The Limehouse Text (11 page)

I pulled the book open again and almost frantically flipped through the pages. Yes, my eyes had not been deceiving me. The last fellow, Alfred Chambers, had passed away on the second of January of renal failure in the company of his wife. People die of kidney failure every day, I’m sure, but Mr. Chambers had been a first mate aboard the
Ajax.
I took down the entire report, though the death did not occur in Limehouse and was not investigated by Bainbridge.

Happy that I had uncovered something of possible interest, I made my way over to
The Times
and was soon in the back issues room, looking for reports of the killings. I only found two. One read “Chinese Found Shot in Limehouse Reach,” while the other read “Chandler Dies During Robbery.” Apparently Chinamen dying in penny hangs and men having kidney failure were not considered newsworthy.

I closed my notebook and devoted my attention to the idea of lunch. I found a pub in Fleet Street where all the journalists went, and had a nice steak and kidney pie and a cup of coffee. On the way back, I dawdled for a while in the bookshops of Charing Cross Road. Afterward, I went back to the office and found myself crowded on the doorstep by Inspector Poole. I opened the door for him, and he took one of the chairs in front of Barker’s desk, while I sat at my own. Barker seemed not to have moved since I left. Goodness knows what he had done or if he had eaten lunch. If he kept this up, Jenkins would have to dust him.

“Terry.”

“Cyrus,” Poole said. He looked as tight as a coiled spring. “I thought I would tell you that we’re letting Ho go free tomorrow.”

“I see,” Barker said. “There was no reason for having arrested him at all.”

“You know what sort of odd characters go into his place,” Poole said. “Anarchists, socialists, communists, exiles, Lascars, Orientals—”

“Enquiry agents,” I put in.

“Lad,” Barker warned. “Ho is not responsible for who walks in his door, Terence. He does not advertise in radical newspapers or cater to criminals. He runs an honest tearoom.”

“I have information that he has close ties with a criminal named Mr. K’ing. In fact, Commissioner Henderson believes it is possible that Ho
is
Mr. K’ing.”

Barker grunted. “That will be news to both of them. I never thought I would credit Henderson with too much imagination.”

“We’ve taken good care of him,” Poole insisted. “Better than most foreigners by a long chalk. Of course, anything you can do to help us in our enquiry would be helping him, as well.”

“I see,” the Guv said. “You want me to do your work for you, then you’ll release him.”

Poole frowned. “Look, Cyrus, I don’t think you understand how close you are to being arrested yourself. The old man’s considering it even now. There are many at the Yard who think that you killed Bainbridge yourself, you and the nipper here.”

“Nipper?” I interrupted. “There’s no need to be—”

“Look, Cyrus,” Poole went on, as if I weren’t in the room. “I’m up against it. You have no idea what sort of pressure I’m under to solve the case. I need help. I thought we might share information.”

“‘Share,’ is it?” Barker asked. I noticed his Scot’s accent always got a bit thicker when his blood was up. “You mean, you tell me what I already know, while I give you what has taken me days to uncover?”

For once, Poole smiled. “Something like that.” It broke the tension. We all chuckled over it. Even Barker gave up his stony reserve.

“What thought you of Bainbridge’s blotter?”

Poole tugged at his side-whiskers. “If what Bainbridge thought is correct, all the deaths that occurred just after New Year’s may have been the work of one killer, though he didn’t know who it was. We have your assistant, Quong; the Chinese sailor Chow; and the Gypsy who ran a chandler’s shop, whose name I won’t even try to pronounce. Beyond the fact that they were all foreigners, the only connection they seem to have had was a book. The book, the book, the bloody book! Didn’t you say in court it was a boxing manual? Who kills three people over a boxing manual?”

“It’s a rather special manual, Terence,” Barker explained. “It teaches, for one thing, a way to disrupt the body’s internal functions, killing someone without a sign.”

Poole grunted in disbelief. “You mean like the Chinaman, Chow, dead on the line without a scratch.”

“Precisely.”

“If such a thing existed, it could change my work considerably. How would we know a common heart attack from murder?”

“It gets worse,” Barker said, crossing his arms. “Death need not be instantaneous. With the training from the book, one could disrupt a system—let us say the circulative system—of someone in the morning merely by touch, and that person could die that night after a normal day’s activity. Or the next day or a week later.”

“Fantasy,” Poole scoffed. “It’s all Chinese bugaboo. I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Admittedly, I only read it in the book. I wouldn’t believe it myself without more proof.”

“I might have that proof,” I muttered.

They both looked at me, and it was a moment before the Guv spoke. “Explain.”

“Well, sir, I came across another murder, I think. It happened the second of January. A sailor named Chambers was found in his bed, dead from kidney failure. The inquest the next day ruled natural causes, but Chambers wasn’t just anyone. He was a first mate aboard the
Ajax.
I think he might have spent his first night ashore at Coffin’s with Chow. Chow might have given the book to Chambers for safekeeping, warning him that if anything happened to him to get rid of the book quickly.

“Chambers got rid of his effects the next day at Petulengro’s after Chow was found dead. I’ve got it all in my notebook and was going to type it up for you.”

“See that I get a copy,” Poole said.

“Certainly.”

There was a pause, and I got that feeling along my spine that things were about to get tense again.

Poole took in a bushelful of air and blew it out. “So, where’s the book, Cyrus?”

“Don’t ask me that, Terry.”

“Where is the book?”

“Are you asking me for Scotland Yard or the Foreign Office?”

“The book is evidence in several murders now. We must have it.”

“As you said, it’s just a book.”

“Then give me the blasted thing!”

Barker tilted his head back, as if looking up at the ceiling. “As I said before, I don’t have it to give. It is not currently in my possession.”

The inspector pulled one of Barker’s cigars from the box on his desk and bit the end off savagely before lighting it. Blowing out a puff of smoke, he leaned back in his seat. “I don’t believe you.”

“You know I deplore lying,” the Guv said. “A man’s word should be his bond.”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t lie if it were important.”

“I am not lying to you, Terry. I do not have it.”

“But you did,” Poole insisted.

“I did.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I gave it to a Chinaman.”

“Quit playing games with me, Cyrus!” Poole snapped. “There are over five hundred Chinamen in Limehouse. Which one did you give it to?”

Barker said nothing.

“You know there’s only so much I can do to protect a friend,” the inspector went on. “If the Foreign Office told me to tear apart your offices, I’d have to do it. If they said, ‘Toss this fellow into Wormwood Scrubs,’ I wouldn’t be slipping you a key.”

Barker’s silence was worse than any words that might have been said.

“Have it your own way, then. If you want things official, then official they shall be.” Poole got up and stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray on the desk. “Your cigars are stale,” he complained.

On his way out, he buttonholed me. “I want a copy of that report. In fact, I want a copy of all the reports you found.”

“They are a matter of public record,” I retorted.

“You’re as bad as he is!” Poole bellowed and went out the front door with a slam that rattled the Constable hanging in our waiting room.

Jenkins gave a low whistle from the outer room. “Hope he’s off duty soon,” he pronounced. “There’s a fella what needs a stiff drink.”

Barker picked a cigar from the box and ran it under his nose. “They cannot possibly be stale. They are from Lewis of St. James’s.” He emptied the ashtray into the bin under his desk. “Now, where were we?”

“Thumbing our noses at Scotland Yard.”

“Don’t be cheeky. Type up those reports, there’s a good lad.”

As I inserted the first sheet of paper into the Hammond, a thought occurred to me. I knew who had the book. The only two Chinamen he’d spoken to that he knew were Ho and Old Quong. I’d been by the Guv’s side whenever he spoke with Ho, but I had been on the table when he had spoken with Old Quong. There was no doubt about it in my mind. The bonesetter had the text.

W
HAT CAN YOU INFER,” BARKER ASKED ME,
“from the deaths of Luke Chow and Chambers?”

“Well, sir,” I said, “both men appeared to have arrived at the hang in good condition, so they must have been killed by whoever is after the book.”

“And yet—” Barker prompted.

“And yet the killer must have already had knowledge from the book, in order to kill them in that manner. So what did he need the book for?”

“Where did he get the knowledge in the first place?” Barker continued, ignoring my question.

“Perhaps he read it in the monastery. Perhaps he was a monk.”

“Not necessarily. I had the opportunity to examine the book the evening we first received it. There was a page missing, a very important page, I believe. If Luke Chow were going to attempt to sell the book to someone, he would have to give them a page from the text in order to prove its authenticity. Let us say Luke Chow came across the text in the archives and alerted someone willing to pay for it. It’s possible he let him in late one night and they decided to steal it. They had some sort of falling out, after the two monks were killed. Chow ran off with the book and hired himself aboard the
Ajax
bound for London. But the murderer discovered Chow’s destination, arrived on a faster ship, and was waiting for him.”

“That’s a long way to come just to get hold of a book. Why bother?”

“You have hit it squarely, Thomas. Why does he need the book? What is his purpose? Answer that and we’ll find our man.”

“Is it really true that he can kill someone just by touching him?”

“According to the text, it’s more than touching. It creates vibrations that disrupt energy in the body.”

“Are you going to keep the text?” I asked, then wished I hadn’t. Sometimes I speak without thinking, despite all the warnings the Reverend Spurgeon gives us about guarding one’s tongue.

“I’d sooner keep adders in our bathhouse.”

“But you do still have it,” I said after a pause.

“Now, lad, you heard me say that I do not have it.”

“I thought you were just putting off Scotland Yard. So I suppose Dr. Quong has it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then who has the book?”

“You’re starting to sound like Poole,” Barker said, leaning back in his chair. “Best not to ask, Thomas. If one doesn’t know, one cannot be forced to say under oath or torture. Get to work on those reports now. I am most anxious to read about the death of the mate from the
Ajax.
”

I was just beginning my report, intent on getting every jot and tittle down just right, when in the outer office Jenkins gave a sudden cry.

“Sir!”

Before I even moved I heard the soft swipe of a pistol clearing leather. Barker raised his Colt revolver as if from out of nowhere and set it down on his desk. The Guv has a holster built in underneath his chair. What passed for remarkable in other people was a necessary commonplace in his little world. He knew someone dangerous might come in, and naturally he would require a pistol quickly. Things in drawers were clumsy to get in and out, but a holster under the seat was sensible. I didn’t have one and had to retrieve my Webley from one of the upper drawers of my rolltop desk. At least I had had the foresight not to lock it.

They came in then in a leisurely fashion, three of them: a big man in front and two smaller behind. Street toughs. They wore sailors’ bell-bottomed trousers and hobnailed boots that clicked so loudly on the wood floor I feared for it. The ones behind wore pea jackets with knit caps, while the leader was clad in a long black coat of waxed cotton. Under it he wore a fancy waistcoat and a silk neckerchief. The large expanse of shirt between tie and waistcoat was not especially clean. He wore a brown bowler with the lowest crown I’d ever seen, and when he removed it, I saw that the sides of his head had been shaved, leaving a bushy brown strip down the center and a pair of thick side-whiskers that seemed to hang like pothooks over his ears.

“Here,” he said in a raspy voice. “There’s no need for breaking out the ironware, Push. I’ve come to see if we can transact some business.”

“Patrick Hooligan,” Barker said in greeting. “And how is the Hooley Gang?”

“It hain’t been a good season, but things is looking up.” Hooligan eased his bulk into the leather chair in front of the desk and crossed a boot across his knee, revealing a brass toe cap polished to a high gloss. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. May I?”

Barker pushed the visitor’s cigar case toward him an inch. “Help yourself.”

“Always liked a good smoke,” the tough said, coming up with a large knife. I leaned forward, my hand on my pistol, while one of the boys eyed me threateningly and reached into his own pocket. I thought mayhem might occur. Instead, Hooligan sliced the end of his cigar off and put the knife back in his coat. I noted he didn’t offer his subordinates anything. Just then I realized who they were. These were the lads I’d seen the morning I had been chased out of Limehouse. This man must be their leader.

“Business, you say?” Barker asked, after the tough got his cigar going.

“Yer. Got anyfing to drink ’round here?”

“The Rising Sun is around the corner.”

“The street says you’re a bar of iron,” Hooligan said around the cigar. “Can’t be bent. Reg’lar churchgoer. That’s all right. Got no use for it meself, but I can work with it. I got what you might call a business proposition.”

“Have you now? I’m listening.”

“Word in the East End is that you came into a bit o’property afore some other blokes did. Blokes who’ve been huntin’ it for months. Now if you was to have it—and, mind, I ain’t saying you do, but if you did—what might yer be planning to do with it?”

“First of all, Mr. Hooligan, let me say that the property you speak of is not in my possession.”

“Naturally,” Hooligan said.

“But if it were mine to do with as I wish, I would return it to the monastery in China from which it was taken.”

“Having made no profit on it at all?” our guest demanded, clearly aghast at the thought. “You’ve been awastin’ too much time in church, m’lad. You’re a straight arrow and a scientific fighter, but you got no head for commerce. What’ll you get out of it, I ask yer? Not enough to pay your scrawny clerk in the front room or your scrawny ’sistant in this one. They’re undernourished, is what. Pathetic.”

I bristled at the remark, but the conversation continued without my opinions.

“And look here, unless you take it yourself, how many eyes’ll see it before it reaches China again? If it ever does, which I doubt. You may think you have Limehouse sewn up, but it’s still a big world out there.”

“I’ve got associates in China,” Barker said, “who will safely get it back to the place from whence it came.”

“That’s as may be, but you still have to get it there. I seriously doubt it’s gonna be easy even to get it outta London Town.”

“What have you heard?”

“Enough. There’s a book. Dunno what it’s about or what it looks like, but someone’s willin’ to kill people in order to lay hands on it. The Chinese government wants it, the Foreign Office wants it. Scotland Yard wants it, and Mr. K’ing wants it. I find that all rather interesting, as a businessman, you understand. Rumor says half a dozen people have been killed over it. Why, there’s only twenty or thirty people murdered in all of London in a year. That’s a powerful lot of killing to find one book.”

“And how are you involved?”

“I’m involved, Push, because it’s my territory. My
new
territory. You see, I’ve begun expanding on the north side of the river.”

“You’re a Surrey man from the south side,” Barker said. “Mr. K’ing will not like it.”

“K’ing doesn’t worry me. He’s all mirrors and smoke. Got himself a reputation among the Blue Funnel crowd and a good racket goin’, everyone tithin’ reg’lar to him like he was some kinda church, but it’s a good thing I’m a charitable man, else it would be a rough time for heathen foreigners dockside.
All
of them, if you get my meaning.”

“Speaking hypothetically, how many men could you lay hands on for such an action?” Barker asked.

“The Chinks ain’t exactly made themselves welcome here. I could get upwards of two hundred in a day, three if I’m willing to extend myself. Got friends in Liverpool and Manchester, I do.”

“But no plans.”

“None yet,” the gang leader said, dumping an inch of ash in the ashtray on Barker’s desk. “Not until I talked to you.”

“So what is the proposition?”

“I want to broker a deal. I’ll go to K’ing and say you’re willing to hand over the book, if the Chinese government chokes up enough of the ready to suit us. Who knows? K’ing might even put forth the money himself and hope for compensation from the empress later. Then he can go back to Peking and live like a lord the rest of his life.”

“Leaving Limehouse to be looked after by you and your associates.”

Hooligan grinned. One of his teeth was gold. “The people there’ll need protection, of course, and they’re already used to payin’ for it. It would be a pity to just waste it. It’s the law of supply and demand.”

“You’ve thought this out well,” Barker stated, his fingers tented in front of him.

“Well, I ain’t had me much book learnin’, but I got smarts. Got to survive in the streets.”

“So, Mr. Hooligan, what is to keep me from merely going and brokering the deal with K’ing myself and cutting you out entirely?”

“Glad you asked, and, by the way, this is information I am givin’ you for free, which you may not live to hear again, so pay attention. Word is that old K’ing is layin’ for you. Don’t know what it is you done to set him off, but set off he is. He’s been spendin’ money like water preparing for the New Year’s festival next week, but some of my informants tell me it ain’t goin’ to be the usual entertainment.”

“Talent?” Barker asked, with one of his cold smiles.

“Circus freak show, if you ask me.”

“I see. Thank you for the tip.”

“Now what about my proposition?”

“I’m sorry. I shall have to decline.”

Hooligan knocked off his cigar ash again. “Shoulda expected it. You know you won’t get penny on the pound if you give it to the government, nor none of the credit, neither.”

“I realize that.”

Hooligan turned his head toward his subordinate who stood by the window acting as lookout. “Hey, Benny, what’s that word that means you do things for the public good and not for money?”

“Altruistic.”

“That’s the word. You are altruistic, Push, and as a citizen of metropolitan London, I’m glad you’re looking out for my welfare. But you got no head for business. When you’ve failed and gone, I’ll have to buy these offices and turn them into something useful like a public house or a gin shop.”

“I’ve no doubt you shall turn a profit,” the Guv stated. “I thank you for the tip and hope you are not offended at my declining your offer.”

“You know old Patrick Hooligan. Always has another card up his sleeve. I owe you a bit o’ thanks anyway.”

“How so?”

“For involving old Bainy. Now that he’s dead, the Reach is wide open. All the boundaries is gone, and that Scotland Yard prig—what’s his name?”

“Do you mean Inspector Poole?”

“That’s the man. Poole is too busy trying to find the killer to mind the store. There’s enough smash and grab goin’ on to make K’ing and me both rich men. But with Bainy gone, it’s a cinch one of us is eventually going to get greedy, and devil take the hindmost, if you get my meaning.”

“I see.”

“Look, if you change yer mind, just stop by the Elephant and Castle of an evening. One o’ my boys’ll be there. C’mon, lads, I’m parched. Let’s go over to the Sun for a whiskey.”

“Thank you again for the warning,” Barker said as the man rose from his chair.

“Anything for a white man,” Hooligan said. “It’s us or them, or to put it more plainly, it’s us, period.”

They clicked and scraped their way out. Jenkins came in from the outer room while Barker dumped the contents of his ashtray into the dustbin under his desk for the second time in an hour.

“Look at the state of this floor,” Jenkins complained.

“Interesting fellow,” I remarked, as I slid the pistol back into my drawer.

“Indeed.”

“What was that he meant about the Elephant and Castle?”

“It is his base of operations.”

“It’s practically on our doorstep,” I pointed out.

“Aye, it is.”

“You know the thought occurs to me that he might have shot Bainbridge himself, and we’re blaming someone for his death who left London months ago. It’s awfully convenient. He could also have come from the Elephant and Castle and tried to burgle our house.”

Barker nodded. “Very devious, lad,” he said, leaning over and holstering the gun under his chair. “Let us leave before we are interrupted again. Have you got that address in Millwall?”

“Yes, sir.”