Dope. Sax Rohmer
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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,”