The Clue of the New Pin

The establishment of Yeh Ling was just between the desert of Reed Street, and the sown of that great and glittering thoroughfare which is theatreland. The desert graduated down from the respectable, if gloomy, houses where innumerable milliners, modistes and dentists had their signs before the doors and their workrooms and clinics on divers landings, to the howling wilderness of Bennet Street, and in this particular case the description often applied so lightly is aptly and faithfully affixed, for Bennet Street howled by day and howled in a shriller key by night. Its roadway was a playground for the progeny of this prolific neighbourhood, and a “ring” in which all manner of local blood-feuds were settled by waist-bare men, whilst their slatternly women squealed their encouragement or vocalized their apprehensions.

Yeh Ling’s restaurant had begun at the respectable end of the street and he had specialized in strange Chinese dishes. Later it had crept nearer and nearer to The Lights, one house after another having been acquired by the unhappy looking oriental, its founder.

Then, with a rush, it arrived on the main street, acquired a rich but sedate facia, a French chef and a staff of Italian waiters under the popular Signor Maciduino, most urban of maîtres d’hôtel, and because of gilded and visible tiles, became “The Golden Roof.” Beneath those tiles it was a place of rosewood panelling and soft shaded lights. There was a gilded elevator to carry you to the first and second floors where the private dining-rooms were⁠—these had doors of plate glass, curtained diaphanously.

Walters answered the bell after some delay, for he was busily engaged in his own room on a matter that was entirely private to himself, and when he did answer the tinkling summons it was to find a brown-faced stranger standing on the broad step. He was dressed in an old suit which did not fit him, his linen was stained and his boots were patched, but his manner would not have been out of place in Lorenzo the Magnificent.

With his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, his soiled soft hat on the back of his head, he met the enquiring and deferential gaze of Walters with a calm and insolent stare, for Mr. Brown was rather drunk.

“Well, well, my man,” he said impatiently, “why the devil do you keep me waiting on the doorstep of my friend Jesse’s house, eh?” He removed one of his hands from his pocket, possibly not the cleanest one, and tugged at his short grey beard.

“Mr.⁠—er⁠—Mr. Trasmere is out,” said Walters, “I will tell him you have called. What name, sir?”

“Wellington Brown is my name, good fellow,” said the stranger. “Wellington Brown from Chei-feu. I will come in and wait.”

But Walters barred the way.

“Mr. Trasmere has given me strict orders not to admit anybody unless he is in the house,” he said.

A wave of anger turned Wellington Brown’s face to a deeper red.

“He has given orders!” he spluttered. “That I am not to be admitted⁠—I, Wellington Brown, who made his fortune, the swindling old thief! He knows I am coming!”

“Are you from China, sir?” blurted Walters.

“I have told you, menial and bootlicking yellow-plush, that I am from Chei-feu. If you are illiterate, as you appear to be, I will explain to you that Chei-feu is in China.”

“My uncle,” he gasped. “Go look.”

Carver rushed into the house and through the open door of the dining-room. It was empty, but at the side of the fireplace was a narrower door.

“Where is he?” asked the detective.

Rex could only point to the narrow aperture.

There was a flight of stone stairs which terminated in a narrow passage, barred by yet another door, which was also open. The corridor was well-lighted by three globes set at intervals in the ceiling, and the acrid smell of exploded cordite filled the confined space of the passage, which was empty.

“There must be a room opening from here,” said Carver, “whose are these?”

He stooped and picked up an old pair of gloves that lay on the floor and pushed them into his pocket.

He looked round for Rex Lander. That young man was sitting on the top step of the stairs, his face in his hands.

“There’s no sense in questioning him,” said Carver in an undertone, “where is his uncle?”

Tab walked rapidly down the passage and came to a door on the left. It was a narrow door painted black, and deeply recessed in the thick wall. There was no handle and only a tiny keyhole. Four inches from its top was a steel plate pierced with small holes for the purpose of ventilation. He pushed the door, but it was locked. Then he peered through the ventilator.

He saw a vault which he guessed was about ten feet long by eight feet wide. Fixed to the rough walls were a number of steel shelves, loaded up with black iron boxes.

“What has happened?”

“Stone Cottage is haunted,” was the staggering reply.

“Haunted?”

She nodded and a momentary smile came into her eyes, only to fade as quickly as it came.

“Not by a ghost,” she said, “but by a very human man, a mysterious individual in black. The woman who looks after me saw him the other night in the garden: I myself have seen him from my window and challenged him. He has been seen by other people pacing the road outside. Now tell me honestly, Tab Holland, am I under the observation of the police?”

The thought had also occurred to Tab.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Carver does not tell me everything, but he has never mentioned your name to me as being under the slightest suspicion. In black, you say?”

“Yes,” nodded the girl. “From head to foot in black, including black gloves. It was rather spectacular⁠—”

“Black gloves?” interrupted Tab. “I wonder if it is my burglar?” and he told her of the visitor who had come the night before.

“It is extraordinary,” she said, “more extraordinary because he was not seen last night. I am not usually nervous, but I must confess that it is a little worrying to know that somebody is watching me.”

“How did he come? Had he a car or bicycle, or did he come by train?”

On this point she could not enlighten him.

“I almost wish you had not come up,” said Tab. “If you had told me, I would have gone to Stone Cottage and stayed the night, especially after my burglar. I should like to meet the gentleman who treats my flat so unceremoniously.”

I go always to the brook.”

“You are a queer devil,” said Tab surveying the other curiously.

Yeh Ling did not answer for a while, and then he asked:

“Is there any news about the murder of Brown?”

“No,” said Tab, “where was he, Yeh Ling?”

“He was in a smoke house,” said Yeh Ling without hesitation. “I took him there at the request of my patron, Mr. Trasmere. The man had come over to give him trouble and Trasmere wanted me to look after him and see that he didn’t make himself a nuisance. Apparently Brown had these bouts and then recovered, as opium smokers sometimes do, with a distaste for the drug. He must have recovered very suddenly and was gone before I could stop him and before the man who owned the house could let me know. I searched for him, but he disappeared and I heard no more about him until I read in the newspapers that he was dead.”

Tab was thoughtful.

“Had he any friends? You knew him in China?”

Yeh Ling nodded.

“Was there anybody who had a particular grudge against him⁠—or against Trasmere?”

“Many,” said the other, “I, for example, did not like Brown.”

“But apart from you?”

Yeh Ling shook his head.

“Then you have not the slightest idea who was the murderer?”

Again the inscrutable gaze of Yeh Ling met his.

“I have an idea,” he said deliberately, “I know the murderer. I could lay my hands upon him without the slightest difficulty.”