For fully ten minutes after the fireman had departed Paul Harley sat
staring abstractedly in front of him, his cold pipe between his teeth,
and knowing his moods I intruded no words upon this reverie, until:
“Come on, Knox,” he said, standing up suddenly, “I think this matter
calls for speedy action.”
“What! Do you think the man's story was true?”
“I think nothing. I am going to look at Kwen Lung's joss.”
Without another word he led the way downstairs and out into the deserted
street. The first gray halftones of dawn were creeping into the sky,
so that the outlines of Limehouse loomed like dim silhouettes about
us. There was abundant evidence in the form of noises, strange and
discordant, that many workers were busy on dock and riverside, but the
streets through which our course lay were almost empty. Sometimes a
furtive shadow would move out of some black gully and fade into a dimly
seen doorway in a manner peculiarly unpleasant and Asiatic. But we met
no palpable pedestrian throughout the journey.
Before the door of a house in Pennyfields which closely resembled that
which we had left in Wade Street, in that it was flatly uninteresting,
dirty and commonplace, we paused. There was no sign of life about the
place and no lights showed at any of the windows, which appeared as
dim cavities--eyeless sockets in the gray face of the building, as dawn
proclaimed the birth of a new day.
Harley seized the knocker and knocked sharply. There was no response,
and he repeated the summons, but again without effect. Thereupon, with a
muttered exclamation, he grasped the knocker a third time and executed a
veritable tattoo upon the door. When this had proceeded for about half a
minute or more:
“All right, all right!” came a shaky voice from within. “I'm coming.”
Harley released the knocker, and, turning to me:
“Ma Lorenzo,” he whispered. “Don't make any mistakes.”
Indeed, even as he warned me, heralded by a creaking of bolts and the
rattling of a chain, the door was opened by a fat, shapeless, half-caste
woman of indefinite age; in whose dark eyes, now sunken in bloated
cheeks, in whose full though drooping lips, and even in the whole
overlaid contour of whose face and figure it was possible to recognize
the traces of former beauty. This was Ma Lorenzo, who for many years had
lived at that address with old Kwen Lung, of whom strange stories were
told in Chinatown.
As Bill Jones, A.B., my friend, Paul Harley, was well known to Ma
Lorenzo as he was well known to many others in that strange colony which
clusters round the London docks. I sometimes enjoyed the privilege of
accompanying my friend on a tour of investigation through the weird
resorts which abound in that neighbourhood, and, indeed, we had been
returning from one of these Baghdad nights when our present adventure
had been thrust upon us. Assuming a wild and boisterous manner which he
had at command:
“'Urry up, Ma!” said Harley, entering without ceremony; “I want to
introduce my pal Jim 'ere to old Kwen Lung, and make it all right for
him before I sail.”
Ma Lorenzo, who was half Portuguese, replied in her peculiar accent:
“This no time to come waking me up out of bed!”
But Harley, brushing past her, was already inside the stuffy little
room, and I hastened to follow.
“Kwen Lung!” shouted my friend loudly. “Where are you? Brought a friend
to see you.”
“Kwen Lung no hab,” came the complaining tones of Ma Lorenzo from behind
us.
It was curious to note how long association with the Chinese had
resulted in her catching the infection of that pidgin-English which is a
sort of esperanto in all Asiatic quarters.
“Eh!” cried my friend, pushing open a door on the right of the passage
and stumbling down three worn steps into a very evil-smelling room.
“Where is he?”
“Go play fan-tan. Not come back.”
Ma Lorenzo, having relocked the street door, had rejoined us, and as I
followed my friend down into the dim and uninviting apartment she stood
at the top of the steps, hands on hips, regarding us.
The place, which was quite palpably an opium den, must have disappointed
anyone familiar with the more ornate houses of Chinese vice in San
Francisco and elsewhere. The bare floor was not particularly clean, and
the few decorations which the room boasted were garishly European for
the most part. A deep divan, evidently used sometimes as a bed, occupied
one side of the room, and just to the left of the steps reposed the only
typically Oriental object in the place.
It was a strange thing to see in so sordid a setting; a great gilded
joss, more than life-size, squatting, hideous, upon a massive pedestal;
a figure fit for some native temple but strangely out of place in that
dirty little Limehouse abode.
I had never before visited Kwen Lung's, but the fame of his golden joss
had reached me, and I know that he had received many offers for it, all
of which he had rejected. It was whispered that Kwen Lung was rich,
that he was a great man among the Chinese, and even that some kind of
religious ceremony periodically took place in his house. Now, as I stood
staring at the famous idol, I saw something which made me stare harder
than ever.
The place was lighted by a hanging lamp from which depended bits of
coloured paper and several gilded silk tassels; but dim as the light was
it could not conceal those tell-tale stains.
There was blood on the feet of the golden idol!
All this I detected at a glance, but ere I had time to speak:
“You can't tell me that tale, Ma!” cried Harley. “I believe 'e was
smokin' in 'ere when we knocked.”
The woman shrugged her fat shoulders.
“No, hab,” she repeated. “You two johnnies clear out. Let me sleep.”
But as I turned to her, beneath the nonchalant manner I could detect a
great uneasiness; and in her dark eyes there was fear. That Harley also
had seen the bloodstains I was well aware, and I did not doubt that
furthermore he had noted the fact that the only mat which the room
boasted had been placed before the joss--doubtless to hide other stains
upon the boards.
As we stood so I presently became aware of a current of air passing
across the room in the direction of the open door. It came from a window
before which a tawdry red curtain had been draped. Either the window
behind the curtain was wide open, which is alien to Chinese habits,
or it was shattered. While I was wondering if Harley intended to
investigate further:
“Come on, Jim!” he cried boisterously, and clapped me on the shoulder;
“the old fox don't want to be disturbed.”
He turned to the woman:
“Tell him when he wakes up, Ma,” he said, “that if ever my pal Jim wants
a pipe he's to 'ave one. Savvy? Jim's square.”
“Savvy,” replied the woman, and she was wholly unable to conceal her
relief. “You clear out now, and I tell Kwen Lung when he come in.”
“Righto, Ma!” said Harley. “Kiss 'im on both cheeks for me, an' tell 'im
I'll be 'ome again in a month.”
Grasping me by the arm he lurched up the steps, and the two of us
presently found ourselves out in the street again. In the growing
light the squalor of the district was more evident than ever, but the
comparative freshness of the air was welcome after the reek of that room
in which the golden idol sat leering, with blood at his feet.
“You saw, Harley?” I exclaimed excitedly. “You saw the stains? And I'm
certain the window was broken!”
Harley nodded shortly.
“Back to Wade Street!” he said. “I allow myself fifteen minutes to shed
Bill Jones, able seaman, and to become Paul Harley, of Chancery Lane.”
As we hurried along:
“What steps shall you take?” I asked.
“First step: search Kwen Lung's house from cellar to roof. Second step:
entirely dependent upon result of first. The Chinese are subtle, Knox.
If Kwen Lung has killed his daughter, it may require all the resources
of Scotland Yard to prove it.”
“But------”
“There is no 'but' about it. Chinatown is the one district of London
which possesses the property of swallowing people up.”