Sax Rohmer - THE YELLOW CLAW

Mr. Debnam. Then, returning the book to his superior, and adjusting the

peculiar bowler firmly upon his head, he set out.

Dunbar glanced through some papers--apparently reports--which lay upon

the table, penciled comments upon two of them, and then, consulting his

notebook once more in order to refresh his memory, started off for Forth

Street, Brixton.

Forth Street, Brixton, is a depressing thoroughfare. It contains small,

cheap flats, and a number of frowsy looking houses which give one the

impression of having run to seed. A hostelry of sad aspect occupies a

commanding position midway along the street, but inspires the traveler

not with cheer, but with lugubrious reflections upon the horrors of

inebriety. The odors, unpleasantly mingled, of fried bacon and paraffin

oil, are wafted to the wayfarer from the porches of these family

residences.

Number 36 proved to be such a villa, and Inspector Dunbar contemplated

it from a distance, thoughtfully. As he stood by the door of the

public house, gazing across the street, a tired looking woman, lean and

anxious-eyed, a poor, dried up bean-pod of a woman, appeared from the

door of number 36, carrying a basket. She walked along in the direction

of the neighboring highroad, and Dunbar casually followed her.

For some ten minutes he studied her activities, noting that she went

from shop to shop until her basket was laden with provisions of all

sorts. 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.

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 a fur motor-coat--civet fur.”

The man of culture spoke in those two words, “civet fur”; and Dunbar

nodded quickly, his eyes ablaze at the importance of the evidence.

“Was she alone?”

“She was.”

“What fare did she pay you?”

“The meter only registered eightpence, but she gave me half-a-crown.”

“Did she appear to be ill?”

“Very ill. She wore no hat, and I supposed her to be in evening dress.

She almost fell as she got out of the cab, but managed to get into

the hall of Palace Mansions quickly enough, looking behind her all the

time.”

Inspector Dunbar shot out the hypnotic finger again.

“She told you to wait!” he asserted, positively. Brian looked to right