Grey Face/Chapter 13

HE was the wife of a Chinese sailor," said the Inspector. "We haven't had time to find out very much more about her."

Carey nodded shortly. This was a misty morning, with a damp tang in the air, and he suppressed a shudder, glancing aside at Detective-Inspector Whiteleaf, his companion. The shudder may have had a physical cause or it may have been due to the memory of an unpleasant task which he had just accomplished.

No one of the party assembled in the office of that East End Police Station looked altogether happy, since all but Carey had been called from their beds fully an hour earlier than usual. For his part he had not slept at all. From Muir Torrington's house he had communicated with the Commissioner; the Limehouse police had busied themselves in the small hours; and now at a time when newly awakened London began to think of breakfast, he was already on the spot. Ridden by restless doubts and fears, Carey found himself an object of unusual interest and curiosity to the sleepy officials, who failed to understand the urgency or importance of the case.

Why the death of a half-caste woman in Pennyfields, apparently from natural causes, should result in this early morning visit from an inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, accompanied by a private inquirer armed with wide discretionary powers, was a mystery to all of them. The Divisional Surgeon had very resentfully attended this unusual conference. But beyond mentioning a curious mark upon the body, which might indicate that some kind of injection had been made, he confessed himself unable to account for the woman's death. A post-mortem examination must take place, and from this some results might be hoped for.

"Very well, Inspector Whiteleaf," said Carey; "suppose we go along to the house now? You know the way, I take it."

"I do," replied the Inspector grimly. "This district at one time was my special province."

Carey's two-seater was at the door, and through the early morning mist they set out, down West India Dock Road and into Pennyfields. It was unfamiliar territory to Carey and he drove slowly, looking about him.

He was in the heart of Chinatown. Open doorways afforded glimpses of mixed households. Some of the domestic intimacies revealed must have astonished one unaccustomed to the naïvete of the Oriental. White women and half-caste children he saw in plenty—all busily employed; the Chinamen, when visible, for the most part sat on their steps smoking and enjoying the morning air. Then:

"Here we are, sir," said the Inspector, and Carey pulled up the car at the end of a narrow courtway. He endeavoured to picture the scene enacted on the previous evening—the hunchback shuffling along and turning this very corner; the gaunt, nervous figure of Muir Torrington breaking into a run. His imagination visualized this unsavoury court by night and he wondered if he should have had the courage to push the thing so far as Torrington had done.

A constable was on duty before the house and he saluted as Whiteleaf and Carey came up.

"I am surprised that there are no onlookers, Inspector," said the latter, when they had entered the house, Whiteleaf pulling the string descending from the letter-box as described by Torrington.

"In almost any other district there would be," was the reply; "but in this quarter half the inhabitants are Asiatics and they don't seem to have any curiosity about anything, and the other half are so curious where the police are concerned that they keep well out of the Way. There's the sofa she was lying on, sir."

They were in the room depicted by Torrington—a small and dingy apartment. The ragged blind had been rolled up, allowing the morning light to flood the place. The sofa referred to was an antique of the horsehair description, and to all intents and purposes it was the only solid piece of furniture in the room. There were two common cane-seated chairs both of them restored with no regard for artistic effect, and a very rickety table, upon which was spread a stained green cloth. In the grate a fire was laid. On the mantel-shelf, draped with perfectly colourless material which at some time had been red plush, were cheap ornaments and an American clock. Above it hung a photograph of the late Lord Kitchener, obviously cut from an almanac, and adorned by a really beautiful but badly damaged Japanese frame.

Through the doorway mentioned by Torrington they proceeded into a small kitchen and:

"You see," said the Inspector, pointing, "there's a sort of little scullery beyond, with a door opening on to the yard."

Carey nodded, walking through the scullery and out into the yard, which was littered with indescribable rubbish. He stood staring at a door in the wall—the door used by the hunchback.

Inspector Whiteleaf took out a yellow packet from his overcoat pocket, selected a cigarette and lighted it, watching Carey the while. He was a badly mystified man. He had never heard of Douglas Carey in his life and he could not imagine why the Superintendent of his department had detailed him for this early morning duty, which was really no more than that of a guide for this mysterious young man, whom he strongly suspected to be a journalist with unusual influence. At the outset he had been very surly, but he was now recovering his habitual good humour.

"Nothing much here, is there?" he said, tossing a match on the ground.

"Nothing at all," Carey replied, turning to him with a smile. "And what about the upstairs rooms, Inspector?"

"A couple of bedrooms, sir, very ordinary. I overhauled them at three o'clock this morning."

Carey laughed aloud.

"You must think me a dreadful nuisance," he said, "but I am afraid I was responsible!"

"I don't mind, sir," the Inspector declared cheerfully, contemplating the end of his cigarette. "Detectives and firemen can never count on a good night's rest, you know. I shouldn't care a bit if I could see anything to it. But if you'll excuse me saying so, there's neither head nor tail to the job. This woman seems to have been quite respectable; that is to say, the house looks respectable and she has never come on the books of K. Division. There's no suggestion of foul play, no mark of violence; in fact, only one thing puzzles me."

"What is that?" Carey asked, watching him closely.

"Well, sir"—the Inspector blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke—"who gave information of this woman's death?"

Carey nodded, smiling approval.

"Good for you, Inspector," he said. "You know your job."

"Thank you, sir, I hope I do."

"Well," Carey continued, "I am sorry, but I can't tell you that at the moment."

"Oh!" was the Inspector's comment, but the monosyllable conveyed much. This was not a mere journalist, after all. There was more in the case than met the eye. "Do you want to see the upstairs rooms, sir?"

Carey hesitated for a moment, then:

"No," he answered, "I don't think it matters; but I want another look at the sitting room."

They returned, and Carey stood staring about him from wall to wall, from floor to ceiling.

"I regret one thing," he said.

"What is that?" the Inspector asked.

"That the body was moved."

"She wore no jewellery. I particularly noted the fact."

"Are you absolutely certain that there was nothing in either of her hands? Nothing on the floor near where she lay?"

"Nothing," the Inspector returned bluntly. "I was the first to enter the room, sir, and you have seen my notes."

"Then he must have taken it away with him," Carey muttered.

"What's that?" The Inspector started. "Who must have taken what away with him?"

"Well"—Carey's smile was apologetic—"it's only fair to you to explain, Inspector. The death of this woman, although not important in itself, is a link in a chain of evidence, or so I think, and if my theory is correct, the man we have to find is the man who was with her just before she died."

"Really!" the Inspector exclaimed. "Then it wasn't death from natural causes, after all?"

"I have not said so," Carey pointed out. "Moreover, I may be wrong in my theory. But if I am right, someone came to this house last night and took something away."

"A bit vague, sir!" said the Inspector. "Do you mean stole something? I shouldn't think there was much to steal, personally."

"Neither should I," Carey agreed. "No, I didn't quite mean that. Of course, it's a shame to mystify you like this, but frankly, my hands are tied. You see"

He hesitated. Detective Inspector Whiteleaf was a decent fellow and a competent officer. Carey was most anxious to explain his position in the matter without offending the Inspector's susceptibilities. Therefore:

"You see," he repeated, "I am acting for Sir John Nevinson in this matter."

"Really, sir!" Inspector Whiteleaf exclaimed with awed, sudden respect.

"Yes," Carey continued, "but don't let the fact disturb you. I merely want to set your mind at rest. It seems a silly business to be turned out in the middle of the night for a case of this kind, but when I tell you that Sir John mentioned your name at once, probably you won't feel so sore about it."

His purpose was served. Detective Inspector Whiteleaf visibly expanded, and:

"Thank you, sir," he said respectfully; "it was good of you to tell me. Pardon my ignorance, but I thought you were a newspaper man. Honestly, I didn't know that the Commissioner even knew my name. What you just said was very good hearing. And now—the next move?"

"Home," Carey replied; "the scent is stale."

And so presently, through an awakening world, the two-seater threaded the outskirts of Dockland, with its visions of ships and shipmen, marine store dealers, and things which spoke of the sea. A string of lorries rattled by, laden with crates and packages upon which the painted words appeared "Via Rangoon"; and here a group of lascars stood outside the door of some large institution. The workers of the great Port of London were afoot.

The seemingly endless Commercial Road set Carey thinking about the Jew—visible link between East and West. Here were descendants of Moses, of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob, who still retained their incredibly ancient biblical names, and here, too, witness of the wanderlust of the race, were Jewish traders who bore names that were Russian, German, and Scottish.

It was a new aspect of a fascinating city, and its romance claimed his mind, temporarily conquering the grey-headed dragon which obsessed him. Warehouses were opening their doors; and he found himself reflecting upon the glamour which belongs to coffee—product of languorous Arabia, wild Java, Jamaica of the buccaneers, and the vague mystery which invests Peru. Spices spoke to his imagination, conjuring up reef-girt palm groves and the coral-haunted shadows of dim lagoons.

Beyond the doors of the Baltic Exchange he saw blue Eastern seas where ships bore cargoes of Oriental stuffs: porcelain, tobacco, gay tropical feathers, tea in quaintly figured chests; or queer little square boxes filled with dream gum from the poppy fields of China.