“You are familiar with steel scaffolding?” asked Lin Po. “The keeper pins were missing from all eight of the scaffold’s first tier of pipes, a strange coincidence.”
“So?” Eng Cho gained a little courage, perhaps from the beer. “I know that such scaffolds will not fall, even with the pins missing. The pins are an extra safety measure in case the scaffold should be knocked about or shaken by an earthquake. You are a policeman, not a high-iron worker, or you would know such things.”
Lin Po considered Eng’s words. “If you wanted to make such a scaffold fall, how would you do it?”
“Not possible,” said Eng. “You would have to push it over with a truck.”
That night before retiring Lin Po wrote a report for the detective in charge of the investigation, the dour Chiang. The next day Chiang found Lin Po in the police laboratory, seated at a microscope examining the three anonymous letters.
Chiang scowled. “Chief Inspector Koon has ordered me to bring your three suspects in for questioning. You may be present if you wish.”
“Thank you, deputy inspector, but I have a few things to follow up.” Lin Po carefully caused a single drop of water to fall on the paper. Instantly the red smudge dissolved.
Chiang turned to leave. “Curious, isn’t it? Three suspects and a victim, all with the same family name.”
“The survivor is named Eng?” Lin Po felt stupid for not having asked the names of those dead and injured.
“Indeed, and from the same family of scholars who built the shrine that was tom down to make room for the bank. Oh, I should have mentioned that doctors think the survivor is now able to answer our questions. I plan to see him as soon as I have done with these other poor fish.”
“That is curious indeed,” said Lin Po. “Is the injured Eng a laborer?”
“He is a young engineer,” said Chiang, “not long out of school, but his family is humble enough. I think all four Engs might have the same grandfather.”
Chiang left, and Lin Po returned to his microscope. At 20X magnification, other bits of color were revealed, each adhering to the back sides of the three letters. The paper used was from three different sources; the ink was the black ink cake used by millions of calligraphers throughout Asia. Only the faint smudges of color were common to all three.
He took from his pocket his pair of cheap white gloves and carefully brought the microscope to bear on the fingers. The same flakes of color were revealed, trapped by fibers in the gloves. In only one place could Lin Po have picked up such a collection of pigments.
He slid the gloves into a plastic bag, which he labeled and placed in the file. Soon he was standing on the pedals of his bicycle, speeding between groaning trucks and honking buses and countless bicycles, on his way to the hospital.
The Intensive Care section was a ward, much like any other but equipped to care for those with special needs. A police officer stood at attention at the foot of the bed where Eng Tou lay. Lin Po asked her if Eng had had any visitors since he was admitted.
“Only the one,” she said, “his sister, who even now helps the nurse change dressings.” It was common practice for relatives to assume the minor tasks of nursing care, such as feeding or washing those who could not do so for themselves. “But I was advised to expect persons from his office to arrive today for the usual courtesies.”
Eng Tou lay with a leg raised and in traction. Both his arms were in casts, and the nurse was winding a new bandage around his head. Tubes entered his nose, and another snaked from beneath the gray sheet to a pouch half full of urine. His eyes peered from between purplish bruises, and his voice was faint and rasping.
The man’s sister was afraid of the police, like so many Chinese, and kept her eyes from Lin Po’s face. “I will come back when you are finished, deputy inspector,” she murmured.
“Please sit,” ordered Lin Po. “I will have questions for you before I leave.” She sat, with her hands in her lap and her head lowered, staring at her shoes. Lin Po too looked at her shoes, and thought they might cost as much as a new bicycle.
“He was very fortunate,” said the nurse, “to fall four stories and live. He clung to the scaffolding on the way down, and it partially broke his fall. But his limbs will heal, and his scalp is cut without serious head trauma.”
Lin Po asked outright, “Citizen Eng, have you any reason to believe that some person might wish you dead?”
His sister made a noise in her throat, and Eng’s eyes blinked. “No,” he said.
“Tell me what happened that night and why you were working after nightfall and in the freezing rain.”
Slowly his words emerged from the crisp white bandages. “A fault was discovered in the hoist motor. The chief architect ordered it replaced so that work might continue on schedule in the morning. As the engineering supervisor, I was ordered to test the hoist before I left the job site.
“We had just brought up the spare motor and let it rest on the scaffold when my feet were knocked from under me. I was thrown to the edge of the catwalk, where I clung to something with my hands and legs and watched the ground rise up to meet me. More I do not remember.”
“Your feet were knocked from under you?” Lin Po leaned closer. “Do you mean that some impact caused the fall?”
“Something struck the scaffold, and it whipped like a sapling, first one way, then the other, until it buckled and down we came, like a felled tree.”
From the hallway came the sound of voices and many feet. Lin Po turned to speak to Eng’s sister, but she was gone. He gave instructions to the policewoman and left after greeting Sim and his entourage.
The home of the chief architect was near the crest of a hill, with a view of the river, the sunset, and, far to the north, the Great Wall. A modest house it appeared from the street, but like so many traditional homes of the well-to-do, its luxuries were visible only to the family and their guests, from the inside.
Lin Po stood his bicycle on its kickstand and rang the antique bronze bell. A small stooped woman answered. “I am here to speak with the wife of Sim the chief architect.”
The woman’s eyes grew larger. “Not here! Not here!”
He produced a warrant and waved the official-looking paper beneath her nose. “Look again, Grandmother. Perhaps you are mistaken. Or shall I summon more officers and search the house?”
“You wait, please?” She shut the door and slid home the bolt. A few seconds passed, and she reappeared, to lead him down a dark hallway that smelled of sandalwood and incense. They passed through the length of the house to the walled garden behind, a small but exquisite space filled with evergreens, a fountain glazed with ice, and bronze sculptures signed by Sim himself.
He was surprised to see the lady of the house follow, pushing his bicycle, which she leaned against the moon gate. She murmured a few words to the amah, who left them alone.
She introduced herself as Rose. “How did you guess?” she asked in a voice low as a whisper. Only then did Lin Po recognize the woman who had called herself Eng’s sister.
“I didn’t, although I should have when I saw your shoes. They were expensive Italian shoes, for sale possibly in Hong Kong, and not the shoes I would expect to see on a woman from an humble family. Please sit.”
The stone benches were cold, and Lin Po’s pants were only cotton. “Tell me about young Engineer Eng.”
She twisted a square of lace between her fingers. “Eng and I met in college. We loved each other very much, but I was from a family that would never approve of our marriage. Instead, my parents arranged for me to marry a wealthy and influential architect, an older man.