Sax Rohmer - THE YELLOW CLAW

safely out of the way for the evening”...

“Quite so,” said Dunbar, shortly, “quite so, Mr. Debnam.” He opened the

door. “Might I see the late Mrs. Vernon's maid?”

“She is at her home. As I told you, Mrs. Vernon habitually released her

for the period of these absences.”

The notebook reappeared.

“The young woman's address?”

“You can get it from the housekeeper. Is there anything else you wish to

know?”

“Nothing beyond that, thank you.”

Three minutes later, Inspector Dunbar had written in his book:--Clarice

Goodstone, c/o Mrs. Herne, 134a Robert Street, Hampstead Road, N. W.

He departed from the house whereat Death the Gleaner had twice knocked

with his Scythe.

Returning to Scotland Yard, Inspector Dunbar walked straight up to

his own room. There he found Sowerby, very red faced and humid, and a

taximan who sat stolidly surveying the Embankment from the window.

“Hullo!” cried Dunbar; “he's turned up, then?”

“No, he hasn't,” replied Sowerby with a mild irritation. “But we know

where to find him, and he ought to lose his license.”

The taximan turned hurriedly. He wore a muffler so tightly packed

between his neck and the collar of his uniform jacket, that it appeared

materially to impair his respiration. His face possessed a bluish tinge,

suggestive of asphyxia, and his watery eyes protruded remarkably; his

breathing was noisily audible.

“No, chuck it, mister!” he exclaimed. “I'm only tellin' you 'cause it

ain't my line to play tricks on the police. You'll find my name in

the books downstairs more'n any other driver in London! I reckon I've

brought enough umbrellas, cameras, walkin' sticks, hopera cloaks,

watches and sicklike in 'ere, to set up a blarsted pawnbroker's!”

“That's all right, my lad!” said Dunbar, holding up his hand to silence

the voluble speaker. “There's going to be no license-losing. You did not

hear that you were wanted before?”

The watery eyes of the cabman protruded painfully; he respired like a

horse.

“ME, guv'nor!” he exclaimed. “Gor'blime! I ain't the bloke! I was

drivin' back from takin' the Honorable 'Erbert 'Arding 'ome--same as I

does almost every night, when the 'ouse is a-sittin'--when I see old Tom

Brian drawin' away from the door o' Palace Man--”

Again Dunbar held up his hand.

“No doubt you mean well,” he said; “but damme! begin at the beginning!

Who are you, and what have you come to tell us?”

“'Oo are I?--'Ere's 'oo I ham!” wheezed the cabman, proffering a greasy

license. “Richard 'Amper, number 3 Breams Mews, Dulwich Village”...

“That's all right,” said Dunbar, thrusting back the proffered document;

“and last night you had taken Mr. Harding the member of Parliament, to

his residence in?”--

“In Peers' Chambers, Westminister--that's it, guv'nor! Comin' back, I

'ave to pass along the north side o' the Square, an' just a'ead o' me,

I see old Tom Brian a-pullin' round the Johnny 'Orner,--'im comin' from

Palace Mansions.”

“Mr. Exel only mentioned seeing ONE cab,” muttered Dunbar, glancing

keenly aside at Sowerby.

“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” asked the cabman.

“I say--did you see a gentleman approaching from the corner?” asked

Dunbar.

“Yus,” declared the man; “I see 'im, but 'e 'adn't got as far as the

Johnny 'Orner. As I passed outside old Tom Brian, wot's changin' 'is

gear, I see a bloke blowin' along on the pavement--a bloke in a high

'at, an' wearin' a heye-glass.”

“At this time, then,” pursued Dunbar, “you had actually passed the other

cab, and the gentleman on the pavement had not come up with it?”

“'E couldn't see it, guv'nor! I'm tellin' you 'e 'adn't got to the

Johnny 'Orner!”

“I see,” muttered Sowerby. “It's possible that Mr. Exel took no notice

of the first cab--especially as it did not come out of the Square.”

“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” queried the cabman again, turning his bleared

eyes upon Sergeant Sowerby.

“He said,” interrupted Dunbar, “was Brian's cab empty?”

“'Course it was,” rapped Mr. Hamper, “'e 'd just dropped 'is fare at

Palace Mansions.”...

“How do you know?” snapped Dunbar, suddenly, fixing his fierce eyes upon

the face of the speaker.

The cabman glared in beery truculence.

“I got me blarsted senses, ain't I?” he inquired. “There's only two lots

o' flats on that side o' the Square--Palace Mansions, an' St. Andrew's

Mansions.”

“Well?”

“St. Andrew's Mansions,” continued Hamper, “is all away!”

“All away?”

“All away! I know, 'cause I used to have a reg'lar fare there. 'E's

in Egyp'; flat shut up. Top floor's to let. Bottom floor's two old

unmarried maiden ladies what always travels by 'bus. So does all their

blarsted friends an' relations. Where can old Tom Brian 'ave been comin'

from, if it wasn't Palace Mansions?”

“H'm!” said Dunbar, “you are a loss to the detective service, my lad!

And how do you account for the fact that Brian has not got to hear of

the inquiry?”

Hamper bent to Dunbar and whispered, beerily, in his ear: “P'r'aps 'e

don't want to 'ear, guv'nor!”

“Oh! Why not?”

“Well, 'e knows there's something up there!”

“Therefore it's his plain duty to assist the police.”

“Same as what I does?” cried Hamper, raising his eyebrows. “Course it

is! but 'ow d'you know 'e ain't been got at?”

“Our friend, here, evidently has one up against Mr. Tom Brian!” muttered

Dunbar aside to Sowerby.

“Wotcher say, guv'nor?” inquired the cabman, looking from one to the

other.

“I say, no doubt you can save us the trouble of looking out Brian's

license, and give us his private address?” replied Dunbar.

“Course I can. 'E lives hat num'er 36 Forth Street, Brixton, and 'e's

out o' the big Brixton depot.”

“Oh!” said Dunbar, dryly. “Does he owe you anything?”

“Wotcher say, guv'nor?”

“I say, it's very good of you to take all this trouble and whatever it

has cost you in time, we shall be pleased to put right.”

Mr. Hamper spat in his right palm, and rubbed his hands together,

appreciatively.

“Make it five bob!” he said.

“Wait downstairs,” directed Dunbar, pressing a bell-push beside the

door. “I'll get it put through for you.”

“Right 'o!” rumbled the cabman, and went lurching from the room as a

constable in uniform appeared at the door. “Good mornin', guv'nor. Good

mornin'!”

The cabman having departed, leaving in his wake a fragrant odor of

fourpenny ale:--

“Here you are, Sowerby!” cried Dunbar. “We are moving at last! This is

the address of the late Mrs. Vernon's maid. See her; feel your ground,

carefully, of course; get to know what clothes Mrs. Vernon took with her

on her periodical visits to Scotland.”

“What clothes?”

“That's the idea; it is important. I don't think the girl was in

her mistress's confidence, but I leave it to you to find out. If

circumstances point to my surmise being inaccurate--you know how to

act.”

“Just let me glance over your notes, bearing on the matter,” said

Sowerby, “and I'll be off.”

Dunbar handed him the bulging notebook, and Sergeant Sowerby lowered his

inadequate eyebrows, thoughtfully, whilst he scanned the evidence of