brooded over it often. This break in the case was important to him, I knew.
“Jenkins, we shall be out for the rest of the day,” Barker said as we passed the desk in the outer office. Our clerk was buried behind an issue of The Illustrated London News, which was in danger of catching fire from his cigarette. He muttered a reply and returned to his reading. Jenkins didn’t exactly shine in the mornings, if indeed he ever shone at all.
I was bundled into a cold hansom cab, squeezed between Barker’s brawny left shoulder and Bainbridge’s equally brawny right one. The two men were of a size-and a large one, at that. I felt like a kernel of wheat in a mill.
A half hour’s cab ride later, we alighted in East India Dock Road in front of a building that would have been nondescript were it not for the three gold-painted balls over the door. The street, along with others nearby such as Orient and Canton, had been named after the first successes of the East India Company in Asia, but if I was expecting an Asian fantasy I was mistaken. Ming Street looked about as Oriental as Camden Town.
A notice on the door informed us that the Hurtz Pawnshop had closed its doors permanently and that anyone with a ticket had better claim the property soon. Bainbridge agreed to remain outside while we went in and attempted to retrieve whatever had brought us out on our errand. The door was unlocked despite the notice. Moving between racks of musty clothing, oil lamps, and old violins, we found the counter vacant, but there was some evidence of movement in the back room. Someone was using a broom vigorously. Barker pounded twice on the floor with the metal tip of his walking stick.
After a moment, a head popped through the baize curtain and a body eventually came with it. They belonged to a fastidious-looking Dutchman with a pair of sandy side-whiskers, like two chops glued to a face, and a handkerchief on his head, knotted at each corner. As he came forward, he plucked off the kerchief and used it to wipe the dust from his shoulders.
“Gentlemen, we are closed,” he said, biting off each syllable as if it were a herring. “Unless, of course, you have come to retrieve something in pawn.”
“We have, sir, if you still possess it,” Barker said, pulling the ticket from his pocket and presenting it to the proprietor. “Why are you closing shop, if I may ask? Has business fallen away?”
“No. My brother has unfortunately passed on. This was his shop.”
“We are sorry to hear that. Was it an illness of some duration?”
“It was no illness. He fell down the stairs in the back and died. I came here from Rotterdam to settle his affairs.”
The shopkeeper opened his ledger and compared the ticket number to the entry in the book. Only then did he stop and put up his hand.
“Hold a minute, gentlemen, if you please. I recall this item. A fellow claiming to be a police official came here just this morning attempting to retrieve it. I shall tell you the same thing that I told him. If the claimant is dead, it must be picked up by his next of kin.”
“I am his next of kin.”
The Dutchman crossed his arms and stared at Barker skeptically. “I find that difficult to believe, since the name on the ticket is Chinese.”
“If you will check your book, I’m certain you shall find that the name given is Quong and the address 127 Three Colt Street, Limehouse. He was my assistant. The building is mine.”
Three Colt Street, I thought to myself. The name was new to me. Quong had lived in the room I presently occupied in Barker’s home in Newington, but Barker had just given a second address. Did he really own a building in the area, or was he spinning a yarn to get past the Dutchman?
Mr. Hurtz checked his ledger and read the writing there. “And you are?”
“Cyrus Barker, sir. Here is my card.”
“Private enquiry agent,” he said, studying the card skeptically. “You understand, one must be cautious in this day and age. My brother was never cautious. If he had been, he would have known there were seventeen steps on that staircase, not sixteen. Very well. I suppose you detectives shall continue to pester me otherwise. I shall keep your card, and if someone else comes along claiming to be this Mr. Quong, I shall refer him to you. Do you have any objections?”
“None whatever. On what date was the item taken in pawn?”
“The first of the year, according to the ledger.”
“He was found dead the next morning.”
“Forgive me if I have been curt. My brother was always a trifle disorganized. He kept poor books and threw the items he took in into any convenient mouse hole. It has taken me weeks to rearrange everything systematically, and do you know what happened when I finished? The shop was broken into.”
“How terrible!” Barker said.
“Yes. I will never be so glad as when I board the ferry to Amsterdam and can say good-bye to this wretched business.”
“Was much taken?” my employer continued.
“A few trinkets and some gold pieces. Obviously, Jan did not do business in a large way, not in this district, certainly. But the thief overturned everything, you see. I had to rearrange the stock all over again.”
“You say your brother fell down the stairs in this very building. Were they steep?”
“Steep enough, sir, though Jan was uncommonly clumsy. He lived above the shop, you see, and was found dead at the foot of the stairs with his neck broken. Unfortunately, he lived alone and nobody reported that his shop remained closed for over a week. Poor Jan. Always unlucky in his affairs.”
“When did he pass away?”
“A month ago. I had to rearrange my affairs to come here.”
“You have our sympathy, sir, for your loss,” Barker said, bowing his head in respect. “Is it possible the item my assistant had in pawn was taken in the burglary?”
“No, sir. I am sure I still have it, if you will give me just a moment.”
When the Dutchman disappeared behind a curtain, I tried to dispel the image of Hurtz lying dead in his house for a week by asking Barker a question. “Why do you suppose Mr. Quong was in a pawnshop, sir?”
“Quong had a fascination for small, out-of-the- way shops selling old curiosities. He said they gave him a better understanding of Western culture. I’ve never known him to put an item in pawn, however.”
Hurtz returned from the back room. “Here you are, sir,” he said, setting down a small parcel done up in brown paper. Without ceremony, Barker seized it and tore open the packet. Inside was a small, disreputable-looking book with a faded yellow-brown cover of raw silk. There was a label affixed to it with Chinese lettering aligned vertically, and instead of a hard spine, the binding strings hung down in knotted strands, like tassels.
My employer gave it little more than a perfunctory glance, opening and perusing a page or two before sliding it inside the pocket of his jacket. “Yes, that’s it. All appears to be in order,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”
“One and sixpence, sir. If I may ask it, what possessed your assistant to place such a small item in pawn? Jan could not have given him more than a shilling for it.”
Barker tapped his pocket. “I scarce can say. Whim, perhaps. Thank you, sir. Thomas, pay the man.”
I fished in my pocket until I came up with the required amount. Barker never carried silver, just the sharp- edged pennies he used as weapons, and he disliked discussing money. The Guv scrutinized the ledger a moment, then dipped the pen and signed on the line provided. Our business concluded, we quit the shop.
“You got it?” Bainbridge asked from a doorway as we passed. He quickly fell into step with us.
“Yes. It is a Chinese book. Are you familiar with Ho’s?”
Bainbridge smiled, revealing a horsey set of teeth. “I’ve been picking up the dross Ho has been tossing out of his establishment for years.”
“I’d like him to verify what I believe this to be, if you have no objections.”
“None whatever, as long as I don’t have to eat any of the swill he serves. It’s eels, eyes of newt, and whatever was run over by the Leadenhall meat wagons the night before. They say there are no cats within a mile of the place.”
I thought Barker might object to Bainbridge’s remarks. Ho’s was his base of operations in the East End, and he was on such good terms with the owner that I always thought he might have some hand in the place’s affairs. His mind was on the case, however, and he would not be distracted by what might or might not be on Ho’s menu.
