Kee Lim’s eyes narrowed, and he stroked his thin gray beard. He did not approve of that calling, as Charlie well knew.
“You are involved,” he said coldly, “with the white devil police?”
Chan shrugged. “Unfortunately, yes. But I ask no betrayal of confidence from you. A harmless question, only. Perhaps you could tell me of a stranger, a tourist, who has been guest of relatives in Jackson Street? The name Li Gung.”
Kee Lim nodded. “I have not met him, but I have heard talk at the Tong House. He is one who has traveled much in foreign lands. For some time he has been domiciled with his cousin Henry Li, the basket importer, who lives American style in the big apartment-house on Jackson Street. The Oriental Apartments, I believe. I have not been inside, but I understand there are bathrooms and other strange developments of what the white devil is pleased to call his civilization.”
“You are an acquaintance of Henry Li?” Charlie asked.
Kee Lim’s eyes hardened. “I have not the honor,” he replied.
Charlie understood. His cousin would have no part in whatever he proposed. He rose from his ebony stool.
“You are extremely kind,” he said. “That was the extent of my desire. Duty says I must walk my way.”
Kee Lim also rose. “The briefness of your stop makes it essential you come again. There is always a welcome here.”
“Only too well do I know it,” nodded Charlie. “I am busy man, but we will meet again. I am saying goodbye.”
His cousin followed to the door. “I hope you have a safe walk,” he remarked, and there was, it seemed, something more in his mind than the conventional farewell wish.
Chan set out at once for Jackson Street. Halfway up the hill he encountered the gaudy front of the Oriental Apartments. Here the more prosperous members of the Chinese colony lived in the manner of their adopted country.
He entered the lobby and studied the letter boxes. Henry Li, he discovered, lived on the second floor. Ignoring the push buttons, he tried the door. It was unlocked, and he went inside. He climbed to the third floor, walking softly as he passed the apartment occupied by Henry Li. For a moment he stood at the head of the stairs, then started down. He had proceeded about halfway to the floor below, when suddenly he appeared to lose his footing, and descended with a terrific clatter to the second-floor landing. The door of Henry Li’s apartment opened, and a fat little Chinese in a business suit peered out.
“You are concerned in an accident?” he inquired solicitously.
“Haie!” cried Chan, picking himself up, “the evil spirits pursue me. I have lost my footing on these slippery stairs.” He tried to walk, but limped painfully. “I fear I have given my ankle a bad turn. If I could sit quietly for a moment—”
The little man threw wide his door. “Condescend to enter my contemptible house. My chairs are plain and uncomfortable, but you must try one.”
Profuse in thanks, Chan followed him into an astonishing living-room. Hang-chau silk hangings and a few pieces of teakwood mingled with blatant plush furniture from some department store. A small boy, about thirteen, was seated at a radio, which ground out dance music. He wore the khaki uniform of a boy scout, with a bright yellow handkerchief about his throat.
“Please sit here,” invited Henry Li, indicating a huge chair of green plush. “I trust the pain is not very acute.”
“It begins to subside,” Chan told him. “You are most kind.”
The boy had shut off the radio, and was standing before Charlie Chan with keen interest in his bright eyes.
“A most regrettable thing,” explained his father. “The gentleman has turned his ankle on our detestable stairs.”
“So sorry,” the boy announced. His eyes grew even brighter. “All boy scouts know how to make bandages. I will get my first-aid kit—”
“No, no,” protested Chan hastily. “Do not trouble yourself. The injury is not serious.”
“It would be no trouble at all,” the boy assured him. With some difficulty Charlie dissuaded him, and to the detective’s great relief, the boy disappeared.
“I will sit and rest for a moment,” Chan said to Henry Li. “I trust I am no great obstacle here. The accident overwhelmed me when I was on the search for an old friend of mine—Li Gung by name.”
Henry Li’s little eyes rested for a moment on the picture of a middle-aged Chinese in a silver frame on the mantel. “You are a friend of Li Gung?” he inquired.
The moment had been enough for Chan. “I am—and I see his photograph above there, tastefully framed. Is it true, then, that he is stopping here? Has my search ended so fortunately after all?”
“He was here,” Li replied, “but only this morning he walked his way.”
“Gone!” Chan’s face fell. “Alas, then I am too late. Would you be so kind as to tell me where he went?”
Henry Li became discreet. “He disappeared on business of his own, with which I have no concern.”
“Of course. But it is a great pity. A friend of mine, an American gentleman who goes on a long, hazardous journey, required his services. The recompense would have been of generous amount.”
Li shook his head. “The matter would have held no interest for Gung. He is otherwise occupied.”
“Ah, yes. He still remains in the employ of Colonel John Beetham?”
“No doubt he does.”
“Still, the reward in this other matter would have been great. But it may be that he is very loyal to Colonel Beetham. A loyalty cemented through many years. I am trying to figure, but I can not. How long is it your honorable cousin is in Colonel Beetham’s service?”
“Long enough to cement loyalty, as you say,” returned Li, non-commitally.
“Fifteen years, perhaps?” hazarded Chan.
“It might be.”
“Or even longer?”
“As to that, I do not know.”
Chan nodded. “When you know, to know
