Dope, Sax Rohmer [good books to read for adults txt] 📗

“They wouldn't tell me,” she continued. “So—I had to find out. You see, I heard you were trying to get information which I thought perhaps I could give.”

“So you went to the trouble to find my private address rather than to the nearest police station,” said Kerry. “Might I ask you from whom you heard that I wanted this information?”

“Well—it's in the papers, isn't it?”

“It is certainly. But it occurred to me that someone... connected might have told you as well.”

“Actually, someone did: Miss Margaret Halley.”

“Good!” rapped Kerry. “Now we're coming to it. She told you to come to me?”

“Oh, no!” cried Mollie—“she didn't. She told me to tell her so that she could tell the Home office.”

“Eh?” said Kerry, “eh?” He bent forward, staring fiercely. “Please tell me exactly what Miss Halley wanted to know.”

The intensity of his gaze Mollie found very perturbing, but:

“She wanted me to tell her where Mrs. Sin lived,” she replied.

Kerry experienced a quickening of the pulse. In the failure of the C.I.D. to trace the abode of the notorious Mrs. Sin he had suspected double-dealing. He counted it unbelievable that a figure so conspicuous in certain circles could evade official quest even for forty-eight hours. K Division's explanation, too, that there were no less than eighty Chinamen resident in and about Limehouse whose names either began or ended with Sin, he looked upon as a paltry evasion. That very morning he had awakened from a species of nightmare wherein 719 had affected the arrest of Kazmah and Mrs. Sin and had rescued Mrs. Irvin from the clutches of the former. Now—here was hope. 719 would seem to be as hopelessly in the dark as everybody else.

“You refused?” he rapped.

“Of course I did, Inspector,” said Mollie, with a timid, tender glance. “I thought you were the proper person to tell.”

“Then you know?” asked Kerry, unable to conceal his eagerness.

“Yes,” sighed Mollie. “Unfortunately—I know. Oh Inspector, how can I explain it to you?”

“Don't trouble, miss. Just give me the address and I'll ask no questions!”

His keenness was thrilling, infectious. As a result of the night's “beating” he had a list of some twenty names whose owners might have been patrons of Kazmah and some of whom might know Mrs. Sin. But he had learned from bitter experience how difficult it was to induce such people to give useful evidence. There was practically no means of forcing them to speak if they chose, from selfish motives, to be silent. They could be forced to appear in court, but anything elicited in public was worse than useless. Furthermore, Kerry could not afford to wait. Mollie replied excitedly:

“Oh, Inspector, I know you will think me simply an appalling person when I tell you; but I have been to Mrs. Sin's house—'The House of a Hundred Raptures' she calls it—”

“Yes, yes! But—the address?”

“However can I tell you the address, Inspector? I could drive you there, but I haven't the very haziest idea of the name of the horrible street! One drives along dreadful roads where there are stalls and Jews for quite an interminable time, and then over a sort of canal, and then round to the right all among ships and horrid Chinamen. Then, there is a doorway in a little court, and Mrs. Sin's husband sits inside a smelly room with a positively ferocious raven who shrieks about legs and policemen! Oh! Can I ever forget it!”

“One moment, miss, one moment,” said Kerry, keeping an iron control upon himself. “What is the name of Mrs. Sin's husband?”

“Oh, let me think! I can always remember it by recalling the croak of the raven.” She raised one hand to her brow, posing reflectively, and began to murmur:

“Sin Sin Ah... Sin Sin Jar... Sin Sin—Oh! I have it! Sin Sin Wa!”

“Good!” rapped Kerry, and made a note on the block. “Sin Sin Wa, and he has a pet raven, you say, who talks?”

“Who positively talks like some horrid old woman!” cried Mollie. “He has only one eye.”

“The raven?”

“The raven, yes—and also the Chinaman.”

“What!”

“Oh! it's a nightmare to behold them together!” declared Mollie, clasping her hands and bending forward.

She was gaining courage, and now looked almost boldly into the fierce eyes of the Chief Inspector.

“Describe the house,” he said succinctly. “Take your time and use your own words.”

Thereupon Mollie launched into a description of Sin Sin Wa's opium-house. Kerry, his eyes fixed upon her face, listened silently. Then:

“These little rooms are really next door?” he asked.

“I suppose so, Inspector. We always went through the back of a cupboard!”

“Can you give me names of others who used this place?”

“Well”—Mollie hesitated—“poor Rita, of course and Sir Lucien. Then, Cyrus Kilfane used to go.”

“Kilfane? The American actor?”

“Yes.”

“H'm. He's back in America, Sir Lucien is dead, and Mrs. Irvin is missing. Nobody else?”

Mollie shook her head.

“Who first took you there?”

“Cyrus Kilfane.”

“Not Sir Lucien?”

“Oh, no. But both of them had been before.”

“What was Kazmah's connection with Mrs. Sin and her husband?”

“I have no idea, Inspector. Kazmah used to supply cocaine and veronal and trional and heroin, but those who wanted to smoke opium he sent to Mrs. Sin.”

“What! he gave them her address?”

“No, no! He gave her their address.”

“I see. She called?”

“Yes. Oh, Inspector”—Mollie bent farther forward—“I can see in your eyes that you think I am fabulously wicked! Shall I be arrested?”

Kerry coughed drily and stood up.

“Probably not, miss. But you may be required to give evidence.”

“Oh, actually?” cried Mollie, also standing up and approaching nearer.

“Yes. Shall you object?”

Mollie looked into his eyes.

“Not if I can be of the slightest assistance to you, Inspector.”