CHAPTER VII.
I AM SNUBBED BY SCOTLAND YARD.
Itwas "murder," as Parker had said. Even as I went down I was conscious of the horror, of the inhumanity, of letting a poor devil, tied hand and foot like a dog in a sack, go to his doom with never a chance of making a fight for his life. For myself, being a fair swimmer, and accustomed to a cold dip in rough seas, winter and summer, I was in no such fear as entirely to lose my presence of mind. The danger lay, of course, in my being sucked under the ship's bottom and drowned before I could make my way to the surface; but as the steamer was going very slowly and had taken us side-on, rather than with the prow, I managed in a very few seconds to get clear of her wash, and up, with open eyes, on the top of the water. Apparently no one on board the steamer was aware that she had struck and sunk a rowing boat, for she went slowly but steadily on her way, as if nothing had happened. Had we notchanced to enter a fog bank a few minutes before the collision, and had I not been engaged in loosening Parker's bonds, the probability is that the accident would not have occurred. What most concerned me, however, was not the cause of the mishap, but the whereabouts of poor Parker. Again and again I crossed and re-crossed the subsiding wash of the vessel's wake; again and again I halloed and called the unhappy man by name; but all, alas, to no purpose. Except for the answering bark of a dog from a barge in-shore, the hooting of the steamer's fog-horn, and the washing of the water, there was no reply, and, being somewhat exhausted, I gave up the search and struck out for the nearest shore. It had been slack water for the last half-hour, and the tide was, fortunately for me, only just upon the turn; so, without being carried far out of my course, I was able to reach the river's bank in safety. Wet as I was, I could not walk the streets without attracting attention, but, luckily for me, the very first vehicle which came along was a doctor's carriage. I shouted to the driver to stop, and explaining my plight to his master by saying I hadbeen run down in the fog while on the river, asked him to be so very good as to drive me to the police station. He not only consented, but plied me with a restorative of some sort which he had in his bag; and when I reached the station I was, except for a shivering fit, not very much the worse for my wetting. There, while I was having a rub down and changing into the clothes—a policeman's uniform—which was provided for me, I told my story. The superintendent was very civil. He said he was aware of the existence of the opium den in question, but otherwise knew of nothing criminal in connection with it, but would at once send a sufficient number of men to raid the place. He also rang up the river police on the telephone, suggesting that a boat should be sent out in search of Parker's body, and instructed a plain-clothes officer to accompany me in a cab to the address which I gave as my lodging. Whether this was done in order to verify the address, and because he suspected the truth of my story, I did not know, and did not care. It was a reasonable enough precaution to take, and, having nothing to conceal, I did not resent his taking it, and, indeed, wasnot sorry to have a companion upon my journey, for, now that the excitement which had buoyed me up was passing, I began to feel somewhat exhausted.
Next morning I took cab to Scotland Yard, where I sent in my name and business, and was at once received in audience by one of the heads. He greeted me courteously, heard my story out, interpolating a few shrewd and pointed questions now and then, and occasionally making a note.
When I had come to an end of my narrative he bowed gravely, and said:
"Thank you, Mr. Rissler. The superintendent at the station where you called has already communicated with us in regard to your statement. I'm not sure that what you have told us will be of any practical assistance, except in so far as it confirms what we already know. But we are obliged to you in any case. You have done rightly in coming to us. We will communicate with you should we want your further assistance. We have your address, I think? Thank you very much. Good morning."
"You know this man, the Dumpling, as they call him?" I inquired eagerly, ignoring my dismissal.
"Perfectly."
"What is there against him?"
"Nothing—absolutely nothing. He holds views which in some countries would get him into trouble, but in England one can talk anarchy or anything else as much as one likes, so long as one's actions keep within the law. And he keeps doubtful company. In fact, I may go so far as to say that we suspect him of knowing something beforehand of more than one outrage with which we have had to deal, though we have not yet been able to implicate him directly."
"And what's his name?" I asked.
Scotland Yard, as personified in the official before me, lifted its eyebrows and shrugged its shoulders.
"Really, Mr. Rissler, I don't think I must answer any more questions. As I have said, you have done quite right in coming to us, though you haven't told us anything we didn't know before. But the matter is in the hands of Detective Grant, and I think you may safely leave it there."
"Oh, yes," I said. "Grant's a good man. He's a friend of mine. We worked together, he and I, in more than one case in the past."
"Indeed!"
Scotland Yard did not seem particularly interested in these autobiographical details, either about myself or about Grant.
"Indeed," it repeated with an air of bland boredom, rising from its chair to indicate that the interview was at an end.
"I've done some detective work myself, as you perhaps know," I went on; "and having been pitchforked, as it were, into this particular case, I'm more than inclined to see if I can make anything of it; in which case, should I discover anything, I should, of course, acquaint you with my discoveries, so that we could co-operate together."
"You are very considerate," replied Scotland Yard, sarcastically; "but I fancy we are tolerably competent to do our work without outside assistance. I've heard of you, Mr. Rissler. You do a little investigation on your own account, don't you?—and then write stories about it after. Well, with the story-writing I have no fault to find. I haven't read any of your stories, but I'm told they are quite harmless. But, really, don't you think this is a case which is best let alone by amateurs? We can'tstop you from interfering as they do in medicine, where quacks are pulled up pretty sharp by the law, but if you take my advice you'll let the detection of crime alone, except in novels, where I have no doubt you acquit yourself very creditably. But really I can't spare any more time for further discussion. Again we are obliged to you for having come to us with your story. If anything should transpire to make it necessary to communicate with you again, you shall hear from us. Good morning."
"Quacks!" I said to myself, angrily, as I stalked out with my head in the air. "I've been the means, as they know, of bringing more than one criminal to justice, and here I'm called a quack by a supercilious representative of officialdom."
Outside in Whitehall I called a cab.
"—— police station," I said. "You can wait and bring me back, so don't raise your eyebrows. If I don't come back, I'll pay your fare all the same."
"Right, sir," he said, evidently in good spirits at the prospect of a long and lucrative job, the good spirits in question being manifested at somebody else's expense.
"What!bothof you awake!" he calledout in surprised astonishment to a couple of carmen who blocked his way for a moment with their vans.
Then, chuckling at the fact that a somewhat limited vocabulary could not bear the strain which an apparently unlimited knowledge of his family tree placed upon it, and so necessitated the inclusion and description of himself and his entire ancestry in one simple and comprehensive colour-scheme, he whipped up his horse, and directed its head eastward.