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
“Where were the photographs done—in London, you say?”
“Aye.”
“Do you know by what photographer?”
“I don't! An' I don't care! Piccadilly they had on 'em, which was good enough for me.”
“Have you her picture?”
“No!”
“Did she receive a letter on the day of her disappearance?”
“Maybe.”
“Good day!” said Harley. “And let me add that the atmosphere of her home was hardly conducive to ideal conduct!”
Leaving Bramber to digest this rebuke, we came out of the cottage. Dusk was falling now, and by the time that we regained the Manor the place was lighted up. Inspector Wessex was waiting for us in the library, and:
“Well?” he said, smiling slightly as we entered.
“Nothing much,” replied Harley dryly, “except that I don't wonder at the girl's leaving such a home.”
“What's that! What!” roared a big voice, and Sir Howard came into the room. “I tell you, Bramber only had one fault as a stepfather; he wasn't heavy-handed enough. A bad lot, sir, a bad lot!”
“Well, sir,” said Inspector Wessex, looking from one to another, “personally, beyond the usual inquiries at railway stations, etc., I cannot see that we can do much here. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Harley?”
Harley nodded.
“Quite,” he replied. “There is a late train to town which I think we could catch if we started at once.”
“Eh?” roared Sir Howard; “you're not going back to-night? Your rooms are ready for you, damn it!”
“I quite appreciate the kindness, Sir Howard,” replied Harley; “but I have urgent business to attend to in London. Believe me, my departure is unavoidable.”
The blue eyes of the baronet gleamed with the simple cunning of his kind.
“You've got something up your sleeve,” he roared. “I know you have, I know you have!”
Inspector Wessex looked at me significantly, but I could only shrug my shoulders in reply; for in these moods Harley was as inscrutable as the Sphinx.
However, he had his way, and Sir Howard hurriedly putting a car in commission, we raced for the local station and just succeeded in picking up the express at Claybury.
Wessex was rather silent throughout the journey, often glancing in my friend's direction, but Harley made no further reference to the case beyond outlining the interview with Bramber, until, as we were parting at the London terminus, Wessex to report to Scotland Yard and I to go to Harley's rooms:
“How long do you think it will take you to find that photographer, Wessex?” he asked. “Piccadilly is a sufficient clue.”
“Well,” replied the Inspector, “nothing can be done to-night, of course, but I should think by mid-day tomorrow the matter should be settled.”
“Right,” said Harley shortly. “May I ask you to report the result to me, Wessex?”
“I will report without fail.”
III ALI OF CAIRO
It was not until the evening of the following day that Harley rang me up, and:
“I want you to come round at once,” he said urgently. “The Deepbrow case is developing along lines which I confess I had anticipated, but which are dramatic nevertheless.”
Knowing that Harley did not lightly make such an assertion, I put aside the work upon which I was engaged and hurried around to Chancery Lane. I found my friend, pipe in mouth, walking up and down his smoke-laden study in a state which I knew to betoken suppressed excitement, and:
“Did Wessex find your photographer?” I asked on entering.
“Yes,” he replied. “A first-class man, as I had anticipated. As I had further anticipated he did a number of copies of the picture for the foreign gentleman—about fifty, in fact!”
“Fifty!”
“Yes! Does the significance of that fact strike you?” asked Harley, a queer smile stealing across his tanned, clean-shaven face.
“It is an extraordinary thing for even an ardent admirer to have so many reproductions done of the same picture!”
“It is! I will show you now what I found trodden into one of the footprints where the struggle took place beside the car.”
Harley produced a piece of thick silk twine.
“What is it?”
“It is a link, Knox—a link to seek which I really went down to Deepbrow.” He stared at me quizzically, but my answering look must have been a blank one. “It is part of the tassel of one of those red cloth caps commonly called in England, a fez!”
He continued to stare at me and I to stare at the piece of silk; then:
“What is the next move?” I demanded. “Your new clue rather bewilders me.”
“The next move,” he said, “is to retire to the adjoining room and make ourselves look as much like a couple of Oriental commercial travellers as our correctly British appearance will allow!”
“What!” I cried.
“That's it!” laughed Harley. “I have a perpetual tan, and I think I can give you a temporary one which I keep in a bottle for the purpose.”
Twenty minutes later, then, having quitted Harley's chambers by a back way opening into one of those old-world courts which abound in this part of the metropolis, two quietly attired Eastern gentlemen got into a cab at the corner of Chancery Lane and proceeded in the direction of Limehouse.
There are haunts in many parts of London whose very existence is unsuspected by all but the few; haunts unvisited by the tourist and even unknown to the copy-hunting pressman. Into a quiet thoroughfare not three minutes' walk from the busy life of West India Dock Road, Harley led the way. Before a door sandwiched in between the entrance to a Greek tobacconist's establishment and a boarded shop-front, he paused and turned to me.
“Whatever you see or hear,” he cautioned, “express no surprise. Above all, show no curiosity.”
He rang the bell beside the door, and almost immediately it was opened by a Negress, grossly and repellently ugly.
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