ingenious, ah! they are so ingenious!--so Chinese! I should not have
known even the little I do know if it were not for the inquiries which
I made last week. I knew that the letters to Mr. Leroux which were
supposed to come from Paris were handed by Soames to some one who posted
them to Paris from Bow, East. You remember how I found the impression of
the postmark?”
Dunbar nodded, his eyes glistening; for that discovery of the
Frenchman's had filled him with a sort of envious admiration.
“Well, then,” continued Max, “I knew that the inquiry would lead me
to your east-end, and I suspected that I was dealing with Chinamen;
therefore, suitably attired, of course, I wandered about in those
interesting slums on more than one occasion; and I concluded that the
only district in which a Chinaman could live without exciting curiosity
was that which lies off the West India Dock Road.”...
Dunbar nodded significantly at Sowerby, as who should say: “What did I
tell you about this man?”
“On one of these visits,” continued the Frenchman, and a smile struggled
for expression upon his mobile lips, “I met you two gentlemen with a
Mr.--I think he is called Stringer--“...
“You met US!” exclaimed Sowerby.
“My sense of humor quite overcoming me,” replied M. Max, “I even tried
to swindle you. I think I did the trick very badly!”
Dunbar and Sowerby were staring at one another amazedly.
“It was in the corner of a public house billiard-room,” added the
Frenchman, with twinkling eyes; “I adopted the ill-used name of Levinsky
on that occasion.”...
Dunbar began to punch his left palm and to stride up and down the floor;
whilst Sowerby, his blue eyes opened quite roundly, watched M. Max as a
schoolboy watches an illusionist.
“Therefore,” continued M. Max, “I shall ask you to have a party ready on
Tuesday night in Limehouse Causeway--suitably concealed, of course;
and as I am almost sure that the haunt of Mr. King is actually upon the
riverside (I heard one little river sound as I was coming away) a launch
party might cooperate with you in affecting the raid.”
“The raid!” said Dunbar, turning from a point by the window, and looking
back at the Frenchman. “Do you seriously tell me that we are going to
raid Mr. King's on Tuesday night?”
“Most certainly,” was the confident reply. “I had hoped to form one
of the raiding party; but nom d'un nom!”--he shrugged, in his graceful
fashion--“I must be one of the rescued!”
“Of the rescued!”
“You see I visited that establishment as a smoker of opium”...
“You took that risk?”
“It was no greater risk than is run by quite a number of people socially
well known in London, my dear Inspector Dunbar! I was introduced by an
habitue and a member of the best society; and since nobody knows that
Gaston Max is in London--that Gaston Max has any business in hand likely
to bring him to London--pardieu, what danger did I incur? But, excepting
the lobby--the cave of the dragon (a stranger apartment even than that
in the Rue St. Claude) and the Chinese cubiculum where I spent the
night--mon dieu! what a night!--I saw nothing of the establishment”...
“But you must know where it is!” cried Dunbar.
“I was driven there in a closed limousine, and driven away in the same
vehicle”...
“You got the number?”
“It was impossible. These are clever people! But it must be a simple
matter, Inspector, to trace a fine car like that which regularly appears
in those east-end streets?”
“Every constable in the division must be acquainted with it,” replied
Dunbar, confidently. “I'll know all about that car inside the next
hour!”
“If on Tuesday night you could arrange to have it followed,” continued
M. Max, “it would simplify matters. What I have done is this: I have
bought the man, Soames--up to a point. But so deadly is his fear of
the mysterious Mr. King that although he has agreed to assist me in my
plans, he will not consent to divulge an atom of information until the
raid is successfully performed.”
“Then for heaven's sake what IS he going to do?”
“Visitors to the establishment (it is managed by a certain Mr. Ho-Pin;
make a note of him, that Ho-Pin) having received the necessary dose of
opium are locked in for the night. On Tuesday, Soames, who acts as valet
to poor fools using the place, has agreed--for a price--to unlock the
door of the room in which I shall be”...
“What!” cried Dunbar, “you are going to risk yourself alone in that
place AGAIN?”
“I have paid a very heavy fee,” replied the Frenchman with his odd
smile, “and it entitles me to a second visit; I shall pay that second
visit on Tuesday night, and my danger will be no greater than on the
first occasion.”
“But Soames may betray you!”
“Fear nothing; I have measured my Soames, not only anthropologically,
but otherwise. I fear only his folly, not his knavery. He will not
betray me. Morbleu! he is too much a frightened man. I do not know what
has taken place; but I could see that, assured of escaping the
police for complicity in the murder, he would turn King's evidence
immediately”...
“And you gave him that assurance?”
“At first I did not reveal myself. I weighed up my man very carefully;
I measured that Soames-pig. I had several stories in readiness, but his
character indicated which I should use. Therefore, suddenly I arrested
him!”
“Arrested him?”
“Pardieu! I arrested him very quietly in a corner of the bar of 'Three
Nuns' public house. My course was justified. He saw that the reign of
his mysterious Mr. King was nearing its close, and that I was his only
hope”...
“But still he refused”...
“His refusal to reveal anything whatever under those circumstances
impressed me more than all. It showed me that in Mr. King I had to deal
with a really wonderful and powerful man; a man who ruled by means
of FEAR; a man of gigantic force. I had taken the pattern of the key
fitting the Yale lock of the door of my room, and I secured a duplicate
immediately. Soames has not access to the keys, you understand. I must
rely upon my diplomacy to secure the same room again--all turns upon
that; and at an hour after midnight, or later if advisable, Soames
has agreed to let me out. Beyond this, I could induce him to do
nothing--nothing whatever. Cochon! Therefore, having got out of the
locked room, I must rely upon my own wits--and the Browning pistol which
I have presented to Soames together with the duplicate key”...
“Why not go armed?” asked Dunbar.
“One's clothes are searched, my dear Inspector, by an expert! I have
given the key, the pistol, and the implements of the house-breaker (a
very neat set which fits easily into the breast-pocket) to Soames, to
conceal in his private room at the establishment until Tuesday night.
All turns upon my securing the same apartment. If I am unable to do so,
the arrangements for the raid will have to be postponed. Opium smokers
are faddists essentially, however, and I think I can manage to pretend
that I have formed a strange penchant for this particular cubiculum”...
“By whom were you introduced to the place?” asked Dunbar, leaning back
against the table and facing the Frenchman.
“That I cannot in honor divulge,” was the reply; “but the representative
of Mr. King who actually admitted me to the establishment is one
Gianapolis; address unknown, but telephone number 18642 East. Make a
note of him, that Gianapolis.”
“I'll arrest him in the morning,” said Sowerby, writing furiously in his
notebook.
“Nom d'un p'tit bonhomme! M. Sowerby, you will do nothing of that
foolish description, my dear friend,” said Max; and Dunbar glared at the
unfortunate sergeant. “Nothing whatever must be done to arouse suspicion
between now and the moment of the raid. You must be circumspect--ah,
morbleu! so circumspect. By all means trace this Mr. Gianapolis; yes.
But do not let him SUSPECT that he is being traced”...
XXXV
TRACKER TRACKED
Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland peered from the window of the former's
room into the dusk of the Square, until their eyes ached with the strain
of an exercise so unnatural.
“I tell you,” said Denise with emphasis, “that... sooner or later... he
will come prowling... around. The mere fact that he did not appear...
last night... counts for nothing. His own crooked... plans no doubt
detain him... very often... at night.”
Helen sighed wearily. Denise Ryland's scheme was extremely distasteful
to her, but whenever she thought of the pathetic eyes of Leroux she
found new determination. Several times she had essayed to analyze the
motives which actuated her; always she feared to pursue such inquiries
beyond a certain point. Now that she was beginning to share her friend's
views upon the matter, all social plans sank into insignificance, and
she lived only in the hope of again meeting Gianapolis, of tracing out
the opium group, and of finding Mrs. Leroux. In what state did she
hope and expect to find her? This was a double question which kept her
wakeful through the dreary watches of the night....
“Look!”
Denise Ryland grasped her by the arm, pointing out into the darkened
Square. A furtive figure crossed from the northeast corner into the
shade of some trees and might be vaguely detected coming nearer and
nearer.
“There he is!” whispered Denise Ryland, excitedly; “I told you he
couldn't... keep away. I know that kind of brute. There is nobody at
home, so listen: I will watch... from the drawing-room, and you... light
up here and move about... as if preparing to go out.”
Helen, aware that she was flushed with excitement, fell in with the
proposal readily; and having switched on the lights in her room and
put on her hat so that her moving shadow was thrown upon the casement
curtain, she turned out the light again and ran to rejoin her
friend. She found the latter peering eagerly from the window of the
drawing-room.
“He thinks you are coming out!” gasped Denise. “He has slipped...
around the corner. He will pretend to be... passing... this way... the
cross-eyed... hypocrite. Do you feel capable ... of the task?”
“Quite,” Helen declared, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. “You
will follow us as arranged; for heaven's sake, don't lose us!”
“If the doctor knew of this,” breathed Denise, “he would never...
forgive me. But no woman... no true woman... could refuse to
undertake... so palpable... a duty”...
Helen Cumberly, wearing a warm, golfing jersey over her dress, with
a woolen cap to match, ran lightly down the stairs and out into the
Square, carrying a letter. She walked along to the pillar-box, and
having examined the address upon the envelope with great care, by the
light of an adjacent lamp, posted the letter, turned--and there, radiant
and bowing, stood Mr. Gianapolis!
“Kismet is really most kind to me!” he cried. “My friend, who lives, as
I think I mentioned once before, in Peer's Chambers, evidently radiates
good luck. I last had the good fortune to meet you when on my way to
see him, and I now meet you again within five minutes of leaving him! My
dear Miss Cumberly, I trust you are quite well?”
“Quite,” said Helen, holding out her hand. “I am awfully glad to see you
again, Mr. Gianapolis!”
He was distinctly encouraged by her tone. He bent forward
confidentially.
“The night is young,” he said; and his smile was radiant. “May I hope
that your expedition does not terminate at this post-box?”
Helen glanced at him doubtfully, and then down at her jersey. Gianapolis
was unfeignedly delighted with her naivete.
“Surely you don't want to be seen with me in this extraordinary
costume!” she challenged.
“My dear Miss Cumberly, it is simply enchanting! A girl with such a
figure as yours never looks better than when she dresses sportily!”
The latent vulgarity of the man was escaping from the bondage in which
ordinarily he confined it. A real passion had him in its grip, and the
real Gianapolis was speaking. Helen hesitated for one fateful moment; it
was going to be even worse than she had anticipated. She glanced up at
Palace Mansions.
Across a curtained window moved a shadow, that of a man wearing a long
gown and having his hands clasped behind him, whose head showed as an
indistinct blur because the hair was wildly disordered. This shadow
passed from side to side of the window and was lost from view. It was
the shadow of Henry Leroux.
“I am afraid I have a lot of work to do,” said Helen, with a little
catch in her voice.
“My dear Miss Cumberly,” cried Gianapolis, eagerly, placing his hand
upon her arm, “it is precisely of your work that I wish to speak to you!
Your work is familiar to me--I never miss a line of it; and knowing how
you delight in the outre and how inimitably you can describe scenes of
Bohemian life, I had hoped, since it was my privilege to meet you, that
you would accept my services as cicerone to some of the lesser-known
resorts of Bohemian London. Your article, 'Dinner in Soho,' was a
delightful piece of observation, and the third--I think it was the
third--of the same series: 'Curiosities of the Cafe Royal,' was equally
good. But your powers of observation would be given greater play in any
one of the three establishments to which I should be honored to escort
you.”
Helen Cumberly, though perfectly self-reliant, as only the modern girl
journalist can be, was fully aware that, not being of the flat-haired,
bespectacled type, she was called upon to exercise rather more care
in her selection of companions for copy-hunting expeditions than was
necessary in the case of certain fellow-members of the Scribes' Club. No
power on earth could have induced her to accept such an invitation from
such a man, under ordinary circumstances; even now, with so definite
and important an object in view, she hesitated. The scheme might lead
to nothing; Denise Ryland (horrible thought!) might lose the track; the
track might lead to no place of importance, so far as her real inquiry
was concerned.
In this hour of emergency, new and wiser ideas were flooding her brain.
For instance, they might have admitted Inspector Dunbar to the plot.
With Inspector Dunbar dogging her steps, she should have felt perfectly
safe; but Denise--she had every respect for Denise's reasoning powers,
and force of character--yet Denise nevertheless might fail her.
She glanced into the crooked eyes of Gianapolis, then up again at Palace
Mansions.
The shadow of Henry Leroux recrossed the cream-curtained window.
“So early in the evening,” pursued the Greek, rapidly, “the more
interesting types will hardly have arrived; nevertheless, at the Memphis
Cafe”...
“Memphis Cafe!” muttered Helen, glancing at him rapidly; “what an odd
name.”
“Ah! my dear Miss Cumberly!” cried Gianapolis, with triumph--“I knew
that you had never heard of the true haunts of Bohemia! The Memphis
Cafe--it is actually a club--was founded by Olaf van Noord two years
ago, and at present has a membership including some of the most famous
artistic folk of London; not only painters, but authors, composers,
actors, actresses. I may add that the peerage, male and female, is
represented.”
“It is actually a gaming-house, I suppose?” said Helen, shrewdly.
“A gaming-house? Not at all! If what you wish to see is play for high
stakes, it is not to the Memphis Cafe you must go. I can show you
Society losing its money in thousands, if the spectacle would amuse you.
I only await your orders”...
“You certainly interest me,” said Helen; and indeed this half-glimpse
into phases of London life hidden from the world--even from the
greater part of the ever-peering journalistic world--was not lacking in
fascination.
The planning of a scheme in its entirety constitutes a mental effort
which not infrequently blinds us to the shortcomings of certain
essential details. Denise's plan, a good one in many respects, had the
fault of being over-elaborate. Now, when it was too late to advise her
friend of any amendment, Helen perceived that there was no occasion for
her to suffer the society of Gianapolis.
To bid him good evening, and then to follow him, herself, was a plan
much superior to that of keeping him company whilst Denise followed
both!
Moreover, he would then be much more likely to go home, or to some
address which it would be useful to know. What a VERY womanish scheme
theirs had been, after all; Helen told herself that the most stupid man
imaginable could have placed his finger upon its weak spot immediately.
But her mind was made up. If it were possible, she would warn Denise of
the change of plan; if it were not, then she must rely upon her friend
to see through the ruse which she was about to practise upon the Greek.
“Good night, Mr. Gianapolis!” she said abruptly, and held out her hand
to the smiling man. His smile faded. “I should love to join you, but
really you must know that it's impossible. I will arrange to make up a
party, with pleasure, if you will let me know where I can 'phone you?”
“But,” he began...
“Many thanks, it's really impossible; there are limits even to the
escapades allowed under the cloak of 'Copy'! Where can I communicate
with you?”
“Oh! how disappointed I am! But I must permit you to know your
own wishes better than I can hope to know them, Miss Cumberly.
Therefore”--Helen was persistently holding out her hand--“good night!
Might I venture to telephone to YOU in the morning? We could then come
to some arrangement, no doubt”...
“You might not find me at home”...
“But at nine o'clock!”
“It allows me no time to make up my party!”
“But such a party must not exceed three: yourself and two others”...
“Nevertheless, it has to be arranged.”
“I shall ring up to-morrow evening, and if you are not at home, your
maid will tell me when you are expected to return.”
Helen quite clearly perceived that no address and no telephone number
were forthcoming.
“You are committing yourself to endless and unnecessary trouble, Mr.
Gianapolis, but if you really wish to do as you suggest, let it be so.
Good night!”
She barely touched his extended hand, turned, and ran fleetly back
toward the door of Palace Mansions. Ere reaching the entrance, however,
she dropped a handkerchief, stooped to recover it, and glanced back
rapidly.
Gianapolis was just turning the corner.
Helen perceived the unmistakable form of Denise Ryland lurking in the
Palace Mansions doorway, and, waving frantically to her friend, who
was nonplussed at this change of tactics, she hurried back again to the
corner and peeped cautiously after the retreating Greek.
There was a cab rank some fifty paces beyond, with three taxis stationed
there. If Gianapolis chartered a cab, and she were compelled to follow
in another, would Denise come upon the scene in time to take up the
prearranged role of sleuth-hound?
Gianapolis hesitated only for a few seconds; then, shrugging his
shoulders, he stepped out into the road and into the first cab on the
rank. The man cranked his engine, leapt into his seat and drove off.
Helen Cumberly, ignoring the curious stares of the two remaining
taxi-men, ran out from the shelter of the corner and jumped into the
next cab, crying breathlessly:
“Follow that cab! Don't let the man in it suspect, but follow, and don't
lose sight of it!”
They were off!
Helen glanced ahead quickly, and was just in time to see Gianapolis'
cab disappear; then, leaning out of the window, she indulged in an
extravagant pantomime for the benefit of Denise Ryland, who was hurrying
after her.
“Take the next cab and follow ME!” she cried, whilst her friend raised
her hand to her ear the better to detect the words. “I cannot wait for
you or the track will be lost”...
Helen's cab swung around the corner--and she was not by any means
certain that Denise Ryland had understood her; but to have delayed
would have been fatal, and she must rely upon her friend's powers of
penetration to form a third in this singular procession.
Whilst these thoughts were passing in the pursuer's mind, Gianapolis,
lighting a cigarette, had thrown himself back in a corner of the cab and
was mentally reviewing the events of the evening--that is, those events
which were associated with Helen Cumberly. He was disappointed but
hopeful: at any rate he had suffered no definite repulse. Without doubt,
his reflections had been less roseate had he known that he was followed,
not only by two, but by THREE trackers.
He had suspected for some time now, and the suspicion had made him
uneasy, that his movements were being watched. Police surveillance
he did not fear; his arrangements were too complete, he believed,
to occasion him any ground for anxiety even though half the Criminal
Investigation Department were engaged in dogging his every movement. He
understood police methods very thoroughly, and all his experience told
him that this elusive shadow which latterly had joined him unbidden,
and of whose presence he was specially conscious whenever his steps led
toward Palace Mansions, was no police officer.
He had two theories respecting the shadow--or, more properly, one theory
which was divisible into two parts; and neither part was conducive to
peace of mind. Many years, crowded with many happenings, some of which
he would fain forget, had passed since the day when he had entered the
service of Mr. King, in Pekin. The enterprises of Mr. King were always
of a secret nature, and he well remembered the fate of a certain Burmese
gentleman of Rangoon who had attempted to throw the light of publicity
into the dark places of these affairs.
From a confidant of the doomed man, Gianapolias had learned, fully a
month before a mysterious end had come to the Burman, how the latter (by
profession a money-lender) had complained of being shadowed night and
day by someone or something, of whom or of which he could never succeed
in obtaining so much as a glimpse.
Gianapolis shuddered. These were morbid reflections, for, since he had
no thought of betraying Mr. King, he had no occasion to apprehend a fate
similar to that of the unfortunate money-lender of Rangoon. It was a
very profitable service, that of Mr. King, yet there were times when the
fear of his employer struck a chill to his heart; there were times when
almost he wished to be done with it all...
By Whitechapel Station he discharged the cab, and, standing on the
pavement, lighted a new cigarette from the glowing stump of the old
one. A fair amount of traffic passed along the Whitechapel Road, for the
night was yet young; therefore Gianapolis attached no importance to the
fact that almost at the moment when his own cab turned and was
driven away, a second cab swung around the corner of Mount Street and
disappeared.
But, could he have seen the big limousine drawn up to the pavement some
fifty yards west of London Hospital, his reflections must have been
terrible, indeed.
Fate willed that he should know nothing of this matter, and, his
thoughts automatically reverting again to Helen Cumberly, he enjoyed
that imaginary companionship throughout the remainder of his walk, which
led him along Cambridge Road, and from thence, by a devious route, to
the northern end of Globe Road.
It may be enlightening to leave Gianapolis for a moment and to return to
Mount Street.
Helen Cumberly's cabman, seeing the cab ahead pull up outside the
railway station, turned around the nearest corner on the right (as has
already appeared), and there stopped. Helen, who also had observed
the maneuver of the taxi ahead, hastily descended, and giving the man
half-a-sovereign, said rapidly:
“I must follow on foot now, I am afraid! but as I don't know this
district at all, could you bring the cab along without attracting
attention, and manage to keep me in sight?”
“I'll try, miss,” replied the man, with alacrity; “but it won't be an
easy job.”
“Do your best,” cried Helen, and ran off rapidly around the corner, and
into Whitechapel Road.
She was just in time to see Gianapolis throw away the stump of his first
cigarette and stroll off, smoking a second. She rejoiced that she was
inconspicuously dressed, but, simple as was her attire, it did not fail
to attract coarse comment from some whom she jostled on her way. She
ignored all this, however, and, at a discreet distance followed the
Greek, never losing sight of him for more than a moment.