Sax Rohmer - THE YELLOW CLAW

and left, up and down, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, and

taking them out again to stroke his collarless neck. Then:--

“She did--yes,” he admitted.

“But you were bribed to drive away? Don't deny it! Don't dare to trifle

with me, or by God! you'll spend the night in Brixton Jail!”

“It was made worth my while,” muttered Brian, his voice beginning to

break, “to hop it.”

“Who paid you to do it?”

“A man who had followed all the way in a big car.”

“That's it! Describe him!”

“I can't! No, no! you can threaten as much as you like, but I can't

describe him. I never saw his face. He stood behind me on the near side

of the cab, and just reached forward and pushed a flyer under my nose.”

Inspector Dunbar searched the speaker's face closely--and concluded that

he was respecting the verity.

“How was he dressed?”

“In black, and that's all I can tell you about him.”

“You took the money?”

“I took the money, yes”...

“What did he say to you?”

“Simply: 'Drive off.'”

“Did you take him to be an Englishman from his speech?”

“No; he was not an Englishman. He had a foreign accent.”

“French? German?”

“No,” said Brian, looking up and meeting the glance of the fierce eyes.

“Asiatic!”

Inspector Dunbar, closely as he held himself in hand, started slightly.

“Are you sure?”

“Certainly. Before I--when I was younger--I traveled in the East, and I

know the voice and intonation of the cultured Oriental.”

“Can you place him any closer than that?”

“No, I can't venture to do so.” Brian's manner was becoming,

momentarily, more nearly that of a gentleman. “I might be leading you

astray if I ventured a guess, but if you asked me to do so, I should say

he was a Chinaman.”

“A CHINAMAN?” Dunbar's voice rose excitedly.

“I think so.”

“What occurred next?”

“I turned my cab and drove off out of the Square.”

“Did you see where the man went?”

“I didn't. I saw nothing of him beyond his hand.”

“And his hand?”

“He wore a glove.”

“And now,” said Dunbar, speaking very slowly, “where did you pick up

your fare?”

“In Gillingham Street, near Victoria Station.”

“From a house?”

“Yes, from Nurse Proctor's.”

“Nurse Proctor's! Who is Nurse Proctor?”

Brian shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant manner, which obviously

belonged to an earlier phase of existence.

“She keeps a nursing home,” he said--“for ladies.”

“Do you mean a maternity home?”

“Not exactly; at least I don't think so. Most of her clients are society

ladies, who stay there periodically.”

“What are you driving at?” demanded Dunbar. “I have asked you if it is a

maternity home.”

“And I have replied that it isn't. I am only giving you facts; you don't

want my surmises.”

“Who hailed you?”

“The woman did--the woman in the fur coat. I was just passing the door

very slowly when it was flung open with a bang, and she rushed out as

though hell were after her. Before I had time to pull up, she threw

herself into my cab and screamed: 'Palace Mansions! Westminster!' I

reached back and shut the door, and drove right away.”

“When did you see that you were followed?”

“We were held up just outside the music hall, and looking back, I saw

that my fare was dreadfully excited. It didn't take me long to find out

that the cause of her excitement was a big limousine, three or four back

in the block of traffic. The driver was some kind of an Oriental, too,

although I couldn't make him out very clearly.”

“Good!” snapped Dunbar; “that's important! But you saw nothing more of

this car?”...

“I saw it follow me into the Square.”

“Then where did it wait?”

“I don't know; I didn't see it again.”

Inspector Dunbar nodded rapidly.

“Have you ever driven women to or from this Nurse Proctor's before?”

“On two other occasions, I have driven ladies who came from there. I

knew they came from there, because it got about amongst us that the tall

woman in nurse's uniform who accompanied them was Nurse Proctor.”

“You mean that you didn't take these women actually from the door of the

house in Gillingham Street, but from somewhere adjacent?”

“Yes; they never take a cab from the door. They always walk to the

corner of the street with a nurse, and a porter belonging to the house

brings their luggage along.”

“The idea is secrecy?”

“No doubt. But as I have said, the word was passed round.”

“Did you know either of these other women?”

“No; but they were obviously members of good society.”

“And you drove them?”

“One to St. Pancras, and one to Waterloo,” said Brian, dropping

back somewhat into his coarser style, and permitting a slow grin to

overspread his countenance.

“To catch trains, no doubt?”

“Not a bit of it! To MEET trains!”

“You mean?”

“I mean that their own private cars were waiting for them at the ARRIVAL

platform as I drove 'em up to the DEPARTURE platform, and that they

simply marched through the station and pretended to have arrived by

train!”

Inspector Dunbar took out his notebook and fountain-pen, and began to

tap his teeth with the latter, nodding his head at the same time.

“You are sure of the accuracy of your last statement?” he said, raising

his eyes to the other.

“I followed one of them,” was the reply, “and saw her footman gravely

take charge of the luggage which I had just brought from Victoria; and a

pal of mine followed the other--the Waterloo one, that was.”

Inspector Dunbar scribbled busily. Then:--

“You have done well to make a clean breast of it,” he said. “Take a

straight tip from me. Keep off the drink!”

It was in the afternoon of this same day--a day so momentous in the

lives of more than one of London's millions--that two travelers might

have been seen to descend from a first-class compartment of the Dover

boat-train at Charing Cross.

They had been the sole occupants of the compartment, and, despite the

wide dissimilarity of character to be read upon their countenances,

seemed to have struck up an acquaintance based upon mutual amiability

and worldly common sense. The traveler first to descend and gallantly to

offer his hand to his companion in order to assist her to the platform,

was the one whom a casual observer would first have noted.

He was a man built largely, but on good lines; a man past his youth, and

somewhat too fleshy; but for all his bulk, there was nothing unwieldy,

and nothing ungraceful in his bearing or carriage. He wore a French

traveling-coat, conceived in a style violently Parisian, and composed of

a wonderful check calculated to have blinded any cutter in Savile Row.

From beneath its gorgeous folds protruded the extremities of severely

creased cashmere trousers, turned up over white spats which nestled

coyly about a pair of glossy black boots. The traveler's hat was of

velour, silver gray and boasting a partridge feather thrust in its

silken band. One glimpse of the outfit must have brought the entire

staff of the Tailor and Cutter to an untimely grave.

But if ever man was born who could carry such a make-up, this

traveler was he. The face was cut on massive lines, on fleshy lines,