Dope by Sax Rohmer (highly recommended books .txt) 📖

“The top floor?”

“Cubanis Cigarette Company, a servants' and an electrician.”

“Nae more?”

“No more.”

“Where does yon back stair open on the topmaist floor?”

“In a corridor similar to that alongside Kazmah's. It has two windows on the right overlooking a narrow roof and the top of the arcade, and on the left is the Cubanis Cigarette Company. The other offices are across the landing.”

Mary Kerry stared into space awhile.

“Kazmah and Mrs. Irvin could ha' come down to the fairst floor, or gene up to the thaird floor unseen by the Spinker man,” she said dreamily.

“But they couldn't have reached the street, my dear!” cried Kerry.

“No—they couldn'a ha' gained the street.”

She became silent again, her husband watching her expectantly. Then:

“If puir Sir Lucien Pyne was killed at a quarter after seven—the time his watch was broken—the native sairvent did no' kill him. Frae the Spinker's evidence the black man went awe' before then,” she said. “Mrs. Irvin?”

Kerry shook his head.

“From all accounts a slip of a woman,” he replied. “It was a strong hand that struck the blow.”

“Kazmah?”

“Probably.”

“Mr. Quentin Gray came back wi' a cab and went upstairs, free the Spinker's evidence, at aboot a quarter after seven, and came doon five meenites later sair pale an' fretful.”

Kerry surrounded himself and the speaker with wreaths of stifling smoke.

“We have only the bare word of Mr. Gray that he didn't go in again, Mary; but I believe him. He's a hot-headed fool, but square.”

“Then 'twas yon Kazmah,” announced Mrs. Kerry. “Who is Kazmah?”

Her husband laughed shortly.

“That's the point at which I got stumped,” he replied. “We've heard of him at the Yard, of course, and we know that under the cloak of a dealer in Eastern perfumes he carried on a fortune-telling business. He managed to avoid prosecution, though. It took me over an hour tonight to explore the thought-reading mechanism; it's a sort of Maskelyne's Mysteries worked from the inside room. But who Kazmah is or what's his nationality I know no more than the man in the moon.”

“Pairfume?” queried the far-away voice.

“Yes, Mary. The first room is a sort of miniature scent bazaar. There are funny little imitation antique flasks of Kazmah preparations, creams, perfumes and incense, also small square wooden boxes of a kind of Turkish delight, and a stock of Egyptian mummy-beads, statuettes, and the like, which may be genuine for all I know.”

“Nae books or letters?”

“Not a thing, except his own advertisements, a telephone directory, and so on.”

“The inside office bureau?”

“Empty as Mother Hubbard's cupboard!”

“The place was ransacked by the same folk that emptied the dead man's pockets so as tee leave nae clue,” pronounced the sibyl-like voice. “Mr. Gray said he had choc'lates wi' him. Where did he leave them?”

“Mary, you're a wonder!” exclaimed the admiring Kerry. “The box was lying on the divan in the first room where he said he had left it on going out for a cab.”

“Does nane o' the evidence show if Mrs. Irvin had been to Kazmah's before?”

“Yes. She went there fairly regularly to buy perfume.”

“No' for the fortune-tellin'?”

“No. According to Mr. Gray, to buy perfume.”

“Had Mr. Gray been there wi' her before?”

“No. Sir Lucien Pyne seems to have been her pretty constant companion.”

“Do ye suspect she was his lady-love?”

“I believe Mr. Gray suspects something of the kind.”

“And Mr. Gray?”

“He is not such an old friend as Sir Lucien was. But I fancy nevertheless it was Mr. Gray that her husband doubted.”

“Do ye suspect the puir soul had cause, Dan?”

“No,” replied Kerry promptly; “I don't. The boy is mad about her, but I fancy she just liked his company. He's the heir of Lord Wrexborough, and Mrs. Irvin used to be a stage beauty. It's a usual state of affairs, and more often than not means nothing.”

“I dinna ken sich folk,” declared Mary Kerry. “They a'most desairve all they get. They are bound tee come tee nae guid end. Where did ye say Sir Lucien lived?”

“Albemarle Street; just round the corner.”

“Ye told me that he only kepit twa sairvents: a cook, hoosekeper, who lived awe', an' a man—a foreigner?”

“A kind of half-baked Dago, named Juan Mareno. A citizen of the United States according to his own account.”

“Ye dinna like Juan Mareno?”

“He's a hateful swine!” flashed Kerry, with sudden venom. “I'm watching Mareno very closely. Coombes is at work upon Sir Lucien's papers. His life was a bit of a mystery. He seems to have had no relations living, and I can't find that he even employed a solicitor.”

“Ye'll be sairchin' for yon Egyptian?”

“The servant? Yes. We'll have him by the morning, and then we shall know who Kazmah is. Meanwhile, in which of the offices is Kazmah hiding?”

Mary Kerry was silent for so long that her husband repeated the question:

“In which of the offices is Kazmah hiding?”

“In nane,” she said dreamily. “Ye surrounded the buildings too late, I ken.”

“Eh!” cried Kerry, turning his head excitedly. “But the man Brisley was at the door all night!”

“It doesna' matter. They have escapit.”

Kerry scratched his close-cropped head in angry perplexity.

“You're always right, Mary,” he said. “But hang me if—Never mind! When we get the servant we'll soon get Kazmah.”

“Aye,” murmured his wife. “If ye hae na' got Kazmah the now.”

“But—Mary! This isn't helping me! It's mystifying me deeper than ever!”

“It's no' clear eno', Dan. But for sure behind this mystery o' the