chief inspector kerry came down from the top of a motor-bus and stood on the sidewalk for a while gazing to right and left along piccadilly. the night was humid and misty, now threatening fog and now rain. many travellers were abroad at this christmas season, the pleasure seekers easily to be distinguished from those whom business had detained in town, and who hurried toward their various firesides. the theatres were disgorging their audiences. streams of lighted cars bore parties supperward; less pretentious taxicabs formed links in the chain.
from the little huddled crowd of more economical theatre-goers who waited at the stopping place of the motor-buses, kerry detached himself, walking slowly along westward and staring reflectively about him. opposite the corner of bond street he stood still, swinging his malacca cane and gazing fixedly along this narrow bazaar street of the baghdad of the west. his trim, athletic figure was muffled in a big, double-breasted, woolly overcoat, the collar turned up about his ears. his neat bowler hat was tilted forward so as to shade the fierce blue eyes. indeed, in that imperfect light, little of the chief inspector's countenance was visible except his large, gleaming white teeth, which he constantly revealed in the act of industriously chewing mint gum.
he smiled as he chewed. duty had called him out into the mist, and for once he had obeyed reluctantly. that very afternoon had seen the return of dan kerry, junior, home from school for the christmas vacation, and dan was the apple of his father's eye.
mrs. kerry had reserved her dour scottish comments upon the boy's school report for a more seemly occasion than the first day of his holidays; but kerry had made no attempt to conceal his jubilation—almost immoral, his wife had declared it to be—respecting the lad's athletic record. his work on the junior left wing had gained the commendation of a celebrated international; and kerry, who had interviewed the gymnasium instructor, had learned that dan junior bade fair to become an amateur boxer of distinction.
“he is faster on his feet than any boy i ever handled,” the expert had declared. “he hasn't got the weight behind it yet, of course, but he's developing a left that's going to make history. i'm of opinion that there isn't a boy in the seniors can take him on, and i'll say that he's a credit to you.”
those words had fallen more sweetly upon the ears of chief inspector kerry than any encomium of the boy's learning could have done. on the purely scholastic side his report was not a good one, admittedly. “but,” murmured kerry aloud, “he's going to be a man.”
he remembered that he had promised, despite the lateness of the hour, to telephone the lad directly he had received a certain report, and to tell him whether he might wait up for his return or whether he must turn in. kerry, stamping his small, neatly shod feet upon the pavement, smiled agreeably. he was thinking of the telephone which recently he had had installed in his house in brixton. his wife had demanded this as a christmas box, pointing out how many uneasy hours she would be spared by the installation. kerry had consented cheerfully enough, for was he not shortly to be promoted to the exalted post of a superintendent of the criminal investigation department?
these reflections were cheering and warming; and, waiting until a gap occurred in the stream of cabs and cars, he crossed piccadilly and proceeded along bond street, swinging his shoulders in a manner which would have enabled any constable in the force to recognize “red kerry” at a hundred yards.
the fierce eyes scrutinized the occupants of all the lighted cars. at pedestrians also he stared curiously, and at another smaller group of travellers waiting for the buses on the left-hand side of the street he looked hard and long. he pursued his way, acknowledged the salutation of a porter who stood outside the entrance to the embassy club, and proceeded, glancing about him right and left and with some evident and definite purpose.
a constable standing at the corner of conduit street touched his helmet as kerry passed and the light of an arc-lamp revealed the fierce red face. the chief inspector stopped, turned, and:
“what the devil's the idea?” he demanded.
he snapped out the words in such fashion that the unfortunate constable almost believed he could see sparks in the misty air.
“i'm sorry, sir, but recognizing you suddenly like, i——”
“you did?” the fierce voice interrupted. “how long in the force?”
“six months, sir.”
“never salute an officer in plain clothes.”
“i know, sir.”
“then why did you do it?”
“i told you, sir.”
“then tell me again.”
“i forgot.”
“you're paid to remember; bear it in mind.”
kerry tucked his malacca under his arm and walked on, leaving the unfortunate policeman literally stupefied by his first encounter with the celebrated chief inspector.
presently another line of cars proclaimed the entrance to a club, and just before reaching the first of these kerry paused. a man stood in a shadowy doorway, and:
“good evening, chief inspector,” he said quietly.
“good evening, durham. anything to report?”
“yes. lou chada is here again.”
“with whom?”
“lady rourke.”
kerry stepped to the edge of the pavement and spat out a piece of chewing-gum. from his overcoat pocket he drew a fresh piece, tore off the pink wrapping and placed the gum between his teeth. then:
“how long?” he demanded.
“came to dinner. they are dancing.”
“h'm!” the chief inspector ranged himself beside the other detective in the shadow of the doorway. “something's brewing, durham,” he said. “i think i shall wait.”
his subordinate stared curiously but made no reply. he was not wholly in his chief's confidence. he merely knew that the name of lou chada to kerry was like a red rag to a bull. the handsome, cultured young eurasian, fresh from a distinguished university career and pampered by a certain section of smart society, did not conform to detective sergeant durham's idea of a suspect. he knew that lou was the son of zani chada, and he knew that zani chada was one of the wealthiest men in limehouse. but lou had an expensive flat in george street; lou was courted by society butterflies, and in what way he could be connected with the case known as “the limehouse inquiry,” durham could not imagine.
that the open indiscretion of lady “pat” rourke might lead to trouble with her husband, was conceivable enough; but this was rather a matter for underhand private inquiry than for the attention of the criminal investigation department of new scotland yard.
so mused durham, standing cold and uncomfortable in the shadowy doorway, and dreaming of a certain cosy fireside, a pair of carpet slippers and a glass of hot toddy which awaited him. suddenly:
“great flames! look!” he cried.
kerry's fingers closed, steely, upon durham's wrist. a porter was urgently moving the parked cars farther along the street to enable one, a french coupe, to draw up before the club entrance.
two men came out, supporting between them a woman who seemed to be ill; a slender, blonde woman whose pretty face was pale and whose wide-open blue eyes stared strangely straight before her. the taller of her escorts, while continuing to support her, solicitously wrapped her fur cloak about her bare shoulders; the other, the manager of the club, stepped forward and opened the door of the car.
“lady rourke!” whispered durham.
“with lou chada!” rapped kerry. “run for a cab. brisk. don't waste a second.”
some little conversation ensued between manager and patron, then the tall, handsome eurasian, waving his hand protestingly, removed his hat and stepped into the coupe beside lady rourke. it immediately moved away in the direction of piccadilly.
one glimpse kerry had of the pretty, fair head lying limply back against the cushions. the manager of the club was staring after the car.
kerry stepped out from his hiding place. durham had disappeared, and there was no cab in sight, but immediately beyond the illuminated entrance stood a rolls-royce which had been fifth in the rank of parked cars before the adjustment had been made to enable the coupe to reach the door. kerry ran across, and:
“whose car, my lad?” he demanded of the chauffeur.
the latter, resenting the curt tone of the inquiry, looked the speaker up and down, and:
“captain. egerton's,” he replied slowly. “but what business may it be of yours?”
“i'm chief inspector kerry, of new scotland yard,” came the rapid reply. “i want to follow the car that has just left.”
“what about running?” demanded the man insolently.
kerry shot out a small, muscular hand and grasped the speaker's wrist.
“i'll say one thing to you,” he rapped. “i'm a police officer, and i demand your help. refuse it, and you'll wake up in vine street.”
the chief inspector was on the step now, bending forward so that his fierce red face was but an inch removed from that of the startled chauffeur. the quelling force of his ferocious personality achieved its purpose, as it rarely failed to do.
“i'm getting in,” added the chief inspector, jumping back on to the pavement. “lose that french bus, and i'll charge you with resisting and obstructing an officer of the law in the execution of his duty. start.”
kerry leaped in and banged the door—and the rolls-royce started.
