Part 28 (1/2)
Rigidly, at arms-length, he held her, moment after moment, immovable, implacable; and when he read death in her empurpled face, a miraculous thing happened.
The ”blind” eye of Sin Sin Wa opened!
A husky rattle told of the end, and he dropped the woman's body from his steely grip, disengaging the pigtail with a swift movement of his head. Opening and closing his yellow fingers to restore circulation, he stood looking down at her. He spat upon the floor at her feet.
Then, turning, he held out his arms and confronted Sam Tuk.
”Was it well done, bald father of wisdom?” he demanded hoa.r.s.ely.
But old Sam Tuk seated lumpish in his chair like some grotesque idol before whom a human sacrifice has been offered up, stirred not. The length of loaded tubing with which he had struck Kerry lay beside him where it had fallen from his nerveless hand. And the two oblique, beady eyes of Sin Sin Wa, watching, grew dim. Step by step he approached the old Chinaman, stooped, touched him, then knelt and laid his head upon the thin knees.
”Old father,” he murmured, ”Old bald father who knew so much. Tonight you know all.”
For Sam Tuk was no more. At what moment he had died, whether in the excitement of striking Kerry or later, no man could have presumed to say, since, save by an occasional nod of his head, he had often simulated death in life-he who was so old that he was known as ”The Father of Chinatown.”
Standing upright, Sin Sin Wa looked from the dead man to the dead raven. Then, tenderly raising poor Tling-a-Ling, he laid the great dishevelled bird-a weird offering-upon the knees of Sam Tuk.
”Take him with you where you travel tonight, my father,” he said. ”He, too, was faithful.”
A cheap German clock commenced a muted clangor, for the little hammer was m.u.f.fled.
Sin Sin Wa walked slowly across to the counter. Taking up the gleaming joss, he unscrewed its pedestal. Then, returning to the spot where Mrs. Sin lay, he coolly detached a leather wallet which she wore beneath her dress fastened to a girdle. Next he removed her rings, her bangles and other ornaments. He secreted all in the interior of the joss-his treasure-chest. He raised his hands and began to unplait his long pigtail, which, like his ”blind” eye, was camouflage-a false queue attached to his own hair, which he wore but slightly longer than some Europeans and many Americans. With a small pair of scissors he clipped off his long, snake-like moustaches....
CHAPTER XLI. THE FINDING OF KAZMAH
At a point just above the sweep of Limehouse Reach a watchful river police patrol observed a moving speck of light on the right bank of the Thames. As if in answer to the signal there came a few moments later a second moving speck at a point not far above the district once notorious in its possession of Ratcliff Highway. A third light answered from the Surrey bank, and a fourth shone out yet higher up and on the opposite side of the Thames.
The tide had just turned. As Chief Inspector Kerry had once observed, ”there are no pleasure parties punting about that stretch,” and, consequently, when George Martin tumbled into his skiff on the Surrey sh.o.r.e and began l.u.s.tily to pull up stream, he was observed almost immediately by the River Police.
Pulling hard against the stream, it took him a long time to reach his destination-stone stairs near the point from which the second light had been shown. Rain had ceased and the mist had cleared shortly after dusk, as often happens at this time of year, and because the night was comparatively clear the pursuing boats had to be handled with care.
George did not disembark at the stone steps, but after waiting there for some time he began to drop down on the tide, keeping close insh.o.r.e.
”He knows we've spotted him,” said Sergeant Coombes, who was in one of the River Police boats. ”It was at the stairs that he had to pick up his man.”
Certainly, the tactics of George suggested that he had recognized surveillance, and, his purpose abandoned, now sought to efface himself without delay. Taking advantage of every shadow, he resigned his boat to the gentle current. He had actually come to the entrance of Greenwich Reach when a dock light, s.h.i.+ning out across the river, outlined the boat yellowly.
”He's got a pa.s.senger!” said Coombes amazedly.
Inspector White, who was in charge of the cutter, rested his arm on Coombes' shoulder and stared across the moving tide.
”I can see no one,” he replied. ”You're over anxious, Detective-Sergeant-and I can understand it!”
Coombes smiled heroically.
”I may be over anxious, Inspector,” he replied, ”but if I lost Sin Sin Wa, the River Police had never even heard of him till the C.I.D. put 'em wise.”
”H'm!” muttered the Inspector. ”D'you suggest we board him?”
”No,” said Coombes, ”let him land, but don't trouble to hide any more. Show him we're in pursuit.”
No longer drifting with the outgoing tide, George Martin had now boldly taken to the oars. The River Police boat close in his wake, he headed for the blunt promontory of the Isle of Dogs. The grim pursuit went on until: ”I bet I know where he's for,” said Coombes.
”So do I,” declared Inspector White; ”Dougal's!”
Their antic.i.p.ations were realized. To the wooden stairs which served as a water-gate for the establishment on the Isle of Dogs, George Martin ran in openly; the police boat followed, and: ”You were right!” cried the Inspector, ”he has somebody with him!”
A furtive figure, bearing a burden upon its shoulder, moved up the slope and disappeared. A moment later the police were leaping ash.o.r.e. George deserted his boat and went running heavily after his pa.s.senger.
”After them!” cried Coombes. ”That's Sin Sin Wa!”
Around the mazey, rubbish-strewn paths the pursuit went hotly. In sight of Dougal's Coombes saw the swing door open and a silhouette-that of a man who carried a bag on his shoulder-pa.s.s in. George Martin followed, but the Scotland Yard man had his hand upon his shoulder.
”Police!” he said sharply. ”Who's your friend?”
George turned, red and truculent, with clenched fists.
”Mind your own b.l.o.o.d.y business!” he roared.
”Mind yours, my lad!” retorted Coombes warningly. ”You're no Thames waterman. Who's your friend?”
”Wotcher mean?” shouted George. ”You're up the pole or canned you are!”
”Grab him!” said Coombes, and he kicked open the door and entered the saloon, followed by Inspector White and the boat's crew.
As they appeared, the Inspector conspicuous in his uniform, backed by the group of River Police, one of whom grasped George Martin by his coat collar: ”Splits!” bellowed Dougal in a voice like a fog-horn.
Twenty cups of tea, coffee and cocoa, too hot for speedy a.s.similation, were spilled upon the floor.
The place as usual was crowded, more particularly in the neighborhood of the two stoves. Here were dock laborers, seamen and riverside loafers, lascars, Chinese, Arabs, negroes and dagoes. Mrs. Dougal, defiant and red, brawny arms folded and her pose as that of one contemplating a physical contest, glared from behind the ”solid” counter. Dougal rested his hairy hands upon the ”wet” counter and revealed his defective teeth in a vicious snarl. Many of the patrons carried light baggage, since a P and O boat, an oriental, and the S. S. Mahratta, were sailing that night or in the early morning, and Dougal's was the favorite house of call for a doch-an-dorrich for sailormen, particularly for sailormen of color.
Upon the police group became focussed the glances of light eyes and dark eyes, round eyes, almond-shaped eyes, and oblique eyes. Silence fell.
”We are police officers,” called Coombes formally. ”All papers, please.”
Thereupon, without disturbance, the inspection began, and among the papers scrutinized were those of one, Chung Chow, an able-bodied Chinese seaman. But since his papers were in order, and since he possessed two eyes and wore no pigtail, he excited no more interest in the mind of Detective-Sergeant Coombes than did any one of the other Chinamen in the place.
A careful search of the premises led to no better result, and George Martin accounted for his possession of a considerable sum of money found upon him by explaining that he had recently been paid off after a long voyage and had been lucky at cards.
The result of the night's traffic, then, spelled failure for British justice, the S.S. Mahratta sailed one stewardess short of her complement; but among the Chinese crew of another steamer Eastward bound was one, Chung Chow, formerly known as Sin Sin Wa. And sometimes in the night watches there arose before him the picture of a black bird resting upon the knees of an aged Chinaman. Beyond these figures dimly he perceived the paddy-fields of Ho-Nan and the sweeping valley of the Yellow River, where the opium poppy grows.