knocked out the Titan-”
“What about it?” Barker asked.
“It was Chinese boxing, wasn’t it?”
“Very good, lad. Yes, it was. A hook of the wrist, followed by a simultaneous block and punch. He did it well, too.”
“How do you suppose he learned it?”
“No Chinese instructor would teach a foreigner, but the man has eyes and a brain. Perhaps he saw it in a fight and copied the move or learned it from someone unscrupulous, such as a dismissed student. I am certain he would pay well for that information.”
“It’s far too coincidental, sir. He has to be our killer. He is awfully desperate to lay his hands on the book.”
“Perhaps,” Barker stated diplomatically.
“Will you speak to Inspector Poole about Campbell-Ffinch’s late night activities?”
“No, I want to give Poole a chance to solve this one if he can. Setting Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office at each other’s throats will only tie up both agencies.”
“More room for you, then,” I said.
“I don’t need them hampered to find Quong’s killer.”
“Do you know who it is?” I asked, leaning forward.
“It is still early, lad. One cannot build a house until all the materials are assembled. I counsel patience.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “but while we are being patient, we have a houseful of servants and stable fees and other expenses to pay.”
“Spoken like an assistant. I thank you for your concern,” he said, “but there is no amount I could pay that would equal the sacrifice Quong himself made in my service.”
Of course, I had no rejoinder to make to that. After we pulled into Victoria Station, Barker moved forward to get out and I saw him wince, striations in the skin below his black spectacles.
“How are you feeling?” I dared ask.
“The ride has done nothing good for my lower back. My kidneys are still sore, but I take that as a good sign. Things must hurt before they can heal. They must get worse before they can get better.”
I stepped out of the station doors and raised my good arm to hail a hansom. I always hate it when Barker sounds prophetic.
22
Barker rested most of the next day. He had been pushing himself since he’d first awakened from his injuries. When I got back from the office, Mac informed me that the Guv hadn’t even been down to lunch. We were talking sotto voce but we should have known the Guv would have heard me enter the house. He called down from the top floor. I set my stick in the hall stand and went upstairs.
My employer was still in bed, clad in his dressing gown. Upon my entrance, he reached into the table by his bed and removed a small daguerreotype, no larger than a playing card. I scrutinized it. It showed a young Oriental with a serious expression on his face against a backdrop painted to look like a Hellenic grove.
“Is this Quong?” I asked.
“Yes. I want you to take it with you to dinner with Miss Petulengro. See if she recognizes it.”
“But I haven’t asked her yet, sir.”
“Then you had better make haste, lad. A young woman as attractive as that is not going to wait for you to get up your courage.”
I slid into the shop a few minutes before closing time, making certain the bell jingled to attract Miss Petulengro’s attention. By the time I reached the counter, she came in from the rooms behind.
“Oh, it’s you, again,” she said, flashing what might be the prettiest teeth in the East End. “What brings you here?”
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I might take the chance that you had not eaten dinner yet.”
“Here, I ain’t that kinda girl, I’ll have you know,” she said, putting her hand on her hip.
“Oh! I do beg your pardon! I didn’t mean-”
She broke out in a laugh. “Oh, your face. Four shades of red, it is. I meant I ain’t the kinda girl you have to impress with a meal, if you get my meaning.”
“I see.”
“But you might have warned me, you know. I might have made plans of me own. I been asked to dinner twice today already, and I turned them down. What makes you think I’d go out with you?”
“Because being an enquiry agent makes me irresistible to women,” I bluffed. “Air of danger and all that.”
“Ha! As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another name for copper. I suppose your real plan is to open me up and ply me with questions.”
“Well, yes, that’s exactly the idea, but there’s no reason why we cannot do it over a nice meal and a bottle of wine.”
“I reckon you’re right. Best offer I had all day, I’ll admit. Where shall we go?”
“I don’t know the East End well. Is there somewhere special you would like to eat?”
“There’s a nice restaurant over by Billingsgate where you can get a fish dinner you won’t forget. Haven’t been there in a while. Will that suit your sensibilities or do you want to go somewhere posh? You are dressed like a toff tonight.”
“A fish dinner sounds wonderful.”
“Perfect. I’ll lock up and be down directly.”
It was more like ten minutes, but she had transformed into a swan during that time. She’d changed into a long skirt and white blouse with lace at the collar and wrists, covered by a mantle of dark silk paisley that emphasized her gypsy looks. She had pinned back her henna-colored hair and traded the large hoops she wore for a more delicate set of ivory cameo earrings. Her cheeks were flushed but I couldn’t tell if it were due to the rouge pot or merely the result of looking forward to a good evening.
The East End wasn’t easy to negotiate on a weekday evening. We walked a few blocks until we reached the tram, which took us west a while. Eventually we got off on Commercial Road and hired a four-wheeler. Hettie looked quite beautiful in her evening outfit, and had she behaved herself I’m sure she could have graced any West End establishment. But she wouldn’t behave herself, I knew. She was simply too wild. I was certain she could snap her fingers and have a dozen Limehouse denizens at her beck and call.
The restaurant, when we finally arrived, was hard by the Fish Market, in a converted warehouse overlooking the Thames. Inside, it looked more like a cross between a pub and a well-established supper club. As I stepped in, the aroma of melted butter and oyster stew met my nostrils. I had to admit I was hungry.
“’Ello, Eddy, old boy!” Hestia cried out to the maitre d’, an old gentleman who reminded me of Fezziwig from Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, round as a ball and jovial as a doting grandfather.
“Why, Miss Petulengro! Bless my soul! How pleasant to see you again! What outrage have we performed that you’ve stayed away so long?”
“How could you do anything wrong, Eddy? You know you’ll always be my favorite.”
“I see no other option, my dear,” the old fellow said, “than to give you and your gentleman friend here the best seat in the house.”
He led us through a maze of corridors full of booths with people dining until we finally came to a set of windows overlooking the Thames, where we were seated. The river, for once, looked almost romantic, and the row of windows looking out on the water made me feel like we were in the stern of an clipper ship. Our table was lit by candles, and it even boasted linen. I noticed not a few eyes upon us, but when one goes out with such a beauty, I suppose one must grow accustomed to that.
“Shall you and the gentleman be having the house dinner, miss?”
“We shall.”
