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. Dope by Sax Rohmer (highly recommended books .txt) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «Dope by Sax Rohmer (highly recommended books .txt) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
Tap where he would—and he tapped with his knuckles and with the bone ferrule of his cane—there was nothing in the resulting sound to suggest that that part of the wall behind the cupboard was less solid than any other part.
He examined the room rapidly, then passed into another one adjoining it, which was evidently used as a bedroom. The latter faced towards the court and did not come in contact with the wall of the neighboring house. In both rooms the windows were fastened, and judging from the state of the fasteners were never opened. In that containing the cupboard outside shutters were also closed. Despite this sealing-up of the apartments, traces of fog hung in the air. Kerry descended the stairs.
Snapping off the light of his torch, he stood, feet wide apart, staring at Sin Sin Wa. The latter, smiling imperturbably, yellow hands resting upon knees, sat quite still on the tea-chest. Constable Bryce was seated on a corner of the table, looking curiously awkward in his tweed overcoat and bowler hat, which garments quite failed to disguise the policeman. He stood up as Kerry entered. Then:
“There used to be a door between this house and the next,” said Kerry succinctly. “My information is exact and given by someone who has often used that door.”
“Bloody liar,” murmured Sin Sin Wa.
“What!” shouted Kerry. “What did you say, you yellow-faced mongrel!”
He clenched his fists and strode towards the Chinaman.
“Sarcee feller catchee pullee leg,” explained the unmoved Sin Sin Wa. “Velly bad man tellee lie for makee bhoberry—getchee poor Chinaman in tlouble.”
In the fog-bound silence Kerry could very distinctly be heard chewing. He turned suddenly to Bryce.
“Go back and fetch two men,” he directed. “I should never find my way.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bryce stepped to the door, unable to hide the relief which he experienced, and opened it. The fog was so dense that it looked like a yellow curtain hung in the opening.
“Phew!” said Bryce. “I may be some little time, sir.”
“Quite likely. But don't stop to pick daisies.”
The constable went out, closing the door. Kerry laid his cane on the table, then stooped and tossed a cud of chewing-gum into the stove. From his waistcoat pocket he drew out a fresh piece and placed it between his teeth. Drawing a tea-chest closer to the stove, he seated himself and stared intently into the glowing heart of the fire.
Sin Sin Wa extended his arm and opened the little cupboard.
“Number one p'lice,” croaked the raven drowsily.
“You catchee sleepee, Tling-a-Ling,” said Sin Sin Wa.
He took out the green-eyed joss, set it tenderly upon a corner of the table, and closed the cupboard door. With a piece of chamois leather, which he sometimes dipped into a little square tin, he began to polish the hideous figure.
CHAPTER XXIX. DOUBTS AND FEARS
Monte Irvin raised his head and stared dully at Margaret Halley. It was very quiet in the library of the big old-fashioned house at Prince's Gate. A faint crackling sound which proceeded from the fire was clearly audible. Margaret's grey eyes were anxiously watching the man whose pose as he sat in the deep, saddle-back chair so curiously suggested collapse.
“Drugs,” he whispered. “Drugs.”
Few of his City associates would have recognized the voice; all would have been shocked to see the change which had taken place in the man.
“You really understand why I have told you, Mr. Irvin, don't you?” said Margaret almost pleadingly. “Dr. Burton thought you should not be told, but then Dr. Burton did not know you were going to ask me point blank. And I thought it better that you should know the truth, bad as it is, rather than—”
“Rather than suspect—worse things,” whispered Irvin. “Of course, you were right, Miss Halley. I am very, very grateful to you for telling me. I realize what courage it must have called for. Believe me, I shall always remember—”
He broke off, staring across the room at his wife's portrait. Then:
“If only I had known,” he added.
Irvin exhibited greater composure than Margaret had ventured to anticipate. She was confirmed in her opinion that he should be told the truth.
“I would have told you long ago,” she said, “if I had thought that any good could result from my doing so. Frankly, I had hoped to cure Rita of the habit, and I believe I might have succeeded in time.”
“There has been no mention of drugs in connection with the case,” said Monte Irvin, speaking monotonously. “In the Press, I mean.”
“Hitherto there has not,” she replied. “But there is a hint of it in one of this evening's papers, and I determined to give you the exact facts so far as they are known to me before some garbled account came to your ears.”
“Thank you,” he said, “thank you. I had felt for a long time that I was getting out of touch with Rita, that she had other confidants. Have you any idea who they were, Miss Halley?”
He raised his eyes, looking at her pathetically. Margaret hesitated, then:
“Well,” she replied, “I am afraid Nina knew.”
“Her maid?”
“I think she must have known.”
He sighed.
“The police have interrogated her,” he said. “Probably she is being watched.”
“Oh, I don't think she knows anything about the drug syndicate,” declared Margaret. “She merely acted as confidential messenger. Poor Sir Lucien Pyne, I am sure, was addicted to drugs.”
“Do you think”—Irvin spoke in a very low voice—“do you think he led her into the habit?”
Margaret bit her lip, staring down at the red carpet.
“I would hate to slander a man who can never defend himself,” she replied finally. “But—I have sometimes thought he did.”
Silence fell. Both were contemplating a theory which neither dared to express in words.
“You see,” continued Margaret, “it is evident that this man Kazmah was patronized by people so highly placed that it is hopeless to look for information from them. Again, such people have influence. I don't suggest that they are using it to protect Kazmah, but I have no doubt they are doing so to protect themselves.”
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