This was Malay Jack, the proprietor of one of the roughest houses in Limehouse. His expression, while propitiatory, was not friendly, but:
“Don't get hot and bothered,” snapped Kerry viciously. “I want to use your telephone, that's all.”
“Oh,” said the other, unable to conceal his relief, “that's easy. Come in.”
He raised a flap in the counter, and Kerry, passing through, entered a little room behind the bar. Here a telephone stood upon a dirty, littered table, and, taking it up:
“City four hundred,” called the Chief Inspector curtly. A moment later: “Hallo! Yes,” he said. “Chief Inspector Kerry speaking. Put me through to my department, please.”
He stood for a while waiting, receiver in hand, and smiled grimly to note that the uproar in the room beyond had been resumed. Evidently Malay Jack had given the “all clear” signal. Then:
“Chief Inspector Kerry speaking,” he said again. “Has Detective Sergeant Durham reported?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “half an hour ago. He's standing-by at Limehouse Station. He followed you in a taxi, but lost you on the way owing to the fog.”
“I don't wonder,” said Kerry. “His loss is not so great as mine. Anything else?”
“Nothing else.”