"Good evening, Durham. Anything to report?"
"Yes. Lou Chada is here again."
"With whom?"
"Lady Rourke."
Kerry stepped to the edge of the pavement and spat out a piece of
chewing-gum. From his overcoat pocket he drew a fresh piece,
tore off the pink wrapping and placed the gum between his teeth.
Then:
"How long?" he demanded.
"Came to dinner. They are dancing."
"H'm!" The Chief Inspector ranged himself beside the other
detective in the shadow of the doorway. "Something's brewing,
Durham," he said. "I think I shall wait."
His subordinate stared curiously but made no reply. He was not
wholly in his chief's confidence. He merely knew that the name
of Lou Chada to Kerry was like a red rag to a bull. The
handsome, cultured young Eurasian, fresh from a distinguished
university career and pampered by a certain section of smart
society, did not conform to Detective Sergeant Durham's idea of a
suspect. He knew that Lou was the son of Zani Chada, and he knew
that Zani Chada was one of the wealthiest men in Limehouse. But
Lou had an expensive flat in George Street; Lou was courted by
society butterflies, and in what way he could be connected with
the case known as "the Limehouse inquiry," Durham could not
imagine.
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