Dope

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And now the narrow apartment became filled with all the awe-stricken
company, only excepting Monte Irvin, and Brisley, who was attending to
the swooning man.

Flat upon the floor, between the door and the ebony chair, arms
extended and eyes staring upward at the ceiling, lay Sir Lucien Pyne,
his white shirt front redly dyed. In the hush which had fallen, the
footsteps of Inspector Whiteleaf sounded loudly as he opened the final
door, and swept the interior of an inner room with the rays of the
lantern.

The room was barely furnished as an office. There was another half-
glazed door opening on to a narrow corridor. This door was locked.

"Pyne!" whispered Gray, pale now to the lips. "Do you understand,
Seton? It's Pyne! Look! He has been stabbed!"

Sergeant Burton knelt down and gingerly laid his hand upon the stained
linen over the breast of Sir Lucien.

"Dead?" asked the Inspector, speaking from the inner doorway.

"Yes."

"You say, sir," turning to Quentin Gray, "that this is Sir Lucien
Pyne?"

"Yes."

Inspector Whiteleaf rather clumsily removed his cap. The odor of
Seton's cheroot announced itself above the oriental perfume with which
the place was laden.

"Burton!"

"Yes?"

"See if this telephone in the office is in order. It appears to be an
extension from the outer room."

While the others stood grouped about that still figure on the floor,
Sergeant Burton entered the little office.

"Hello!" he cried. "Yes?" A momentary interval, then: "It's all right,
sir. What number?"

"Gentlemen," said the Inspector, firmly and authoritatively, "I am
about to telephone to Vine Street for instructions. No one will leave
the premises."

Amid an intense hush:

"Regent 201," called Sergeant Burton.

CHAPTER VI

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."

CHAPTER VII

FURTHER EVIDENCE

The examination of Quentin Gray was three times interrupted by
telephone messages from Vine Street; and to the unsatisfactory
character of these the growing irascibility of Chief Inspector Kerry
bore testimony. Then the divisional surgeon arrived, and Burton
incurred the wrath of the Chief Inspector by deserting his post to
show the doctor upstairs.

"If inspired idiocy can help the law," shouted Kerry, "the man who did
this job is as good as dead!" He turned his fierce gaze in Gray's
direction. "Thank you, sir. I need trouble you no further."

"Do you wish me to remain?"

"No. Inspector Whiteleaf, see these two gentlemen past the Sergeant on
duty."

"But damn it all!" cried Gray, his pent-up emotions at last demanding
an outlet, "I won't submit to your infernal dragooning! Do you realize
that while you're standing here, doing nothing--absolutely nothing--an
unhappy woman is--"

"I realize," snapped Kerry, showing his teeth in canine fashion, "that
if you're not outside in ten seconds there's going to be a cloud of
dust on the stairs!"

White with passion, Gray was on the point of uttering other angry and
provocative words when Seton took his arm in a firm grip. "Gray!" he
said sharply. "You leave with me now or I leave alone."

The two walked from the room, followed by Whiteleaf. As they
disappeared:

"Read out all the times mentioned in the last witness's evidence,"
directed Kerry, undisturbed by the rencontre.

Sergeant Coombes smiled rather uneasily, consulting his notebook.

"'At about half-past six I drove to Bond Street,'" he began.

"I said the times," rapped Kerry. "I know to what they refer. Just
give me the times as mentioned."

"Oh," murmured Coombes, "Yes. 'About half-past six.'" He ran his
finger down the page. "'A quarter to seven.' 'Seven o'clock.'
'Twenty-five minutes past seven.' 'Eight o'clock.'"

"Stop!" said Kerry. "That's enough." He fixed a baleful glance upon
Gunn, who from a point of the room discreetly distant from the
terrible red man was watching with watery eyes. "Who's the smart in
all the overcoats?" he demanded.

"My name is James Gunn," replied this greatly insulted man in a husky
voice.

"Who are you? What are you? What are you doing here?"

"I'm employed by Spinker's Agency, and--"

"Oh!" shouted Kerry, moving his shoulders. He approached the speaker
and glared menacingly into his purple face. "Ho, ho! So you're one of
the queer birds out of that roost, are you? Spinker's Agency! Ah,
yes!" He fixed his gaze now upon the pale features of Brisley. "I've
seen you before, haven't I?"

"Yes, Chief Inspector," said Brisley, licking his lips. "Hayward's
Heath. We have been retained by--"

"You have been retained!" shouted Kerry. "You have!"

He twisted round upon his heel, facing Monte Irvin. Angry words
trembled on his tongue. But at sight of the broken man who sat there
alone, haggard, a subtle change of expression crept into his fierce
eyes, and when he spoke again the high-pitched voice was almost
gentle. "You had employed these men, sir, to watch--"

He paused, glancing towards Whiteleaf, who had just entered again, and
then in the direction of the inner room where the divisional surgeon
was at work.

"To watch my wife, Inspector. Thank you, but all the world will know
tomorrow. I might as well get used to it."

Monte Irvin's pallor grew positively alarming. He swayed suddenly and
extended his hands in a significant groping fashion. Kerry sprang
forward and supported him.

"All right, Inspector--all right," muttered Irvin. "Thank you. It has
been a great shock. At first I feared--"

"You thought your wife had been attacked, I understand? Well--it's not
so bad as that, sir. I am going to walk downstairs to the car with
you."

"But there is so much you will want to know--"

"It can keep until tomorrow. I've enough work in this peep-show here
to have me busy all night. Come along. Lean on my arm."

Monte Irvin rose unsteadily. He knew that there was cardiac trouble in
his family, but he had never realized before the meaning of his
heritage. He felt physically ill.

"Inspector"--his voice was a mere whisper--"have you any theory to
explain--"

"Mrs. Irvin's disappearance? Don't worry, sir. Without exactly having
a theory I think I may say that in my opinion she will turn up
presently."

"God bless you," murmured Irvin, as Kerry assisted him out on to the
landing.

Inspector Whiteleaf held back the sliding door, the mechanism of which
had been broken so that the door now automatically remained half
closed.

"Funny, isn't it," said Gunn, as the two disappeared and Inspector
Whiteleaf re-entered, "that a man should be so upset about the
disappearance of a woman he was going to divorce?"

"Damn funny!" said Whiteleaf, whose temper was badly frayed by contact
with Kerry. "I should have a good laugh if I were you."

He crossed the room, going in to where the surgeon was examining the
victim of this mysterious crime. Gunn stared after him dismally.

"A person doesn't get much sympathy from the police, Brisley," he
declared. "That one's almost as bad as him," jerking his thumb in the
direction of the landing.

Brisley smiled in a somewhat sickly manner.

"Red Kerry is a holy terror," he agreed, sotto voce, glancing aside to
where Coombes was checking his notes. "Look out! Here he comes."

"Now," cried Kerry, swinging into the room, "what's the game? Plotting
to defeat the ends of justice?"

He stood with hands thrust in reefer pockets, feet wide apart,
glancing fiercely from Brisley to Gunn, and from Gunn back again to
Brisley. Neither of the representatives of Spinker's Agency ventured
any remark, and:

"How long have you been watching Mrs. Monte Irvin?" demanded Kerry.

"Nearly a fortnight," replied Brisley.

"Got your evidence in writing?"

"Yes."

"Up to tonight?"

"Yes."

"Dictate to Sergeant Coombes."

He turned on his heel and crossed to the divan upon which his oilskin
overall was lying. Rapidly he removed his reefer and his waistcoat,
folded them, and placed them neatly beside his overall. He retained
his bowler at its jaunty angle.

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