Robert Gulik - The Chinese Gold Murders

Judge Dee pointed with his fan at the inscribed board that hung over the door. Hoong couldn't help smiling when he read, "Hermitage of the Vagrant Weed."

"However," the judge resumed, "I found one very striking inconsistency." Tapping the oblong notebook that he had kept apart, he asked, "Where did you find this, sergeant?"

"It had fallen behind the books on this lower shelf," Hoong replied, pointing.

"In this notebook," Judge Dee said, "the magistrate copied out with his own hand long lists of dates and figures, and added pages of complicated calculations. There is not one word of explanation. But Mr. Wang seems to me the last man to be interested in figures. I suppose he left all financial and statistical work to Tang and the clerks, didn't he?"

Sergeant Hoong nodded emphatically.

"So Tang gave me to understand just now," he replied.

Judge Dee leafed through the notebook, slowly shaking his head. He said pensively, "He spent an enormous amount of time and labor on these notes-small mistakes are carefully blotted out and corrected, etc. The only clue is the dates, the earliest mentioned is exactly two months ago."

He rose and put the notebook in his sleeve.

"In any case," he said, "I'll study this at leisure, though it is of course by no means certain that it concerns affairs that are connected with his murder. But inconsistencies are always worth special attention. Anyway we have now a good picture of the victim, and that's, according to our handbooks on detection, the first step toward discovering the murderer!"

"THE first thing to do," Ma Joong said when he left the tribunal together with Chiao Tai, "is to get something under our belts. Drilling those lazy bastards made me hungry."

"And thirsty!" Chiao Tai added.

They entered the first restaurant they saw, a small place on the corner southwest of the tribunal. It bore the lofty name of Nine Flowers Orchard. They were met by the din of confused voices; it was very crowded. They found with difficulty an empty place near the high counter in the back, behind which a one-armed man stood stirring an enormous kettle of noodles.

The two friends surveyed the crowd. They were mostly small shopkeepers, taking a quick snack before they would have to hurry back to meet the evening rush of customers. They were gobbling their noodles with relish, stopping only to pass the pewter wine jugs around.

Chiao Tai grabbed the waiter's sleeve when he hurried past them with a tray loaded with noodle bowls.

"Four of those!" he said. "And two large jugs!"

"Later!" the waiter snapped. "Can't you see I am busy?"

Chiao Tai burst out in a string of picturesque curses. The onearmed man looked up and stared intently at him. He laid down the long bamboo ladle and came round the counter, his sweatcovered face creased in a broad grin.

"There was but one over there who could curse like that!" lie exclaimed. "What brought you here, sir?"

"Forget the sir," Chiao Tai said gruffly. "I got into trouble when we were moved up north, and gave up my rank and my name. I am called Chiao Tai now. Can't you get us a bit of food?"

"One moment, sir," the man said eagerly. He disappeared into the kitchen, and presently came back followed by a fat woman, who carried a tray with two large wine jugs and a platter heaped with salted fish and vegetables.

"That's better!" Chiao Tai said contentedly. "Sit down, soldier, let your old woman do the work for once!"

The owner drew up a stool, and his wife took his place behind the counter. While the two friends started eating and drinking, the owner told them that he was a native of Peng-lai. After he had been discharged from the expeditionary force in Korea, he had bought the restaurant with his savings and wasn't doing too badly. Looking at the brown robes of the two men, he asked in a low voice, "Why do you work in that tribunal?"

"For the same reason you are stirring noodles," Chiao Tai replied. "To earn a living."

The one-armed man looked left and right. Then he whispered, "Queer things are happening there! Don't you know that a fortnight ago they throttled the magistrate and chopped up his body into small pieces?"

"I thought he was poisoned!" Ma Joong remarked, taking a long draught from his wine cup.

"That's what they say!" the owner said. "A kettle of mincemeat, that was all that was left of that magistrate! Believe me, the people there are no good."

"The present magistrate is a fine fellow," Chiao Tai remarked. "I don't know about him," the man said stubbornly, "but Tang and Fan, those two are no good."

"What's wrong with the old dodderer?" Chiao Tai asked, astonished. "He looks to me as if he couldn't hurt a fly."

"Leave him alone!" the owner said darkly. "He is… different, you know. Besides, there's something else very wrong with Tang." "What something?" Ma Joong asked.

"There's more happening in this district than meets the eye, I tell you," the one-armed man said. "I am a native, I should know! Since olden times there have been some weird people here. My old father used to tell us stories-"

His voice trailed off. He shook his head sadly, then quickly emptied the wine cup which Chiao Tai pushed over to him.

Ma Joong shrugged his shoulders.

"We'll find out for ourselves," he remarked, "that's half of the fun. As to that fellow Fan you mentioned, we'll worry about him afterward. The guards told me he's kind of lost, just now."

"I hope he'll stay that way!" the one-armed man said with feeling. "That bully takes money from all and sundry, he is even more greedy than the headman there. And what's worse, he can't leave the women alone. He is a good-looking rascal, heaven knows what mischief he has made already! But he is thick as thieves with Tang, and that fellow always manages to shield him."

"Well," Chiao Tai put in, "Fan's palmy days are over; he'll have to work under me and my friend here now. He must have collected plenty of bribes though. I hear he owns a small farm west of the city.

"That he inherited last year from a distant relative," the owner said. "It isn't much good, it's a lonely small place, and near the deserted temple. Well, if it's there he got lost, it's they who must have got him."

"Can't you talk plain Chinese for once?" Ma Joong exclaimed impatiently. "Who is `they'?"

The one-armed man shouted to the waiter. When he had placed two enormous bowls with noodles on the table, the owner spoke, softly.

"To the west of Fan's farm, where the country road joins the highway, there stands an old temple. Nine years ago four monks lived there; they belonged to the White Cloud Temple, outside the east gate. One morning all four were found dead, their throats slit from ear to ear! They were not replaced, the temple has been standing empty ever since. But the ghosts of those four men are still haunting the place. Farmers have seen lights there at night, and everybody gives it a wide berth. Only last week a cousin of mine who passed by there late in the night saw in the moonlight a headless monk slinking about. He saw clearly that he was carrying his severed head under his arm."

"August heaven!" Chiao T'ai shouted. "Stop those tales of horror, will you? How can I eat my noodles when they are standing on end in the bowl?"

Ma Joong guffawed. They started on the noodles in earnest. When they had finished their bowls to the last drop, Chiao Tai rose and groped in his sleeve. The owner quickly put his hand on his arm and exclaimed, "Never, sir! This restaurant and all in it is yours. If it hadn't been for you, those Korean lancers would-"

"All right!" Chiao Tai interrupted him. "Thanks for your hospitality. But if you want to see us back here, next time we'll pay cash!"