entered close behind her, for the place was also a post-office. Whilst
he purchased a penny stamp and fumbled in his pocket for an imaginary
letter, he observed, with interest, that the woman had purchased, and
was loading into the hospitable basket, a bottle of whisky, a bottle of
rum, and a bottle of gin.
He left the shop ahead of her, sure, now, of his ground, always provided
that the woman proved to be Mrs. Brian. Dunbar walked along Forth Street
slowly enough to enable the woman to overtake him. At the door of number
36, he glanced up at the number, questioningly, and turned in the gate
as she was about to enter.
He raised his hat.
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Brian?”
Momentarily, a hard look came into the tired eyes, but Dunbar's
gentleness of manner and voice, together with the kindly expression upon
his face, turned the scales favorably.
“I am Mrs. Brian,” she said; “yes. Did you want to see me?”
“On a matter of some importance. May I come in?”
She nodded and led the way into the house; the door was not closed.
In a living-room whereon was written a pathetic history--a history of
decline from easy circumstance and respectability to poverty and utter
disregard of appearances--she confronted him, setting down her basket on
a table from which the remains of a fish breakfast were not yet removed.
“Is your husband in?” inquired Dunbar with a subtle change of manner.
“He's lying down.”
The hard look was creeping again into the woman's eyes.
“Will you please awake him, and tell him that I have called in regard to
his license?”
He thrust a card into her hand:--
DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR DUNBAR,
C. I. D.
NEW SCOTLAND YARD. S. W.
THE MAN IN BLACK
Mrs. Brian started back, with a wild look, a trapped look, in her eyes.
“What's he done?” she inquired. “What's he done? Tom's not done
anything!”
“Be good enough to waken him,” persisted the inspector. “I wish to speak
to him.”
Mrs. Brian walked slowly from the room and could be heard entering one
further along the passage. An angry snarling, suggesting that of a wild
animal disturbed in its lair, proclaimed the arousing of Taximan Thomas
Brian. A thick voice inquired, brutally, why the sanguinary hell he (Mr.
Brian) had had his bloodstained slumbers disturbed in this gory manner
and who was the vermilion blighter responsible.
Then Mrs. Brian's voice mingled with that of her husband, and both
became subdued. Finally, a slim man, who wore a short beard, or had
omitted to shave for some days, appeared at the door of the living-room.
His face was another history upon the same subject as that which might
be studied from the walls, the floor, and the appointments of the room.
Inspector Dunbar perceived that the shadow of the neighboring hostelry
overlay this home.
“What's up?” inquired the new arrival.
The tone of his voice, thickened by excess, was yet eloquent of the
gentleman. The barriers passed, your pariah gentleman can be the
completest blackguard of them all. He spoke coarsely, and the infectious
Cockney accent showed itself in his vowels; but Dunbar, a trained
observer, summed up his man in a moment and acted accordingly.
“Come in and shut the door!” he directed. “No”--as Mrs. Brian sought to
enter behind her husband--“I wish to speak with you, privately.”
“Hop it!” instructed Brian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder--and
Mrs. Brian obediently disappeared, closing the door.
“Now,” said Dunbar, looking the man up and down, “have you been into the
depot, to-day?”
“No.”
“But you have heard that there's an inquiry?”
“I've heard nothing. I've been in bed.”
“We won't argue about that. I'll simply put a question to you: Where
did you pick up the fare that you dropped at Palace Mansions at twelve
o'clock last night?”
“Palace Mansions!” muttered Brian, shifting uneasily beneath the
unflinching stare of the tawny eyes. “What d'you mean? What Palace
Mansions?”
“Don't quibble!” warned Dunbar, thrusting out a finger at him. “This is
not a matter of a loss of license; it's a life job!”
“Life job!” whispered the man, and his weak face suddenly relaxed,
so that, oddly, the old refinement shone out through the new, vulgar
veneer.
“Answer my questions straight and square and I'll take your word that
you have not seen the inquiry!” said Dunbar.
“Dick Hamper's done this for me!” muttered Brian. “He's a dirty, low
swine! Somebody'll do for him one night!”
“Leave Hamper out of the question,” snapped Dunbar. “You put down a fare
at Palace Mansions at twelve o'clock last night?”
For one tremendous moment, Brian hesitated, but the good that was in
him, or the evil--a consciousness of wrongdoing, or of retribution
pending--respect for the law, or fear of its might--decided his course.
“I did.”
“It was a man?”
Again Brian, with furtive glance, sought to test his opponent; but his
opponent was too strong for him. With Dunbar's eyes upon his face, he
chose not to lie.
“It was a woman.”
“How was she dressed?”
“In