RED KERRY
Chief Inspector Kerry, of the Criminal Investigation Department, stood
before the empty grate of his cheerless office in New Scotland Yard,
one hand thrust into the pocket of his blue reefer jacket and the other
twirling a malacca cane, which was heavily silver-mounted and which
must have excited the envy of every sergeant-major beholding it. Chief
Inspector Kerry wore a very narrow-brimmed bowler hat, having two
ventilation holes conspicuously placed immediately above the band. He
wore this hat tilted forward and to the right.
“Red Kerry” wholly merited his sobriquet, for the man was as red as
fire. His hair, which he wore cropped close as a pugilist’s, was
brilliantly red, and so was his short, wiry, aggressive moustache. His
complexion was red, and from beneath his straight red eyebrows he
surveyed the world with a pair of unblinking, intolerant steel-blue
eyes. He never smoked in public, as his taste inclined towards Irish
twist and a short clay pipe; but he was addicted to the use of
chewing-gum, and as he chewed—and he chewed incessantly—he revealed a
perfect row of large, white, and positively savage-looking teeth. High
cheek bones and prominent maxillary muscles enhanced the truculence
indicated by his chin.
But, next to this truculence, which was the first and most alarming
trait to intrude itself upon the observer’s attention, the outstanding
characteristic of Chief Inspector Kerry was his compact neatness. Of no
more than medium height but with shoulders like an acrobat, he had
slim, straight legs and the feet of a dancing master. His attire, from
the square-pointed collar down to the neat black brogues, was spotless.
His reefer jacket fitted him faultlessly, but his trousers were cut so
unfashionably narrow that the protuberant thigh muscles and the line of
a highly developed calf could quite easily be discerned. The hand
twirling the cane was small but also muscular, freckled and covered
with light down. Red Kerry was built on the lines of a whippet, but
carried the equipment of an Irish terrier.
The telephone bell rang. Inspector Kerry moved his square shoulders in
a manner oddly suggestive of a wrestler, laid the malacca cane on the
mantleshelf, and crossed to the table. Taking up the telephone:
“Yes?” he said, and his voice was high-pitched and imperious.
He listened for a moment.
“Very good, sir.”
He replaced the receiver, took up a wet oilskin overall from the back
of a chair and the cane from the mantleshelf. Then rolling chewing-gum
from one corner of his mouth into the other, he snapped off the
electric light and walked from the room.
Along the corridor he went with a lithe, silent step, moving from the
hips and swinging his shoulders. Before a door marked “Private” he
paused. From his waistcoat pocket he took a little silver convex mirror
and surveyed himself critically therein. He adjusted his neat tie,
replaced the mirror, knocked at the door and entered the room of the
Assistant Commissioner.
This important official was a man constructed on huge principles, a man
of military bearing, having tired eyes and a bewildered manner. He
conveyed the impression that the collection of documents, books,
telephones, and other paraphernalia bestrewing his table had reduced
him to a state of stupor. He looked up wearily and met the fierce gaze
of the chief inspector with a glance almost apologetic.
“Ah, Chief Inspector Kerry?” he said, with vague surprise. “Yes. I told
you to come. Really, I ought to have been at home hours ago. It’s most
unfortunate. I have to do the work of three men. This _is_ your
department, is it not, Chief Inspector?”
He handed Kerry a slip of paper, at which the Chief Inspector stared
fiercely.
“Murder!” rapped Kerry. “Sir Lucien Pyne. Yes, sir, I am still on
duty.”
His speech, in moments of interest, must have suggested to one
overhearing him from an adjoining room, for instance, the operation of
a telegraphic instrument. He gave to every syllable the value of a rap
and certain words he terminated with an audible snap of his teeth.
“Ah,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner. “Yes. Divisional
Inspector—Somebody (I cannot read the name) has detained all the
parties. But you had better report at Vine Street. It appears to be a
big case.”
He sighed wearily.
“Very good, sir. With your permission I will glance at Sir Lucien’s
pedigree.”
“Certainly—certainly,” said the Assistant Commissioner, waving one
large hand in the direction of a bookshelf.
Kerry crossed the room, laid his oilskin and cane upon a chair, and
from the shelf where it reposed took a squat volume. The Assistant
Commissioner, hand pressed to brow, began to study a document which lay
before him.
“Here we are,” said Kerry, _sotto voce_. “Pyne, Sir Lucien St. Aubyn,
fourth baronet, son of General Sir Christian Pyne, K.C.B. H’m! Born
Malta.... Oriel College; first in classics.... H’m. Blue.... India,
Burma.... Contested Wigan.... attached British Legation. ... H’m!...”
He returned the book to its place, took up his overall and cane, and:
“Very good, sir,” he said. “I will proceed to Vine Street.”
“Certainly—certainly,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner, glancing up
absently. “Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
“Oh, Chief Inspector!”
Kerry turned, his hand on the door-knob.
“Sir?”
“I—er—what was I going to say? Oh, yes! The social importance of the
murdered man raises the case from the—er—you follow me? Public interest
will become acute, no doubt. I have therefore selected you for your
well known discretion. I met Sir Lucien once. Very sad. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Kerry passed out into the corridor, closing the door quietly. The
Assistant Commissioner was a man for whom he entertained the highest
respect. Despite the bewildered air and wandering manner, he knew this
big, tired-looking soldier for an administrator of infinite capacity
and inexhaustive energy.
Proceeding to a room further along the corridor, Chief Inspector Kerry
opened the door and looked in.
“Detective-Sergeant Coombes.” he snapped, and rolled chewing-gum from
side to side of his mouth.
Detective-Sergeant Coombes, a plump, short man having lank black hair
and a smile of sly contentment perpetually adorning his round face,
rose hurriedly from the chair upon which he had been seated. Another
man who was in the room rose also, as if galvanized by the glare of the
fierce blue eyes.
“I’m going to Vine Street,” said Kerry succinctly; “you’re coming with
me,” turned, and went on his way.
Two taxicabs were standing in the yard, and into the first of these
Inspector Kerry stepped, followed by Coombes, the latter breathing
heavily and carrying his hat in his hand, since he had not yet found
time to put it on.
“Vine Street,” shouted Kerry. “Brisk.”
He leaned back in the cab, chewing industriously. Coombes, having
somewhat recovered his breath, essayed speech.
“Is it something big?” he asked.
“Sure,” snapped Kerry. “Do they send _me_ to stop dog-fights?”
Knowing the man and recognizing the mood, Coombes became silent, and
this silence he did not break all the way to Vine Street. At the
station:
“Wait,” said Chief Inspector Kerry, and went swinging in, carrying his
overall and having the malacca cane tucked under his arm.
A few minutes later he came out again and reentered the cab.
“Piccadilly corner of Old Bond Street,” he directed the man.
“Is it burglary?” asked Detective-Sergeant Coombes with interest.
“No,” said Kerry. “It’s murder; and there seems to be stacks of
evidence. Sharpen your pencil.”
“Oh!” murmured Coombes.
They were almost immediately at their destination, and Chief Inspector
Kerry, dismissing the cabman, set off along Bond Street with his lithe,
swinging gait, looking all about him intently. Rain had ceased, but the
air was damp and chilly, and few pedestrians were to be seen.
A car was standing before Kazmah’s premises, the chauffeur walking up
and down on the pavement and flapping his hands across his chest in
order to restore circulation. The Chief Inspector stopped, “Hi, my
man!” he said.
The chauffeur stood still.
“Whose car?”
“Mr. Monte Irvin’s.”
Kerry turned on his heel and stepped to the office door. It was ajar,
and Kerry, taking an electric torch from his overall pocket, flashed
the light upon the name-plate. He stood for a moment, chewing and
looking up the darkened stairs. Then, torch in hand he ascended.
Kazmah’s door was closed, and the Chief Inspector rapped loudly. It was
opened at once by Sergeant Burton, and Kerry entered, followed by
Coombes.
The room at first sight seemed to be extremely crowded. Monte Irvin,
very pale and haggard, sat upon the divan beside Quentin Gray. Seton
was standing near the cabinet, smoking. These three had evidently been
conversing at the time of the detective’s arrival with an
alert-looking, clean-shaven man whose bag, umbrella, and silk hat stood
upon one of the little inlaid tables. Just inside the second door were
Brisley and Gunn, both palpably ill at ease, and glancing at Inspector
Whiteleaf, who had been interrogating them.
Kerry chewed silently for a moment, bestowing a fierce stare upon each
face in turn, then:
“Who’s in charge?” he snapped.
“I am,” replied Whiteleaf.
“Why is the lower door open?”
“I thought—”
“Don’t think. Shut the door. Post your Sergeant inside. No one is to go
out. Grab anybody who comes in. Where’s the body?”
“This way,” said Inspector Whiteleaf hurriedly; then, over his
shoulder: “Go down to the door, Burton.”
He led Kerry towards the inner room, Coombes at his heels. Brisley and
Gunn stood aside to give them passage; Gray and Monte Irvin prepared to
follow. At the doorway Kerry turned.
“You will all be good enough to stay where you are,” he said. He
directed the aggressive stare in Seton’s direction. “And if the
gentleman smoking a cheroot is not satisfied that he has quite
destroyed any clue perceptible by the sense of smell I should be glad
to send out for some fireworks.”
He tossed his oilskin and his cane on the divan and went into the room
of seance, savagely biting at a piece of apparently indestructible
chewing-gum.
The torn green curtain had been laid aside and the electric lights
turned on in the inside rooms. Pallid, Sir Lucien Pyne lay by the ebony
chair glaring horribly upward.
Always with the keen eyes glancing this way and that, Inspector Kerry
crossed the little audience room and entered the enclosure contained
between the two screens. By the side of the dead man he stood, looking
down silently. Then he dropped upon one knee and peered closely into
the white face. He looked up.
“He has not been moved?”
“No.”
Kerry bent yet lower, staring closely at a discolored abrasion on Sir
Lucien’s forehead. His glance wandered from thence to the carved ebony
chair. Still kneeling, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a powerful
lens contained in a washleather bag. He began to examine the back and
sides of the chair. Once he laid his finger lightly on a protruding
point of the carving, and then scrutinised his finger through the
glass. He examined the dead man’s hands, his nails, his garments. Then
he crawled about, peering closely at the carpet.
He stood up suddenly. “The doctor,” he snapped.
Inspector Whiteleaf retired, but returned immediately with the
clean-shaven man to whom Monte Irvin had been talking when Kerry
arrived.
“Good evening, doctor,” said Kerry. “Do I know your name? Start your
notes, Coombes.”
“My name is Dr. Wilbur Weston, and I live in Albemarle Street.”
“Who called you?”
“Inspector Whiteleaf telephoned to me about half an hour ago.”
“You examined the dead man?”
“I did.”
“You avoided moving him?”
“It was unnecessary to move him. He was dead, and the wound was in the
left shoulder. I pulled his coat open and unbuttoned his shirt. That
was all.”
“How long dead?”
“I should say he had been dead not more than an hour when I saw him.”
“What had caused death?”
“The stab of some long, narrow-bladed weapon, such as a stiletto.”
“Why a stiletto?” Kerry’s fierce eyes challenged him. “Did you ever see
a wound made by a stiletto?”
“Several—in Italy, and one at Saffron Hill. They are characterised by
very little external bleeding.”
“Right, doctor. It had reached his heart?”
“Yes. The blow was delivered from behind.”
“How do you know?”
“The direction of the wound is forward. I have seen an almost identical
wound in the case of an Italian woman stabbed by a jealous rival.”
“He would fall on his back.”
“Oh, no. He would fall on his face, almost certainly.”
“But he lies on his back.”
“In my opinion he had been moved.”
“Right. I know he had. Good night, doctor. See him out, Inspector.”
Dr. Weston seemed rather startled by this abrupt dismissal, but the
steel-blue eyes of Inspector Kerry were already bent again upon the
dead man, and, murmuring “good night,” the doctor took his departure,
followed by Whiteleaf.
“Shut this door,” snapped Kerry after the Inspector. “I will call when
I want you. You stay, Coombes. Got it all down?”
Sergeant Coombes scratched his head with the end of a pencil, and:
“Yes,” he said, with hesitancy. “That is, except the word after
‘narrow-bladed weapon such as a’ I’ve got what looks like
‘steelhatto.’”
Kerry glared.
“Try taking the cotton-wool out of your ears,” he suggested. “The word
was stiletto, s-t-i-l-e-t-t-o—stiletto.”
“Oh,” said Coombes, “thanks.”
Silence fell between the two men from Scotland Yard. Kerry stood
awhile, chewing and staring at the ghastly face of Sir Lucien. Then:
“Go through all pockets,” he directed.
Sergeant Coombes placed his notebook and pencil upon the seat of the
chair and set to work. Kerry entered the inside room or office. It
contained a writing-table (upon which was a telephone and a pile of old
newspapers), a cabinet, and two chairs. Upon one of the chairs lay a
crush-hat, a cane, and an overcoat. He glanced at some of the
newspapers, then opened the drawers of the writing-table. They were
empty. The cabinet proved to be locked, and a door which he saw must
open upon a narrow passage running beside the suite of rooms was locked
also. There was nothing in the pockets of the overcoat, but inside the
hat he found pasted the initials L. P. He rolled chewing-gum, stared
reflectively at the little window immediately above the table, through
which a glimpse might be obtained of the ebony chair, and went out
again.
“Nothing,” reported Coombes.
“What do you mean—nothing?”
“His pockets are empty!”
“All of them?”
“Every one.”
“Good,” said Kerry. “Make a note of it. He wears a real pearl stud and
a good signet ring; also a gold wrist watch, face broken and hands
stopped at seven-fifteen. That was the time he died. He was stabbed
from behind as he stood where I’m standing now, fell forward, struck
his head on the leg of the chair, and lay face downwards.”
“I’ve got that,” muttered Coombes. “What stopped the watch?”
“Broken as he fell. There are tiny fragments of glass stuck in the
carpet, showing the exact position in which his body originally lay;
and for God’s sake stop smiling.”
Kerry threw open the door.
“Who first found the body?” he demanded of the silent company.
“I did,” cried Quentin Gray, coming forward. “I and Seton Pasha.”
“Seton Pasha!” Kerry’s teeth snapped together, so that he seemed to
bite off the words. “I don’t see a Turk present.”
Seton smiled quietly.
“My friend uses a title which was conferred upon me some years ago by
the ex-Khedive,” he said. “My name is Greville Seton.”
Inspector Kerry glanced back across his shoulder.
“Notes,” he said. “Unlock your ears, Coombes.” He looked at Gray. “What
is your name?”
“Quentin Gray.”
“Who are you, and in what way are you concerned in this case?”
“I am the son of Lord Wrexborough, and I—”
He paused, glancing helplessly at Seton. He had recognized that the
first mention of Rita Irvin’s name in the police evidence must be made
by himself.
“Speak up, sir,” snapped Kerry. “Sergeant Coombes is deaf.”
Gray’s face flushed, and his eyes gleamed angrily.
“I should be glad, Inspector,” he said, “if you would remember that the
dead man was a personal acquaintance and that other friends are
concerned in this ghastly affair.”
“Coombes will remember it,” replied Kerry frigidly. “He’s taking
notes.”
“Look here—” began Gray.
Seton laid his hand upon the angry man’s shoulder.
“Pull up, Gray,” he said quietly. “Pull up, old chap.” He turned his
cool regard upon Chief Inspector Kerry, twirling the cord of his
monocle about one finger. “I may remark, Inspector Kerry—for I
understand this to be your name—that your conduct of the inquiry is not
always characterised by the best possible taste.”
Kerry rolled chewing-gum, meeting Seton’s gaze with a stare intolerant
and aggressive. He imparted that odd writhing movement to his
shoulders.
“For my conduct I am responsible to the Commissioner,” he replied. “And
if he’s not satisfied the Commissioner can have my written resignation
at any hour in the twenty-four that he’s short of a pipe-lighter. If it
would not inconvenience you to keep quiet for two minutes I will
continue my examination of this witness.”