Chief Inspector Kerry was a man who took many risks, but because
of this cursed fog he had no definite evidence that Chada's car
had gone to a certain house. Right of search he had not, and so
temporarily he was baffled.
Now the nearest telephone was his objective, and presently, where
a blue light dimly pierced the mist, he paused, pushed open a
swing door, and stepped into a long, narrow passage. He
descended three stairs, and entered a room laden with a sickly
perfume compounded of stale beer and spirits; of greasy
humanity--European, Asiastic, and African; of cheap tobacco and
cheaper scents; and, vaguely, of opium.
It was fairly well lighted, but the fog had penetrated here,
veiling some of the harshness of its rough appointments. An
unsavoury den was Malay Jack's, where flotsam of the river might
be found. Yellow men there were, and black men and brown men.
But all the women present were white.
Fan-tan was in progress at one of the tables, the four players
being apparently the only strictly sober people in the room. A
woman was laughing raucously as Kerry entered, and many coarse-
voiced conversations were in progress; but as he pulled the rough
curtain walls aside and walked into the room, a hush, highly
complimentary to the Chief Inspector's reputation, fell upon the
assembly.
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