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. The Yellow Claw by Sax Rohmer (animal farm read .txt) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «The Yellow Claw by Sax Rohmer (animal farm read .txt) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
“I like Inspector Dunbar!” declared Helen; “he is so strong—a splendid man!”
Denise Ryland stared at her cynically, but made no remark.
“The inspector and myself,” continued Dr. Cumberly, “attached altogether a different significance to the circumstances. I am pleased to tell you that Debnam's unpleasant theories are already proved fallacious; the case goes deeper, far deeper, than a mere intrigue of that kind. In short, I am now assured—I cannot, unfortunately, name the source of my new information—but I am assured, that Mrs. Leroux, as well as Mrs. Vernon, was addicted to the opium vice.”...
“Oh, my God! how horrible!” whispered Helen.
“A certain notorious character,” resumed Dr. Cumberly...
“Soames!” snapped Denise Ryland. “Since I heard... that man's name I knew him for... a villain... of the worst possible... description... imaginable.”
“Soames,” replied Dr. Cumberly, smiling slightly, “was one of the group, beyond doubt—for I may as well explain that we are dealing with an elaborate organization; but the chief member, to whom I have referred, is a greater one than Soames. He is a certain shadowy being, known as Mr. King.”
“The name on the paper!” said Helen, quickly. “But of course the police have been looking for Mr. King all along?”
“In a general way—yes; but as we have thousands of Kings in London alone, the task is a stupendous one. The information which I received this morning narrows down the search immensely; for it points to Mr. King being the chief, or president, of a sort of opium syndicate, and, furthermore, it points to his being a Chinaman.”
“A Chinaman!” cried Denise and Helen together.
“It is not absolutely certain, but it is more than probable. The point is that Mrs. Leroux has not eloped with some unknown lover; she is in one of the opium establishments of Mr. King.”
“Do you mean that she is detained there?” asked Helen.
“It appears to me, now, to be certain that she is. My hypothesis is that she was an habitue of this place, as also was Mrs. Vernon. These unhappy women, by means of elaborate plans, made on their behalf by the syndicate, indulged in periodical opium orgies. It was a game well worth the candle, as the saying goes, from the syndicate's standpoint; for Mrs. Leroux, alone, has paid no less than a thousand pounds to the opium group!”
“A thousand pounds!” cried Denise Ryland. “You don't mean to tell me that that... silly fool... of a man, Harry Leroux... has allowed himself to be swindled of... all that money?”
“There is not the slightest doubt about it,” Dr. Cumberly assured her; “he opened a credit to that amount in Paris, and the entire sum has been absorbed by Mr. King!”
“It's almost incredible!” said Helen.
“I quite agree with you,” replied her father. “Of course, most people know that there are opium dens in London, as in almost every other big city, but the existence of these palatial establishments, conducted by Mr. King, although undoubtedly a fact, is a fact difficult to accept. It doesn't seem possible that such a place can be conducted secretly; whereas I am assured that all the efforts of Scotland Yard thus far have failed to locate the site of the London branch.”
“But surely,” cried Denise Ryland, nostrils dilated indignantly, “some of the... customers of this... disgusting place... can be followed?”...
“The difficulty is to identify them,” explained Cumberly. “Opium smoking is essentially a secret vice; a man does not visit an opium den openly as he would visit his club; and the elaborate precautions adopted by the women are illustrated in the case of Mrs. Vernon, and in the case of Mrs. Leroux. It is a pathetic fact almost daily brought home to me, that women who acquire a drug habit become more rapidly and more entirely enslaved by it than does a man. It becomes the center of the woman's existence; it becomes her god: all other claims, social and domestic, are disregarded. Upon this knowledge, Mr. King has established his undoubtedly extensive enterprise.”...
Dr. Cumberly stood up.
“I will go down and see Leroux,” he announced quietly. “His sorrow hitherto has been secondary to his indignation. Possibly ignorance in this case is preferable to the truth, but nevertheless I am determined to tell him what I know. Give me ten minutes or so, and then join me. Are you agreeable?”
“Quite,” said Helen.
Dr. Cumberly departed upon his self-imposed mission.
XXV FATE'S SHUTTLECOCK
Some ten minutes later, Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland were in turn admitted to Henry Leroux's flat. They found him seated on a couch in his dining-room, wearing the inevitable dressing-gown. Dr. Cumberly, his hands clasped behind him, stood looking out of the window.
Leroux's pallor now was most remarkable; his complexion had assumed an ivory whiteness which lent his face a sort of statuesque beauty. He was cleanly shaven (somewhat of a novelty), and his hair was brushed back from his brow. But the dark blue eyes were very tragic.
He rose at sight of his new visitors, and a faint color momentarily tinged his cheeks. Helen Cumberly grasped his outstretched hand, then looked away quickly to where her father was standing.
“I almost thought,” said Leroux, “that you had deserted me.”
“No,” said Helen, seeming to speak with an effort—“we—my father, thought—that you needed quiet.”
Denise Ryland nodded grimly.
“But now,” she said, in her most truculent manner, “we are going to... drag you out of... your morbid... self... for a change... which you need... if ever a man... needed it.”
“I have just prescribed a drive,” said Dr. Cumberly, turning to them, “for to-morrow morning; with lunch at Richmond and a walk across the park, rejoining the car at the Bushey Gate, and so home to tea.”
Henry Leroux looked eagerly at Helen in silent appeal. He seemed to fear that she would refuse.
“Do you mean that you have included us in the prescription, father?” she asked.
“Certainly; you are an essential part of it.”
“It will be fine,” said the girl quietly; “I shall enjoy it.”
“Ah!” said Leroux, with a faint note of contentment in his voice; and he reseated himself.
There was an interval of somewhat awkward silence, to be broken by Denise Ryland.
“Dr. Cumberly has told you the news?” she asked, dropping for the moment her syncopated and pugnacious manner.
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