Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Tales of Chinatown by Sax Rohmer (classic books for 12 year olds TXT) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «Tales of Chinatown by Sax Rohmer (classic books for 12 year olds TXT) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
Following a short, portentous silence:
“How grossly you misunderstood me, Chief Inspector,” Chada replied, speaking very softly. “You are shortly to be promoted to a post which no one is better fitted to occupy. You enjoy great domestic happiness, and you possess a son in whom you repose great hopes. In this respect Chief Inspector, I resemble you.”
Kerry's nostrils were widely dilated, but he did not speak.
“You see,” continued the Eurasian, “I know many things about you. Indeed, I have watched your career with interest. Now, to be brief, a great scandal may be averted and a woman's reputation preserved if you and I, as men of the world, can succeed in understanding one another.”
“I don't want to understand you,” said Kerry bluntly. “But you've said enough already to justify me in blowing this whistle.” He drew a police whistle from his overcoat pocket. “This house is being watched.”
“I am aware of the fact,” murmured Zani Chada.
“There are two people in it I want for two different reasons. If you say much more there may be three.”
Chada raised his hand slowly.
“Put back your whistle, Chief Inspector.”
There was a curious restraint in the Eurasian's manner which Kerry distrusted, but for which at the time he was at a loss to account. Then suddenly he determined that the man was waiting for something, listening for some sound. As if to confirm this reasoning, just at that moment a sound indeed broke the silence of the room.
Somewhere far away in the distance of the big house a gong was beaten three times softly. Kerry's fierce glance searched the face of Zani Chada, but it remained mask-like, immovable. Yet that this had been a signal of some kind the Chief Inspector did not doubt, and:
“You can't trick me,” he said fiercely. “No one can leave this house without my knowledge, and because of what happened out there in the fog my hands are untied.”
He took up his hat and cane from the chair.
“I'm going to search the premises,” he declared.
Zani Chada stood up slowly.
“Chief Inspector,” he said, “I advise you to do nothing until you have consulted your wife.”
“Consulted my wife?” snapped Kerry. “What the devil do you mean?”
“I mean that any steps you may take now can only lead to disaster for many, and in your own case to great sorrow.”
Kerry took a step forward, two steps, then paused. He was considering certain words which the Eurasian had spoken. Without fearing the man in the physical sense, he was not fool enough to underestimate his potentialities for evil and his power to strike darkly.
“Act as you please,” added Zani Chada, speaking even more softly. “But I have not advised lightly. I will receive you, Chief Inspector, at any hour of the night you care to return. By to-morrow, if you wish, you may be independent of everybody.”
Kerry clenched his fists.
“And great sorrow may be spared to others,” concluded the Eurasian.
Kerry's teeth snapped together audibly; then, putting on his hat, he turned and walked straight to the door.
V DAN KERRY, JUNIOR
Dan Kerry, junior, was humorously like his father, except that he was larger-boned and promised to grow into a much bigger man. His hair was uncompromisingly red, and grew in such irregular fashion that the comb was not made which could subdue it. He had the wide-open, fighting blue eyes of the Chief Inspector, and when he smiled the presence of two broken teeth lent him a very pugilistic appearance.
On his advent at the school of which he was now one of the most popular members, he had promptly been christened “Carrots.” To this nickname young Kerry had always taken exception, and he proceeded to display his prejudice on the first day of his arrival with such force and determination that the sobriquet had been withdrawn by tacit consent of every member of the form who hitherto had favoured it.
“I'll take you all on,” the new arrival had declared amidst a silence of stupefaction, “starting with you”—pointing to the biggest boy. “If we don't finish to-day, I'll begin again to-morrow.”
The sheer impudence of the thing had astounded everybody. Young Kerry's treatment of his leading persecutor had produced a salutary change of opinion. Of such kidney was Daniel Kerry, junior; and when, some hours after his father's departure on the night of the murder in the fog, the 'phone bell rang, it was Dan junior, and not his mother, who answered the call.
“Hallo!” said a voice. “Is that Chief Inspector Kerry's house?”
“Yes,” replied Dan.
“It has begun to rain in town,” the voice continued, “Is that the Chief Inspector's son speaking?”
“Yes, I'm Daniel Kerry.”
“Well, my boy, you know the way to New Scotland Yard?”
“Rather.”
“He says will you bring his overall? Do you know where to find it?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Dan excitedly, delighted to be thus made a party to his father's activities.
“Well, get it. Jump on a tram at the Town Hall and bring the overall along here. Your mother will not object, will she?”
“Of course not,” cried Dan. “I'll tell her. Am I to start now?”
“Yes, right away.”
Mrs. Kerry was sewing by the fire in the dining room when her son came in with the news, his blue eyes sparkling excitedly. She nodded her head slowly.
“Ye'll want ye'r Burberry and ye'r thick boots,” she declared, “a muffler, too, and ye'r oldest cap. I think it's madness for ye to go out on such a night, but——”
“Father said I could,” protested the boy.
“He says so, and ye shall go, but I think it madness a' the same.”
However, some ten minutes later young Kerry set out, keenly resenting the woollen muffler which he had been compelled to wear, and secretly determined to remove it before mounting the tram. Across one arm he carried the glistening overall which was the Chief Inspector's constant companion on wet nights abroad. The fog had turned denser, and ten paces from the door of the house took him out of sight of the light streaming from the hallway.
Mary Kerry well knew her husband's theories
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