The Mystery Megapack

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 Peking 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.”
    Kerry snapped his teeth together viciously.
    “I’ve told you what happened to your pal,” he warned. “If you’re a wise man you’ll come in on our side, before the same thing happens to you.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” growled Poland.
    Kerry nodded to the constable at the doorway.
    “Take him back,” he ordered.
    Jim Poland being returned to his cell, Kerry, as the door closed behind the prisoner and his guard, stared across at Durham where he stood beside the table.
    “An old hand,” he said. “But there’s another way.” He glanced at the officer in charge. “Hold him till the morning. He’ll prove useful.”
    From his waistcoat pocket he took out a slip of chewing gum, unwrapped it, and placed the mint-flavoured wafer between his large white teeth. He bit upon it savagely, settled his hat upon his head, and, turning, walked toward the door. In the doorway he paused.
    “Come with me, Durham,” he said. “I am leaving the conduct of the case entirely in your hands from now onward.”
    Detective Durham looked surprised and not a little anxious.
    “I am doing so for two reasons,” continued the Chief Inspector. “These two reasons I shall now explain.”
    III
    THE SECRET TREASURE-HOUSE
    Unlike its sister colony in New York, there are no show places in Limehouse. The visitor sees nothing but mean streets and dark doorways. The superficial inquirer comes away convinced that the romance of the Asiatic district has no existence outside the imaginations of writers of fiction. Yet here lies a secret quarter, as secret and as strange, in its smaller way, as its parent in China which is called the Purple Forbidden City.
    On a morning when mist lay over the Thames reaches, softening the harshness of the dock buildings and lending an air of mystery to the vessels stealing out upon the tide, a man walked briskly along Limehouse Causeway, looking about him inquiringly, as one unfamiliar with the neighbourhood. Presently he seemed to recognize a turning to the right, and he pursued this for a time, now walking more slowly.
    A European woman, holding a half-caste baby in her arms, stood in an open doorway, watching him uninterestedly. Otherwise, except for one neatly dressed young Chinaman, who passed him