The Golden Scorpion

hire-purchase system to a certain Charles Mallett… '

'Ha, ha!' laughed Max breezily—'he calls me a hammer! It is not Mallett, Sergeant Sowerby—you have got too many l's in that name; it is Malet and is called like one from the Malay States!'

'Oh,' commented Sowerby, glancing up—'indeed. Very good, sir. The owner claims the balance of purchase money!'

Every one laughed at that, even the satanic Assistant Commissioner.

'Pay your debts, M. Max,' he said. 'You will bring the Service de Surete into bad repute! Carry on, Sergeant.'

'This cab,' continued Sowerby, when Dunbar interrupted him.

'Cut out the part about the cab, Sowerby,' he said. 'We've found that out from M. Max. Have you anything to report about the yellow car?'

'Yes,' replied Sowerby, unperturbed, and turning over to the next page. 'It was hired form Messrs. Wickers' garage, at Canning Town, by the week. The lady who hired it was a Miss Dorian, a French lady. She gave no reference, except that of the Savoy Hotel, where she was stopping. She paid a big deposit and had her own chauffeur, a colored man of some kind.

'Is it still in use by her?' snapped Dunbar eagerly.

'No, Inspector. She claimed her deposit this morning and said she was leaving London.'

'The cheque?' cried Dunbar.

'Was cashed half an hour later.'

'At what bank?'

'London County & Birmingham, Canning Town. Her own account at a Strand bank was closed yesterday. The details all concern milliners, jewellers, hotels and so forth. There's nothing there. I've been to the Savoy, of course.'

'Yes!'

'A lady named Dorian has had rooms there for six weeks, has dined there on several occasions, but was more often away than in the hotel.'

'Visitors?'

'Never had any.'

'She used to dine alone, then?'

'Always.'

'In the public dining-room?'

'No. In her own room.'

'Morbleu!' muttered Max. 'It is she beyond doubt. I recognize her sociable habits!'

'Has she left now?' asked Dunbar.

'She left a week ago.'

Sowerby closed his note-book and returned it to his pocket.

'Is that all you have to report, Sergeant?' asked the Assistant Commissioner.

'That's all, sir.'

'Very good.'

Sergeant Sowerby retired.

'Now, sir,' said Dunbar, 'I've got Inspector Kelly here. He looks after the Chinese quarter. Shall I call him?'

'Yes, Inspector.'

Presently there entered a burly Irishman, bluff and good-humoured, a very typical example of the intelligent superior police officer, looking keenly around him.

'Ah, Inspector,' the Assistant Commissioner greeted him—'we want your assistance in a little matter concerning the Chinese residential quarter. You know this district?'

'Certainly, sir. I know it very well.'

'On this map'—the Assistant Commissioner laid a discoloured forefinger upon the map of London—'you will perceive that we have drawn a circle.'

Inspector Kelly bent over the table.

'Yes, sir.'

'Within that circle, which is no larger in circumference that a shilling as you observe, lies a house used by a certain group of people. It has been suggested to me that these people may be Chinese or associates of Chinese.'

'Well, sir,' said Inspector Kelly, smiling broadly, 'considering the patch inside the circle I think it more than likely! Seventy-five or it may be eighty per cent of the rooms and cellars and attics in those three streets are occupied by Chinese.'

'For your guidance, Inspector, we believe these people to be a dangerous gang of international criminals. Do you know of any particular house, or houses, likely to be used as a meeting-place by such a gang?'

Inspector Kelly scratched his close-cropped head.

'A woman was murdered just there, sir,' he said, taking up a pen from the table and touching a point near the corner of Three Colt Street, 'about a twelve-month ago. We traced the man—a Chinese sailor—to a house lying just about here.' Again he touched the map. 'It's a sort of little junk-shop with a ramshackle house attached, all cellars and rabbit-hutches, as you might say, overhanging a disused cutting which is filled at high tide. Opium is to be had there and card-playing goes on, and I won't swear that you couldn't get liquor. But it's well conducted as such dives go.'

'Why is it not closed?' inquired the Assistant Commissioner, seizing an opportunity to air his departmental ignorance.

'Well, sir,' replied Inspector Kelly, his eyes twinkling—'if we shut up all these places we should never know where to look for some of our regular customers! As I mentioned, we found the wanted Chinaman, three parts drunk, in one of the rooms.'

'It's a sort of lodging-house, then?'

'Exactly. There's a moderately big room just behind the shop, principally used by opium-smokers, and a whole nest of smaller rooms above and below. Mind you, sir, I don't say this is the place you're looking for, but it's the most likely inside your circle.'

'Who is the proprietor?'

'A retired Chinese sailor called Ah-Fang-Fu, but better known as 'Pidgin.' His establishment is called locally 'The Pidgin House.''

'Ah.' The Commissioner lighted a cigarette. 'And you know of no other house which might be selected for such a purpose as I have mentioned?'

'I can't say I do, sir. I know pretty well all the business affairs of that neighbourhood, and none of the houses inside your circle have changed hands during the past twelve months. Between ourselves, sir, nearly all the property in the district belongs to Ah-Fang-Fu, and anything that goes on in Chinatown he knows about!'

'Ah, I see. Then in any event he is the man we want to watch?'

'Well, sir, you ought to keep an eye on his visitors, I should say.'

'I am obliged to you, Inspector,' said the courteous Assistant Commissioner, 'for your very exact information. If necessary I shall communicate with you again. Good-day.'

'Good-day, sir,' replied the Inspector. 'Good-day, gentlemen.'

He went out.

Gaston Max, who had diplomatically remained in the background throughout this interview, now spoke.

'Pardieu! but I have been thinking,' he said. 'Although 'The Scorpion,' as I hope, believes that that troublesome Charles Malet is dead, he may also wonder if Scotland Yard has secured from Dr. Stuart's fire any fragments of the information sealed in the envelope! What does it mean, this releasing of the yellow car, closing of the bank account and departure from the Savoy?'

'It means flight!' cried Dunbar, jumping violently to his feet. 'By gad, sir!' he turned to the Assistant Commissioner—'the birds may have flown already!'