Dope - Sax Rohmer

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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.”

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      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

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