Dope - Sax Rohmer

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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.

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      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

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