal neglect."

  "Oh! how can you say so!" cried Helen, turning her gray eyes upon the speaker reproachfully; "he deserves—"

  "He certainly deserves to know the real truth," concluded Dr. Cumberly; "but would it relieve his mind or otherwise?"

  Denise Ryland and Helen looked at him in silent surprise.

  "The truth?" began the latter—"Do you mean that you know—where she is"…

  "If I knew that," replied Dr. Cumberly, "I should know everything; the mystery of the Palace Mansions murder would be a mystery no longer. But I know one thing: Mrs. Leroux's absence has nothing to do with any love affair."

  "What!" exclaimed Denise Ryland. "There isn't another man… in the case? You can't tell me"…

  "But I DO tell you!" said Dr. Cumberly; "I ASSURE you."

  "And you have not told—Mr. Leroux?" said Helen incredulously. "You have NOT told him—although you know that the thought—of THAT is?"…

  "Is practically killing him? No, I have not told him yet. For—would my news act as a palliative or as an irritant?"

  "That depends," pronounced Denise Ryland, "on the nature of… your news."

  "I suppose I have no right to conceal it from him. Therefore, we will tell him to-day. But although, beyond doubt, his mind will be relieved upon one point, the real facts are almost, if not quite, as bad."

  "I learnt, this morning," he continued, lighting a cigarette, "certain facts which, had I been half as clever as I supposed myself, I should have deduced from the data already in my possession. I was aware, of course, that the unhappy victim—Mrs. Vernon—was addicted to the use of opium, and if a tangible link were necessary, it existed in the form of the written fragment which I myself took from the dead woman's hand."…

  "A link!" said Denise Ryland.

  "A link between Mrs. Vernon and Mrs. Leroux," explained the physician. "You see, it had never occurred to me that they knew one another."…

  "And did they?" questioned his daughter, eagerly.

  "It is almost certain that they were acquainted, at any rate; and in view of certain symptoms, which, without giving them much consideration, I nevertheless had detected in Mrs. Leroux, I am disposed to think that the bond of sympathy which existed between them was"…

  He seemed to hesitate, looking at his daughter, whose gray eyes were fixed upon him intently, and then at Denise Ryland, who, with her chin resting upon her hands, and her elbows propped upon the tab
le, was literally glaring at him.

  "Opium!" he said.

  A look of horror began slowly to steal over Helen Cumberly's face; Denise Ryland's head commenced to sway from side to side. But neither woman spoke.

  "By the courtesy of Inspector Dunbar," continued Dr. Cumberly, "I have been enabled to keep in touch with the developments of the case, as you know; and he had noted as a significant fact that the late Mrs. Vernon's periodical visits to Scotland corresponded, curiously, with those of Mrs. Leroux to Paris. I don't mean in regard to date; although in one or two instances (notably Mrs. Vernon's last journey to Scotland, and that of Mrs. Leroux to Paris), there was similarity even in this particular. A certain Mr. Debnam—the late Horace Vernon's solicitor—placed an absurd construction upon this"…

  "Do you mean," interrupted Helen in a strained voice, "that he insinuated that Mrs. Vernon"…

  "He had an idea that she visited Leroux—yes," replied her father hastily. "It was one of those absurd and irritating theories, which, instinctively, we know to be wrong, but which, if asked for evidence, we cannot hope to PROVE to be wrong."

  "It is outrageous!" cried Helen, her eyes flashing indignantly; "Mr. Debnam should be ashamed of himself!"

  Dr. Cumberly smiled rather sadly.

  "In this world," he said, "we have to count with the Debnams. One's own private knowledge of a man's character is not worth a brass farthing as legal evidence. But I am happy to say that Dunbar completely pooh-poohed the idea."

  "I like Inspector Dunbar!" declared Helen; "he is so strong—a splendid man!"

  Denise Ryland stared at her cynically, but made no remark.

  "The inspector and myself," continued Dr. Cumberly, "attached altogether a different significance to the circumstances. I am pleased to tell you that Debnam's unpleasant theories are already proved fallacious; the case goes deeper, far deeper, than a mere intrigue of that kind. In short, I am now assured—I cannot, unfortunately, name the source of my new information—but I am assured, that Mrs. Leroux, as well as Mrs. Vernon, was addicted to the opium vice."…