THE IDENTITY OF MONSIEUR JUNOT
Apparently Shanghai was at last awakening to its peril and wild rumors filtering into the Settlement from the Native City declared that not only were all of General Yuan Li-tsing’s battalions wavering, but that despite frequent proclamations from the Governor of Kiangsu three of them had actually gone over to Wang Kung.
Intelligence that the Mongol General had taken Kwangtechow and was now bearing rapidly down on Soochow seemed not to have been so demoralizing as the news that Marshal Wu Feng-pei was becoming ominously active in the vicinity of Chinkiang, where the myriad waterways made the tracing of his movements almost impossible.
Almost at a run, North hurried up the steps of the Central Police Station with a paper parcel which clinked gently tucked beneath his arm: the result of a hurried visit to a chemist’s shop on Shantung Road.
Regardless of several harassed officials who tried to stop and question him, the Intelligence Captain hurried into an office where Bruce Kilgour was anxiously awaiting him.
“Campaign’s about set to begin,” he remarked and hurried to the telephone.
The Englishman stared a little. “What took you so long?”
“Tell you later. Get two of the best Chinese plainclothes men available—have them report here at once.”
Kilgour, who knew his Hugh North, said nothing more and hurried out while the Intelligence Captain rang up the Marine barracks. Luckily Major Leonard was within reach.
“North? Had any luck?”
“Some. I’m right in the middle of things.” North’s accent was short and sharp. “Can you communicate with Admiral Clegg quickly?”
“Yes.” Equally brisk were the Marine major’s replies. “We’re in constant communication. We’ve a wigwag on top of the barracks—a wireless, too, of course.”
“Good. This is my advice. Destroyers should leave immediately to patrol the Yangtze below the entrance of the Whangpoo. How many can Clegg spare?”
“Probably two; he’s only got four.”
“Right, then request him to hold the other two ready for immediate action.”
“I’m sure he’ll cooperate. What orders for the two destroyers downstream?”
“They’re to locate a French freighter called the Dong Hoi if possible. She belongs to the Compagnie Cambodienne—one green and black funnel; the bridge is aft.”
“Right. Want her seized? I could get an order from the S. N. O. (*Senior naval officer) right away.”
“No, international complications. They’re only to report the freighter’s position and stay near her until further orders.”
“Right. How do you spell Dong Hoi?”
The Intelligence Captain gave the desired information, then continued: “Mr. Kilgour is requesting the British to also supply destroyers. I suggest our ships cooperate with them.”
“Right. Why this interest in the Dong Hoi?”
“As nearly as I can find out, Major, she brought Wang Kung’s munitions to Shanghai, and she may still have them aboard. At this point I can’t be sure.”
“I see. And you want the two other destroyers held ready?”
“Yes. Have them keep up steam until further notice.”
“I will. I only hope you’re on the right track, Captain. We’re all scared stiff. It wasn’t so bad until battalions of Yuan’s deserted, but now anything can happen. Anything more?”
“No, Major, I’ll call again at the first opportunity.”
Captain North had barely replaced the receiver when Kilgour returned accompanied by two slovenly-looking nondescript Chinese, who, except for the alert, hard glitter of their eyes, might have been taken for barrow coolies.
“Very good men,” was all he said. “You can rely on them completely. This is Inspector Hsing and this is Inspector Fu.”
“Right. Now, you, Inspector Hsing,” he turned to the nearest plainclothes man, “get another man you can trust and watch Number 107 Rue Eugene Bard front and back. Avoid the French police, and if anyone answering these descriptions enters those premises, phone here at once.”
Succinctly, graphically, North described Smith, Steel, and Junot.
“Can do, Captain.”
“Now, you,” North instructed Inspector Fu, “go to Number 42 bis Rue Voisin. That is Junot’s alleged residence. Watch it for Smith and Junot. If either or both of them appear, follow them. Phone here the first chance you get, but,” he emphasized the words, “don’t lose sight of them no matter what happens!” As the two Chinese were hurrying out, the telephone rang again. Kilgour raised the receiver and listened intently while North unwrapped his bundle and produced half a dozen test tubes and four small bottles containing fluids of varying colors. He glanced up to see the Englishman somberly replacing the receiver.
“That was Inspector O’Hearn from the West Hong-kew Station. He’s scared stiff. Said there’s the very deuce of a panic on in Chapei; said there’s serious rioting reported in the Native City and trains from the direction of Nanking are jammed with refugees.”
“That’s bad,” North said, “the Chinese get panicky so damned easily.”
“There’s still worse news,” Kilgour announced. “Before you got here our consul called up to say that General Yuan has definitely decided to abandon the city in the morning unless he can be sure that the munitions won’t reach Wang Kung.”
“Lots of news and all bad—what a cheering outlook.”
“What are you doing?” Kilgour inquired, as North began hurriedly uncorking his collection of bottles.
“Going to try to find out the approximate hour of Greenway’s death. You see, it’s pretty important—it’ll determine our next moves, I expect.”
“Do you mean to say you can tell how long ago that gun was fired?”
“I can tell within an hour,” was the taller man’s quiet reply.
Quickly Captain North arranged before him a large bottle marked distilled water, a smaller one marked barium chloride, and two others marked respectively salts of lead and ferrocyanide of potassium.
On learning that Kilgour’s assistants had already registered the fingerprints, the Intelligence Captain emptied the revolver’s chambers of remaining bullets and noted that only one shot had been fired.
After removing the cork North poured distilled water, a little at a time, through the revolver barrel and caught the fluid in a clean washbasin. This done he even went so far as to cork one end of the revolver barrel and to sluice water back and forth through the tube. As he worked he briefly retailed his interview with Ruby, then commenced an explanation of his experiment.
“First we pour a little barium chloride into a test tube full of this water to test for traces of sulphuric acid; next we repeat the operation with salts of lead to try to produce alkaline sulphides.”
Uncanny deftness characterized the Intelligence Captain’s operations as he filled the first two tubes.
“And then, Bruce, we use ferrocyanide of potassium to see if there are salts of iron present. So.” He faced his companion with thoughtful crow’s feet visible at his eye corners. “Now we’ve found no green crystals of ferrous sulphate nor minute traces of rust in the barrel, so we have already taken the first steps on our analysis.
“The distilled water, as you see, remains light yellow in color, but there are traces of sulphuric acid. Now”—she picked up the tube containing salts of lead and the water from the revolver barrel—“do you see? The salts have created those tiny black particles which are alkaline sulphides. Now we’ll look at the solution with ferrocyanide.”
His face lit immediately as he sniffed at it. “It smells of sulphureted hydrogen.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means General Sam Steel did not kill Greenway.”
“Why?”
“Steel had been with Greenway probably less than an hour before our arrival, but the other two suspects were on the scene two hours previous to Steel’s. These reactions prove beyond doubt that the revolver was fired sometime during the visits of those first two callers.”
“You’re positive of that?”
“Yes. You see, Bruce, this is one of a series of well known tests which can determine whether a firearm has been fired within two hours, within twenty-four hours, within five days, ten days, or more.”
Deep interest was manifest on the Englishman’s face when North dipped up a portion of the distilled water and tilted it into a test tube containing a few drops of barium chloride.
“We’ll test it again,” he announced, “just to be sure.”
Soon North straightened, and a little sigh escaped his tightly compressed lips. “No doubt of it. I’ll take my oath that this revolver was fired over two hours before we got to Greenway’s. That definitely lets out Steel.”
Admiration shone in the Englishman’s bright-blue eyes. “Deuced clever, Hugh. Well, what’s next?”
“We’re going to try to prove those fingerprints.”
“How can you? We’ve no records of any of the suspects. I’ve looked through the files here.”
“Nevertheless, Bruce, I have records of Chang, Smith, and Steel. Hand me that bundle of knives, will you?”
Silently, the English agent passed over the knives he had last beheld on the table in Captain Carstairs’s cabin.
North took up a camel’s-hair brush, dipped it in lampblack, and gently dusted the surface of the knife labeled with Chang’s name. Prints satisfactorily clear soon appeared and, with the help of a magnifying glass, the Intelligence Captain compared them to the prints found on the revolver.
“They’re not Chang’s,” North announced, “so by process of elimination we know Junot must have been the murderer!”
Kilgour nodded. “What are you going to do with those other knives?”
“Oh, just going to compare Steel’s prints as a checkup to make sure my tests on the gun didn’t go wrong.”
Again the comparison proved negative.
“Might as well go the whole hog,” North remarked, and dusted the third knife, which was labeled with the name of Michael Smith.
“But why do that? Smith wasn’t there.”
“I might as well get a clear print of Smith’s fingers. Never can tell when they’ll come in useful.”
On the second stroke of the brush North’s sensitive but powerful brown hands became checked in mid-motion.
“Good God!” he cried softly and then again, “Good God! Look at that!”
After Kilgour had studied the two prints he looked up in startled surprise. “Why—why—you’ve made some mistake, Hugh. Smith must have been at Greenway’s, too, and handled that gun after Junot.”
“Don’t think so,” North declared after a hurried consideration of the suggestion. “There was only one set of fingerprints on that gun, and they were Smith’s; I didn’t suspect because this time he didn’t sight with his finger along the barrel—probably didn’t have time.”
“Then you think—?”
“Yes. Ten to one, Junot and Smith are the same man!”