THE YELLOW CLAW. Sax Rohmer
Читать онлайн книгу.
'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