THE YELLOW CLAW - Sax Rohmer

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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.

      THE MAN IN BLACK

      Mrs. Brian started back, with a wild look, a trapped look, in her eyes.

      “What's he done?” she inquired. “What's he done? Tom's not done

      anything!”

      “Be good enough to waken him,” persisted the inspector. “I wish to speak

      to him.”

      Mrs. Brian walked slowly from the room and could be heard entering one

      further along the passage. An angry snarling, suggesting that of a wild

      animal disturbed in its lair, proclaimed the arousing of Taximan Thomas

      Brian. A thick voice inquired, brutally, why the sanguinary hell he (Mr.

      Brian) had had his bloodstained slumbers disturbed in this gory manner

      and who was the vermilion blighter responsible.

      Then Mrs. Brian's voice mingled with that of her husband, and both

      became subdued. Finally, a slim man, who wore a short beard, or had

      omitted to shave for some days, appeared at the door of the living-room.

      His face was another history upon the same subject as that which might

      be studied from the walls, the floor, and the appointments of the room.

      Inspector Dunbar perceived that the shadow of the neighboring hostelry

      overlay this home.

      “What's up?” inquired the new arrival.

      The tone of his voice, thickened by excess, was yet eloquent of the

      gentleman. The barriers passed, your pariah gentleman can be the

      completest blackguard of them all. He spoke coarsely, and the infectious

      Cockney accent showed itself in his vowels; but Dunbar, a trained

      observer, summed up his man in a moment and acted accordingly.

      “Come in and shut the door!” he directed. “No”--as Mrs. Brian sought to

      enter behind her husband--“I wish to speak with you, privately.”

      “Hop it!” instructed Brian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder--and

      Mrs. Brian obediently disappeared, closing the door.

      “Now,” said Dunbar, looking the man up and down, “have you been into the

      depot, to-day?”

      “No.”

      “But you have heard that there's an inquiry?”

      “I've heard nothing. I've been in bed.”

      “We won't argue about that. I'll simply put a question to you: Where

      did you pick up the fare that you dropped at Palace Mansions at twelve

      o'clock last night?”

      “Palace Mansions!” muttered Brian, shifting uneasily beneath the

      unflinching stare of the tawny eyes. “What d'you mean? What Palace

      Mansions?”

      “Don't quibble!” warned Dunbar, thrusting out a finger at him. “This is

      not a matter of a loss of license; it's a life job!”

      “Life job!” whispered the man, and his weak face suddenly relaxed,

      so that, oddly, the old refinement shone out through the new, vulgar

      veneer.

      “Answer my questions straight and square and I'll take your word that

      you have not seen the inquiry!” said Dunbar.

      “Dick Hamper's done this for me!” muttered Brian. “He's a dirty, low

      swine! Somebody'll do for him one night!”

      “Leave Hamper out of the question,” snapped Dunbar. “You put down a fare

      at Palace Mansions at twelve o'clock last night?”

      For one tremendous moment, Brian hesitated, but the good that was in

      him, or the evil--a consciousness of wrongdoing, or of retribution

      pending--respect for the law, or fear of its might--decided his course.

      “I did.”

      “It was a man?”

      Again Brian, with furtive glance, sought to test his opponent; but his

      opponent was too strong for him. With Dunbar's eyes upon his face, he

      chose not to lie.

      “It was a woman.”

      “How was she dressed?”

      “In

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