THE EMPTY WHARF
The suspected area of Limehouse was closely invested as any fortress of
old when Seton Pasha once more found himself approaching that painfully
familiar neighborhood. He had spoken to several pickets, and had
gathered no news of interest, except that none of them had seen Chief
Inspector Kerry since some time shortly before dusk. Seton, newly from
more genial climes, shivered as he contemplated the misty, rain-swept
streets, deserted and but dimly lighted by an occasional lamp. The
hooting of a steam siren on the river seemed to be in harmony with the
prevailing gloom, and the most confirmed optimist must have suffered
depression amid those surroundings.
He had no definite plan of action. Every line of inquiry hitherto
followed had led to nothing but disappointment. With most of the
details concerning the elaborate organization of the Kazmah group
either gathered or in sight, the whereabouts of the surviving members
remained a profound mystery. From the Chinese no information could be
obtained. Distrust of the police resides deep within the Chinese heart;
for the Chinaman, and not unjustly, regards the police as ever ready to
accuse him and ever unwilling to defend him; knows himself for a pariah
capable of the worst crimes, and who may therefore be robbed, beaten
and even murdered by his white neighbors with impunity. But when the
police seek information from Chinatown, Chinatown takes its revenge—and
is silent.
Out on the river, above and below Limehouse, patrols watched for
signals from the Asiatic quarter, and from a carefully selected spot on
the Surrey side George Martin watched also. Not even the lure of a
neighboring tavern could draw him from his post. Hour after hour he
waited patiently—for Sin Sin Wa paid fair prices, and tonight he bought
neither opium nor cocaine, but liberty.
Seton Pasha, passing from point to point, and nowhere receiving news of
Kerry, began to experience a certain anxiety respecting the safety of
the intrepid Chief Inspector. His mind filled with troubled
conjectures, he passed the house formerly occupied by the one-eyed
Chinaman—where he found Detective-Sergeant Coombes on duty and very
much on the alert—and followed the bank of the Thames in the direction
of Limehouse Basin. The narrow, ill-lighted street was quite deserted.
Bad weather and the presence of many police had driven the Asiatic
inhabitants indoors. But from the river and the docks arose the
incessant din of industry. Whistles shrieked and machinery clanked, and
sometimes remotely came the sound of human voices.
Musing upon the sordid mystery which seems to underlie the whole of
this dingy quarter, Seton pursued his way, crossing inlets and circling
around basins dimly divined, turning to the right into a lane flanked
by high eyeless walls, and again to the left, finally to emerge nearly
opposite a dilapidated gateway giving access to a small wharf.
All unconsciously, he was traversing the same route as that recently
pursued by the fugitive Sin Sin Wa; but now he paused, staring at the
empty wharf. The annexed building, a mere shell, had not escaped
examination by the search party, and it was with no very definite
purpose in view that Seton pushed open the rickety gate. Doubtless
Kismet, of which the Arabs speak, dictated that he should do so.
The tide was high, and the water whispered ghostly under the
pile-supported structure. Seton experienced a new sense of chill which
did not seem to be entirely physical as he stared out at the gloomy
river prospect and listened to the uncanny whisperings of the tide. He
was about to turn back when another sound attracted his attention. A
dog was whimpering somewhere near him.
At first he was disposed to believe that the sound was due to some
other cause, for the deserted wharf was not a likely spot in which to
find a dog, but when to the faint whimpering there was added a
scratching sound, Seton’s last doubts vanished.
“It’s a dog,” he said, “a small dog.”
Like Kerry, he always carried an electric pocket-lamp, and now he
directed its rays into the interior of the building.
A tiny spaniel, whining excitedly, was engaged in scratching with its
paws upon the dirty floor as though determined to dig its way through.
As the light shone upon it the dog crouched affrightedly, and, glancing
in Seton’s direction, revealed its teeth. He saw that it was covered
with mud from head to tail, presenting a most woe-begone appearance,
and the mystery of its presence there came home to him forcibly.
It was a toy spaniel of a breed very popular among ladies of fashion,
and to its collar was still attached a tattered and muddy fragment of
ribbon.
The little animal crouched in a manner which unmistakably pointed to
the fact that it apprehended ill-treatment, but these personal fears
had only a secondary place in its mind, and with one eye on the
intruder it continued to scratch madly at the floor.
Seton acted promptly. He snapped off the light, and, replacing the lamp
in his pocket, stepped into the building and dropped down upon his
knees beside the dog. He next lay prone, and having rapidly cleared a
space with his sleeve of some of the dirt which coated it, he applied
his ear to the floor.
In spite of that iron control which habitually he imposed upon himself,
he became aware of the fact that his heart was beating rapidly. He had
learned at Leman Street that Kerry had brought Mrs. Irvin’s dog from
Prince’s Gate to aid in the search for the missing woman. He did not
doubt that this was the dog which snarled and scratched excitedly
beside him. Dimly he divined something of the truth. Kerry had fallen
into the hands of the gang, but the dog, evidently not without
difficulty, had escaped. What lay below the wharf?
Holding his breath, he crouched, listening; but not a sound could he
detect.
“There’s nothing here, old chap,” he said to the dog.
Responsive to the friendly tone, the little animal began barking loudly
with high staccato notes, which must have been audible on the Surrey
shore.
Seton was profoundly mystified by the animal’s behavior. He had
personally searched every foot of this particular building, and was
confident that it afforded no hiding-place. The behavior of the dog,
however, was susceptible of only one explanation; and Seton recognizing
that the clue to the mystery lay somewhere within this ramshackle
building, became seized with a conviction that he was being watched.
Standing upright, he paused for a moment, irresolute, thinking that he
had detected a muffled shriek. But the riverside noises were misleading
and his imagination was on fire.
That almost superstitious respect for the powers of Sin Sin Wa, which
had led Chief Inspector Kerry to look upon the Chinaman as a being more
than humanly endowed, began to take possession of Seton Pasha. He
regretted having entered the place so overtly, he regretted having
shown a light. Keen eyes, vigilant, regarded him. It was perhaps a
delusion, bred of the mournful night sounds, the gloom, and the uncanny
resourcefulness, already proven, of the Kazmah group. But it operated
powerfully.
Theories, wild, improbable, flocked to his mind. The great dope cache
lay beneath his feet—and there must be some hidden entrance to it which
had escaped the attention of the search-party. This in itself was not
improbable, since they had devoted no more time to this building than
to any other in the vicinity. That wild cry in the night which had
struck so mournful a chill to the hearts of the watchers on the river
had seemed to come out of the void of the blackness, had given but
slight clue to the location of the place of captivity. Indeed, they
could only surmise that it had been uttered by the missing woman. Yet
in their hearts neither had doubted it.
He determined to cause the place to be searched again, as secretly as
possible; he determined to set so close a guard over it and over its
approaches that none could enter or leave unobserved.
Yet Kismet, in whose omnipotence he more than half believed, had
ordained otherwise; for man is merely an instrument in the hand of
Fate.