The words were spoken even more softly than he had spoken hitherto.
“Nothing,” protested Soames. He suddenly began to tremble anew, and his
trembling rattled the bed. “I have been--very ill indeed, sir.”
Ho-Pin nodded again slowly, and with deep sympathy.
“Some medicine shall be sent to you, Mr. Soames,” he said.
He turned and went out slowly, closing the door behind him.
XX
ABRAHAM LEVINSKY BUTTS IN
At about the time that this conversation was taking place in Ho-Pin's
catacombs, Detective-Inspector Dunbar and Detective-Sergeant Sowerby
were joined by a third representative of New Scotland Yard at the
appointed spot by the dock gates. This was Stringer, the detective to
whom was assigned the tracing of the missing Soames; and he loomed up
through 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 should
reckon,” 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 conscience
at present. BRR! it's a beastly night. Suppose we have one?”
Dunbar nodded, and the three wet investigators walked back for some
little distance in silence, presently emerging via a narrow, dark,
uninviting alleyway into West India Dock Road. A brilliantly lighted
hostelry proved to be their objective, and there, in a quiet corner
of the deserted billiard room, over their glasses, they discussed this
mysterious case, which at first had looked so simple of solution if only
because it offered so many unusual features, but which, the deeper they
probed, merely revealed fresh complications.
“The business of those Fry people, in Scotland, was a rotten
disappointment,” said Dunbar, suddenly. “They were merely paid by the
late Mrs. Vernon to re-address letters to a little newspaper shop in
Knightsbridge, where an untraceable boy used to call for them! Martin
has just reported this evening. Perth wires for instructions, but it's a
dead-end, I'm afraid.”
“You know,” said Sowerby, fishing a piece of cork from the brown froth
of a fine example by Guinness, “to my mind our hope's in Soames; and if
we 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 last
place in the world a man like Soames would think of hiding in.”
“It isn't where he'll be THINKING of hiding,” snapped Dunbar, turning
his fierce eyes upon the last speaker. “You can't seem to get the idea
out of your head, Sowerby, that Soames is an independent agent. He ISN'T
an independent agent. He's only the servant; and through the servant we
hope 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 a
Chinaman in the case.”
“There's opium in the case, isn't there?” said Dunbar, adding more water
to his whisky, “and where there's opium there is pretty frequently a
Chinaman.”
“But to my mind,” persisted Sowerby, his eyebrows drawn together in a
frown of concentration, “the place where Mrs. Vernon used to get the
opium 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 the
management of the Gillingham Street stunt, or there may not, but I'll
swear that was where the opium was supplied. In fact I don't think that
there's any doubt about it. Medical evidence (opinions differed a bit,
certainly) went to show that she had been addicted to opium for some
years. Other evidence--you got it yourself, Inspector--went to show that
she came from Gillingham Street on the night of the murder. Gillingham
Street crowd vanished like a beautiful dream before we had time to
nab them! What more do you want? What are we up to, messing about in
Limehouse 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 are
all wrong! You seem to be under the impression that if we could lay our
hands upon the missing staff of the so-called Nursing Home, we should
find 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 the
sergeant--“had the idea that Soames was the murderer, and I'm not sure
that you have got rid of it yet! You, Stringer, appear to think that
Nurse Proctor is responsible. Upon my word, you are a hopeless pair!
Suppose Soames had nothing whatever to do with the matter, but merely
realized that he could not prove an alibi? Wouldn't YOU bolt? I put it
to you.”
Sowerby stared hard, and Stringer scratched his chin, reflectively.
“The same reasoning applies to the Gillingham Street people,” continued
Dunbar. “We haven't the slightest idea of THEIR whereabouts because we
don'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, but
because we think he can tell us who did.”
“Which brings us back to the old point,” interrupted Stringer, softly
beating his fist upon the table at every word; “why are we looking for
Soames 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 who
were”...
“Well?”--Stringer spoke the word eagerly, his eyes upon the inspector's
face.
“And those who WERE accessory,”--continued Dunbar, “were servants of Mr.
King.”
“Ah!” Stringer brought his fist down with a bang--“Mr. King! That's
where I am in the dark, and where Sowerby, here, is in the dark.” He
bent 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 all
probability; and that's why we're looking for Soames.”
“Is it why we're looking in Limehouse?” persisted Stringer, the
argumentative.
“It is,” snapped Dunbar. “We have only got one Chinatown worthy of the
name, 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 all
probability is a Chinaman.”
“Who says so?” demanded Stringer.
“Max says so...”
“MAX!”--again Stringer beat his fist upon the table. “Now we have got to
it! 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 grow
brighter.
“Mr. Gaston Max obtained information in Paris,” he said, “which
he placed, unreservedly, at my disposal. We went into the matter
thoroughly, with the result that our conclusions were identical.
A certain Mr. King is at the bottom of this mystery, and, in all
probability, Mr. King is a Chinaman. Do I make myself clear?”
Sowerby and Stringer looked at one another, perplexedly. Each man
finished his drink in silence. Then:
“What took place in Paris?” began Sowerby.
There was an interruption. A stooping figure in a shabby, black
frock-coat, the figure of a man who wore a dilapidated bowler pressed
down upon his ears, who had a greasy, Semitic countenance, with a
scrubby, curling, sandy colored beard, sparse as the vegetation of a
desert, appeared at Sowerby's elbow.
He carried a brimming pewter pot. This he set down upon a corner of the
table, depositing himself in a convenient chair and pulling out a very
dirty looking letter from an inside pocket. He smoothed it carefully. He
peered, little-eyed, from the frowning face of Dunbar to the surprised
countenance of Sowerby, and smiled with native amiability at the
dangerous-looking Stringer.
“Excuthe me,” he said, and his propitiatory smile was expansive and
dazzling, “excuthe me buttin' in like thith. It theemth rude, I know--it
doth theem rude; but the fact of the matter ith I'm a tailor--thath's
my pithneth, a tailor. When I thay a tailor, I really mean a
breecheth-maker--tha'th what I mean, a breecheth-maker. Now thethe
timeth ith very hard timeth for breecheth-makerth.”...
Dunbar finished his whisky, and quietly replaced the glass upon the
table, 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, bending
forward confidentially over the table. (The document looked at least
twelve months old.) “I got thith letter latht night with thethe three
fiverth in it; and not havin' no friendth in London--I'm an American
thitithen, by birth,--Levinthky, my name ith--Abraham Levinthky--I'm a
Noo Englander. Well, not havin' no friendth in London, and theein' you
three gentlemen thittin' here, I took the liberty”...
Dunbar stood up, glared at Levinsky, and stalked out of the
billiard-room, followed by his equally indignant satellites. Having
gained the outer door:
“Of all the blasted impudence!” he said, turning to Sowerby and
Stringer; but there was a glint of merriment in the fierce eyes. “Can
you 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's
got the coolest cheek of any mortal being I ever met.”...
Dunbar's grim face relaxed, and he laughed boyishly, his square
shoulders 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 a
confidence-merchant spreading out his wares before three C. I. D. men!”
He was choking with laughter again; and now, Sowerby and Stringer having
looked at one another for a moment, the surprised pair joined him in
his 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 place
of the electric trains, “is capable of calling on the Commissioner and
asking him to 'find the lady'!”
XXI
THE STUDIO IN SOHO
Certainly, such impudence as that of Mr. Levinsky is rare even in
east-end London, and it may be worth while to return to the corner of
the billiard-room and to study more closely this remarkable man.
He was sitting where the detectives had left him, and although their
departure might have been supposed to have depressed him, actually it
had had a contrary effect; he was chuckling with amusement, and, between
his chuckles, addressing himself to the contents of the pewter with
every mark of appreciation. Three gleaming golden teeth on the lower
row, and one glittering canine, made a dazzling show every time that he
smiled; he was a very greasy and a very mirthful Hebrew.
Finishing his tankard of ale, he shuffled out into the street, the line
of his bent shoulders running parallel with that of his hat-brim. His
hat appeared to be several sizes too large for his head, and his skull
was only prevented from disappearing into the capacious crown by the
intervention of his ears, which, acting as brackets, supported the whole
weight of the rain-sodden structure. He mounted a tram proceeding in
the same direction as that which had borne off the Scotland Yard men.
Quitting this at Bow Road, he shuffled into the railway station, and
from Bow Road proceeded to Liverpool Street. Emerging from the station
at Liverpool Street, he entered a motor-'bus bound westward.
His neighbors, inside, readily afforded him ample elbow room; and,
smiling agreeably at every one, including the conductor (who resented
his good-humor) and a pretty girl in the corner seat (who found it
embarrassing) he proceeded to Charing Cross. Descending from the 'bus,
he passed out into Leicester Square and plunged into the network of
streets which complicates the map of Soho. It will be of interest to
follow him.
In a narrow turning off Greek Street, and within hail of the popular
Bohemian restaurants, he paused before a doorway sandwiched between a
Continental newsagent's and a tiny French cafe; and, having fumbled
in his greasy raiment he presently produced a key, opened the door,
carefully closed it behind him, and mounted the dark stair.
On the top floor he entered a studio, boasting a skylight upon which the
rain was drumming steadily and drearily. Lighting a gas burner in
one corner of the place which bore no evidence of being used for its
legitimate purpose--he entered a little adjoining dressing-room. Hot
and cold water were laid on there, and a large zinc bath stood upon the
floor. With the aid of an enamel bucket, Mr. Abraham Levinsky filled the
bath.
Leaving him to his ablutions, let us glance around the dressing-room.
Although there was no easel in the studio, and no indication of artistic
activity, the dressing-room was well stocked with costumes. Two huge
dress-baskets were piled in one corner, and their contents hung upon
hooks around the three available walls. A dressing table, with a
triplicate mirror and a suitably shaded light, presented a spectacle
reminiscent less of a model's dressing-room than of an actor's.
At the expiration of some twenty-five minutes, the door of this
dressing-room opened; and although Abraham Levinsky had gone in, Abraham
Levinsky did not come out!
Carefully flicking a particle of ash from a fold of his elegant,
silk-lined cloak, a most distinguished looking gentleman stepped out
onto the bleak and dirty studio. He wore, in addition to a graceful
cloak, which was lined with silk of cardinal red, a soft black hat,
rather wide brimmed and dented in a highly artistic manner, and
irreproachable evening clothes; his linen was immaculate; and no valet
in London could have surpassed the perfect knotting of his tie. His
pearl studs were elegant and valuable; and a single eyeglass was swung
about his neck by a thin, gold chain. The white gloves, which fitted
perfectly, were new; and if the glossy boots were rather long in the
toe-cap from an English point of view, the gold-headed malacca cane
which the newcomer carried was quite de rigeur.
The strong clean-shaven face calls for no description here; it was the
face of M. Gaston Max.
M. Max, having locked the study door, and carefully tried it to make
certain of its security, descended the stairs. He peeped out cautiously
into the street ere setting foot upon the pavement; but no one was in
sight at the moment, and he emerged quickly, closing the door behind
him, and taking shelter under the newsagent's awning. The rain continued
its steady downpour, but M. Max stood there softly humming a little
French melody until a taxi-cab crawled into view around the Greek Street
corner.
He whistled shrilly through his teeth--the whistle of a gamin; and the
cabman, glancing up and perceiving him, pulled around into the turning,
and drew up by the awning.
M. Max entered the cab.
“To Frascati's,” he directed.
The cabman backed out into Greek Street and drove off. This was the
hour when the theaters were beginning to eject their throngs, and
outside one of them, where a popular comedy had celebrated its
three-hundred-and-fiftieth performance, the press of cabs and private
cars was so great that M. Max found himself delayed within sight of the
theater foyer.
Those patrons of the comedy who had omitted to order vehicles or who did
not possess private conveyances, found themselves in a quandary tonight,
and amongst those thus unfortunately situated, M. Max, watching the
scene with interest, detected a lady whom he knew--none other than the
delightful American whose conversation had enlivened his recent journey
from Paris--Miss Denise Ryland. She was accompanied by a charming
companion, who, although she was wrapped up in a warm theater cloak,
seemed to be shivering disconsolately as she and her friend watched
the interminable stream of vehicles filing up before the theater, and
cutting them off from any chance of obtaining a cab for themselves.
M. Max acted promptly.
“Drive into that side turning!” he directed the cabman, leaning out of
the window. The cabman followed his directions, and M. Max, heedless of
the inclement weather, descended from the cab, dodged actively between
the head lamps of a big Mercedes and the tail-light of a taxi, and stood
bowing before the two ladies, his hat pressed to his bosom with one
gloved hand, the other, ungloved, resting upon the gold knob of the
malacca.
“Why!” cried Miss Ryland, “if it isn't... M. Gaston! My dear ... M.
Gaston! Come under the awning, or”--her head was wagging furiously--“you
will be... simply drowned.”
M. Max smilingly complied.
“This is M. Gaston,” said Denise Ryland, turning to her companion, “the
French gentleman... whom I met... in the train from... Paris. This is
Miss Helen Cumberly, and I know you two will get on... famously.”
M. Max acknowledged the presentation with a few simple words which
served to place the oddly met trio upon a mutually easy footing. He was,
par excellence, the polished cosmopolitan man of the world.
“Fortunately I saw your dilemma,” he explained. “I have a cab on the
corner yonder, and it is entirely at your service.”
“Now that... is real good of you,” declared Denise Ryland. “I think
you're... a brick.”...
“But, my dear Miss Ryland!” cried Helen, “we cannot possibly deprive M.
Gaston of his cab on a night like this!”
“I had hoped,” said the Frenchman, bowing gallantly, “that this most
happy reunion might not be allowed to pass uncelebrated. Tell me if I
intrude upon other plans, because I am speaking selfishly; but I was on
my way to a lonely supper, and apart from the great pleasure which your
company would afford me, you would be such very good Samaritans if you
would join me.”
Helen Cumberly, although she was succumbing rapidly to the singular
fascination of M. Max, exhibited a certain hesitancy. She was no
stranger to Bohemian customs, and if the distinguished Frenchman had
been an old friend of her companion's, she should have accepted without
demur; but she knew that the acquaintance had commenced in a Continental
railway train, and her natural prudence instinctively took up a brief
for the prosecution. But Denise Ryland had other views.
“My dear girl,” she said, “you are not going to be so...
crack-brained... as to stand here... arguing and contracting...
rheumatism, lumbago... and other absurd complaints... when you know
PERFECTLY well that we had already arranged to go... to supper!” She
turned to the smiling Max. “This girl needs... DRAGGING out of... her
morbid self... M. Gaston! We'll accept... your cab, on the distinct...
understanding that YOU are to accept OUR invitation... to supper.”
M. Max bowed agreeably.
“By all means let MY cab take us to YOUR supper,” he said, laughing.
XXII
M. MAX MOUNTS CAGLIOSTRO'S STAIRCASE
At a few minutes before midnight, Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland,
escorted by the attentive Frenchman, arrived at Palace Mansions. Any
distrust which Helen had experienced at first was replaced now by the
esteem which every one of discrimination (criminals excluded) formed of
M. Max. She perceived in him a very exquisite gentleman, and although
the acquaintance was but one hour old, counted him a friend. Denise
Ryland was already quite at home in the Cumberly household, and she
insisted that Dr. Cumberly would be deeply mortified should M. Gaston
take his departure without making his acquaintance. Thus it came about
that M. Gaston Max was presented (as “M. Gaston”) to Dr. Cumberly.
Cumberly, who had learned to accept men and women upon his daughter's
estimate, welcomed the resplendent Parisian hospitably; the warm, shaded
lights made convivial play in the amber deeps of the decanters, and the
cigars had a fire-side fragrance which M. Max found wholly irresistible.
The ladies being momentarily out of ear-shot, M. Gaston glancing rapidly
about him, said: “May I beg a favor, Dr. Cumberly?”
“Certainly, M. Gaston,” replied the physician--he was officiating at the
syphon. “Say when.”
“When!” said Max. “I should like to see you in Harley Street to-morrow
morning.”
Cumberly glanced up oddly. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Oh, not professionally,” smiled Max; “or perhaps I should say only
semi-professionally. Can you spare me ten minutes?”
“My book is rather full in the morning, I believe,” said Cumberly,
frowning thoughtfully, “and without consulting it--which, since it is
in Harley Street, is impossible--I scarcely know when I shall be at
liberty. Could we not lunch together?”
Max blew a ring of smoke from his lips and watched it slowly dispersing.
“For certain reasons,” he replied, and his odd American accent became
momentarily more perceptible, “I should prefer that my visit had the
appearance of being a professional one.”
Cumberly was unable to conceal his surprise, but assuming that his
visitor had good reason for the request, he replied after a moment's
reflection:
“I should propose, then, that you come to Harley Street at, shall we
say, 9.30? My earliest professional appointment is at 10. Will that
inconvenience you?”
“Not at all,” Max assured him; “it will suit me admirably.”
With that the matter dropped for the time, since Helen and her
new friend now reentered; and although Helen's manner was markedly
depressed, Miss Ryland energetically turned the conversation upon the
subject of the play which they had witnessed that evening.
M. Max, when he took his departure, found that the rain had ceased, and
accordingly he walked up Whitehall, interesting himself in those details
of midnight London life so absorbing to the visitor, though usually
overlooked by the resident.
Punctually at half-past nine, a claret-colored figure appeared in sedate
Harley Street. M. Gaston Max pressed the bell above which appeared:
DR. BRUCE CUMBERLY.
He was admitted by Garnham, who attended there daily during the hours
when Dr. Cumberly was visible to patients, and presently found himself
in the consulting room of the physician.
“Good morning, M. Gaston!” said Cumberly, rising and shaking his visitor
by the hand. “Pray sit down, and let us get to business. I can give you
a clear half-hour.”
Max, by way of reply, selected a card from one of the several divisions
of his card-case, and placed it on the table. Cumberly glanced at it and
started slightly, turning and surveying his visitor with a new interest.
“You are M. Gaston Max!” he said, fixing his gray eyes upon the face of
the man before him. “I understood my daughter to say”...
Max waved his hands, deprecatingly.
“It is in the first place to apologize,” he explained, “that I am here.
I was presented to your daughter in the name of Gaston--which is at
least part of my own name--and because other interests were involved I
found myself in the painful position of being presented to you under the
same false colors”...
“Oh, dear, dear!” began Cumberly. “But--”
“Ah! I protest, it is true,” continued Max with an inimitable movement
of the shoulder; “and I regret it; but in my profession”...
“Which you adorn, monsieur,” injected Cumberly.
“Many thanks--but in my profession these little annoyances sometimes
occur. At the earliest suitable occasion, I shall reveal myself to
Miss Cumberly and Miss Ryland, but at present,”--he spread his palms
eloquently, and raised his eyebrows--“morbleu! it is impossible.”
“Certainly; I quite understand that. Your visit to London is a
professional one? I am more than delighted to have met you, M. Max; your
work on criminal anthroposcopy has an honored place on my shelves.”
Again M. Max delivered himself of the deprecatory wave.
“You cover me with confusion,” he protested; “for I fear in that book
I have intruded upon sciences of which I know nothing, and of which you
know much.”
“On the contrary, you have contributed to those sciences, M. Max,”
declared the physician; “and now, do I understand that the object of
your call this morning?”...