HE was the wife of a Chinese sailor," said the Inspector. "We haven't had time to find out very much more about her."
Carey nodded shortly. This was a misty morning, with a damp tang in the air, and he suppressed a shudder, glancing aside at Detective-Inspector Whiteleaf, his companion. The shudder may have had a physical cause or it may have been due to the memory of an unpleasant task which he had just accomplished.
No one of the party assembled in the office of that East End Police Station looked altogether happy, since all but Carey had been called from their beds fully an hour earlier than usual. For his part he had not slept at all. From Muir Torrington's house he had communicated with the Commissioner; the Limehouse police had busied themselves in the small hours; and now at a time when newly awakened London began to think of breakfast, he was already on the spot. Ridden by restless doubts and fears, Carey found himself an object of unusual interest and curiosity to the sleepy officials, who failed to understand the urgency or importance of the case.
Why the death of a half-caste woman in Pennyfields, apparently from natural causes, should result in this early morning visit from an inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, accompanied by a private inquirer armed with wide discretionary powers, was a mystery to all of them. The Divisional Surgeon had very resentfully attended this unusual conference. But beyond mentioning a curious mark upon the body, which might indicate that some kind of injection had been made, he confessed himself unable to account for the woman's death. A post-mortem examination must take place, and from this some results might be hoped for.
"Very well, Inspector Whiteleaf," said Carey; "suppose we go along to the house now? You know the way, I take it."
"I do," replied the Inspector grimly. "This district at one time was my special province."
Carey's two-seater was at the door, and through the early morning mist they set out, down West India Dock Road and into Pennyfields. It was unfamiliar territory to Carey and he drove slowly, looking about him.
He was in the heart of Chinatown. Open doorways afforded glimpses of mixed households. Some of the domestic intimacies revealed must have astonished one unaccustomed to the naïvete of the Oriental. White women and half-caste children he saw in plenty—all busily employed; the Chinamen, when visible, for the most part sat on their steps smoking and enjoying the morning air. Then:
"Here we are, sir," said the Inspector, and Carey pulled up the car at the end of a narrow courtway. He endeavoured to picture the scene enacted on the previous evening—the hunchback shuffling along and turning this very corner; the gaunt, nervous figure of Muir Torrington breaking into a run. His imagination visualized this unsavoury court by night and he wondered if he should have had the courage to push the thing so far as Torrington had done.
A constable was on duty before the house and he saluted as Whiteleaf and Carey came up.
"I am surprised that there are no onlookers, Inspector," said the latter, when they had entered the house, Whiteleaf pulling the string descending from the letter-box as described by Torrington.
"In almost any other district there would be," was the reply; "but in this quarter half the inhabitants are Asiatics and they don't seem to have any curiosity about anything, and the other half are so curious where the police are concerned that they keep well out of the Way. There's the sofa she was lying on, sir."
They were in the room depicted by Torrington—a small and dingy apartment. The ragged blind had been rolled up, allowing the morning light to flood the place. The sofa referred to was an antique of the horsehair description, and to all intents and purposes it was the only solid piece of furniture in the room. There were two common cane-seated chairs both of them restored with no regard for artistic effect, and a very rickety table, upon which was spread a stained green cloth. In the grate a fire was laid. On the mantel-shelf, draped with perfectly colourless material which at some time had been red plush, were cheap ornaments and an American clock. Above it hung a photograph of the late Lord Kitchener, obviously cut from an almanac, and adorned by a really beautiful but badly damaged Japanese frame.
Through the doorway mentioned by Torrington they proceeded into a small kitchen and:
"You see," said the Inspector, pointing, "there's a sort of little scullery beyond, with a door opening on to the yard."