“They are due to the fact that the man had a birthmark on his shoulder and something—probably a name or some device—tattooed on his arm,” said Harley quietly. “Some few years ago, I met with a similar case in the neighbourhood of Stambul. A woman,” he added, significantly.
Detective-Inspector Wessex listened to my companion with respect, for apart from his established reputation as a private inquiry-agent which had made his name familiar in nearly every capital of the civilized world, Paul Harley's work in Constantinople during the six months preceding war with Turkey had merited higher reward than it had ever received. Had his recommendations been adopted the course of history must have been materially changed.
“You think it's a Chinatown case, then, Mr. Harley?”
“Possibly,” was the guarded answer.
Paul Harley nodded to the constable in charge, and the ghastly figure was promptly covered up again. My friend stood staring vacantly at Wessex, and presently:
“The chief actor, I think, will prove to be not Chinese,” he said, turned, and walked out.
“If there's any development,” remarked Wessex as the three of us entered Harley's car, which stood at the door, “I will, of course, report to you, Mr. Harley. But in the absence of any clue or mark of identification, I fear the verdict will be, 'Body of a man unknown,' etc., which has marked the finish of a good many in this cheerful quarter of London.”
“Quite so,” said Harley, absently. “It presents extraordinary features, though, and may not end as you suppose. However—where do you want me to drop you, Wessex, at the Yard?”
“Oh no,” answered Wessex. “I made a special visit to Wapping just to get your opinion on the shaven man. I'm really going down to Deepbrow to look into that new disappearance case; the daughter of the gamekeeper. You'll have read of it?”
“I have,” said Harley shortly.