the drive concluded--and all too soon. In a silence which neither
of us seemed disposed to break, we entered the police depot, and
followed an officer who received us into the room where Weymouth waited.
The inspector greeted us briefly, nodding toward the table.
"Poor Cadby, the most promising lad at the Yard," he said; and his
usually gruff voice had softened strangely.
Smith struck his right fist into the palm of his left hand and swore
under his breath, striding up and down the neat little room. No one
spoke for a moment, and in the silence I could hear the whispering of
the Thames outside--of the Thames which had so many strange secrets to
tell, and now was burdened with another.
The body lay prone upon the deal table--this latest of the river's
dead--dressed in rough sailor garb, and, to all outward seeming, a
seaman of nondescript nationality--such as is no stranger in Wapping
and Shadwell. His dark, curly hair clung clammily about the brown
forehead; his skin was stained, they told me. He wore a gold ring in
one ear, and three fingers of the left hand were missing.
"It was almost the same with Mason." The river police inspector was
speaking. "A week ago, on a Wednesday, he went off in his own time on
some funny business down St. George's way--and Thursday night the
ten-o'clock boat got the grapnel on him off Hanover Hole. His first
two fingers on the right hand were clean gone, and his left hand was
mutilated frightfully."
He paused and glanced at Smith.
"That lascar, too," he continued, "that you came down to see, sir; you
remember his hands?"
Smith nodded.
"He was not a lascar," he said shortly. "He was a dacoit."
Silence fell again.
I turned to the array of objects lying on the table--those which had
been found in Cadby's clothing. None of them were noteworthy, except
that which had been found thrust into the loose neck of his shirt.
This last it was which had led the police to send for Nayland Smith,
for it constituted the first clew which had come to light pointing to
the authors of these mysterious tragedies.
It was a Chinese pigtail. That alone was sufficiently remarkable; but
it was rendered more so by the fact that the plaited queue was a false
one being attached to a most ingenious bald wig.
"You're sure it wasn't part of a Chinese make-up?" questioned Weymouth,
his eye on the strange relic. "Cadby was clever at disguise."
Smith snatched the wig from my hands with a certain irritation, and
tried to fit it on the dead detective.
"Too small by inches!" he jerked. "And look how it's padded in the
crown. This thing was made for a most abnormal head."
He threw it down, and fell to pacing the room again.
"Where did you find him--exactly?" he asked.
"Limehouse Reach--under Commercial Dock Pier--exactly an hour ago."
"And you last saw him at eight o'clock last night?"--to Weymouth.
"Eight to a quarter past."
"You think he has been dead nearly twenty-four hours, Petrie?"
"Roughly, twenty-four hours," I replied.
"Then, we know that he was on the track of the Fu-Manchu group, that he
followed up some clew which led him to the neighborhood of old Ratcliff
Highway, and that he died the same night. You are sure that is where
he was going?"
"Yes," said Weymouth; "He was jealous of giving anything away, poor
chap; it meant a big lift for him if he pulled the case off. But he
gave me to understand that he expected to spend last night in that
district. He left the Yard about eight, as I've said, to go to his
rooms, and dress for the job."
"Did he keep any record of his cases?"
"Of course! He was most particular. Cadby was a man with ambitions,
sir! You'll want to see his book. Wait while I get his address; it's
somewhere in Brixton."
He went to the telephone, and Inspector Ryman covered up the dead man's
face.
Nayland Smith was palpably excited.
"He almost succeeded where we have failed, Petrie," he said. "There is
no doubt in my mind that he was hot on the track of Fu-Manchu! Poor
Mason had probably blundered on the scent, too, and he met with a
similar fate. Without other evidence, the fact that they both died in
the same way as the dacoit would be conclusive, for we know that
Fu-Manchu killed the dacoit!"
"What is the meaning of the mutilated hands, Smith?"
"God knows! Cadby's death was from drowning, you say?"
"There are no other marks of violence."
"But he was a very strong swimmer, Doctor," interrupted Inspector
Ryman. "Why, he pulled off the quarter-mile championship at the
Crystal Palace last year! Cadby wasn't a man easy to drown. And as
for Mason, he was an R.N.R., and like a fish in the water!"
Smith shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
"Let us hope that one day we shall know how they died," he said simply.
Weymouth returned from the telephone.
"The address is No.--Cold Harbor Lane," he reported. "I shall not be
able to come along, but you can't miss it; it's close by the Brixton
Police Station. There's no family, fortunately; he was quite alone in
the world. His case-book isn't in the American desk, which you'll find
in his sitting-room; it's in the cupboard in the corner--top shelf.
Here are his keys, all intact. I think this is the cupboard key."
Smith nodded.
"Come on, Petrie," he said. "We haven't a second to waste."
Our cab was waiting, and in a few seconds we were speeding along
Wapping High Street. We had gone no more than a few hundred yards, I
think, when Smith suddenly slapped his