Unlike its sister colony in New York, there are no show places in
Limehouse. The visitor sees nothing but mean streets and dark doorways.
The superficial inquirer comes away convinced that the romance of the
Asiatic district has no existence outside the imaginations of writers
of fiction. Yet here lies a secret quarter, as secret and as strange,
in its smaller way, as its parent in China which is called the Purple
Forbidden City.
On a morning when mist lay over the Thames reaches, softening the
harshness of the dock buildings and lending an air of mystery to the
vessels stealing out upon the tide, a man walked briskly along Limehouse
Causeway, looking about him inquiringly, as one unfamiliar with the
neighbourhood. Presently he seemed to recognize a turning to the right,
and he pursued this for a time, now walking more slowly.
A European woman, holding a half-caste baby in her arms, stood in an
open doorway, watching him uninterestedly. Otherwise, except for one
neatly dressed young Chinaman, who passed him about halfway along the
street, there was nothing which could have told the visitor that he
had crossed the borderline dividing West from East and was now in an
Oriental town.
A very narrow alleyway between two dingy houses proved to be the spot
for which he was looking; and, having stared about him for a while, he
entered this alleyway. At the farther end it was crossed T-fashion, by
another alley, the only object of interest being an iron post at the
crossing, and the scenery being made up entirely of hideous brick walls.
About halfway along on the left, set in one of these walls, were strong
wooden gates, apparently those of a warehouse. Beside them was a door
approached by two very dirty steps. There was a bell-push near the door,
but upon neither of these entrances was there any plate to indicate the
name of the proprietor of the establishment.
From his pocket-book the visitor extracted a card, consulted something
written upon it, and then pressed the bell.
It was very quiet in this dingy little court. No sound of the busy
thoroughfares penetrated here; and although the passage forming the
top of the “T” practically marked the river bank, only dimly could one
discern the sounds which belong to a seaport.
Presently the door was opened by a Chinese boy who wore the ordinary
native working dress, and who regarded the man upon the step with
oblique, tired-looking eyes.
“Mr. Huang Chow?” asked the caller.
The boy nodded.
“You wantchee him see?”
“If he is at home.”
The boy glanced at the card, which the visitor still held between finger
and thumb, and extended his hand silently. The card was surrendered. It
was that of an antique dealer of Dover Street, Piccadilly, and written
upon the back was the following: “Mr. Hampden would like to do business
with you.” The signature of the dealer followed.
The boy turned and passed along a dim and perfectly unfurnished passage
which the opening of the door had revealed, while Mr. Hampden stood upon
the step and lighted a cigarette.
In less than a minute the boy returned and beckoned to him to come in.
As he did so, and the door was closed, he almost stumbled, so dark was
the passage.
Presently, guided by the boy, he found himself in a very business-like
little office, where a girl sat at an American desk, looking up at him
inquiringly.
She was of a dark and arresting type. Without being pretty in the
European sense, there was something appealing in her fine, dark eyes,
and she possessed the inviting smile which is the heritage of Eastern
women. Her dress was not unlike that of any other business girl, except
that the neck of her blouse was cut very low, a fashion affected by many
Eurasians, and she wore a gaily coloured sash, and large and very costly
pearl ear-rings. As Mr. Hampden paused in the doorway:
“Good morning,” said the girl, glancing down at the card which lay upon
the desk before her. “You come from Mr. Isaacs, eh?”
She looked at him with a caressing glance from beneath half-lowered
lashes, but missed no detail of his appearance. She did not quite like
his moustache, and thought that he would have looked better cleanshaven.
Nevertheless, he was a well-set-up fellow, and her manner evidenced
approval.
“Yes,” he replied, smiling genially. “I have a small commission to
execute, and I am told that you can help me.”
The girl paused for a moment, and then:
“Yes, very likely,” she said, speaking good English but with an odd
intonation. “It is not jade? We have very little jade.”
“No, no. I wanted an enamelled casket.”
“What kind?”
“Cloisonne.”
“Cloisonne? Yes, we have several.”
She pressed a bell, and, glancing up at the boy who had stood throughout
the interview at the visitor's elbow, addressed him rapidly in Chinese.
He nodded his head and led the way through a second doorway. Closing
this, he opened a third and ushered Mr. Hampden into a room which nearly
caused the latter to gasp with astonishment.
One who had blundered from Whitechapel into the Khan Khalil, who had
been transported upon a magic carpet from a tube station to the Taj
Mahal, or dropped suddenly upon Lebanon hills to find himself looking
down upon the pearly domes and jewelled gardens of Damascus, could not
well have been more surprised. This great treasure-house of old Huang
Chow was one of Chinatown's secrets--a secret shared only by those whose
commercial interests were identical with the interests of Huang Chow.
The place was artificially lighted by lamps which themselves were
beautiful objects of art, and which swung from the massive beams of
the ceiling. The floor of the warehouse, which was partly of stone, was
covered with thick matting, and spread upon it were rugs and carpets
of Karadagh, Kermanshah, Sultan-abad, and Khorassan, with lesser-known
loomings of almost equal beauty. Skins of rare beasts overlay the
divans. Furniture of ivory, of ebony and lemonwood, preciously inlaid,
gave to the place an air of cunning confusion. There were tall cabinets,
there were caskets and chests of exquisite lacquer and enamel, loot
of an emperor's palace; robes heavy with gold; slippers studded with
jewels; strange carven ivories; glittering weapons; pots, jars, and
bowls, as delicate and as fragile as the petals of a lily.
Last, but not least, sitting cross-legged upon a low couch, was old
Huang Chow, smoking a great curved pipe, and peering half blindly across
the place through large horn-rimmed spectacles. This couch was set
immediately beside a wide ascending staircase, richly carpeted, and
on the other side of the staircase, in a corresponding recess, upon a
gilded trestle carved to represent the four claws of a dragon, rested
perhaps the strangest exhibit of that strange collection--a Chinese
coffin of exquisite workmanship.
The boy retired, and Mr. Hampden found himself alone with Huang Chow. No
word had been exchanged between master and servant, but:
“Good morning, Mr. Hampden,” said the Chinaman in a high, thin voice.
“Please be seated. It is from Mr. Isaacs you come?”