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Updated: June 12, 2025
Yada lifted his hands and began to check off points on the tips of his fingers. "Three items, then, Mr. Levendale," he replied cheerfully. "First the knowledge of who has got the diamond and the money. Second the knowledge of where he is at this moment, and will be for some hours. Third the knowledge of how you can successfully take him and recover your property.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Yada, suspiciously, as they crossed the threshold. "All serene, mister!" answered Melky, reassuringly. "Friend o' mine here my cousin. All right and all secure. You're as safe here as you will be in your grave, mister s'elp me, you are! Zillah!" Zillah walked into the parlour and justified Melky's supreme confidence in her by showing no surprise or embarrassment.
"Let's know all we can we shall have to be in with you on this, you know." "Mr. Police-Inspector is right," said Yada. "You will have to conduct what you call a raid. Now, do precisely what I tell you to do. Pilmansey's is an old-fashioned place, a very old house as regards its architecture, on the right-hand side of Tottenham Court Road.
"I have seen them talking with him in Gower Street." "What's his name?" asked Ayscough, pulling out a note-book. "Mr. Mori Yada," answered the house-surgeon promptly. "He lives in Gower Street I don't know the precise number of the house. Yes, that's the way to spell his name. He's the only man I know who seemed to know these two." "Have you seen him lately?" asked Ayscough.
Now, I don't buy unless I know first what it is I'm buying. So let's know what you've got to sell?" Yada swept the room with a glance. "Before these gentlemen?" he asked. "In open market, eh?" "They're all either police, or detectives, or concerned," retorted Levendale. "There's no secret. I repeat what have you got to sell? Specify it!"
Probably, Yada, from his window in the drawing-room floor of his lodging-house, had watched him and Melky slip across the street and hide behind the hoarding opposite.
Evidently assured himself that there was no one about, let himself out, and was gone. By all the solemn oaths that he could think of, Yada swore that this was true. Of another thing he was certain the murderer was a Chinese. Now began his own career of crime. He was just then very hard up. He had spent much more than his allowance he was in debt at his lodgings and elsewhere.
Obviously, the first thing to do was to have the stations at Victoria, and Charing Cross, and Holborn Viaduct, and London Bridge carefully watched for Yada. And for two weary hours in the middle of the night he was continuously at work on the telephone, giving instructions and descriptions, and making arrangements to spread a net out of which the supposed fugitive could not escape.
Yada laughed pleasantly, showing his white teeth. He dropped into the chair which Ayscough pushed forward, and slowly drew off his gloves. "I assured myself of something last night after you left me," he said, with a knowing look. "I used your card to advantage, Mr. Detective. I went to the mortuary." Ayscough contrived to signal to the Inspector to leave the talking to him.
And at that, he, Yada, had slipped into the house, quietly closed the front door behind him, gone into the front room, hidden himself behind a curtain and waited. Into that front room, Chen Li had presently conducted a man. He was, said Yada, a low-class Englishman what is called a Cockney. He had begun to threaten Chen Li at once. He told his tale.
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