Читать книгу THE YELLOW CLAW - Sax Rohmer - Страница 10

Returning to Scotland Yard, Inspector Dunbar walked straight up to

his own room. There he found Sowerby, very red faced and humid, and a

taximan who sat stolidly surveying the Embankment from the window.

“Hullo!” cried Dunbar; “he's turned up, then?”

“No, he hasn't,” replied Sowerby with a mild irritation. “But we know

where to find him, and he ought to lose his license.”

The taximan turned hurriedly. He wore a muffler so tightly packed

between his neck and the collar of his uniform jacket, that it appeared

materially to impair his respiration. His face possessed a bluish tinge,

suggestive of asphyxia, and his watery eyes protruded remarkably; his

breathing was noisily audible.

“No, chuck it, mister!” he exclaimed. “I'm only tellin' you 'cause it

ain't my line to play tricks on the police. You'll find my name in

the books downstairs more'n any other driver in London! I reckon I've

brought enough umbrellas, cameras, walkin' sticks, hopera cloaks,

watches and sicklike in 'ere, to set up a blarsted pawnbroker's!”

“That's all right, my lad!” said Dunbar, holding up his hand to silence

the voluble speaker. “There's going to be no license-losing. You did not

hear that you were wanted before?”

The watery eyes of the cabman protruded painfully; he respired like a

horse.

“ME, guv'nor!” he exclaimed. “Gor'blime! I ain't the bloke! I was

drivin' back from takin' the Honorable 'Erbert 'Arding 'ome--same as I

does almost every night, when the 'ouse is a-sittin'--when I see old Tom

Brian drawin' away from the door o' Palace Man--”

Again Dunbar held up his hand.

“No doubt you mean well,” he said; “but damme! begin at the beginning!

Who are you, and what have you come to tell us?”

“'Oo are I?--'Ere's 'oo I ham!” wheezed the cabman, proffering a greasy

license. “Richard 'Amper, number 3 Breams Mews, Dulwich Village”...

“That's all right,” said Dunbar, thrusting back the proffered document;

“and last night you had taken Mr. Harding the member of Parliament, to

his residence in?”--

“In Peers' Chambers, Westminister--that's it, guv'nor! Comin' back, I

'ave to pass along the north side o' the Square, an' just a'ead o' me,

I see old Tom Brian a-pullin' round the Johnny 'Orner,--'im comin' from

Palace Mansions.”

“Mr. Exel only mentioned seeing ONE cab,” muttered Dunbar, glancing

keenly aside at Sowerby.

“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” asked the cabman.

“I say--did you see a gentleman approaching from the corner?” asked

Dunbar.

“Yus,” declared the man; “I see 'im, but 'e 'adn't got as far as the

Johnny 'Orner. As I passed outside old Tom Brian, wot's changin' 'is

gear, I see a bloke blowin' along on the pavement--a bloke in a high

'at, an' wearin' a heye-glass.”

“At this time, then,” pursued Dunbar, “you had actually passed the other

cab, and the gentleman on the pavement had not come up with it?”

“'E couldn't see it, guv'nor! I'm tellin' you 'e 'adn't got to the

Johnny 'Orner!”

“I see,” muttered Sowerby. “It's possible that Mr. Exel took no notice

of the first cab--especially as it did not come out of the Square.”

“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” queried the cabman again, turning his bleared

eyes upon Sergeant Sowerby.

“He said,” interrupted Dunbar, “was Brian's cab empty?”

“'Course it was,” rapped Mr. Hamper, “'e 'd just dropped 'is fare at

Palace Mansions.”...

“How do you know?” snapped Dunbar, suddenly, fixing his fierce eyes upon

the face of the speaker.

The cabman glared in beery truculence.

“I got me blarsted senses, ain't I?” he inquired. “There's only two lots

o' flats on that side o' the Square--Palace Mansions, an' St. Andrew's

Mansions.”

“Well?”

“St. Andrew's Mansions,” continued Hamper, “is all away!”

“All away?”

“All away! I know, 'cause I used to have a reg'lar fare there. 'E's

in Egyp'; flat shut up. Top floor's to let. Bottom floor's two old

unmarried maiden ladies what always travels by 'bus. So does all their

blarsted friends an' relations. Where can old Tom Brian 'ave been comin'

from, if it wasn't Palace Mansions?”

“H'm!” said Dunbar, “you are a loss to the detective service, my lad!

And how do you account for the fact that Brian has not got to hear of

the inquiry?”

Hamper bent to Dunbar and whispered, beerily, in his ear: “P'r'aps 'e

don't want to 'ear, guv'nor!”

“Oh! Why not?”

“Well, 'e knows there's something up there!”

“Therefore it's his plain duty to assist the police.”

“Same as what I does?” cried Hamper, raising his eyebrows. “Course it

is! but 'ow d'you know 'e ain't been got at?”

“Our friend, here, evidently has one up against Mr. Tom Brian!” muttered

Dunbar aside to Sowerby.

“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” inquired the cabman, looking from one to the

other.

“I say, no doubt you can save us the trouble of looking out Brian's

license, and give us his private address?” replied Dunbar.

“Course I can. 'E lives hat num'er 36 Forth Street, Brixton, and 'e's

out o' the big Brixton depot.”

“Oh!” said Dunbar, dryly. “Does he owe you anything?”

“Wotcher say, guv'nor?”

“I say, it's very good of you to take all this trouble and whatever it

has cost you in time, we shall be pleased to put right.”

Mr. Hamper spat in his right palm, and rubbed his hands together,

appreciatively.

“Make it five bob!” he said.

“Wait downstairs,” directed Dunbar, pressing a bell-push beside the

door. “I'll get it put through for you.”

“Right 'o!” rumbled the cabman, and went lurching from the room as a

constable in uniform appeared at the door. “Good mornin', guv'nor. Good

mornin'!”

The cabman having departed, leaving in his wake a fragrant odor of

fourpenny ale:--

“Here you are, Sowerby!” cried Dunbar. “We are moving at last! This is

the address of the late Mrs. Vernon's maid. See her; feel your ground,

carefully, of course; get to know what clothes Mrs. Vernon took with her

on her periodical visits to Scotland.”

“What clothes?”

“That's the idea; it is important. I don't think the girl was in

her mistress's confidence, but I leave it to you to find out. If

circumstances point to my surmise being inaccurate--you know how to

act.”

“Just let me glance over your notes, bearing on the matter,” said

Sowerby, “and I'll be off.”

Dunbar handed him the bulging notebook, and Sergeant Sowerby lowered his

inadequate eyebrows, thoughtfully, whilst he scanned the evidence of

Mr. Debnam. Then, returning the book to his superior, and adjusting the

peculiar bowler firmly upon his head, he set out.

Dunbar glanced through some papers--apparently reports--which lay upon

the table, penciled comments upon two of them, and then, consulting his

notebook once more in order to refresh his memory, started off for Forth

Street, Brixton.

Forth Street, Brixton, is a depressing thoroughfare. It contains small,

cheap flats, and a number of frowsy looking houses which give one the

impression of having run to seed. A hostelry of sad aspect occupies a

commanding position midway along the street, but inspires the traveler

not with cheer, but with lugubrious reflections upon the horrors of

inebriety. The odors, unpleasantly mingled, of fried bacon and paraffin

oil, are wafted to the wayfarer from the porches of these family

residences.

Number 36 proved to be such a villa, and Inspector Dunbar contemplated

it from a distance, thoughtfully. As he stood by the door of the

public house, gazing across the street, a tired looking woman, lean and

anxious-eyed, a poor, dried up bean-pod of a woman, appeared from the

door of number 36, carrying a basket. She walked along in the direction

of the neighboring highroad, and Dunbar casually followed her.

For some ten minutes he studied her activities, noting that she went

from shop to shop until her basket was laden with provisions of all

sorts. When she entered a wine-and-spirit merchant's, the detective

entered close behind her, for the place was also a post-office. Whilst

he purchased a penny stamp and fumbled in his pocket for an imaginary

letter, he observed, with interest, that the woman had purchased, and

was loading into the hospitable basket, a bottle of whisky, a bottle of

rum, and a bottle of gin.

He left the shop ahead of her, sure, now, of his ground, always provided

that the woman proved to be Mrs. Brian. Dunbar walked along Forth Street

slowly enough to enable the woman to overtake him. At the door of number

36, he glanced up at the number, questioningly, and turned in the gate

as she was about to enter.

He raised his hat.

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Brian?”

Momentarily, a hard look came into the tired eyes, but Dunbar's

gentleness of manner and voice, together with the kindly expression upon

his face, turned the scales favorably.

“I am Mrs. Brian,” she said; “yes. Did you want to see me?”

“On a matter of some importance. May I come in?”

She nodded and led the way into the house; the door was not closed.

In a living-room whereon was written a pathetic history--a history of

decline from easy circumstance and respectability to poverty and utter

disregard of appearances--she confronted him, setting down her basket on

a table from which the remains of a fish breakfast were not yet removed.

“Is your husband in?” inquired Dunbar with a subtle change of manner.

“He's lying down.”

The hard look was creeping again into the woman's eyes.

“Will you please awake him, and tell him that I have called in regard to

his license?”

He thrust a card into her hand:--

DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR DUNBAR,

C. I. D.

NEW SCOTLAND YARD. S. W.