Part 12 (1/2)
”What are you scared about?” asked Kerry savagely. ”Got anything else to tell me?”
”No, no,” muttered Peters. ”Only I've got an idea he saw me.”
”Who saw you?”
”Lou Chada.”
”What then?”
”Well, only--don't leave me till we get to the station.”
Kerry blew down his nose contemptuously, then stopped suddenly.
”Stand still,” he ordered. ”I want to listen.”
Silent, they stood in a place of darkness, untouched by any lamplight.
Not a sound reached them through the curtain of fog. Asiatic mystery wrapped them about, but Kerry experienced only contempt for the cowardice of his companion, and:
”You need come no farther,” he said coldly. ”Good night.”
”But------” began the man.
”Good night,” repeated Kerry.
He walked on briskly, tapping the pavement with his malacca. The sneaking figure of the informer was swallowed up in the fog. But not a dozen paces had the Chief Inspector gone when he was arrested by a frenzied scream, rising, hollowly, in a dreadful, m.u.f.fled crescendo.
Words reached him.
”My G.o.d, he's stabbed me!”
Then came a sort of babbling, which died into a moan.
”h.e.l.l!” muttered Kerry, ”the poor devil was right!”
He turned and began to run back, fumbling in his pocket for his electric torch. Almost in the same moment that he found it he stumbled upon Peters, who lay half in the road and half upon the sidewalk.
Kerry pressed the b.u.t.ton, and met the glance of upturned, glazing eyes.
Even as he dropped upon his knee beside the dying man, Peters swept his arm around in a convulsive movement, having the fingers crooked, coughed horribly, and rolled upon his face.
Switching off the light of the torch, Kerry clenched his jaws in a tense effort of listening, literally holding his breath. But no sound reached him through the m.u.f.fling fog. A moment he hesitated, well knowing his danger, then viciously snapping on the light again, he quested in the blood-stained mud all about the body of the murdered man.
”Ah!”
It was an exclamation of triumph.
One corner hideously stained, for it had lain half under Peters's shoulder, Kerry gingerly lifted between finger and thumb a handkerchief of fine white silk, such as is carried in the breast pocket of an evening coat.
It bore an ornate monogram worked in gold, and representing the letters ”L. C.” Oddly enough, it was the corner that bore the monogram which was also bloodstained.