The Yellow Claw

by Sax Rohmer

  XX

  ABRAHAM LEVINSKY BUTTS IN

  At about the time that this conversation was taking place in Ho-Pin'scatacombs, Detective-Inspector Dunbar and Detective-Sergeant Sowerbywere joined by a third representative of New Scotland Yard at theappointed spot by the dock gates. This was Stringer, the detective towhom was assigned the tracing of the missing Soames; and he loomed upthrough the rain-mist, a glistening but dejected figure.

  "Any luck?" inquired Sowerby, sepulchrally.

  Stringer, a dark and morose looking man, shook his head.

  "I've beaten up every 'Chink' in Wapping and Limehouse, I shouldreckon," he said, plaintively. "They're all as innocent as babes unborn.You can take it from me: Chinatown hasn't got a murder on its conscienceat present. BRR! it's a beastly night. Suppose we have one?"

  Dunbar nodded, and the three wet investigators walked back for somelittle distance in silence, presently emerging via a narrow, dark,uninviting alleyway into West India Dock Road. A brilliantly lightedhostelry proved to be their objective, and there, in a quiet cornerof the deserted billiard room, over their glasses, they discussed thismysterious case, which at first had looked so simple of solution if onlybecause it offered so many unusual features, but which, the deeper theyprobed, merely revealed fresh complications.

  "The business of those Fry people, in Scotland, was a rottendisappointment," said Dunbar, suddenly. "They were merely paid by thelate Mrs. Vernon to re-address letters to a little newspaper shop inKnightsbridge, where an untraceable boy used to call for them! Martinhas just reported this evening. Perth wires for instructions, but it's adead-end, I'm afraid."

  "You know," said Sowerby, fishing a piece of cork from the brown frothof a fine example by Guinness, "to my mind our hope's in Soames; and ifwe want to find Soames, to my mind we want to look, not east, but west."

  "Hear, hear!" concorded Stringer, gloomily sipping hot rum.

  "It seems to me," continued Sowerby, "that Limehouse is about the lastplace in the world a man like Soames would think of hiding in."

  "It isn't where he'll be THINKING of hiding," snapped Dunbar, turninghis fierce eyes upon the last speaker. "You can't seem to get the ideaout of your head, Sowerby, that Soames is an independent agent. He ISN'Tan independent agent. He's only the servant; and through the servant wehope to find the master."

  "But why in the east-end?" came the plaintive voice of Stringer;"for only one reason, that I can see--because Max says that there's aChinaman in the case."

  "There's opium in the case, isn't there?" said Dunbar, adding more waterto his whisky, "and where there's opium there is pretty frequently aChinaman."

  "But to my mind," persisted Sowerby, his eyebrows drawn together in afrown of concentration, "the place where Mrs. Vernon used to get theopium was the place we raided in Gillingham Street."

  "Nurse Proctor's!" cried Stringer, banging his fist on the table."Exactly my idea! There may have been a Chinaman concerned in themanagement of the Gillingham Street stunt, or there may not, but I'llswear that was where the opium was supplied. In fact I don't think thatthere's any doubt about it. Medical evidence (opinions differed a bit,certainly) went to show that she had been addicted to opium for someyears. Other evidence--you got it yourself, Inspector--went to show thatshe came from Gillingham Street on the night of the murder. GillinghamStreet crowd vanished like a beautiful dream before we had time tonab them! What more do you want? What are we up to, messing about inLimehouse and Wapping?"

  Sowerby partook of a long drink and turned his eyes upon Dunbar,awaiting the inspector's reply.

  "You both have the wrong idea!" said Dunbar, deliberately; "you areall wrong! You seem to be under the impression that if we could lay ourhands upon the missing staff of the so-called Nursing Home, we shouldfind the assassin to be one of the crowd. It doesn't follow at all.For a long time, you, Sowerby,"--he turned his tawny eyes upon thesergeant--"had the idea that Soames was the murderer, and I'm not surethat you have got rid of it yet! You, Stringer, appear to think thatNurse Proctor is responsible. Upon my word, you are a hopeless pair!Suppose Soames had nothing whatever to do with the matter, but merelyrealized that he could not prove an alibi? Wouldn't YOU bolt? I put itto you."

  Sowerby stared hard, and Stringer scratched his chin, reflectively.

  "The same reasoning applies to the Gillingham Street people," continuedDunbar. "We haven't the slightest idea of THEIR whereabouts because wedon't even know who they were; but we do know something about Soames,and we're looking for him, not because we think he did the murder, butbecause we think he can tell us who did."

  "Which brings us back to the old point," interrupted Stringer, softlybeating his fist upon the table at every word; "why are we looking forSoames in the east-end?"

  "Because," replied Dunbar, "we're working on the theory that Soames,though actually not accessory to the crime, was in the pay of those whowere"...

  "Well?"--Stringer spoke the word eagerly, his eyes upon the inspector'sface.

  "And those who WERE accessory,"--continued Dunbar, "were servants of Mr.King."

  "Ah!" Stringer brought his fist down with a bang--"Mr. King! That'swhere I am in the dark, and where Sowerby, here, is in the dark." Hebent forward over the table. "Who the devil is Mr. King?"

  Dunbar twirled his whisky glass between his fingers.

  "We don't know," he replied quietly, "but Soames does, in allprobability; and that's why we're looking for Soames."

  "Is it why we're looking in Limehouse?" persisted Stringer, theargumentative.

  "It is," snapped Dunbar. "We have only got one Chinatown worthy of thename, in London, and that's not ten minutes' walk from here."

  "Chinatown--yes," said Sowerby, his red face glistening with excitement;"but why look for Mr. King in Chinatown?"

  "Because," replied Dunbar, lowering his voice, "Mr. King in allprobability is a Chinaman."

  "Who says so?" demanded Stringer.

  "Max says so..."

  "MAX!"--again Stringer beat his fist upon the table. "Now we have got toit! We're working, then, not on our own theories, but on those of Max?"

  Dunbar's sallow face flushed slightly, and his eyes seemed to growbrighter.

  "Mr. Gaston Max obtained information in Paris," he said, "whichhe placed, unreservedly, at my disposal. We went into the matterthoroughly, with the result that our conclusions were identical.A certain Mr. King is at the bottom of this mystery, and, in allprobability, Mr. King is a Chinaman. Do I make myself clear?"

  Sowerby and Stringer looked at one another, perplexedly. Each manfinished his drink in silence. Then:

  "What took place in Paris?" began Sowerby.

  There was an interruption. A stooping figure in a shabby, blackfrock-coat, the figure of a man who wore a dilapidated bowler presseddown upon his ears, who had a greasy, Semitic countenance, with ascrubby, curling, sandy colored beard, sparse as the vegetation of adesert, appeared at Sowerby's elbow.

  He carried a brimming pewter pot. This he set down upon a corner of thetable, depositing himself in a convenient chair and pulling out a verydirty looking letter from an inside pocket. He smoothed it carefully. Hepeered, little-eyed, from the frowning face of Dunbar to the surprisedcountenance of Sowerby, and smiled with native amiability at thedangerous-looking Stringer.

  "Excuthe me," he said, and his propitiatory smile was expansive anddazzling, "excuthe me buttin' in like thith. It theemth rude, I know--itdoth theem rude; but the fact of the matter ith I'm a tailor--thath'smy pithneth, a tailor. When I thay a tailor, I really mean abreecheth-maker--tha'th what I mean, a breecheth-maker. Now thethetimeth ith very hard timeth for breecheth-makerth."...

  Dunbar finished his whisky, and quietly replaced the glass upon thetable, looking from Sowerby to Stringer with unmistakable significance.Stringer emptied his glass of rum, and Sowerby disposed of his stout.

  "I got thith letter lath night," continued the breeches-maker, bendingforward confidentially over the table. (The document looked at leasttwelve m
onths old.) "I got thith letter latht night with thethe threefiverth in it; and not havin' no friendth in London--I'm an Americanthitithen, by birth,--Levinthky, my name ith--Abraham Levinthky--I'm aNoo Englander. Well, not havin' no friendth in London, and theein' youthree gentlemen thittin' here, I took the liberty"...

  Dunbar stood up, glared at Levinsky, and stalked out of thebilliard-room, followed by his equally indignant satellites. Havinggained the outer door:

  "Of all the blasted impudence!" he said, turning to Sowerby andStringer; but there was a glint of merriment in the fierce eyes. "Canyou beat that? Did you tumble to his game?"

  Sowerby stared at Stringer, and Stringer stared at Sowerby.

  "Except," began the latter in a voice hushed with amazement, "that he'sgot the coolest cheek of any mortal being I ever met."...

  Dunbar's grim face relaxed, and he laughed boyishly, his squareshoulders shaking.

  "He was leading up to the confidence trick!" he said, between laughs."Damn it all, man, it was the old confidence trick! The idea of aconfidence-merchant spreading out his wares before three C. I. D. men!"

  He was choking with laughter again; and now, Sowerby and Stringer havinglooked at one another for a moment, the surprised pair joined him inhis merriment. They turned up their collars and went out into the rain,still laughing.

  "That man," said Sowerby, as they walked across to the stopping placeof the electric trains, "is capable of calling on the Commissioner andasking him to 'find the lady'!"