Chief Inspector Kerry came down from the top of a motor-bus and stood on
the sidewalk for a while gazing to right and left along Piccadilly.
The night was humid and misty, now threatening fog and now rain. Many
travellers were abroad at this Christmas season, the pleasure seekers
easily to be distinguished from those whom business had detained in
town, and who hurried toward their various firesides. The theatres
were disgorging their audiences. Streams of lighted cars bore parties
supperward; less pretentious taxicabs formed links in the chain.
From the little huddled crowd of more economical theatre-goers who
waited at the stopping place of the motor-buses, Kerry detached himself,
walking slowly along westward and staring reflectively about him.
Opposite the corner of Bond Street he stood still, swinging his malacca
cane and gazing fixedly along this narrow bazaar street of the
Baghdad of the West. His trim, athletic figure was muffled in a big,
double-breasted, woolly overcoat, the collar turned up about his ears.
His neat bowler hat was tilted forward so as to shade the fierce blue
eyes. Indeed, in that imperfect light, little of the Chief Inspector's
countenance was visible except his large, gleaming white teeth, which he
constantly revealed in the act of industriously chewing mint gum.
He smiled as he chewed. Duty had called him out into the mist, and for
once he had obeyed reluctantly. That very afternoon had seen the return
of Dan Kerry, junior, home from school for the Christmas vacation, and
Dan was the apple of his father's eye.
Mrs. Kerry had reserved her dour Scottish comments upon the boy's school
report for a more seemly occasion than the first day of his holidays;
but Kerry had made no attempt to conceal his jubilation--almost immoral,
his wife had declared it to be--respecting the lad's athletic record.
His work on the junior left wing had gained the commendation of a
celebrated international; and Kerry, who had interviewed the gymnasium
instructor, had learned that Dan Junior bade fair to become an amateur
boxer of distinction.
“He is faster on his feet than any boy I ever handled,” the expert had
declared. “He hasn't got the weight behind it yet, of course, but he's
developing a left that's going to make history. I'm of opinion that
there isn't a boy in the seniors can take him on, and I'll say that he's
a credit to you.”
Those words had fallen more sweetly upon the ears of Chief Inspector
Kerry than any encomium of the boy's learning could have done. On the
purely scholastic side his report was not a good one, admittedly. “But,”
murmured Kerry aloud, “he's going to be a man.”
He remembered that he had promised, despite the lateness of the hour, to
telephone the lad directly he had received a certain report, and to tell
him whether he might wait up for his return or whether he must turn in.
Kerry, stamping his small, neatly shod feet upon the pavement, smiled
agreeably. He was thinking of the telephone which recently he had had
installed in his house in Brixton. His wife had demanded this as a
Christmas box, pointing out how many uneasy hours she would be spared by
the installation. Kerry had consented cheerfully enough, for was he not
shortly to be promoted to the exalted post of a superintendent of the
Criminal Investigation Department?
These reflections were cheering and warming; and, waiting until a gap
occurred in the stream of cabs and cars, he crossed Piccadilly and
proceeded along Bond Street, swinging his shoulders in a manner which
would have enabled any constable in the force to recognize “Red Kerry”
at a hundred yards.
The fierce eyes scrutinized the occupants of all the lighted cars. At
pedestrians also he stared curiously, and at another smaller group of
travellers waiting for the buses on the left-hand side of the street he
looked hard and long. He pursued his way, acknowledged the salutation
of a porter who stood outside the entrance to the Embassy Club, and
proceeded, glancing about him right and left and with some evident and
definite purpose.
A constable standing at the corner of Conduit Street touched his helmet
as Kerry passed and the light of an arc-lamp revealed the fierce red
face. The Chief Inspector stopped, turned, and:
“What the devil's the idea?” he demanded.
He snapped out the words in such fashion that the unfortunate constable
almost believed he could see sparks in the misty air.
“I'm sorry, sir, but recognizing you suddenly like, I----”
“You did?” the fierce voice interrupted. “How long in the force?”
“Six months, sir.”
“Never salute an officer in plain clothes.”
“I know, sir.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I told you, sir.”
“Then tell me again.”
“I forgot.”
“You're paid to remember; bear it in mind.”
Kerry tucked his malacca under his arm and walked on, leaving the
unfortunate policeman literally stupefied by his first encounter with
the celebrated Chief Inspector.
Presently another line of cars proclaimed the entrance to a club, and
just before reaching the first of these Kerry paused. A man stood in a
shadowy doorway, and:
“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” he said quietly.
“Good evening, Durham. Anything to report?”
“Yes. Lou Chada is here again.”
“With whom?”
“Lady Rourke.”
Kerry stepped to the edge of the pavement and spat out a piece of
chewing-gum. From his overcoat pocket he drew a fresh piece, tore off
the pink wrapping and placed the gum between his teeth. Then:
“How long?” he demanded.
“Came to dinner. They are dancing.”
“H'm!” The Chief Inspector ranged himself beside the other detective in
the shadow of the doorway. “Something's brewing, Durham,” he said. “I
think I shall wait.”
His subordinate stared curiously but made no reply. He was not wholly
in his chief's confidence. He merely knew that the name of Lou Chada
to Kerry was like a red rag to a bull. The handsome, cultured young
Eurasian, fresh from a distinguished university career and pampered by a
certain section of smart society, did not conform to Detective Sergeant
Durham's idea of a suspect. He knew that Lou was the son of Zani Chada,
and he knew that Zani Chada was one of the wealthiest men in Limehouse.
But Lou had an expensive flat in George Street; Lou was courted by
society butterflies, and in what way he could be connected with the case
known as “the Limehouse inquiry,” Durham could not imagine.
That the open indiscretion of Lady “Pat” Rourke might lead to trouble
with her husband, was conceivable enough; but this was rather a matter
for underhand private inquiry than for the attention of the Criminal
Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard.
So mused Durham, standing cold and uncomfortable in the shadowy doorway,
and dreaming of a certain cosy fireside, a pair of carpet slippers and a
glass of hot toddy which awaited him. Suddenly:
“Great flames! Look!” he cried.
Kerry's fingers closed, steely, upon Durham's wrist. A porter was
urgently moving the parked cars farther along the street to enable one,
a French coupe, to draw up before the club entrance.
Two men came out, supporting between them a woman who seemed to be ill;
a slender, blonde woman whose pretty face was pale and whose wide-open
blue eyes stared strangely straight before her. The taller of her
escorts, while continuing to support her, solicitously wrapped her fur
cloak about her bare shoulders; the other, the manager of the club,
stepped forward and opened the door of the car.
“Lady Rourke!” whispered Durham.
“With Lou Chada!” rapped Kerry. “Run for a cab. Brisk. Don't waste a
second.”
Some little conversation ensued between manager and patron, then the
tall, handsome Eurasian, waving his hand protestingly, removed his hat
and stepped into the coupe beside Lady Rourke. It immediately moved away
in the direction of Piccadilly.
One glimpse Kerry had of the pretty, fair head lying limply back against
the cushions. The manager of the club was staring after the car.
Kerry stepped out from his hiding place. Durham had disappeared, and
there was no cab in sight, but immediately beyond the illuminated
entrance stood a Rolls-Royce which had been fifth in the rank of parked
cars before the adjustment had been made to enable the coupe to reach
the door. Kerry ran across, and:
“Whose car, my lad?” he demanded of the chauffeur.
The latter, resenting the curt tone of the inquiry, looked the speaker
up and down, and:
“Captain. Egerton's,” he replied slowly. “But what business may it be of
yours?”
“I'm Chief Inspector Kerry, of New Scotland Yard,” came the rapid reply.
“I want to follow the car that has just left.”
“What about running?” demanded the man insolently.
Kerry shot out a small, muscular hand and grasped the speaker's wrist.
“I'll say one thing to you,” he rapped. “I'm a police officer, and I
demand your help. Refuse it, and you'll wake up in Vine Street.”
The Chief Inspector was on the step now, bending forward so that his
fierce red face was but an inch removed from that of the startled
chauffeur. The quelling force of his ferocious personality achieved its
purpose, as it rarely failed to do.
“I'm getting in,” added the Chief Inspector, jumping back on to the
pavement. “Lose that French bus, and I'll charge you with resisting and
obstructing an officer of the law in the execution of his duty. Start.”
Kerry leaped in and banged the door--and the Rolls-Royce started.