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Page 28
Kerry ignored the sensation which his entrance had created, and
crossed the room to a small counter, behind which a dusky man was
standing, coatless and shirt sleeves rolled up. He had the skin
of a Malay but the features of a stage Irishman of the old
school. And, indeed, had he known his own pedigree, which is a
knowledge beyond the ken of any man, partly Irish he might have
found himself indeed to be.
This was Malay Jack, the proprietor of one of the roughest houses
in Limehouse. His expression, while propitiatory, was not
friendly, but:
"Don't get hot and bothered," snapped Kerry viciously. "I want
to use your telephone, that's all."
"Oh," said the other, unable to conceal his relief, "that's easy.
Come in."
He raised a flap in the counter, and Kerry, passing through,
entered a little room behind the bar. Here a telephone stood
upon a dirty, littered table, and, taking it up:
"City four hundred," called the Chief Inspector curtly. A moment
later: "Hallo! Yes," he said. "Chief Inspector Kerry speaking.
Put me through to my department, please."
He stood for a while waiting, receiver in hand, and smiled grimly
to note that the uproar in the room beyond had been resumed.
Evidently Malay Jack had given the "all clear" signal. Then:
"Chief Inspector Kerry speaking," he said again. "Has Detective
Sergeant Durham reported?"
"Yes," was the reply, "half an hour ago. He's standing-by at
Limehouse Station. He followed you in a taxi, but lost you on
the way owing to the fog."
"I don't wonder," said Kerry. "His loss is not so great as mine.
Anything else?"
"Nothing else."
"Good. I'll speak to Limehouse. Good-bye."
He replaced the receiver and paused for a moment, reflecting.
Extracting a piece of tasteless gum from between his teeth, he
deposited it in the grate, where a sickly fire burned; then,
tearing the wrapper from a fresh slip, he resumed his chewing and
stood looking about him with unseeing eyes. Fierce they were as
ever, but introspective in expression.
Famous for his swift decisions, for once in a way he found
himself in doubt. Malay Jack had keen ears, and there were those
in the place who had every reason to be interested in the
movements of a member of the Criminal Investigation Department,
especially of one who had earned the right to be dreaded by the
rats of Limehouse. London's peculiar climate fought against him,
but he determined to make no more telephone calls but to proceed
to Limehouse police station.
He stepped swiftly into the bar, and, as he had anticipated,
nearly upset the proprietor, who was standing listening by the
half-open door. Kerry smiled fiercely into the ugly face, lifted
the flap, and walked down the room, through the aisle between the
scattered tables, where the air was heavy with strange perfumes,
touched now with the bite of London fog, and where slanting eyes
and straight eyes, sober eyes and drunken eyes, regarded him
furtively. Something of a second hush there was, but one not so
complete as the first.
Kerry pulled the curtain aside, mounted the stair, walked along
the passage and out through the swing door into the yellow gloom
of the Causeway. Ten slow steps he had taken when he detected a
sound of pursuit. Like a flash he turned, clenching his fists.
Then:
"Inspector!" whispered a husky voice.
"Yes! Who are you? What do you want?"
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