Will Thomas: The Limehouse Text

“I’d give it to the Foreign Office, of course,” the man said. “The book would be analyzed, perhaps with the intention of producing a training manual for us, if these techniques are all that they are purported to be. After that, who knows? It might be passed on to Her Majesty’s army.”

“Mr. Forbes,” Barker said, turning to the last person seated at the table, “you’ve shown some interest in this case. If you had the text, what would you do with it?”

Forbes leaned back in his chair and raised a hand to his lips. I noticed for the first time an insignia on his ring, a cross inside a crown. It was a symbol, I realized, of some secret society.

“I’d take it to a place of safekeeping, where the knowledge would not see the light of day,” he replied.

“I see,” Barker said. “Thank you, Pollock. This has been very enlightening. Seven individuals have given me as many answers.” He paced a circuit around the room and we all watched him. I knew he was about to spring something upon us, I just wished I knew what. Barker looked slowly about the room, from face to face.

“I am now willing to entertain offers for the book,” he stated at last.

Everyone began talking at once, apart from Poole and Forbes, who I noted remained silent. Hestia Petulengro began calling Barker names. K’ing conferred with Woo, and Campbell-Ffinch was crowing that my employer had really had the text in his possession the entire time. Hooligan’s raspy voice was heard over all.

“That leaves me out, I reckon. I can get yer a good price for it, but I can’t bring enough ready to the table to make it worth your while.”

“Mr. Woo, if we may still call you that, are you prepared on behalf of your government to make an offer?”

“Provided the authenticity of the text can be verified, I am authorized to go up to a specified amount. We have always thought that at some point we might have to purchase the text in order to get it back.”

“And you, Campbell-Ffinch, are you prepared on the part of Her Majesty’s government to put forward an offer?”

“I shall have to speak with my superiors, but I believe we may be able to do so. But what’s he doing here?” the Foreign Office man said, pointing toward Poole, who had been sitting and watching everything.

“Inspector Poole is here to see that order is maintained. That is all.”

I knew it had to be a lie, as was Barker’s entire offer. Poole had his eyes glued on Barker, not sure whether to agree or not.

“What about you, Mr. K’ing? Are you prepared to enter into the bidding?”

“I am, but only with the intention of doing with it as I told you.”

“Of course. The winning bidder may do with the text whatever he wishes. Excellent. We have three bidders, then. Who shall vouch for its authenticity? I could translate it easily, but it is not for me to judge, being the one who shall produce it.”

All three bidders offered their services, including Campbell-Ffinch, whose knowledge of Chinese must have been rudimentary at best. Barker looked about, trying to choose.

Finally, he said, “Mr. Woo, I think your interpreter’s skills make you the most informed person to look over the text.”

“Thank you, old fellow. Quite decent of you.”

“Llewelyn, will you give Mr. Woo your seat?” I stood and moved to the side, offering my chair to Woo, who slid into it ready to see the much-sought-after text. Poole looked at Barker for instructions.

“Show him, Terence,” the Guv said.

Reluctantly, Poole reached into his pocket and removed the packet we had picked up from the pawnbroker two weeks before. He set it down on the table, and Woo grabbed it eagerly, sliding the book out of the protective envelope and opening the cover. It wasn’t the text. I recognized it immediately as a book from Barker’s own library, one of a handful of Chinese texts my employer kept on his shelf.

“No, wait,” Woo cried. “This isn’t-”

Before he could move, there was a click as Poole’s police regulation bracelets locked onto Woo’s right wrist. A second click almost simultaneous with the first came as Barker clapped a second about the fellow’s left one. The two detectives had carried them tucked in their coat sleeves, locked about their own wrists. With a sudden shove, all three of their chairs were tipped back and hit the floor as Barker and Poole held the struggling Woo. From the far side of the table, Ho pulled a set of manacles from the tureen and stepped forward to lock them on Woo’s ankles. In a trice, they had him as immobilized as any man could be while the rest of us leapt to our feet in astonishment.

I wasn’t going to risk another blow to my kidneys, thank you,” Barker said as he and Woo lay nose to nose on the floor of Ho’s back room with Inspector Poole shackled to his other arm. Barker, Ho, and Poole helped Woo right his chair, where he sat as trussed up as a Christmas goose.

“You must forgive the subterfuge, gentlemen and Miss Petulengro, of course,” Barker said to the rest of us. “This was the only way I could lay hands upon this man without getting someone killed. This is the fellow responsible for the deaths of Inspector Bainbridge, Quong, Mr. Petulengro, Jan Hurtz, Luke Chow, and the sailor Chambers, as well as the attack upon my manservant, Jacob Maccabee, and myself. He was also responsible for the break-in at the Xi Jiang Monastery and the deaths of the two monks there.”

“You’ve made some kind of mistake,” Woo insisted. “I’m no killer.”

“I’ve always heard you were eccentric, Barker, but this really is beyond anything I’ve ever seen,” Campbell-Ffinch said. “If this prancing little Chinaman is our man, even if he is an agent for his government, I’ll swallow my mother’s blessed bonnet.”

“You call yourself a keen fighter, do you not, Mr. Campbell-Ffinch? Then presumably you’d recognize another of your kind. What is the term? To ‘smell the blood’? Take a look at these, then.”

With a tug, the Guv pulled off one of Woo’s silk gloves. Woo’s knuckles were enormous, like a child’s set of marbles, and there were hard yellow calluses upon the palm and edge of the hand. It was the hardened hand of a killer.

Woo struggled again and almost reached his hand into his coat pocket, but Poole was three stone heavier and trained in antagonistics by Barker himself. He turned Woo’s wrist and dipped into his pocket, tossing a pistol onto the table far enough away that no one could reach it.

“I reckon that’s the weapon used to murder my friend Inspector Nevil Bainbridge and young Mr. Quong.”

“So, is that the real text or not?” Campbell-Ffinch said, looking at the book on the table.

“I’m afraid not. It is an obscure book called The Art of War. I borrowed it from my library because it is roughly the size and color of the text.”

“A decoy!” Campbell-Ffinch cried. “Damn and blast! Where is the text?”

“I got rid of it almost the same day I got it,” Barker explained. “I gave it to a Chinaman. By now, it should be halfway to Canton, where it will be returned to the Xi Jiang Temple. All of your efforts,” Barker said, looking at Woo beside him, “were for naught. The manuscript is where you shall never get to it.”

Jimmy Woo sat very stiffly in his chair, still shackled to Poole and Barker. I thought he might not admit to anything, but finally he unwound and sat back in his chair.

“Oh, very well. I suppose it is gone and there is nothing I can do about that now, but I shall not confess to murder in front of witnesses. I have diplomatic immunity. I am an official of the Forbidden City. You can take me to jail, but it is only a matter of time before I am sent back to Peking. I shall have that manuscript yet, Mr. Barker. I have dedicated over two years of my life to it and I consider it mine.”