“I’m thinking about street lamps,” I said. “Also about Madam Shing’s poor eyesight. Large parts of the East End are not spectacularly well-lighted. West India Dock Road, in front of Charlie Tang’s shop, could be called dim, and Madam Shing lives around the corner on a dark side street. Even on a dark night like tonight, her poor eyesight might conceivably have recognized the general shape of a man climbing a ladder, but I refuse to accept the beard.”
Lady Sara shook her head. “I think we have to accept it. Madam Shing is not a person who can imagine things.” She chuckled. “The beard may be the most important clue she gave to us despite the fact that it is Christmas Eve. But we don’t have to believe she saw it from across the street.”
“We also don’t have to believe the burglar climbed in through a window,” I said. “Charlie Tang is a very savvy merchant. He not only would have locks on his windows, but he wouldn’t traipse off to Liverpool without leaving a capable watchman on his premises. So I conclude that Madam Shing’s story is largely fantasy.”
“I have a more telling objection,” Lady Sara said. “Consider this: She looks out, she sees a man with a ladder breaking into the dwelling across the street. She knows the dwelling’s owner has gone to Liverpool. Does she bundle herself up and walk halfway across London to tell Lady Sara? She does not. She tells her landlord and her neighbours — people close by who can do something about it while the burglary is still in progress. Her conduct is more remarkable than her story.
“On the other hand, the bruises on her arms were real and recently acquired. She may have other bruises on her throat — did you notice how carefully she kept it covered? Someone misused her badly and — perhaps — threatened to do it again. That was why she was terrified. It will be interesting to find out whether she actually lets Rick take her home.”
Rick Allward returned first with a strange tale to tell. When he reached Limehouse, workmen had part of the pavement up on Commercial Road near West India Dock Road. Traffic in both directions had to use a single, narrow lane alternately. He was trapped there for several minutes, and while he was waiting Madam Shing flung the door open and leaped out. She fell heavily, and he feared she had injured herself, but before he could climb down she scrambled to her feet and ran off faster than he would have thought possible. She darted out of sight down a side street.
Old John, driving Charles in the hansom several vehicles behind him, had seen what had happened. He skillfully maneuvered out of line and followed her. By the time Rick’s turn came to move on, both hansom and fleeing woman were out of sight, so he returned to Connaught Mews.
Charles returned several hours later. Old John had overtaken the hurrying woman and driven past her like a cab driver on an urgent errand. He turned at the next corner, and Charles scrambled out. He had already outfitted himself with multiple disguises. He boldly strode back along the side street and met Madam Shing without giving her a glance. She hurried on; he turned, altered his appearance slightly, and followed her. The squalid neighbourhood just east of the Limehouse Basin of Regent’s Canal contained a confused warren of streets. Obviously she knew it well. From her wanderings as Lady Sara’s agent, she probably knew the entire East End well. She followed a zigzagging path through the dark streets and marched unerringly to her destination, where she knocked, and was recognized the moment the door was opened, and made welcome. Evidently it was the home of friends.
Charles watched the house for some time. When it became obvious that everyone had gone to bed, he found the homes of two of Lady Sara’s agents, roused them out — a considerable achievement on Christmas Eve — and established a watch on the house Madam Shing had fled to. Then he rendezvoused with Old John and returned home.
Lady Sara had one question for Charles. “Were there signs of anyone else trying to follow her?”
“None,” Charles said confidently.
“She has found a refuge of her own choosing,” Lady Sara said. “We can assume that she is in safe hands for the present. However, we may need her again, and I must know where she is. I’m sorry to spoil Christmas morning for you, but early tomorrow I want you to make arrangements to keep the house under watch day and night and follow her if she leaves. Find agents who know her well and will recognize her.”
In the morning, Lady Sara left a message at Scotland Yard for Chief Inspector Mewer, informing him that she had a question for him and asking him to telephone her at his convenience. The message was relayed to him at home, and he left at once — on Christmas morning — to call on her. From past experience he knew all about the far-reaching implications Lady Sara’s questions could have.
Once he heard Madam Shing’s story, he reacted very much as I expected. He stared for a moment, mouth agape, as though he thought he hadn’t heard Lady Sara correctly. “A man with a white beard broke into a house on Christmas Eve?” he demanded unbelievingly.
“My question,” Lady Sara said dryly, “was whether you have any information about internecine feuds among London’s Chinese population.”
“None,” the Chief Inspector said. “They police themselves very effectively. They aren’t like the American Chinese, where Tong wars seem to break out with monotonous regularity. We would stomp hard on them if there were any signs of that here. They know we would; that’s why they are so careful to maintain order among themselves. Sometimes an individual rages out of control because of opium, or hashish, or that devil’s blend of them, majoon, but few of those cases reach the police. His companions, or the persons he bought the drugs from, take him in hand. What does this have to do with your bearded burglar?”
“I’ll tell you when I find out,” Lady Sara said. “Do you have such a thing as a Chinese constable on the force?”
The Chief Inspector paused to reflect. A police officer of his lofty rank couldn’t be expected to know all the constables in London personally. “I’ll have to ask,” he said.
“Please do,” Lady Sara said. “If you have one, I would like to borrow him for a day or two.”
There were very few Chinese policemen, but the Chief Inspector did manage to find one for Lady Sara. He was a young uniformed constable named Harry Kung, extremely polite as well as bright and alert. After he came to know us better, he confessed that his Chinese name was Kung Wu. We went with him directly to the emporium of Charlie Tang, which every London Chinaman knew well. It was the largest of its kind, occupying two connecting two-storey buildings on West India Dock Road. The front was splashed with Chinese characters. As I already mentioned, Tang and his large family lived above the shop. Tang dealt in every imaginable Chinese product that local residents could desire, imported directly from China: rare food delicacies; medicines and drugs, including pills for counteracting the effects of opium; soys, condiments, gingers, and curries; oil for sacred Chinese lamps; bars of a special soap that no English lady would have allowed into her house or even her barn; ravishing silks and finished clothing. Tang also sold such items of English origin as Oriental residents of London were likely to want or need.
A sign on the door announced, in Chinese characters, that Constable Kung translated for us, the days the shop would be temporarily closed.
“Of course he left someone to guard his home and shop during his absence,” Lady Sara suggested.
“Naturally,” Constable Kung said with a grin. “Charlie Tang was not — as you English say — born yesterday. In fact, he left his assistant, Wong Li.”