Sax Rohmer - THE YELLOW CLAW

apprehensiveness.

“Take your drink,” concluded Cumberly, “and join me in my search.”

“Thanks,” replied Exel, nervously proffering a cigar-case; “but I won't

drink.”

“As you wish,” said the doctor, who thus, in his masterful way, acted

the host; “and I won't smoke. But do you light up.”

“Later,” muttered Exel; “later. Let us search, first.”

Leroux stood up; Cumberly forced him back.

“Stay where you are, Leroux; it is elementary strategy to operate from a

fixed base. This study shall be the base. Ready, Exel?”

Exel nodded, and the search commenced. Leroux sat rigidly upon the

settee, his hands resting upon his knees, watching and listening. Save

for the merry ticking of the table-clock, and the movements of the

searchers from room to room, nothing disturbed the silence. From the

table, and that which lay near to it, he kept his gaze obstinately

averted.

Five or six minutes passed in this fashion, Leroux expecting each to

bring a sudden outcry. He was disappointed. The searchers returned, Exel

noticeably holding himself aloof and Cumberly very stern.

Exel, a cigar between his teeth, walked to the writing-table, carefully

circling around the dreadful obstacle which lay in his path, to help

himself to a match. As he stooped to do so, he perceived that in the

closed right hand of the dead woman was a torn scrap of paper.

“Leroux! Cumberly!” he exclaimed; “come here!”

He pointed with the match as Cumberly hurriedly crossed to his side.

Leroux, inert, remained where he sat, but watched with haggard eyes. Dr.

Cumberly bent down and sought to detach the paper from the grip of the

poor cold fingers, without tearing it. Finally he contrived to release

the fragment, and, perceiving it to bear some written words, he spread

it out beneath the lamp, on the table, and eagerly scanned it, lowering

his massive gray head close to the writing.

He inhaled, sibilantly.

“Do you see, Exel?” he jerked--for Exel was bending over his shoulder.

“I do--but I don't understand.”

“What is it?” came hollowly from Leroux.

“It is the bottom part of an unfinished note,” said Cumberly, slowly.

“It is written shakily in a woman's hand, and it reads:--'Your wife'”...

Leroux sprang to his feet and crossed the room in three strides.

“Wife!” he muttered. His voice seemed to be choked in his throat; “my

wife! It says something about my wife?”

“It says,” resumed the doctor, quietly, “'your wife.' Then there's a

piece torn out, and the two words 'Mr. King.' No stop follows, and the

line is evidently incomplete.”

“My wife!” mumbled Leroux, staring unseeingly at the fragment of paper.

“MY WIFE! MR. KING! Oh! God! I shall go mad!”

“Sit down!” snapped Dr. Cumberly, turning to him; “damn it, Leroux, you

are worse than a woman!”

In a manner almost childlike, the novelist obeyed the will of the

stronger man, throwing himself into an armchair, and burying his face in

his hands.

“My wife!” he kept muttering--“my wife!”...

Exel and the doctor stood staring at one another; when suddenly, from

outside the flat, came a metallic clattering, followed by a little

suppressed cry. Helen Cumberly, in daintiest deshabille, appeared in

the lobby, carrying, in one hand, a chafing-dish, and, in the other,

the lid. As she advanced toward the study, from whence she had heard her

father's voice:--

“Why, Mr. Leroux!” she cried, “I shall CERTAINLY report you to Mira,

now! You have not even touched the omelette!”

“Good God! Cumberly! stop her!” muttered Exel, uneasily. “The door was

not latched!”...

But it was too late. Even as the physician turned to intercept his

daughter, she crossed the threshold of the study. She stopped short

at perceiving Exel; then, with a woman's unerring intuition, divined a

tragedy, and, in the instant of divination, sought for, and found, the

hub of the tragic wheel.

One swift glance she cast at the fur-clad form, prostrate.

The chafing-dish fell from her hand, and the omelette rolled, a

grotesque mass, upon the carpet. She swayed, dizzily, raising one hand

to her brow, but had recovered herself even as Leroux sprang forward to

support her.

“All right, Leroux!” cried Cumberly; “I will take her upstairs again.

Wait for me, Exel.”

Exel nodded, lighted his cigar, and sat down in a chair, remote from the

writing-table.

“Mira--my wife!” muttered Leroux, standing, looking after Dr. Cumberly

and his daughter as they crossed the lobby. “She will report to--my

wife.”...

In the outer doorway, Helen Cumberly looked back over her shoulder,

and her glance met that of Leroux. Hers was a healing glance and a

strengthening glance; it braced him up as nothing else could have done.

He turned to Exel.

“For Heaven's sake, Exel!” he said, evenly, “give me your advice--give

me your help; I am going to 'phone for the police.”

Exel looked up with an odd expression.

“I am entirely at your service, Leroux,” he said. “I can quite

understand how this ghastly affair has shaken you up.”

“It was so sudden,” said the other, plaintively. “It is incredible

that so much emotion can be crowded into so short a period of a man's

life.”...

Big Ben chimed the quarter after midnight. Leroux, eyes averted, walked

to the writing-table, and took up the telephone.

Detective-Inspector Dunbar was admitted by Dr. Cumberly. He was a man of

notable height, large-boned, and built gauntly and squarely. His clothes

fitted him ill, and through them one seemed to perceive the massive

scaffolding of his frame. He had gray hair retiring above a high

brow, but worn long and untidily at the back; a wire-like straight-cut

mustache, also streaked with gray, which served to accentuate the

grimness of his mouth and slightly undershot jaw. A massive head, with

tawny, leonine eyes; indeed, altogether a leonine face, and a frame

indicative of tremendous nervous energy.

In the entrance lobby he stood for a moment.

“My name is Cumberly,” said the doctor, glancing at the card which the

Scotland Yard man had proffered. “I occupy the flat above.”

“Glad to know you, Dr. Cumberly,” replied the detective in a light and

not unpleasant voice--and the fierce eyes momentarily grew kindly.

“This--” continued Cumberly, drawing Dunbar forward into the study, “is

my friend, Leroux--Henry Leroux, whose name you will know?”

“I have not that pleasure,” replied Dunbar.

“Well,” added Cumberly, “he is a famous novelist, and his flat,

unfortunately, has been made the scene of a crime. This is

Detective-Inspector Dunbar, who has come to solve our difficulties,

Leroux.” He turned to where Exel stood upon the hearth-rug--toying with

his monocle. “Mr. John Exel, M. P.”

“Glad to know you, gentlemen,” said Dunbar.

Leroux rose from the armchair in which he had been sitting and stared,

drearily, at the newcomer. Exel screwed the monocle into his right eye,

and likewise surveyed the detective. Cumberly, taking a tumbler from the

bureau, said:--

“A scotch-and-soda, Inspector?”

“It is a suggestion,” said Dunbar, “that, coming from a medical man,

appeals.”

Whilst the doctor poured out the whisky and squirted the soda into the