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Page 5
"It is."
"I thought so. He died the same way the Chinaman died awhile
ago," snapped Kerry savagely.
"It looks very queer." He glanced aside at the local officer.
"Cover him up," he ordered, and, turning, he walked briskly out
of the mortuary, followed by Detective Durham.
Although dawn was not far off, this was the darkest hour of the
night, so that even the sounds of dockland were muted and the
riverside slept as deeply as the great port of London ever
sleeps. Vague murmurings there were and distant clankings, with
the hum of machinery which is never still.
Few of London's millions were awake at that hour, yet Scotland
Yard was awake in the person of the fierce-eyed Chief Inspector
and his subordinate. Perhaps those who lightly criticize the
Metropolitan Force might have learned a new respect for the
tireless vigilance which keeps London clean and wholesome, had
they witnessed this scene on the borders of Limehouse, as Kerry,
stepping into a waiting taxi-cab accompanied by Durham, proceeded
to Limehouse Police Station in that still hour when the City
slept.
The arrival of Kerry created something of a stir amongst the
officials on duty. His reputation in these days was at least as
great as that of the most garrulous Labour member.
The prisoner was in cells, but the Chief Inspector elected to
interview him in the office; and accordingly, while the officer
in charge sat at an extremely tidy writing-table, tapping the
blotting-pad with a pencil, and Detective John Durham stood
beside him, Kerry paced up and down the little room, deep in
reflection, until the door opened and the prisoner was brought
in.
One swift glance the Chief Inspector gave at the battle-scarred
face, and recognized instantly that this was a badly frightened
man. Crossing to the table he took up a typewritten slip which
lay there, and:
"Your name is James Poland?" he said. "Four convictions; one,
robbery with violence."
Jim Poland nodded sullenly.
"You were arrested at the corner of Pekin Street about midnight.
What were you doing there?"
"Taking a walk."
"I'll say it again," rapped Kerry, fixing his fierce eyes upon
the man's face. "What were you doing there?"
"I've told you."
"And I tell you you're a liar. Where did you leave the man
Cohen?"
Poland blinked his small eyes, cleared his throat, and looked
down at the floor uneasily. Then:
"Who's Cohen?" he grunted.
"You mean, who was Cohen?" cried Kerry.
The shot went home. The man clenched his fists and looked about
the room from face to face.
"You don't tell me------" he began huskily.
"I've told you," said Kerry. "He's on the slab. Spit out the
truth; it'll be good for your health."
The man hesitated, then looked up, his eyes half closed and a
cunning expression upon his face.
"Make out your own case," he said. "You've got nothing against
me."
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