Will Thomas - The Limehouse Text

“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.

"What 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?”