“Nearly clear. The dark thing you saw behind it all, Mary, was dope! Kazmah’s is a secret drug-syndicate. They’ve appointed a Home office agent, and he’s working independently of us, but...”
His teeth came together with a snap.
“Oh, Dan,” said his wife, “it’s a race? Drugs? A Home office agent? Dan, they think the Force is in it?”
“They do!” rapped Kerry. “I’m for Leman Street in three hours. If there’s double-dealing behind it, then the mugs are in the East End, and it’s folly, not knavery, I’m looking for. It’s a race, Mary, and the credit of the Service is at stake! No, my dear, I’ll have a snack when I wake. You’re going shopping?”
“I am, Dan. I’d ha’ started, but I wanted to see ye when ye came hame. If ye’ve only three hours go straight up the now. I’ll ha’ something hot a’ ready when ye waken.”
Ten minutes later Kerry was in bed, his short clay pipe between his teeth, and The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in his hand. Such was his customary sleeping-draught, and it had never been known to fail. Half a pipe of Irish twist and three pages of the sad imperial author invariably plunged Chief Inspector Kerry into healthy slumber.
CHAPTER XXV.
NIGHT-LIFE OF SOHO
It was close upon midnight when Detective-Sergeant Coombes appeared in a certain narrow West End thoroughfare, which was lined with taxicabs and private cars. He wore a dark overcoat and a tweed cap, and although his chin was buried in the genial folds of a woollen comforter, and his cap was pulled down over his eyes, his sly smile could easily be detected even in the dim light afforded by the car lamps. He seemed to have business of a mysterious nature among the cabmen; for with each of them in turn he conducted a brief conversation, passing unobtrusively from cab to cab, and making certain entries in a notebook. Finally he disappeared. No one actually saw him go, and no one had actually seen him arrive. At one moment, however, he was there; in the next he was gone.
Five minutes later Chief Inspector Kerry entered the street. His dark overcoat and white silk muffler concealed a spruce dress suit, a fact betrayed by black, braided trousers, unusually tight-fitting, and boots which almost glittered. He carried the silver-headed malacca cane, and had retained his narrow-brimmed bowler at its customary jaunty angle.
Passing the lines of waiting vehicles, he walked into the entrance of a popular night-club which faced the narrow street. On a lounge immediately inside the doorway a heated young man was sitting fanning his dancing partner and gazing into her weakly pretty face in vacuous adoration.