Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

Lin Po and Dragon’s Blood by B. H. Schrier

Toward evening the rain chilled to sleet and the crazy cobbled streets glazed with ice, too slippery for riding a bicycle. Lin Po’s thighs were soaked. Water ran down his neck as he pushed the handlebars, threading his way through stalled traffic in the wintry darkness. He heard the impatient piping of an ambulance approaching.

Around the next turn he came upon a frantic scene. At a construction site a heavy steel scaffold had fallen, blocking the street. There was one officer on duty, a woman from Traffic Control. He parked his bike and took charge, diverting traffic around the jammed intersection, making room for the ambulance.

Three persons were carried off in it. When a team arrived from the local precinct, Lin looked for the construction boss, who labored with his crew to disassemble the wreckage and clear the street.

Lin Po was off duty, but he felt it his duty to ask a question or two. “What was the cause of this, in your opinion?”

The boss, and Lin Po did not ask his name, snarled, “It is enough just clearing the accursed street. Who has time to look for excuses?” His hard hat dripped little icicles, and he did not stop his labors but helped two other men lift a section of scaffolding into a heavy truck.

Rebuffed, Lin Po went to the base of the scaffold, where it was obvious the incident had begun. The pipe scaffold had fallen four stories in a crazy twisted shape. With his flashlight Lin Po examined each joint that had separated and the mud nearby.

The scaffold was made with heavy steel pipes assembled with steel pins, the pins held in place by “keeper” rings. There were eight places where the pipes had come apart, and those eight sockets were empty of pins. Look as he might, Lin found no place where the pins had fallen to the mud. The eight pins had disappeared or never existed.

When a local deputy inspector arrived, Lin Po introduced himself and was excused from further service. He arrived at his mother’s home a full hour late.

Lin Po removed his shoes. “I’m sorry, Mother.” He wiped his bicycle with a rag and brushed the tires clean, removing every trace of mud and water before taking it inside. She shut the door, and the smoke of smoldering joss sticks stopped wavering above the altar table.

“It’s all right. I wasn’t finished with the floors anyway. I always like to have the house spotless for the New Year.” She spread newspaper just inside the door, and he rolled the cycle onto it.

“It’s getting colder. There was ice.” He crossed his arms, tucking his hands in his armpits, but his uniform was damp and offered no warmth. “A regrettable accident where they are building the People’s Bank, and I had to stop.”

She offered him a towel and a robe. “Someone was hurt? How sad to start the year in such a way. Some hot tea for my son? You are ready for supper, I should think.”

“Yes, thank you, Mother.” He sat crosslegged at the round table. “Two were killed. A scaffold fell.”

“Not unexpected, though.” She brought his soup, a large bowl of noodles with fish balls. “Everyone knows they shouldn’t build in that place. Bad fung shui.”

He grasped his mother’s hand and smiled. “So now you are a fung shui expert. But maybe those who put up the scaffold were in a hurry. Maybe one was drunk, or stupid with hunger and cold. We still have hunger, Mother, despite what you read.”

“Don’t argue with your mother. No one would build a tomb in that place. The intersection lies low and wet, on the north side of the hill. Always there are accidents there, in the street. Not so long ago, it is said, a gibbet stood at the crossroads, where criminals were hanged until the birds picked out their eyes. Why, just last year — sit, my son. I’ll serve you—”

“No, Mother. You sit. I’ll pour the tea.”

They ate without speaking until Lin Po looked up, wanting to break the silence. “You will say nothing of this, Mother, but I think the two were murdered.”

“Oh my! Don’t speak of such things at my table.” She made a sign to chase evil away.

“I’m sorry. I will say no more. The problem is, I can’t prove the crime. I don’t even have a suspect.”

That night he slept in his mother’s house, and he dreamt of fish. Two talking fish.

“The Ninth District is far outside your jurisdiction.” Chief Inspector Yu was clearly unhappy. “Have you so little to do, Deputy Lin, that you must make work for yourself?”

“I have plenty to occupy my time, chief inspector. But I was the first officer at the scene, and the third victim is yet close to death—”

“And therefore you feel compelled to make a report.” The chief unwound a rubber band from a pack of cigarettes. The rubber band served as a small reminder that he wished to stop smoking. “Unless I err, you were actually off duty, on holiday leave at the time?” He did not take a cigarette but held the pack in both hands and stared at it.

“On my way to my mother’s house, actually.”

“Ah. Inspector Koon will be pleased to receive your gratuitous observations, especially since they are the direct opposite of his. Inspector Koon, I remind you, is brother-in-law to a judge of the People’s Court. A very powerful family.” He returned the pack to his pocket.

“Yes, I know. I have not seen Inspector Koon.”

“I suggest you renew your acquaintance with the inspector before you present this report for distribution. Perhaps you will see a way in which you can avoid being assigned to an outpost in farthest Mongolia. Remember what happened to Won Wai.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “And before you release that report, be sure it bears my chop.”

“Thank you, chief inspector.”

Won Wai would not be forgotten by any who had known him. Twelve years and the man was still in Mongolia, in Kashgar, at the far edges of the Mongolian desert, a lone Han among Muslims who drank tea with butter in it. Such is the fate of one who questions his superiors.

She greeted him at the top of the stair. “What a surprise, to see my son twice in the same week!”

“I’m sorry, Mother. Didn’t you get my message?” Once more Lin Po cleaned and dried his bicycle.

The little round woman peered across the street. “Here comes the messenger now, that loafer! He knows not to expect a tip from me, so he waits in the comfort of the tavern until you come, to make his delivery.”

But the courier was not entirely moved by greed. “Deputy Inspector Lin Po? I have a message, to your hands only.” Then he turned to Lin’s mother. “Have also one for you, Grandmother.” He received a tip, after all, but from Lin Po’s hand.

The message was from Inspector Koon, Ninth District, and Lin Po read it the second time aloud: “Deputy inspector: I have been informed that you will be in my district on personal business, and I would be honored if you would stop by my office, at your convenience, of course.”

“Isn’t that nice, so polite.” His mother shuffled to the kitchen. “Inspector Koon must be a very nice man.”

“Or a very angry one. Maybe he is too polite.” But Koon couldn’t have heard from Lin Po. He had never sent his report to anyone. Only his own chief inspector could have mentioned the report. A chill cramped his stomach.

“Mother, what is the gossip about the construction accident, first day of New Year?”

“Oh, the usual, you know. Some say that Lo Pan, god of carpenters, has been offended, since steel was used instead of the traditional bamboo scaffolding. Others point to the red soil that was found in the diggings, saying it is dragon’s blood. No priest was called when the dragon was disturbed, which is the height of foolishness as anyone will tell you.”

“And what do you say, Mother?”

“Same I said to you. Bad fung shui, that place.”

Lin Po could not bring himself to accuse his mother of betraying a confidence. But he slept poorly, worrying about the meeting with Inspector Koon. And once again the two talking fish appeared in his dreams.

Unlike his peers in other precincts Koon made his office on the first floor of the police building. This was not, as it appeared, from a desire to keep close watch on his officers. No, the building was old, and the district prone to earthquakes. Koon had cut a private exit door, quite near his desk, leading directly to the street.

Lin Po was admitted at once without waiting. This was a good sign as was Inspector Koon’s smile.

“Ah, deputy inspector. Welcome to our little corner of the world.” He looked at his receptionist. “Some tea, quickly.” Another good sign. After sitting, Koon plunged at once into his subject.

“You were the first officer at the scene of an accident in the time of the New Year? Of course you were. I spoke with your chief inspector recently. He suggested that since you would be here on leave to visit your mother it might be rewarding if we chatted more about your... ah... observations at the time. There has been much public sensation around this unfortunate affair but very little hard evidence.”

This was not a good sign, since he had no hard evidence. The tea arrived.

“You may not be aware that, on the next day after the accident, a letter was posted to the chief architect.” Koon waved a paper with hand-inked characters.

“I was not aware, no, sir.”

“This letter, not signed, claims responsibility for the tragedy, which makes it a double murder at the very least.” He passed the letter across the desk. Lin Po pulled on cotton gloves. Written in the stiff, formal manner of long ago, the letter was addressed to Architect Sim, stating that the construction disturbed sacred ground and politely threatening more accidents until work was stopped and the soil replaced. He held the sheet to the light. There was a faint smudge of bright red on the reverse side in a lower corner.

“Inspector, when the victims were taken away, I examined the scaffold. It collapsed from one side only, coming apart at the bottom, but few pipes had buckled. I looked for the metal pins that secure these pipes to each other, expecting to find they had sheared from excessive stress. I found no pins at all in that first section.”

“None?” The inspector had a way of scowling whenever he asked a question, a manner which would upset any witness.

“Eight pins were missing, inspector. It hardly seems possible that I could miss finding even one of eight pins, or their broken remains, despite the mud.”

Koon smiled. “I knew our meeting would be profitable. By the time we received this letter, the scaffolding had been taken apart and any footprints destroyed.”

Again he scowled. “Your chief inspector suggested that because of your excellent reputation in dealing with superstitious people you might consent to look into this matter with us while you are here. Of course, we don’t wish to take you from your mother...”

“I shall be happy to offer my services. But I must have the official approval of—”

The inspector smiled. “I have already received the approval of your chief, in writing. Deputy Chiang is in charge of the investigation. His office is on the third floor, rear.”

Chiang was an older man wearing a dirty shirt and a harried scowl. He favored a limp and a narrow mustache that straggled to his chin, and he watched Lin Po approach from the edge of his eyes. Lin Po told his story quickly, trying not to make a judgment about the man’s slovenly ways.

Chiang sighed. “So, it was deliberate. My hope was that the letter was a prank. Now we have another nasty tangle and the promise of more paperwork.” He gathered a sheaf of paper and slapped it to his desk.

“You have examined the letter,” said Lin Po. “Did you notice the reverse side?”

Chiang’s eyes turned opaque. “I noticed the brushwork, which was not done by a scholar. There was nothing written on the back.”

“No. Nothing written.” A thought struck Lin, and he was silent, thinking.

Chiang snarled. “You are still here? I should think you’d have done enough, for one day.”

“Sorry, Chiang.” He omitted the man’s title. “I will speak to the architect and give you a report. Until tomorrow, then?” He didn’t wait for a response because his anger lay too close to his mouth.

Sim and the project manager waited for him, not in their generous and comfortable offices but in a large room filled with drawing boards and busy draftsmen. The two were most polite at first, answering Lin Po’s questions with smiles.

“Have there been other threats like this?” he asked.

Sim smiled. “Actually, yes. Two other letters were brought to my attention a week or so before the tragedy. I reported them, of course.”

Lin Po recognized Sim as the man in the hard hat at the accident scene. “The police were advised?”

“Actually, no, I told the bureau’s directors. No offense, deputy inspector, but no one likes to disturb our busy police department. You understand—”

“The law requires that such matters of public safety must be reported.” Lin Po’s face was a blank. “But for your thoughtfulness the tragedy might have been prevented. Where are these other letters?”

“I have them ready for you,” and he gave Lin Po an envelope, “with copies of my correspondence, giving the dates they were received and where they were posted—”

Lin Po put on his gloves and drew the letters into the light. These too were roughly brushed in what might be a student’s hand. And each bore on the reverse side faint smudges of color, this time blue and green. “I’ll need a fist of all people connected with this project. All construction people, all those from this office as well.”

Sim looked at the project manager, who looked at Lin with round, innocent eyes. “Every person connected — umm, that will take some time, you know.”

Lin Po did not blink. “With addresses and I.D. numbers, please. Anyone connected with the building from the very beginning. When do you think that could be ready?” He looked closely at the fingers of his gloves, then removed them, folding them with care.

Again Sim looked to the manager. “Three, maybe four weeks. There are many records to search—”

“It will require only two days to obtain a court order to close the work as a hazard to the public safety.” Lin smiled. “Meanwhile I can close it on my own authority at any time. Do you think you could have the list by this time tomorrow?”

The face of the works manager darkened. “You speak of three hundred, four hundred names!”

“We speak of a madman who will kill without warning. What is the cost of your list measured in the lives of our citizens?”

Sim showed his teeth. “Let’s compromise. We will find those who might have a reason to hold a grudge against the department.” He glanced again at the manager. “We will put as many people to work on this as necessary so we may have a partial fist by tomorrow morning at nine. We will have the rest in another twenty-four hours.” The works manager rubbed his knuckles but said nothing.

“Many thanks.” Lin Po stood. “Now I would like to see your file of the deeds for the property. It seems a shrine once stood on the site.”

“Certainly, deputy inspector. Miss Wang will get you anything of that nature that is in our possession.” He lifted his phone. “Miss Wang?”

One deed caught Lin’s attention. It was in the name of the family Eng and was recorded soon after the 1911 revolution. The family had indeed purchased a corner of the lot from the revolutionary government for the purpose of erecting a shrine. Unfortunately in 1960, during the Cultural Revolution, the shrine had been destroyed.

Just a year ago the property was officially conveyed to the government by the People’s Court for the reason of abandonment, and no record existed of expense for a priest to make peace with the spirit world. Miss Wang made copies of the entire file, which she tied in a plastic bag against the rain.

He received directions to the Court and Hall of Records, buying a bowl of rice on the way. At the Hall he was taken to the basement, to a short bald man who seemed always to smile as though he knew something, some great secret he could not divulge to such as Lin Po.

“Ah, the Engs. A highly respected clan. Many scholars in that family, and regrettably many died in the Cultural Revolution. But you are interested in the revolution of Dr. Sun Yat-Sen and that dog Chiang Kaishek. Year of the revolution... here we are. Yes. Before the Manchus were overthrown, there were many executions of university students, teachers, publishers, in the name of the boy emperor. All is recorded here, Comrade Lin.”

And there it was. Eng, father and son, with eleven other agitators, were put to death at the public gibbet for “crimes against the Empire.”

Lin Po asked, “Were the bodies given over to their families?”

The man smiled more brightly. “Oh no. It was thought to be more — effective to deny such persons a proper tomb. They were buried near the gibbet in quicklime and the site paved over so the noise of traffic would forever disturb their sleep.”

“And where would the Engs be found today?”

He pulled a knitted cap over his bald head against the chill of the basement. “All over China, I suspect. There is a very large clan in Hong Kong, I am told. But here — not so many now. Perhaps the Bureau of Census, third floor?”

It occurred to Lin that the name Eng also means “fish.” A coincidence, of course. Dreams are but a wiping clean of the memory, a dumping of useless data from temporary storage. Just a coincidence that he should dream of a talking fish or two.

There was no computer yet in this office of the Bureau of Census. Any compilation would have to be made by hand, which would require several days. Lin took a chance.

“Please give me only the names of those sons of Eng who are not scholars or teachers. I can wait for the rest.”

Of these the clerk could find only three. She wrote their names and addresses in neat classic characters, using a felt pen she had carefully shaped to a wedge point.

Consulting his map, Lin Po called on these three, but he found none of the men at home. He left word for each of them and hurried to his mother’s house, where she was busy preparing a special meal.

“Since your honorable father died, I have made good friends with some older ladies.” She poured tea in his cup. “They’ve taught me the western game of contract bridge, and it is my turn to be the hostess tonight.”

“That should appeal to your mathematical mind, Mother. Bridge is, of course, a matter of probabilities. Much more healthy for you than that bunch of would-be magicians and fortunetellers who played mah-jongg.”

“Shh!” she hissed. “They are even now at the door!”

But superstition was not absent from the cardtable. After an excellent meal, while his mother set the kitchen to rights, the other three ladies amused themselves with “spirit writing.” A tray was covered with sifted sand. The “pen” was a T-shaped wand of plastic. One woman balanced each arm of the T on the tips of her index fingers. The leg of the T ended in a hooked point that rested in the sand.

Soon the wand began to jitter across the sand, leaving its marks for the three to discuss as though they were actual writing.

His mother approached, removing her apron. “Would you like to try, my son? Just for fun.”

“I have no magic in me. But here’s a real game for those who do have a mind for the spirit world.” He took the clerk’s paper from his briefcase and laid it on the table, blank side up. “On this paper are three names. One of these may be the name of a murderer, but which one?”

From the back side they could see that there were three columns of characters. “Oh my!” exclaimed the eldest lady. “This is exciting, isn’t it? How shall we begin?”

Another said, “Can’t we use the wand? Scatter sand on the back of the paper, and ask the spirits to find the evil one.”

It was quickly prepared. Sand was sifted onto the paper and the wand put to work. For the first lady no clear answer was discovered.

“Let’s make it simpler,” said Po. “Just ask for a yes or a no. Spirits, is this the name of a murderer?”

The plastic point made a scrawl.

“Is this one a murderer?” The point skittered more violently.

“Is this, then, the one?” Another scrawl.

His mother exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. Kung, it’s so clear!” But Lin Po saw only the squiggles of an elderly hand.

Mrs. Kung passed the wand to another, and the sand was smoothed. The same question was asked, and confusion! A different answer was obtained.

Lin Po took the tray and turned it, again and again. “Try once more, please.” He offered his mother the wand.

An even different answer resulted. There was no need for statistics. No matter how Lin turned the tray, and even with the woman blindfolded, no one column of characters stood out.

“Ask a different question, my son.”

“Very well. Who will help me find the murderer?”

This time the wand scratched out the ideogram for a fish. A fine looking fish, and it was Lin Po’s own hands that drew the symbol.

The bridge game was still going on when he went to bed. It seemed to be as much a commentary on the rearing of grandchildren as it was a game of cards.

Only one of the three Engs worked anywhere near the construction site. This was a window washer, one Eng Cho, who spent his days swinging from a platform let down over the edges of roofs. Lin Po dressed himself as a postal worker and followed Eng Cho and his buckets homeward.

But Eng Cho did not climb the stair to his apartment. Instead, he turned away and entered a tavern. Lin Po followed, and soon the two sat at the same table, drinking beer. By chance a barber mentioned the accident, and Lin Po grasped his cue.

“The family Eng has also suffered tragedy at that site, is it not true, Comrade Eng?”

Eng Cho stared at Lin Po but said nothing. A fire of hatred and distrust smoldered behind his eyes.

Lin Po took a brown envelope from his mail pouch. “Would you look at these letters, and tell me what you think, Comrade Eng?”

Sweat stood up in drops on Eng Cho’s bald head. “I am a poor washer of windows. I know nothing of calligraphy and find trouble enough in signing my name.”

“I think you can read better than you would have me believe. Look again. The writing is not the hand of a scholar but was obviously written by a more humble sort.”

Eng Cho stared at the three copies. “Not so. A student cannot use the brush like a master, but a master can easily imitate a clumsy student.” He drained his mug.

“You are familiar with steel scaffolding?” asked Lin Po. “The keeper pins were missing from all eight of the scaffold’s first tier of pipes, a strange coincidence.”

“So?” Eng Cho gained a little courage, perhaps from the beer. “I know that such scaffolds will not fall, even with the pins missing. The pins are an extra safety measure in case the scaffold should be knocked about or shaken by an earthquake. You are a policeman, not a high-iron worker, or you would know such things.”

Lin Po considered Eng’s words. “If you wanted to make such a scaffold fall, how would you do it?”

“Not possible,” said Eng. “You would have to push it over with a truck.”

That night before retiring Lin Po wrote a report for the detective in charge of the investigation, the dour Chiang. The next day Chiang found Lin Po in the police laboratory, seated at a microscope examining the three anonymous letters.

Chiang scowled. “Chief Inspector Koon has ordered me to bring your three suspects in for questioning. You may be present if you wish.”

“Thank you, deputy inspector, but I have a few things to follow up.” Lin Po carefully caused a single drop of water to fall on the paper. Instantly the red smudge dissolved.

Chiang turned to leave. “Curious, isn’t it? Three suspects and a victim, all with the same family name.”

“The survivor is named Eng?” Lin Po felt stupid for not having asked the names of those dead and injured.

“Indeed, and from the same family of scholars who built the shrine that was tom down to make room for the bank. Oh, I should have mentioned that doctors think the survivor is now able to answer our questions. I plan to see him as soon as I have done with these other poor fish.”

“That is curious indeed,” said Lin Po. “Is the injured Eng a laborer?”

“He is a young engineer,” said Chiang, “not long out of school, but his family is humble enough. I think all four Engs might have the same grandfather.”

Chiang left, and Lin Po returned to his microscope. At 20X magnification, other bits of color were revealed, each adhering to the back sides of the three letters. The paper used was from three different sources; the ink was the black ink cake used by millions of calligraphers throughout Asia. Only the faint smudges of color were common to all three.

He took from his pocket his pair of cheap white gloves and carefully brought the microscope to bear on the fingers. The same flakes of color were revealed, trapped by fibers in the gloves. In only one place could Lin Po have picked up such a collection of pigments.

He slid the gloves into a plastic bag, which he labeled and placed in the file. Soon he was standing on the pedals of his bicycle, speeding between groaning trucks and honking buses and countless bicycles, on his way to the hospital.

The Intensive Care section was a ward, much like any other but equipped to care for those with special needs. A police officer stood at attention at the foot of the bed where Eng Tou lay. Lin Po asked her if Eng had had any visitors since he was admitted.

“Only the one,” she said, “his sister, who even now helps the nurse change dressings.” It was common practice for relatives to assume the minor tasks of nursing care, such as feeding or washing those who could not do so for themselves. “But I was advised to expect persons from his office to arrive today for the usual courtesies.”

Eng Tou lay with a leg raised and in traction. Both his arms were in casts, and the nurse was winding a new bandage around his head. Tubes entered his nose, and another snaked from beneath the gray sheet to a pouch half full of urine. His eyes peered from between purplish bruises, and his voice was faint and rasping.

The man’s sister was afraid of the police, like so many Chinese, and kept her eyes from Lin Po’s face. “I will come back when you are finished, deputy inspector,” she murmured.

“Please sit,” ordered Lin Po. “I will have questions for you before I leave.” She sat, with her hands in her lap and her head lowered, staring at her shoes. Lin Po too looked at her shoes, and thought they might cost as much as a new bicycle.

“He was very fortunate,” said the nurse, “to fall four stories and live. He clung to the scaffolding on the way down, and it partially broke his fall. But his limbs will heal, and his scalp is cut without serious head trauma.”

Lin Po asked outright, “Citizen Eng, have you any reason to believe that some person might wish you dead?”

His sister made a noise in her throat, and Eng’s eyes blinked. “No,” he said.

“Tell me what happened that night and why you were working after nightfall and in the freezing rain.”

Slowly his words emerged from the crisp white bandages. “A fault was discovered in the hoist motor. The chief architect ordered it replaced so that work might continue on schedule in the morning. As the engineering supervisor, I was ordered to test the hoist before I left the job site.

“We had just brought up the spare motor and let it rest on the scaffold when my feet were knocked from under me. I was thrown to the edge of the catwalk, where I clung to something with my hands and legs and watched the ground rise up to meet me. More I do not remember.”

“Your feet were knocked from under you?” Lin Po leaned closer. “Do you mean that some impact caused the fall?”

“Something struck the scaffold, and it whipped like a sapling, first one way, then the other, until it buckled and down we came, like a felled tree.”

From the hallway came the sound of voices and many feet. Lin Po turned to speak to Eng’s sister, but she was gone. He gave instructions to the policewoman and left after greeting Sim and his entourage.

The home of the chief architect was near the crest of a hill, with a view of the river, the sunset, and, far to the north, the Great Wall. A modest house it appeared from the street, but like so many traditional homes of the well-to-do, its luxuries were visible only to the family and their guests, from the inside.

Lin Po stood his bicycle on its kickstand and rang the antique bronze bell. A small stooped woman answered. “I am here to speak with the wife of Sim the chief architect.”

The woman’s eyes grew larger. “Not here! Not here!”

He produced a warrant and waved the official-looking paper beneath her nose. “Look again, Grandmother. Perhaps you are mistaken. Or shall I summon more officers and search the house?”

“You wait, please?” She shut the door and slid home the bolt. A few seconds passed, and she reappeared, to lead him down a dark hallway that smelled of sandalwood and incense. They passed through the length of the house to the walled garden behind, a small but exquisite space filled with evergreens, a fountain glazed with ice, and bronze sculptures signed by Sim himself.

He was surprised to see the lady of the house follow, pushing his bicycle, which she leaned against the moon gate. She murmured a few words to the amah, who left them alone.

She introduced herself as Rose. “How did you guess?” she asked in a voice low as a whisper. Only then did Lin Po recognize the woman who had called herself Eng’s sister.

“I didn’t, although I should have when I saw your shoes. They were expensive Italian shoes, for sale possibly in Hong Kong, and not the shoes I would expect to see on a woman from an humble family. Please sit.”

The stone benches were cold, and Lin Po’s pants were only cotton. “Tell me about young Engineer Eng.”

She twisted a square of lace between her fingers. “Eng and I met in college. We loved each other very much, but I was from a family that would never approve of our marriage. Instead, my parents arranged for me to marry a wealthy and influential architect, an older man.

“Two years passed, and I did not know Eng Tou’s address or what had happened to him. Sim kept me a prisoner in this house, a toy on a shelf. Then one day Eng’s supervisor sent him to carry some papers to Sim, for some urgent project that made him work at home, even on a holiday. I chanced to answer the door, and our love blossomed anew over the back wall. Like two wild birds we were, finding brief moments of happiness.”

Lin Po thought for a moment, I have no proof, only suspicion, that Sim is the guilty one. But if he would kill two bystanders to get at Eng, he will surely try again. And his quarry is never more vulnerable than when he lies in hospital, with one leg in the air.

He leaned forward. “Will you help me get the proof I need?”

Minutes later Lin Po left by the moon gate and the alley used by tradesmen.

That same night Lin Po lay in a hospital bed, his face obscured by a large, square bandage. Another officer lay in a bed just inside the door of the ward. Deputy Chiang sat in a chair, a snore bubbling from his nose. The ward’s lights were dimmed, the nurses at their station engrossed in the tedious paperwork of their profession.

A shadow flashed across the light from the hallway. Lin Po took two breaths before a tall figure dressed all in white entered the ward. In another three breaths the tall one stood between Lin Po and the victim in the next bed.

A muffled cry and the tall one had slipped a plastic bag over the bandaged head. He and his victim began a desperate but silent struggle.

Lin Po swung his legs sharply, striking the tall one behind the knees, making him fall to the floor. Lin Po was on him at once and found he was no match for the much stronger and larger man. Chiang entered the battle by striking the man with his chair, and soon the assassin was in handcuffs and leg irons.

“Get the bag off her head!” he shouted, for Rose had panicked under the plastic and could not, with bandaged fingers, pull it from her nose.

Once again at his mother’s apartment Lin Po sat while she fed him a breakfast sufficient for three men. “How did you come to suspect Sim?” she asked.

“At first I thought only of someone from his offices because of the traces of watercolors on the back of each threatening letter. Everyone there, including the director, has a workbench spattered with the colors used in his making of drawings.” He ate another bite. “The letters by themselves prove nothing except that the crime was planned well in advance.”

His chopsticks reached for a steaming hot dumpling. “Later I thought if the fall was a plot to kill a person that person had to be on the scaffold at a certain time. To make the accident happen, the murderer needed to smash into the scaffold with a truck. And to cover his tracks he had to remove the truck and the sabotaged scaffold before anyone could study the evidence.

“The only person at the scene with the authority to get these things done was Sim. Which led me to ask what could cause an intelligent man like Sim to throw three people to their deaths just to kill one of them? The French, of course, have a proverb for it: ‘Look for the woman.’ And sure enough, office gossip led me to the answer.”

His mother scooped warmed-over rice. “Where was this Eng while Rose took his place in the hospital?”

“In a bed at the far end of the ward. What delicious dumplings! You must have worked all night to feed me.”

“You deserve something special,” his mother said. “But how did you know Sim would strike last night?”

He had to swallow before he could answer. “I let it slip that today Eng would be flown to Beijing and the orthopedic hospital there for surgery. A he, but Sim felt he had only one chance to complete his revenge. And he nearly did, for if he had killed Rose—”

She reached out and touched her son’s hand. “And the two lovers? I trust they will find happiness at last.”

“I doubt that.” Lin Po poured tea for his mother, then for himself. “Rose feels she must stay by Sim’s side and see the thing through to the end. It is a wife’s duty, she said, a matter of honor. Unless Sim receives the death penalty, and with his powerful family, that is not to be expected, she will dress like a widow until—” He waved the chopsticks.

“Dragon’s blood! I told you so,” said the little round woman. “No good can ever come from disturbing a dragon. Bad fang shui!”