by Sax Rohmer
“And to mine.”
“There’s another point,” he added, “which throws a lot of light on the matter. You and Mr. Harley were out of town at the time of the Huang Chow case; but the Chief and I outlined it, you remember, one night in Mr. Harley’s rooms?”
“I remember it perfectly; the giant spider in the coffin —— —”
“Yes; and a certain Ah Fu, confidential servant of the old man, who used to buy the birds the thing fed on. Well, Mr. Knox, Huang Chow was the biggest dealer in illicit stuff in all the East End — and this battered thing at our feet is — Ah Fu!”
“Huang Chow’s servant?”
“Exactly!”
I stared, uncomprehendingly, and:
“In what way does this throw light on the matter?” I asked.
Durham — a very intelligent young officer — smiled significantly.
“I begin to see light!” he declared. “The gentleman who made off just as I arrived on the scene probably had a private quarrel with the Chinaman and was otherwise not concerned in any way.”
“I am disposed to agree with you,” I said guardedly.
“Of course, you’ve no idea of his identity?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We may find him,” mused the officer, glancing at me shrewdly, “by applying at the offices of the Planet Line, but I rather doubt it. Also I rather doubt if we’ll look very far. He’s saved us a lot of trouble, but” — peering about in the shadowy corners which abounded— “didn’t I see somebody else lurking around here?”
“I’m almost certain there was someone else!” I cried. “In fact, I could all but swear to it.”
“H’m!” said the detective. “He’s not here now. Might I trouble you to walk along to Limehouse Police Station for the ambulance? I’d better stay here.”
I agreed at once, and started off.
Thus a second time my plans were interrupted, for my expedition that night ultimately led me to Bow Street, whence, after certain formalities had been observed, I departed for my chambers, the mysterious pigtail in my pocket. Failing the presence of Durham, the pigtail must have been retained as evidence, but:
“We shall know where to find it if it’s wanted, Mr. Knox,” said the Yard man, “and I can trust you to look after your own property.”
The clock of St. Paul’s was chiming the hour of two when I locked the door of my chambers and prepared to turn in. The clangour of the final strokes yet vibrated through the night’s silence when someone set my own door bell loudly ringing.
With an exclamation of annoyance I shot back the bolts and threw open the door.
A Chinaman stood outside upon the mat!
IV
HOW IT ALL ENDED
“Me wishee see you,” said the apparition, smiling blandly; “me comee in?”
“Come in, by all means,” I said without enthusiasm, and, switching on the light in my study, I admitted the Chinaman and stood facing him with an expression upon my face which I doubt not was the reverse of agreeable.
My visitor, who wore a slop-shop suit, also wore a wide-brimmed bowler hat; now, the set bland smile still upon his yellow face, he removed the bowler and pointed significantly to his skull.
His pigtail had been severed some three inches from the root!
“You gotchee my pigtail,” he explained; “me callee get it — thank you.”
“Thank you,” I said grimly. “But I must ask you to establish your claim rather more firmly.”
“Yessir,” agreed the Chinaman.
And thereupon in tolerable pidgin English he unfolded his tale. He proclaimed his name to be Hi Wing Ho, and his profession that of a sailor, or so I understood him. While ashore at Suez he had become embroiled with some drunken seamen: knives had been drawn, and in the scuffle by some strange accident his pigtail had been severed. He had escaped from the conflict, badly frightened, and had run a great distance before he realized his loss. Since Southern Chinamen of his particular Tong hold their pigtails in the highest regard, he had instituted inquiries as soon as possible, and had presently learned from a Chinese member of the crew of the S.S. Jupiter that the precious queue had fallen into the hands of a fireman on that vessel. He (Hi Wing Ho) had shipped on the first available steamer bound for England, having in the meanwhile communicated with his friend on the Jupiter respecting the recovery of the pigtail.
“What was the name of your friend on the Jupiter?”
“Him Li Ping — yessir!” — without the least hesitation or hurry.
I nodded. “Go on,” I said.
He arrived at the London docks very shortly after the Jupiter. Indeed, the crew of the latter vessel had not yet been paid off when Hi Wing Ho presented himself at the dock gates. He admitted that, finding the fireman so obdurate, he and his friend Li Ping had resorted to violence, but he did not seem to recognize me as the person who had frustrated their designs. Thus far I found his story credible enough, excepting the accidental severing of the pigtail at Suez, but now it became wildly improbable, for he would have me believe that Li Ping, or Ah Fu, obtaining possession of the pigtail (in what manner Hi Wing Ho protested that he knew not) he sought to hold it to ransom, knowing how highly Hi Wing Ho valued it.
I glared sternly at the Chinaman, but his impassive countenance served him well. That he was lying to me I no longer doubted; for Ah Fu could not have hoped to secure such a price as would justify his committing murder; furthermore, the presence of the unfortunate Jewess in the case was not accounted for by the ingenious narrative of Hi Wing Ho. I was standing staring at him and wondering what course to adopt, when yet again my restless door-bell clamoured in the silence.
Hi Wing Ho started nervously, exhibiting the first symptoms of alarm which I had perceived in him. My mind was made up in an instant. I took my revolver from the drawer and covered him.
“Be good enough to open the door, Hi Wing Ho,” I said coldly.
He shrank from me, pouring forth voluble protestations.
“Open the door!”
I clenched my left fist and advanced upon him. He scuttled away with his odd Chinese gait and threw open the door. Standing before me I saw my friend Detective Sergeant Durham, and with him a remarkably tall and very large-boned man whose square-jawed face was deeply tanned and whose aspect was dourly Scottish.
When the piercing eyes of this stranger rested upon Hi Wing Ho an expression which I shall never forget entered into them; an expression coldly murderous. As for the Chinaman, he literally crumpled up.
“You rat!” roared the stranger.
Taking one long stride he stooped upon the Chinaman, seized him by the back of the neck as a terrier might seize a rat, and lifted him to his feet.
“The mystery of the pigtail, Mr. Knox,” said the detective, “is solved at last.”
“Have ye got it?” demanded the Scotsman, turning to me, but without releasing his hold upon the neck of Hi Wing Ho.
I took the pigtail from my pocket and dangled it before his eyes.
“Suppose you come into my study,” I said, “and explain matters.”
We entered the room which had been the scene of so many singular happenings. The detective and I seated ourselves, but the Scotsman, holding the Chinaman by the neck as though he had been some inanimate bundle, stood just within the doorway, one of the most gigantic specimens of manhood I had ever set eyes upon.
“You do the talking, sir,” he directed the detective; “ye have all the facts.”
While Durham talked, then, we all listened — excepting the Chinaman, who was past taking an intelligent interest in anything, and who, to judge from his starting eyes, was being slowly strangled.
“The gentleman,” said Durham— “Mr. Nicholson — arrived two days ago from the East. He is a buyer for a big firm of diamond merchants, and some weeks ago a valuable diamond was stolen from him —— —”
“By this!” interrupted the Scotsman, shaking the wretched Hi Wing Ho terrier fashion.
&
nbsp; “By Hi Wing Ho,” explained the detective, “whom you see before you. The theft was a very ingenious one, and the man succeeded in getting away with his haul. He tried to dispose of the diamond to a certain Isaac Cohenberg, a Singapore moneylender; but Isaac Cohenberg was the bigger crook of the two. Hi Wing Ho only escaped from the establishment of Cohenberg by dint of sandbagging the moneylender, and quitted the town by a boat which left the same night. On the voyage he was indiscreet enough to take the diamond from its hiding-place and surreptitiously to examine it. Another member of the Chinese crew, one Li Ping — otherwise Ah Fu, the accredited agent of old Huang Chow! — was secretly watching our friend, and, knowing that he possessed this valuable jewel, he also learned where he kept it hidden. At Suez Ah Fu attacked Hi Wing Ho and secured possession of the diamond. It was to secure possession of the diamond that Ah Fu had gone out East. I don’t doubt it. He employed Hi Wing Ho — and Hi Wing Ho tried to double on him!
“We are indebted to you, Mr. Knox, for some of the data upon which we have reconstructed the foregoing and also for the next link in the narrative. A fireman ashore from the Jupiter intruded upon the scene at Suez and deprived Ah Fu of the fruits of his labours. Hi Wing Ho seems to have been badly damaged in the scuffle, but Ah Fu, the more wily of the two, evidently followed the fireman, and, deserting from his own ship, signed on with the Jupiter.”
While this story was enlightening in some respects, it was mystifying in others. I did not interrupt, however, for Durham immediately resumed:
“The drama was complicated by the presence of a fourth character — the daughter of Cohenberg. Realizing that a small fortune had slipped through his fingers, the old moneylender dispatched his daughter in pursuit of Hi Wing Ho, having learned upon which vessel the latter had sailed. He had no difficulty in obtaining this information, for he is in touch with all the crooks of the town. Had he known that the diamond had been stolen by an agent of Huang Chow, he would no doubt have hesitated. Huang Chow has an international reputation.
“However, his daughter — a girl of great personal beauty — relied upon her diplomatic gifts to regain possession of the stone, but, poor creature, she had not counted with Ah Fu, who was evidently watching your chambers (while Hi Wing Ho, it seems, was assiduously shadowing Ah Fu!). How she traced the diamond from point to point of its travels we do not know, and probably never shall know, but she was undeniably clever and unscrupulous. Poor girl! She came to a dreadful end. Mr. Nicholson, here, identified her at Bow Street to-night.”
Now the whole amazing truth burst upon me.
“I understand!” I cried. “This” — and I snatched up the pigtail —
“That my pigtail,” moaned Hi Wing Ho feebly.
Mr. Nicholson pitched him unceremoniously into a corner of the room, and taking the pigtail in his huge hand, clumsily unfastened it. Out from the thick part, some two inches below the point at which it had been cut from the Chinaman’s head, a great diamond dropped upon the floor!
For perhaps twenty seconds there was perfect silence in my study. No one stooped to pick the diamond from the floor — the diamond which now had blood upon it. No one, so far as my sense informed me, stirred. But when, following those moments of stupefaction, we all looked up — Hi Wing Ho, like a phantom, had faded from the room!
THE HOUSE OF GOLDEN JOSS
I
THE BLOOD-STAINED IDOL
“Stop when we pass the next lamp and give me a light for my pipe.”
“Why?”
“No! don’t look round,” warned my companion. “I think someone is following us. And it is always advisable to be on guard in this neighbourhood.”
We had nearly reached the house in Wade Street, Limehouse, which my friend used as a base for East End operations. The night was dark but clear, and I thought that presently when dawn came it would bring a cold, bright morning. There was no moon, and as we passed the lamp and paused we stood in almost total darkness.
Facing in the direction of the Council School I struck a match. It revealed my ruffianly looking companion — in whom his nearest friends must have failed to recognize Mr. Paul Harley of Chancery Lane.
He was glancing furtively back along the street, and when a moment later we moved on, I too, had detected the presence of a figure stumbling toward us.
“Don’t stop at the door,” whispered Harley, for our follower was only a few yards away.
Accordingly we passed the house in which Harley had rooms, and had proceeded some fifteen paces farther when the man who was following us stumbled in between Harley and myself, clutching an arm of either. I scarcely knew what to expect, but was prepared for anything, when:
“Mates!” said a man huskily. “Mates, if you know where I can get a drink, take me there!”
Harley laughed shortly. I cannot say if he remained suspicious of the newcomer, but for my own part I had determined after one glance at the man that he was merely a drunken fireman newly recovered from a prolonged debauch.
“Where ‘ave yer been, old son?” growled Harley, in that wonderful dialect of his which I had so often and so vainly sought to cultivate. “You look as though you’d ‘ad one too many already.”
“I ain’t,” declared the fireman, who appeared to be in a semi-dazed condition. “I ain’t ‘ad one since ten o’clock last night. It’s dope wot’s got me, not rum.”
“Dope!” said Harley sharply; “been ‘avin’ a pipe, eh?”
“If you’ve got a corpse-reviver anywhere,” continued the man in that curious, husky voice, “‘ave pity on me, mate. I seen a thing to-night wot give me the jim-jams.”
“All right, old son,” said my friend good-humouredly; “about turn! I’ve got a drop in the bottle, but me an’ my mate sails to-morrow, an’ it’s the last.”
“Gawd bless yer!” growled the fireman; and the three of us — an odd trio, truly — turned about, retracing our steps.
As we approached the street lamp and its light shone upon the haggard face of the man walking between us, Harley stopped, and:
“Wot’s up with yer eye?” he inquired.
He suddenly tilted the man’s head upward and peered closely into one of his eyes. I suppressed a gasp of surprise for I instantly recognized the fireman of the Jupiter!
“Nothin’ up with it, is there?” said the fireman.
“Only a lump o’ mud,” growled Harley, and with a very dirty handkerchief he pretended to remove the imaginary stain, and then, turning to me:
“Open the door, Jim,” he directed.
His examination of the man’s eyes had evidently satisfied him that our acquaintance had really been smoking opium.
We paused immediately outside the house for which we had been bound, and as I had the key I opened the door and the three of us stepped into a little dark room. Harley closed the door and we stumbled upstairs to a low first-floor apartment facing the street. There was nothing in its appointments, as revealed in the light of an oil lamp burning on the solitary table, to distinguish it from a thousand other such apartments which may be leased for a few shillings a week in the neighbourhood. That adjoining might have told a different story, for it more closely resembled an actor’s dressing-room than a seaman’s lodging; but the door of this sanctum was kept scrupulously locked.
“Sit down, old son,” said my friend heartily, pushing forward an old arm-chair. “Fetch out the grog, Jim; there’s about enough for three.”
I walked to a cupboard, as the fireman sank limply down in the chair, and took out a bottle and three glasses. When the man, who, as I could now see quite plainly, was suffering from the after effects of opium, had eagerly gulped the stiff drink which I handed to him, he looked around with dim, glazed eyes, and:
“You’ve saved my life, mates,” he declared. “I’ve ‘ad a ‘orrible nightmare, I ‘ave — a nightmare. See?”
He fixed his eyes on me for a moment, then raised himself from his seat, peering narrowly at me across the table.
“I seed you b
efore, mate. Gaw, blimey! if you ain’t the bloke wot I giv’d the pigtail to! And wot laid out that blasted Chink as was scraggin’ me! Shake, mate!”
I shook hands with him, Harley eyeing me closely the while, in a manner which told me that his quick brain had already supplied the link connecting our doped acquaintance with my strange experience during his absence. At the same time it occurred to me that my fireman friend did not know that Ah Fu was dead, or he would never have broached the subject so openly.
“That’s so,” I said, and wondered if he required further information.
“It’s all right, mate. I don’t want to ‘ear no more about blinking pigtails — not all my life I don’t,” and he sat back heavily in his chair and stared at Harley.
“Where have you been?” inquired Harley, as if no interruption had occurred, and then began to reload his pipe: “at Malay Jack’s or at Number Fourteen?”
“Neither of ’em!” cried the fireman, some evidence of animation appearing in his face; “I been at Kwen Lung’s.”
“In Pennyfields?”
“That’s ‘im, the old bloke with the big joss. I allers goes to see Ma Lorenzo when I’m in Port o’ London. I’ve seen ‘er for the last time, mates.”
He banged a big and dirty hand upon the table.
“Last night I see murder done, an’ only that I know they wouldn’t believe me, I’d walk across to Limehouse P’lice Station presently and put the splits on ’em, I would.”
Harley, who was seated behind the speaker, glanced at me significantly.
“Sure you wasn’t dreamin’?” he inquired facetiously.
“Dreamin’!” cried the man. “Dreams don’t leave no blood be’ind, do they?”
“Blood!” I exclaimed.
“That’s wot I said — blood! When I woke up this mornin’ there was blood all on that grinnin’ joss — the blood wot ‘ad dripped from ‘er shoulders when she fell.”
“Eh!” said Harley. “Blood on whose shoulders? Wot the ‘ell are you talkin’ about, old son?”
“Ere” — the fireman turned in his chair and grasped Harley by the arm— “listen to me, and I’ll tell you somethink, I will. I’m goin’ in the Seahawk in the mornin’ see? But if you want to know somethink, I’ll tell yer. Drunk or sober I bars the blasted p’lice, but if you like to tell ’em I’ll put you on somethink worth tellin’. Sure the bottle’s empty, mates?”