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Page 26
"Yes. Lou Chada is here again."
"With whom?"
"Lady Rourke."
Kerry stepped to the edge of the pavement and spat out a piece of
chewing-gum. From his overcoat pocket he drew a fresh piece,
tore off the pink wrapping and placed the gum between his teeth.
Then:
"How long?" he demanded.
"Came to dinner. They are dancing."
"H'm!" The Chief Inspector ranged himself beside the other
detective in the shadow of the doorway. "Something's brewing,
Durham," he said. "I think I shall wait."
His subordinate stared curiously but made no reply. He was not
wholly in his chief's confidence. He merely knew that the name
of Lou Chada to Kerry was like a red rag to a bull. The
handsome, cultured young Eurasian, fresh from a distinguished
university career and pampered by a certain section of smart
society, did not conform to Detective Sergeant Durham's idea of a
suspect. He knew that Lou was the son of Zani Chada, and he knew
that Zani Chada was one of the wealthiest men in Limehouse. But
Lou had an expensive flat in George Street; Lou was courted by
society butterflies, and in what way he could be connected with
the case known as "the Limehouse inquiry," Durham could not
imagine.
That the open indiscretion of Lady "Pat" Rourke might lead to
trouble with her husband, was conceivable enough; but this was
rather a matter for underhand private inquiry than for the
attention of the Criminal Investigation Department of New
Scotland Yard.
So mused Durham, standing cold and uncomfortable in the shadowy
doorway, and dreaming of a certain cosy fireside, a pair of
carpet slippers and a glass of hot toddy which awaited him.
Suddenly:
"Great flames! Look!" he cried.
Kerry's fingers closed, steely, upon Durham's wrist. A porter was
urgently moving the parked cars farther along the street to
enable one, a French coupe, to draw up before the club entrance.
Two men came out, supporting between them a woman who seemed to
be ill; a slender, blonde woman whose pretty face was pale and
whose wide-open blue eyes stared strangely straight before her.
The taller of her escorts, while continuing to support her,
solicitously wrapped her fur cloak about her bare shoulders; the
other, the manager of the club, stepped forward and opened the
door of the car.
"Lady Rourke!" whispered Durham.
"With Lou Chada!" rapped Kerry. "Run for a cab. Brisk. Don't
waste a second."
Some little conversation ensued between manager and patron, then
the tall, handsome Eurasian, waving his hand protestingly,
removed his hat and stepped into the coupe beside Lady Rourke.
It immediately moved away in the direction of Piccadilly.
One glimpse Kerry had of the pretty, fair head lying limply back
against the cushions. The manager of the club was staring after
the car.
Kerry stepped out from his hiding place. Durham had disappeared,
and there was no cab in sight, but immediately beyond the
illuminated entrance stood a Rolls-Royce which had been fifth in
the rank of parked cars before the adjustment had been made to
enable the coupe to reach the door. Kerry ran across, and:
"Whose car, my lad?" he demanded of the chauffeur.
The latter, resenting the curt tone of the inquiry, looked the
speaker up and down, and:
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