The Limehouse Text (20 page)

W
HAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?” SHE DEMANDED.
“You’ve got him chained up and now you’re using him for a punching bag. Three grown men. You ought to be ashamed, you—”

“Who is this?” Poole roared to the sergeant in the corridor.

“Her name is Petulengro, sir. She has been downstairs at the desk trying to find out what happened. Insistent, she was. I thought you might want to see her.”

“Sergeant, leave the thinking to me,” Poole ordered. “Stay there. We may have to restrain this woman.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” she snapped at Poole.

“Oh, no? Try me, my girl.”

“And you,” she said, rounding on me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I don’t have anything to say,” I told her. “All I’ve done since I came in here was to take notes and to get kicked out of my chair by this Chinese fellow. What is he to you?”

“If you plan to argue, you cannot take notes,” Poole put in, but we were beyond that at the moment.

“He is my—You wouldn’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?” I demanded.

“He is my…common-law husband, I suppose you’d call him.”

“Husband!” I exclaimed. “But I just took you out to dinner!”

“Yes, you did. Thank you very much. He is not my husband, exactly.”

“Well?” I said hotly. “Is he or is he not?”

Barker cleared his throat and spoke in his low voice. “I believe what Miss Petulengro is trying to say is that she and Mr. Han have an informal relationship. They live together under her roof, where in fact he had been hiding from the police for several days, but there is no legal relationship between them, either temporal or secular. It is common in the East End. She is quite able to accept an offer of dinner. She can even order him to leave if she chooses someone else, though he is not obliged to like it.”

The Chinaman, I was upset to see, was having his hair smoothed by Hestia. All my feelings of benevolent goodwill toward the suspect vanished without a trace. I wanted to get a good kick at him myself.

“Well, I like that!” I said. “You didn’t tell me I was squiring around a married woman.”

“Oh, don’t be thickheaded. Pay attention to your boss. He just explained it to you if you would just unstop your ears.”

“Hettie,” Charlie Han ordered, “do not speak to him.”

“Shut up, you,” she bawled. “This is all your fault.”

“Silence!” Poole bellowed. “If I have to slap bracelets on every one of you I shall do it!”

All of us went silent.

“Barker, can you make head or tail of this?” the inspector asked.

“Plain as a pikestaff. Mr. Han has a personal relationship with Miss Petulengro, and he lives above her shop, but she feels she is still able to…to…What phrase would you use, miss?”

She thought about it a moment. “Entertain better offers.”

“Exactly. She went out this evening with Thomas, in what I assume both agreed was business, but which may have had some private moments as well. After dinner, he took her home—”

“Actually, I took her to a coffeehouse first,” I put in.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Barker said with what might have been a withering stare behind the lenses of black glass. “So, you took her back to her rooms over the shop. Did you go in?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you kiss her?”

“I say, that is rather personal, is it not?”

“It is pertinent to the case. Did you kiss her?”

“Yes, I did.”

Hettie smiled slyly at me but said nothing.

“And you, Mr. Han. Were you not in the rooms upstairs?”

“Hai.”

“And did you see him kiss her?”

The Chinaman looked downcast. “He no kiss her. She hurry up kiss him.”

“I see. What did you then, sir?”

“Run out back door, chop chop. Follow his cab.”

“Afoot? It is several miles.”

“Nobody give ride to Chinaman, mister.”

“You came to a house in Newington.”

“I watch him go in big house. I no know what to do. I walk in front of house for ten minutes, then I go ’round back.”

“You wished to confront Mr. Llewelyn?”

“No, no. Have chalk. Leave message on gate, ‘Stay ’way from girl.’ That will show him. I think maybe he stay ’way then, but coppers catched me.”

“He didn’t do any harm,” Hettie insisted. “He was just going to write a message.”

“Destruction of property,” Poole spoke up.

“Destruction, my bonnet,” Hettie replied. “Soap and water would have taken it off in a tick. And anyway, he didn’t even get started.”

Barker turned to the Chinaman. “Do you have the chalk?”

Han reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a piece of chalk. Either he was telling the truth or was a very ingenious liar.

“When did you arrive in London, Mr. Han?”

“Two year ago, November.”

“I see. When did you meet Miss Petulengro?”

“Two days later,” Hettie answered for him. “He and the boys from the
Agamemnon
had gone through their money already, as sailors will. He wanted to sell a jade ring. He was about to go to the Strangers’ Home, which is fine if you’re ninety. I thought him rather attractive.”

Her remark made me angry, I admit, but I noticed that Poole was taking it even worse than I. His lips were in a grimace of disgust.

“You offered him a bed,” the Guv continued.

“No, I’m not that kind of girl. My uncle did, in the cellar. He did odd work for him, and attracted other sailors to the shop.”

“Did your relationship…develop?”

“That’s none of yer business, Mr. ’Tec. Oh, sorry, Mr. Private Enquiry Agent.”

I almost laughed out loud but stopped myself. She did a very serviceable imitation of Barker.

“Stow the lip, girl,” Poole warned. “I have a little cell waiting for you if I need it.”

The girl looked ready to take up his challenge, but Barker went on, glossing things over in the process.

“My apologies, miss,” Barker said, “Your private life does not interest me, save when it intersects a murder investigation.”

“Who said nothing about a murder?” she challenged.

“May I continue? Mr. Han, were you acquainted with Inspector Bainbridge?”

“Yes, suh. He say I no can stay with Hettie after Mister Uncle die. It is unseemly. He lock me up for vagrancy. I get out, get job delivering betel nut, but he ’rest me again. No permit. Lock me up. I get out, get permit, go back work. Here he come again. Papers not in order. Lock me up again.”

“He was bullying Charlie something terrible,” Hettie threw in.

“Then Mister Uncle be killed. Who is number one suspect? Charlie Han, that’s who. I carry flail. ’Spector say is murder weapon.”

“Do you have it now?” Barker asked.

“Always have it. Always. Betel nut is dangerous business, need protection.”

“Let me see it.”

Charlie Han reached into his baggy trousers and pulled out what might be considered a weapon. It was two sticks, each a foot long and about an inch across, with a cord connecting them at one end. They looked harmless enough, I thought, but Poole did not. He took it away from Han, then stepped into the hall to berate his subordinates for allowing a suspect to come into the questioning room without being properly searched.

“This could leave a mark like the one on Petulengro’s neck,” Barker said.

“’Spector say I killed him, but I no did it. I spend most of night with friends from Blue Funnel. Everybody throw party, so we throw party. Lunnon have two New Years, they say. Mister Uncle got robbed and killed that night. He have terrible temper sometime, but have no reason to kill him.”

“One could say that with Mr. Petulengro out of the way, you might gain a great deal,” Barker said. “You could gain control of Miss Petulengro’s money were the two of you to marry.”

“You’re thinking like Bainy now,” Hettie said. “You don’t know nothing. Charlie ain’t that kind of boy. He’s not the low-class criminal the Yard is making him out to be. He was just a sailor who came here looking for work.”

“It is legal to sell betel nut,” Han said in his defense. “Plenty plenty people use it.”

“So, in essence, you’re saying that Inspector Bainbridge was harassing Mr. Han.”

“That’s right,” Hettie said. “He didn’t have no cause.”

“If he had no cause, why do you suppose he was harassing him?”

“Here, now,” Poole butted in. “Nevil Bainbridge was a competent officer. He would not pin a crime on a fellow who didn’t give him just cause.”

“I dunno,” Hettie said, looking up at Barker. “I dunno why he did it. He had it in for him.”

Barker stepped forward and loomed over the pair of them.

“I think you do know, Miss Petulengro.”

She snapped then. Had Barker not seized her wrists, she would have torn his spectacles off and scratched his eyes out, but her claws looked small and useless in Barker’s big hands. Poole got himself in the enviable position of having his arms around her, one hand clasped in the other.

“I believe that will not be necessary, inspector,” Barker said. “Miss Petulengro will cooperate. Won’t you, miss?”

Hestia Petulengro looked very unlikely to cooperate, but she stared hard into those round spectacles of Barker’s, the two of them locked in a struggle of wills.

“There is a saying,” he continued. “The truth shall set you free.”

All fight went out of her then. She sagged into a chair. Barker did not menace her further, but left her to calm down. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and gave it to her. After a few minutes she looked more composed.

“Let us start again, Miss Petulengro. Do you have a suspicion of who killed your uncle?”

“Yer. I think I pretty well know who done it.”

“Why have you not come forward, then, girl?” Poole demanded. “It was your duty. Had you no wish to bring your uncle’s killer to justice?”

“It was Inspector Bainbridge you suspect, isn’t that correct?” Barker murmured.

There was silence in the room. Hettie was breathing hard and Barker was immobile, staring down at her in the chair. Poole’s mouth was open, and Han had his eyes cast down to the floor.

“I believe it was old Bainy, yes,” she said in a low voice.

“You think he killed your uncle and harassed your…friend here. Tell me, why do you believe he did it?”

She looked over at Poole, clearly afraid of his reaction. I saw her lick her lips and then she spoke. “Because he was in love with me, that’s why.”

“I see. And how do you know that was how he felt about you?”

“Because he told me, didn’t he? He brought me flowers at Christmastime and poured out his feelings to me. Said he’d throw over the missus and come and take care of me if I’d let him.”

“Damnable lie,” Poole thundered.

“Take it easy, Terry. Let her speak. Did he later confess he had killed your uncle?”

“No, he didn’t, but I worked it out myself, you see. I’d been at the match factory for five years. Most girls only last three. It’s rotten work. I’d complained to him how backbreaking and dangerous it was before I knew he had feelings for me. My uncle was a surly old beggar and treated me rotten. He’d even made advances toward me. Bainy knew, because he’d broken up a disturbance at our house more than once. He hated my uncle. I think he knew what a better life I’d have if he was dead. I wouldn’t have to do no backbreaking work and I wouldn’t be threatened anymore. But then, Charlie here moved in. The inspector didn’t like him at all. After Uncle Lazlo died he started arresting him for just anything. Any crime in the area and he was hauled in as a suspect. He gave him a long record, he did, that made him look bad. Charlie couldn’t get work aboard the Blue Funnel anymore, so he turned to betel nuts.”

“Get back to Bainbridge,” Barker said.

“I’m getting there. He did for him, then, on New Year’s Day. Hit him with that big truncheon of his, broke his neck. That’s how I reckon it, anyway. I ain’t sorry. You gents didn’t live with the man. But then, Bainy tried to pin the crime on Charlie here. He knew Charlie carried a flail about in his pocket for protection. Being the commanding officer there, Bainy had him brought in for questioning. But even he couldn’t convict him without evidence.”

“Look, this is enough,” Poole stated. “End of interrogation. You, stop scribbling there and give the notes to me. Barker, I want the two of you in my office in five minutes.”

“What about Miss Petulengro?”

“She is being detained temporarily. If she behaves, she might be allowed to leave in the morning. Constables! Separate these two and watch the girl. She has claws.”

Five minutes later we were settling into a pair of scratched and rickety chairs in Poole’s office. The room was very much like Bainbridge’s. I wondered if there was a school of architecture for police institutions. Who chose the fungal shade of gray on the walls and the braided rug on the floor in front of Poole’s desk? One could only assume it was a former felon, exacting his revenge.