triumph. “Know your enemies, my dear fellow. Know them with an exactness that renders them, their habits, their subterfuges, their weaknesses, and their strengths, as clearly as if they were life-sized pieces arrayed before you on a giant chessboard.”
I nodded and reached for the sherry decanter as my closest-ever male companion and dearest friend reached for his violin case.
“A good day’s work on your part, old friend,” he said. “Well done.”
I raised my glass. “Yes, cheerio. But, as you’ve always said, the only possible place to hide a secret is in plain sight.”
He paused before raising his beloved Stradivarius to his chin. “As Professor Moriarty is ever vigilant for our return, it behooves us to promote ourselves and our likenesses in any and every way possible. We needs must give continuous form, substance, and exercise to his worst imaginings; that we, his two most implacable foes, have risen, yet again, Lazarus-like, from the dead.”
“Give a dog a bone, Holmes?”
“Indeed, my dear Watson. And not just cupboards full of skeletons, but whole battalions, entire multitudes, if need be. All to ensure that Moriarty and his wretched gang simply cannot see the wood for the trees. For as elementary as the ruse undoubtedly is, the one indisputable fact in our case is that there truly is safety in numbers.”
I raised my glass again and sat there—with not a single thought of putting pen to paper—and sipped at my sherry and listened contentedly as the notes of Mendelssohn’s
Tony Broadbent is the author of a series of mystery novels about a roguish Cockney cat burglar in postwar, austerity-ridden, black-market-riddled London who gets blackmailed into working for MI5 and is then trained by Ian Fleming. His first,
THE MEN WITH THE TWISTED LIPS
“The Lascar,” said Chan Ho, cradling his delicate porcelain teacup in his hands, “is a dangerous man.”
Not a word of disagreement was uttered by any of the three guests gathered in Chan Ho’s carpeted upstairs parlor. The day being hot, the windows stood open, but even the afternoon Limehouse ruckus of creaking carts and hawkers’ shouts did not distract the men from the issue they had been brought together to consider. No more did the sweet scent of opium smoke rising faintly from below, to which all four men were inured; for Chan, and his guests also, as well as the Lascar whose transgressions were at issue, owned and managed houses for the enjoyment of that drug.
Portly Wing Lin-Wei, leaning forward to pluck a second candied plum from the silver bowl, replied, “Indeed, Chan, his flagrant contempt for the authorities only grows. He appears to have no respect for the customs of the land in which we find ourselves, nor any understanding of his position here. His attitude, his actions, they endanger us all.”
“In which he differs from you, Wing,” murmured Zhang Peng-Da, a skeletally thin and sour man who had not touched his tea. “You with your gifts of silver coin, your fawning attentions on the constabulary. Your pathetic attempts at spoken English! It is humiliating.”
A tight smile creased Wing’s full cheeks. “Perhaps, Zhang, my willingness to make efforts to adjust to our new home accounts for the difference in our clientele.”
“If there is an advantage in having the cost of an opium pipe borne by a duke rather than a dustman, I do not see it,” Zhang sneered. “In fact, if dustmen, not dukes, were our only patrons, perhaps there would be no need of this discussion.”
“Zhang is correct.” Chan spoke in mild rebuke to Wing, who was both the younger man and the more recent arrival to London. “If we accommodated only those whose habits did not draw the attention of the newspapers, not to speak of that of the ladies’ groups, it is possible we would have none of these difficulties. Yet we are hardly in a position to inquire into our customers’ social standing or employment before we render our service, or, for that matter, to turn any away. Nor have we ever needed to, as long as we take pains to be discreet. The smoking of opium is in England a legal pastime, the efforts of some civic groups to the contrary notwithstanding. May I remind you all, that is why we came here.”
Chan paused and looked about him at the men seated on the heavy wooden armchairs. Zhang wore his usual sneer and Lu Yang, the youngest of them, radiated impatience. Only Wing sat placidly, with the patience of an egret waiting to stab a fish. Chan sighed. Had the choice not been dictated by the requirements of the scheme as he set them out to himself, he might have selected other confederates to join him in accomplishing his ends. Restraining the more flamboyant activities of the Lascar proprietor of the Bar of Gold would be to the advantage of every man who owned an opium establishment in Limehouse, and Chan might easily have found more compatible allies. However, as things stood, each of these men brought with him an element indispensible to the successful prosecution of Chan’s idea.
“Our profession is not thought respectable,” Chan went on, “but we are largely ignored by those with whom we have no traffic. We all”—he emphasized the word, to remind the men of their common interests and of the necessity to put aside rivalries and work together on the task before them—“depend upon this relative obscurity to allow us to prosper.” Satisfied that he had made his point, Chan allowed himself a sip of tea. “Our ability to carry on our commerce in peace is threatened of late, however, by the scandalous behavior of this Lascar. His haughty disregard of the need for discretion, especially in his more questionable activities, has brought undesirable notice to the Bar of Gold. Thus unwanted attention has recently been directed at the Limehouse district, more than once. You especially, Zhang, as your establishment abuts his, are, I am sure, particularly concerned.”
Zhang glared but did not contradict.
“The current situation involving Mr. Neville St. Clair,” Chan came to the point, “is, I think you will all agree, untenable. What we have discovered, the authorities will eventually discover also. There will be an outcry against the Lascar that will encompass the entire district. It will be opium that is blamed, it will be our business establishments that are held up to scrutiny, it will be we who pay the price. Zhang’s concern that high-society patrons of our establishments draw excessive notice will be borne out with full force, when Mr. Neville St. Clair is discovered to be perpetrating this outrageous fraud from his quarters at the Lascar’s, here in Limehouse.”
“Mr. Neville St. Clair does not smoke opium,” Wing stated mildly, licking syrup from the end of his thumb.
“Nevertheless!” Zhang snapped. “Chan is correct. Mr. Neville St. Clair’s begging, in the person of the repulsive Hugh Boone, for which he has already been taken up a dozen times, is dependent on his rooms in our streets. His discovery will have repercussions here; worse still will be the shock when his identity is revealed to the citizens of Lee, where he lives his respectable life.”
Chan could not miss the disdain with which Zhang said “respectable,” but he let it pass. “My point exactly,” he confirmed. “That Mr. Neville St. Clair is perpetrating this fraud upon not only the kindhearted gentlemen of the City, who feel moved by his seeming plight to give him alms, but also upon his own wife, his children, his neighbors, will be too much for many people. Some will use the disgust of the moment to point the finger of accusation at us all. I believe in English the phrase is ‘tarring with the same brush.’ ” This was addressed as mollification to Wing, who nodded, acknowledging the honor. “Also, may I remind you, this is not the Lascar’s first offense against the
