“Comedy interlude with policeman?” snapped the taller. “Do you think Fay looks the part?”
“I should never have suspected it wasn’t you up there, Sir Denis,” the other replied. “But, except the constable, did you notice anyone watching?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A man apparently asleep on the stone steps nearly opposite my window, with a tray of matches on the pavement before him.”
“Good God! Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then we’ve thrown them off this time?”
“I think so, Sterling. We must be careful how we join Gallaho and Forester. This is a case where a return of the fog would be welcome. Is there anyone behind?”
Sterling glanced back.
“No, not near enough to count.”
“Good. This way, then.”
He gripped Sterling suddenly, pulling him aside.
“Duck under here! Now, over the wall!”
A moment later they stood at the foot of some stone steps. A dinghy lay there, occupied by one rower, a man who wore the uniform of the River Police. As the pair appeared:
“Careful how you come aboard, sir,” he said; “those lower steps are very slimy.”
However, they embarked without accident, and ten minutes later were inside the dingy little office of the River Police depot. Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho was leaning against the mantelpiece chewing phantom gum, his bowler worn at that angle made famous by Earl Beatty in the Navy. Forester, a thick-set man who looked more like a Mercantile skipper than a police officer, stood up as the hang-dog couple entered.
“Do you think you’ve covered your tracks, sir?” he asked, addressing Sir Denis.
“I hope so,” snapped the latter. “But anyway, we have to go on now. Too much valuable time has been wasted already.”
Big Ben chimed the hour. A high pall of fog still overhung the city, and the booming notes of the big clock seemed to come from almost directly overhead.
“Eleven o’clock. Is it fairly clear down-river, Inspector?”
“It was clearing when I came up, sir,” Forester replied. “A lot of shipping is on the move, now. Some of them have been locked up for twenty-four hours. But I’m told it’s still very thick in the Channel.”
“Sam Pak’s I take it, does not close early?”
Inspector Forester laughed.
“To the best of my knowledge it never closes,” he replied. “Cigarettes and drinks, of a sort, can be had there all night by anyone in the know.”
“Habitual law-breakers?” Nayland Smith suggested.
Exactly, sir. But he’s a safety-valve.”
“I quite understand. No news from Fletcher?”
“No, sir. I have been expecting it for the last half-hour.”
Nayland Smith glanced at a gun-metal watch strapped to his wrist, and:
“I’ll give him five minutes,” he said, rapidly. “Then, we’ll start. The fog may develop at any moment if this breeze drops. You can arrange for any news to be passed down?”
“Certainly, sir.”
At which moment, the ‘phone bell rang.
“Hello!” the Inspector’s voice was eager. “Yes, speaking. He’s here—hold on.” He turned. “Fletcher on the line, sir.”
Nayland Smith took the instrument from the Inspector’s hand, and:
“Hello, that you, Fletcher?” he asked.
“Fletcher speaking, sir, and it’s like old times to hear your voice. I’ve been out of touch with Limehouse for some years, but I was really glad of to-night’s job. I dropped into this man’s place to buy a packet of cigarettes, and managed to stay long enough to get a glimpse of the old boy.”
“Well?”
“You’re right, sir. It’s John Ki, formerly keeper of the
“Good.” Nayland Smith’s eyes shone like burnished steel in the mulatto mask of his face. “You didn’t arouse his suspicions, of course?”
“Certainly not, sir. I didn’t even speak to him—and he couldn’t be expected to remember me.”
“Good enough, Fletcher. You can go home now. I’ll get in touch with you to-morrow.”
He replaced the receiver and turned.
“That seems to clinch it,” growled Gallaho. “With any luck we ought to make a capture to-night.”
Nayland Smith was walking up and down the linoleum covered floor, twitching at the lobe of his left ear.
“Give me some brief idea of your arrangements, Gallaho,” he snapped.
“Well . . .” Gallaho closed one eye and cocked the other in the direction of the ceiling: “Inspector Forester, here, has got a cutter tucked away within easy call, with a crew of six. They’re watching the place from the river side. Nobody can get out that way. I sent eight men, picked them myself, who are used to this sort of work. You won’t see a sign of them when you arrive, but they’ll see you, sir.”
“Anybody inside?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“Yes,” said Gallaho, grinning. “Detective-sergeant Murphy. Fast asleep in the ‘club-room’. He’s the most wonderful ‘drunk’ in the C.I.D.”
“Good. It’s time we started.”
chaptee 13 A TONGUE OF FIRE
the port of london had suddenly come to life. A big liner, fogbound for a day and a night, was bellowing her warning to all whom it might concern as she crept slowly from her dock into the stream. Tugs towing strings of barges congested the waterway. The shipping area was a blaze of light, humming with human activity. That narrow stretch of waterfront behind which lies the ever-dwindling area of Chinatown, alone seemed to remain undisturbed under these new conditions.
Here, a lazy tide lapped muddily at ancient piles upholding pier and wharf and other crazy structures of a sort long since condemned and demolished in more up-to-date districts. The River Police launch lay just outside a moored barge. From this point of vantage the look-out had a nearly unobstructed view of a sort of wooden excrescence which jutted out from a neighbouring building.
It overhung a patch of mud, covered at high tide, into which it seemed to threaten at any moment to fall. It boasted two windows: one looking straight across the river to the Surrey bank and the other facing up-stream. There was a light in this latter window, and the River Police were watching it, curiously.
From time to time a bent figure moved past it—a queer, shuffling figure. For fully ten minutes, however, this figure had not re-appeared.
Each warning of the big steamer reached them more faintly. One of the police crew, who had been a ship’s steward, shivered slightly; picturing the warmly lighted cabins, the well-ordered life on board the out-going liner; sniffed in imagination the hot, desert air of Egypt; glimpsed the palm groves of Colombo, and wondered why he had ever joined the police. A tow-boat passed very close to them, creating a temporary swell in which they rocked and rolled violently. The breeze carried some of her smoke across their bows, making them blink and cough. When, suddenly:
“There it is again,” muttered the ex-steward.
“What are you talking about?” growled the officer in charge, heartily fed-up with this monotonous duty.
“That blue light, Sergeant.”
“What blue light?”
“Nearly over the roof of Sam Pak’s. It’s the fourth time I’ve seen it.”
“I can’t see anything.”
“No. It’s just gone again.”
