The Mystery Megapack

exhibit which lay upon the slab of the mortuary. Two other police officers—one in uniform—were present, and they treated the celebrated Chief Inspector with the deference which he had not only earned but had always demanded from his subordinates.
    Earmarked for important promotion, he was an interesting figure as he stood there in the gloomy, ill-lighted place, his pose that of an athlete about to perform a long jump, or perhaps, as it might have appeared to some, that of a dancing-master about to demonstrate a new step.
    His close-cropped hair was brilliantly red, and so was his short, wiry, aggressive moustache. He was ruddy of complexion, and he looked out unblinkingly upon the world with a pair of steel-blue eyes. Neat he was to spruceness, and while of no more than medium height he had the shoulders of an acrobat.
    The detective who stood beside him, by name John Durham, had one trait in common with his celebrated superior. This was a quick keenness, a sort of alert vitality, which showed in his eyes, and indeed in every line of his thin, clean-shaven face. Kerry had picked him out as the most promising junior in his department.
    “Give me the particulars,” said the Chief Inspector. “It isn’t robbery. He’s wearing a diamond ring worth two hundred pounds.”
    His diction was rapid and terse—so rapid as to create the impression that he bit off the ends of the longer words. He turned his fierce blue eyes upon the uniformed officer who stood at the end of the slab.
    “They are very few, Chief Inspector,” was the reply. “He was hauled out by the river police shortly after midnight, at the lower end of Limehouse Reach. He was alive then—they heard his cry—but he died while they were hauling him into the boat.”
    “Any statement?” rapped Kerry.
    “He was past it, Chief Inspector. According to the report of the officer in charge, he mumbled something which sounded like: ‘It has bitten me,’ just before he became unconscious.”
    “‘It has bitten me,’” murmured Kerry. “The divisional surgeon has seen him?”
    “Yes, Chief Inspector. And in his opinion the man did not die from drowning, but from some form of virulent poisoning.”
    “Poisoning?”
    “That’s the idea. There will be a further examination, of course. Either a hypodermic injection or a bite.”
    “A bite?” said Kerry. “The bite of what?”
    “That I cannot say, Chief Inspector. A venomous reptile, I suppose.”
    Kerry stared down critically at the swollen face of the victim, and then glanced sharply aside at Durham.
    “Accounts for his appearance, I suppose,” he murmured.
    “Yes,” said Durham quietly. “He hadn’t been in the water long enough to look like that.” He turned to the local officer. “Is there any theory as to the point at which he went in?”
    “Well, an arrest has been made.”
    “By whom? of whom?” rapped Kerry.
    “Two constables patrolling the Chinatown area arrested a man for suspicious loitering. He turned out to be a well-known criminal—Jim Poland, with a whole list of convictions against him. They’re holding him at Limehouse Station, and the theory is that he was operating with—” He nodded in the direction of the body.
    “Then who’s the smart with the swollen face?” inquired Kerry. “He’s a new one on me.”
    “Yes, but he’s been identified by one of the K Division men. He is an American crook with a clean slate, so far as this side is concerned. Cohen is his name. And the idea seems to be that he went in at some point between where he was found by the river police and the point at which Jim Poland was arrested.”
    Kerry snapped his teeth together audibly, and:
    “I’m open to learn,” he said, “that the house of Huang Chow is within that area.”
    “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