The Yellow Claw

by Sax Rohmer

  XVIII

  THE WORLD ABOVE

  The night had set in grayly, and a drizzle of fine rain was falling.West India Dock Road presented a prospect so uninviting that it musthave damped the spirits of anyone but a cave-dweller.

  Soames, buttoned up in a raincoat kindly lent by Mr. Gianapolis, and ofa somewhat refined fit, with a little lagoon of rainwater formingwithin the reef of his hat-brim, trudged briskly along. The necessaryingredients for the manufacture of mud are always present (if invisibleduring dry weather) in the streets of East-end London, and alreadySoames' neat black boots were liberally bedaubed with it. But what caredSoames? He inhaled the soot-laden air rapturously; he was glad to feelthe rain beating upon his face, and took a childish pleasure in duckinghis head suddenly and seeing the little stream of water spouting fromhis hat-brim. How healthy they looked, these East-end workers, theseItalian dock-hands, these Jewish tailors, these nondescript, greasybeings who sometimes saw the sun. Many of them, he knew well, laboredin cellars; but he had learnt that there are cellars and cellars. Ah! itwas glorious, this gray, murky London!

  Yet, now that temporarily he was free of it, he realized that there wasthat within him which responded to the call of the catacombs; there wasa fascination in the fume-laden air of those underground passages; therewas a charm, a mysterious charm, in the cave of the golden dragon, inthat unforgettable place which he assumed to mark the center of thelabyrinth; in the wicked, black eyes of the Eurasian. He realized thatbetween the abstraction of silver spoons and deliberate, organizedmoney-making at the expense of society, a great chasm yawned; that theremay be romance even in felony.

  Soames at last felt himself to be a traveler on the highroad to fortune;he had become almost reconciled to the loss of his bank balance, to theloss of his place in the upper world. His was the constitution of a borncriminal, and, had he been capable of subtle self-analysis, he musthave known now that fear, and fear only, hitherto had held him back, hadconfined him to the ranks of the amateurs. Well, the plunge was taken.

  Deep in such reflections, he trudged along through the rain, scarcenoting where his steps were leading him, for all roads were aliketo-night. His natural inclinations presently dictated a halt at abrilliantly lighted public house; and, taking off his hat to shake someof the moisture from it, he replaced it on his head and entered thesaloon lounge.

  The place proved to be fairly crowded, principally with local tradesmenwhose forefathers had toiled for Pharaoh; and conveying his glass ofwhisky to a marble-topped table in a corner comparatively secluded,Soames sat down for a consideration of past, present, and future; anunusual mental exercise. Curiously enough, he had lost something of hisold furtiveness; he no longer examined, suspiciously, every stranger whoapproached his neighborhood; for as the worshipers of old came by thegate of Fear into the invisible presence of Moloch, so he--of equallyuntutored mind--had entered the presence of Mr. King! And no devoteeof the Ammonite god had had greater faith in his potent protection thanSoames had in that of his unseen master. What should a servant of Mr.King fear from the officers of the law? How puny a thing was the lawin comparison with the director of that secret, powerful, invulnerableorganization whereof to-day he (Soames) formed an unit!

  Then, oddly, the old dormant cowardice of the man received a suddenspurring, and leaped into quickness. An evening paper lay upon themarble top of the table, and carelessly taking it up, Soames, hithertolost in imaginings, was now reminded that for more than a week he hadlain in ignorance of the world's doings. Good Heavens! how forgetful hehad been! It was the nepenthe of the catacombs. He must make up for losttime and get in touch again with passing events: especially he must posthimself up on the subject of... the murder....

  The paper dropped from his hands, and, feeling himself blanch beneathhis artificial tan, Soames, in his old furtive manner, glanced aroundthe saloon to learn if he were watched. Apparently no one was taking theslightest notice of him, and, with an unsteady hand, he raised his glassand drained its contents. There, at the bottom of the page before him,was the cause of this sudden panic; a short paragraph conceived asfollows:--

  REPORTED ARREST OF SOAMES

  It is reported that a man answering to the description of Soames, thebutler wanted in connection with the Palace Mansions outrage, has beenarrested in Birmingham. He was found sleeping in an outhouse belongingto Major Jennings, of Olton, and as he refused to give any account ofhimself, was handed over, by the gentleman's gardener, to the localpolice. His resemblance to the published photograph being observed, hewas closely questioned, and although he denies being Luke Soames, he isbeing held for further inquiry.

  Soames laid down the paper, and, walking across to the bar, ordered asecond glass of whisky. With this he returned to the table and beganmore calmly to re-read the paragraph. From it he passed to the othernews. He noted that little publicity was given to the Palace Mansionsaffair, from which he judged that public interest in the matter wasalready growing cold. A short summary appeared on the front page, andthis he eagerly devoured. It read as follows:--

  PALACE MANSIONS MYSTERY

  The police are following up an important clue to the murderer of Mrs.Vernon, and it is significant in this connection that a man answeringto the description of Soames was apprehended at Olton (Birmingham) latelast night. (See Page 6). The police are very reticent in regard to thenew information which they hold, but it is evident that at last they areconfident of establishing a case. Mr. Henry Leroux, the famous novelist,in whose flat the mysterious outrage took place, is suffering from anervous breakdown, but is reported to be progressing favorably by Dr.Cumberly, who is attending him. Dr. Cumberly, it will be remembered, waswith Mr. Leroux, and Mr. John Exel, M. P., at the time that the murderwas discovered. The executors of the late Mr. Horace Vernon are facedwith extraordinary difficulties in administering the will of thedeceased, owing to the tragic coincidence of his wife's murder withintwenty-four hours of his own demise.

  Public curiosity respecting the nursing home in Gillingham Street,with its electric baths and other modern appliances, has by no meansdiminished, and groups of curious spectators regularly gather outsidethe former establishment of Nurse Proctor, and apparently derive someform of entertainment from staring at the windows and questioning theconstable on duty. The fact that Mrs. Vernon undoubtedly came from thisestablishment on the night of the crime, and that the proprietors of thenursing home fled immediately, leaving absolutely no clue behind them,complicates the mystery which Scotland Yard is engaged in unraveling.

  It is generally believed that the woman, Proctor, and her associateshad actually no connection with the crime, and that realizing thatthe inquiry might turn in their direction, they decamped. The obviousinference, of course, is that the nursing home was conducted on lineswhich would not bear official scrutiny.

  The flight of the butler, Soames, presents a totally different aspect,and in this direction the police are very active.

  Soames searched the remainder of the paper scrupulously, but failed tofind any further reference to the case. The second Scottish stimulanthad served somewhat to restore his failing courage; he congratulatedhimself upon taking the only move which could have saved him fromarrest; he perceived that he owed his immunity entirely to theprotective wings of Mr. King. He trembled to think that his fate mightindeed have been that of the man arrested at Olton; for, without moneyand without friends, he would have become, ere this, just such anoutcast and natural object of suspicion.

  He noted, as a curious circumstance, that throughout the report therewas no reference to the absence of Mrs. Leroux; therefore--a primitivereasoner--he assumed that she was back again at Palace Mansions. Hewas mentally incapable of fitting Mrs. Leroux into the secret machineengineered by Mr. King through the visible agency of Ho-Pin. On thewhole, he was disposed to believe that her several absences--ostensiblyon visits to Paris--had nothing to do with the catacombs of Ho-Pin, butwere to be traced to the amours of the radiant Gianapolis. Taking intoconsideration his receptio
n by the Chinaman in the cave of the goldendragon, he determined, to his own satisfaction, that this had beendictated by prudence, and by Mr. Gianapolis. In short he believed thatthe untimely murder of Mrs. Vernon had threatened to direct attention tothe commercial enterprise of the Greek, and that he, Soames, had becomeincorporated in the latter in this accidental fashion. He believedhimself to have been employed in a private intrigue during the timethat he was at Palace Mansions, and counted it a freak of fate that Mr.Gianapolis' affairs of the pocket had intruded upon his affairs of theheart.

  It was all very confusing, and entirely beyond Soames' mental capacityto unravel.

  He treated himself to a third scotch whisky, and sallied out into therain. A brilliantly lighted music hall upon the opposite side of theroad attracted his attention. The novelty of freedom having worn off, hefelt no disposition to spend the remainder of the evening in the street,for the rain was now falling heavily, but determined to sample theremainder of the program offered by the "first house," and presently wasreclining in a plush-covered, tip-up seat in the back row of the stalls.

  The program was not of sufficient interest wholly to distract his mind,and during the performance of a very tragic comedian, Soames found histhoughts wandering far from the stage. His seat was at the extreme endof the back row, and, quite unintentionally, he began to listen to theconversation of two men, who, standing just inside the entrance door andimmediately behind him to the right, were talking in subdued voices.

  "There are thousands of Kings in London," said one...

  Soames slowly lowered his hands to the chair-arms on either side of himand clutched them tightly. Every nerve in his body seemed to be strungup to the ultimate pitch of tensity. He was listening, now, as a manarraigned might listen for the pronouncement of a judgment.

  "That's the trouble," replied a second voice; "but you know Max'sideas on the subject? He has his own way of going to work; but my idea,Sowerby, is that if we can find the one Mr. Soames--and I am open to bethe hasn't left London--we shall find the right Mr. King."

  The comedian finished, and the orchestra noisily chorded him off.Soames, his forehead wet with perspiration, began to turn his head, inchby inch. The lights in the auditorium were partially lowered, and heprayed, devoutly, that they would remain so; for now, glancing out ofthe corner of his right eye, he saw the speakers.

  The taller of the two, a man wearing a glistening brown overall andrain-drenched tweed cap, was the detective who had been in Leroux'sstudy and who had ordered him to his room on the night of the murder!

  Then commenced for Soames such an ordeal as all his previous life hadnot offered him; an ordeal beside which even the interview with Mr.King sank into insignificance. His one hope was in the cunning of Said'sdisguise; but he knew that Scotland Yard men judged likenesses, not bycomplexions, which are alterable, not by the color of the hair, whichcan be dyed, but by certain features which are measurable, and which maybe memorized because nature has fashioned them immutable.

  What should he do?--What should he do? In the silence:

  "No good stopping any longer," came the whispered voice of the shorterdetective; "I have had a good look around the house, and there is nobodyhere."...

  Soames literally held his breath.

  "We'll get along down to the Dock Gate," was the almost inaudible reply;"I am meeting Stringer there at nine o'clock."

  Walking softly, the Scotland Yard men passed out of the theater.