The Limehouse Text

23

Cyrus Barker was packing when I got back. His suitcase was open and he was taking shirts and other items from a large and ancient wardrobe in the corner of his room.

“What is going on?” I asked. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing involving the case. I am moving to our chambers for a few days.”

“Whatever for?”

Barker pointed to the stair. “That woman is insufferable. She puts sugar and lemon in my green tea. She moves things about to suit herself, puts vases of flowers on every table, and constantly pesters me with questions. She’ll never say one word when twenty will do. If I do not get out of here, I shall run mad.”

“Madame is only trying to be nice,” I pointed out. “When shall you return?”

“When Madame and her army are gone. Things are working out to your satisfaction, I am sure. All you need do is snap your fingers and there is a young lady at hand to romance. And speaking of young ladies, how was your evening with Miss Petulengro?” he asked irritably, brushing by me to get some ties and suspenders.

“It went well, but nothing stands out as being important over all. I’ll remind you that I went out with her at your request, sir.”

“I’m certain it must have been a trial for you. We’ll discuss it at the office tomorrow, then.” He locked the case and secured the straps around it.

“Why not simply tell Madame she and her maids are sacked?”

“That would not be fair to Mac. He is not yet ready to return to his duties. In any case, I like having Etienne here at night, since both you and Mac are indisposed.”

“Are you certain you will be all right?”

“Of course. We have a camp bed in the office and a fireplace. Public houses are ready to hand for sustenance, and perhaps I shall confound our killer by moving. At the very least, I shall get a moment’s peace.”

Madame was waiting in the hall. The door was open, and a cab was at the door. She stood silent and glacial, and I wondered if the two had exchanged words. Etienne came in, frowned as Barker passed with his suitcases, and watched along with the rest of us as our employer left. After he’d rattled off in the hansom and the maid had closed the door, Etienne began a fresh argument with his wife. Mac rolled his eyes and limped back into his sanctum, while I scurried upstairs and undressed for bed.

I had no sooner got under the covers when there came a sound out in the darkness that chilled my blood. It was the long, plaintive cry of a policeman’s whistle. Worse still, at the end of it, it broke off and began again, fitfully, as if the officer blowing the tune was being hindered somehow. Something was occurring again outside the house. The only good thing that could be said was that it wasn’t happening at two or three in the morning this time.

“Confound it,” I said in the corridor as I threw my dressing gown around my shoulders. After this case was over, I intended to sleep uninterrupted for most of a week.

Downstairs, I found Mac with his trusted shotgun cradled in his arms. We unbolted the back door and there we heard the most exquisite words in the English language.

“We’ve got ’im!” Two constables wrestled with a suspect between them, but they appeared to be getting the worst end of it. One had a missing helmet and the other a bloody nose. The suspect was in bracelets, but Poole had not thought to supply these fellows with much needed leg irons. The chap in the middle was kicking their shins, ankles, and anything else he could reach. He was Chinese and unless I was mistaken, he was the elusive Charlie Han. One constable either lost his patience or finally reached the truncheon on his belt. There was a thump and the struggling fellow went limp. Not so gently, they dragged him over the doorsill into the house and dropped him on the floor in our hallway.

“We need to send for a vehicle,” the first one said, while the other-the one with the bloody nose-conjugated various verbs and practiced his expletives while occasionally giving the prone figure a kick.

“We have a telephone set,” I said. “I can call Scotland Yard.”

The constable was able to handle criminals but not the latest contrivances of the modern age. As he watched, I made the call to Scotland Yard, explained the situation, and requested a vehicle. The chief constable demanded to speak to the constable in charge, who picked up the receiver as if it were a king cobra about to strike, but after a short conversation, during which he shouted into the receiver, we finally got it all settled.

“Blimey,” the constable muttered, backing away from the device and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “First time I ever tried one o’ them things.”

“So, who is this fellow?” Mac asked, regarding the still form.

“Dunno,” said the second P.C., who’d managed to get half his handkerchief up his nose to staunch the blood. “And I could care even less. Some Chinaman. Found him outside your big round gate, ready to open it. You’ve had some break-ins, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and we’ve all been attacked, as you can see.”

“Would you gentlemen care for some tea while you wait?” Mac offered.

“I could do with a cuppa. What about you, Finney?”

“That would suit me right down to the ground,” the first constable agreed.

I reached to turn the unconscious suspect over, but the second constable stopped me.

“Careful there, guv’nor,” he said. “He could be shamming. Cut up pretty rough out there.”

“Then help me. I want to get a good look at him.”

Together we rolled him over. One glance and I knew I was right. He had a head of shaggy hair cut in the European style and one of those Chinese mustaches that don’t meet in the middle. It was the last suspect from Bainbridge’s sketch, the fierce face.

“Charlie Han,” I stated. “He’s a known criminal in Limehouse, in the betel nut trade. He’s got a large arrest sheet.”

“All right, Mr. Han, get up! On your feet. We can’t have you a-droolin’ on no gentleman’s floor.”

The half-conscious prisoner raised his head and tried to focus. He looked tough, possibly tough enough to take on Barker in the tunnel or Mac in the study, but the constable’s truncheon had done for him.

“Pull yourself together, man,” the constable went on, hauling the Chinaman to his feet roughly. I’d have felt sorry for him if it weren’t probable he had come to kill us all. Just then the fellow made his move. He swung the constable around until he collided with me and we both went down. With the cast over much of my upper body I could not get up fast enough. Then, as the first constable came forward, Han gave him a strong heel in the stomach. He hadn’t reckoned on Mac, however, who cocked and raised his shotgun to his shoulder. With the rest of us temporarily down, Han made an easy target.

“I am very well trained in how to use this weapon, sir,” Mac spoke with some authority, “and I am quite willing to use it. I suggest you do not move.”

Han must have seen that he was serious. For a butler, Mac can look quite bloodthirsty. I’ve never seen him so happy as when he was sending a load of buckshot into a crowd of rowdies. Charlie Han settled down and was soon seated in a chair between the two constables with a pair of leg irons about his ankles on loan from Barker’s weapon collection. The spirit had gone out of him, I was glad to see. I took the opportunity to go upstairs and change out of my nightclothes.

When the police vehicle arrived, I asked if I might come along. They demurred, but I pressed my attack, pointing out how difficult it was to get a cab in Newington at that time of night. I told them that the owner of the house needed to be told and that he was in the same street but one from Scotland Yard. That is why at near midnight, when all sensible people are in bed, I was traveling in a Black Maria. At least I could say I wasn’t the one in leg irons this time.

Promising to return for a statement, I left the constables to handle their prisoner into A Division and popped ’round to our offices on the next street. I gave the door a good, hard knock.

The door opened slowly and I was treated to the sight of my employer in his dressing gown, his hair askew, with a Colt in his hand.

“Are you going to use that thing?” I asked.

“I am debating it. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“The trap is sprung. We’ve caught a rodent, but whether it is a mouse or a large rat, you must decide.”

“It is too late to be cryptic,” he growled. “I’ll get dressed while you explain. Come.”

I went over everything from the whistle I heard in the alley to my knocking on the office door. During it all, Barker was in the back room making himself presentable for Scotland Yard.

“What is your impression, lad?” he asked. “Do you think Han might be the one we are looking for?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “I must say he put up a real struggle. I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of that heel to the stomach or fist to the nose, for that matter. And he was reaching for our gate, remember.”

“True,” my employer conceded from the side room. “He was also one of Bainbridge’s suspects. I wonder where he’s been hiding himself. Poole’s been running a dragnet for over a week now.”

He came out, neat as a pin as always, despite the late hour. In a few moments we were walking along Whitehall toward Scotland Yard. It appeared the most peaceful of nights. Everyone was at home asleep in bed, everyone who was not an enquiry agent, that is.

At the station, we made our way through the halls of the Criminal Investigation Department. All had been rebuilt after a bombing had occurred last year, but as Inspector Munro of the Special Irish Branch had threatened, the area where Barker had once taught antagonistics for the benefit of officers had now been turned into offices. One of those offices was for questioning.

In response to Barker’s knock, Poole came out and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Evidently, it wasn’t just private agents who went without sleep. Poole gave a big yawn and shook his head.

“Have you got a confession?” Barker asked.

“I’m not even sure if this blighter speaks English.”

Barker looked in. “His lip is bleeding. Have you beaten him?”

“He hit his mouth on the edge of a chair. He’s a bit roughed up, is all,” Poole said.

“May I see if I can get anything out of him?” Barker asked.

“Why not, since you parlez the jabber.”

“Is his solicitor coming,” I asked, “or an interpreter?”

“What are you talking about?” Poole asked, puzzled. “He’s a Chinaman. We’ll tell the legation in the morning. If they want to send someone over, we can’t stop them. ’Til then, he’s ours.”

That was that. There was no use arguing with such logic, or lack of it. We went in and found the man still in darbies, his European-cut coat ripped and his hair looking worse than it had when I last saw him. He looked at us, then turned and spat a big splotch of bloody saliva on the floor. If I expected him to be glad of our arrival, I was mistaken. He looked at us malevolently.

Barker began to speak in Chinese to him, but Poole put a hand on his shoulder.

“Here, now. We’re in the Yard, remember. If you’re going to go on like that, you’ll have to translate word for word for the record.”

“Very well.” He asked a short question and after a moment’s silence, the fellow muttered, “Hai.”

“I asked him if he was Charlie Han and he admitted it.”

Barker asked a second question, but apparently Han thought he had answered enough questions for the time being. He sat in the chair and stared at the floor. He was large for a Chinaman, a few inches taller than I, and strong limbed. I was starting to think we wouldn’t get anything out of him the rest of the night when suddenly, the Chinaman gave my chair a solid kick, sending me and my notebook flying into the corner.

By the time Barker helped me up, Han was stretched out on the floor with Poole’s knee on his shoulder and was bleeding from the nose as well as the mouth. He was cursing, despite the fact that his cheek was pressed to the floor.

It took me a minute to understand the words he was saying and another to learn that it was me he was saying them to. Just then there was a knock at the door, but we were too occupied to open it.

“What did I do?” I blurted out. “I don’t know this fellow.”

“You stay away!” the Chinaman continued, once Poole’s knee was off him. He was seated now on the floor, blood dripping from his chin, giving me the nastiest look I’d had since prison. “You stay ’way from us. Stay ’way from her!”

The knocking had finally become so insistent Poole was forced to answer it. Something flew into the room like a streak. I thought at first it was some giant bird of prey, but of course, it wasn’t. It was Hettie Petulengro and she was angry. Very angry.