“Confound it,” I said in the corridor as I threw my dressing gown around my shoulders. After this case was over, I intended to sleep uninterrupted for most of a week.
Downstairs, I found Mac with his trusted shotgun cradled in his arms. We unbolted the back door and there we heard the most exquisite words in the English language.
“We’ve got ’im!” Two constables wrestled with a suspect between them, but they appeared to be getting the worst end of it. One had a missing helmet and the other a bloody nose. The suspect was in bracelets, but Poole had not thought to supply these fellows with much needed leg irons. The chap in the middle was kicking their shins, ankles, and anything else he could reach. He was Chinese and unless I was mistaken, he was the elusive Charlie Han. One constable either lost his patience or finally reached the truncheon on his belt. There was a thump and the struggling fellow went limp. Not so gently, they dragged him over the doorsill into the house and dropped him on the floor in our hallway.
“We need to send for a vehicle,” the first one said, while the other-the one with the bloody nose-conjugated various verbs and practiced his expletives while occasionally giving the prone figure a kick.
“We have a telephone set,” I said. “I can call Scotland Yard.”
The constable was able to handle criminals but not the latest contrivances of the modern age. As he watched, I made the call to Scotland Yard, explained the situation, and requested a vehicle. The chief constable demanded to speak to the constable in charge, who picked up the receiver as if it were a king cobra about to strike, but after a short conversation, during which he shouted into the receiver, we finally got it all settled.
“Blimey,” the constable muttered, backing away from the device and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “First time I ever tried one o’ them things.”
“So, who is this fellow?” Mac asked, regarding the still form.
“Dunno,” said the second P.C., who’d managed to get half his handkerchief up his nose to staunch the blood. “And I could care even less. Some Chinaman. Found him outside your big round gate, ready to open it. You’ve had some break-ins, haven’t you?”
“Yes, and we’ve all been attacked, as you can see.”
“Would you gentlemen care for some tea while you wait?” Mac offered.
“I could do with a cuppa. What about you, Finney?”
“That would suit me right down to the ground,” the first constable agreed.
I reached to turn the unconscious suspect over, but the second constable stopped me.
“Careful there, guv’nor,” he said. “He could be shamming. Cut up pretty rough out there.”
“Then help me. I want to get a good look at him.”
Together we rolled him over. One glance and I knew I was right. He had a head of shaggy hair cut in the European style and one of those Chinese mustaches that don’t meet in the middle. It was the last suspect from Bainbridge’s sketch, the fierce face.
“Charlie Han,” I stated. “He’s a known criminal in Limehouse, in the betel nut trade. He’s got a large arrest sheet.”
“All right, Mr. Han, get up! On your feet. We can’t have you a-droolin’ on no gentleman’s floor.”
The half-conscious prisoner raised his head and tried to focus. He looked tough, possibly tough enough to take on Barker in the tunnel or Mac in the study, but the constable’s truncheon had done for him.
“Pull yourself together, man,” the constable went on, hauling the Chinaman to his feet roughly. I’d have felt sorry for him if it weren’t probable he had come to kill us all. Just then the fellow made his move. He swung the constable around until he collided with me and we both went down. With the cast over much of my upper body I could not get up fast enough. Then, as the first constable came forward, Han gave him a strong heel in the stomach. He hadn’t reckoned on Mac, however, who cocked and raised his shotgun to his shoulder. With the rest of us temporarily down, Han made an easy target.
“I am very well trained in how to use this weapon, sir,” Mac spoke with some authority, “and I am quite willing to use it. I suggest you do not move.”
Han must have seen that he was serious. For a butler, Mac can look quite bloodthirsty. I’ve never seen him so happy as when he was sending a load of buckshot into a crowd of rowdies. Charlie Han settled down and was soon seated in a chair between the two constables with a pair of leg irons about his ankles on loan from Barker’s weapon collection. The spirit had gone out of him, I was glad to see. I took the opportunity to go upstairs and change out of my nightclothes.
When the police vehicle arrived, I asked if I might come along. They demurred, but I pressed my attack, pointing out how difficult it was to get a cab in Newington at that time of night. I told them that the owner of the house needed to be told and that he was in the same street but one from Scotland Yard. That is why at near midnight, when all sensible people are in bed, I was traveling in a Black Maria. At least I could say I wasn’t the one in leg irons this time.
Promising to return for a statement, I left the constables to handle their prisoner into A Division and popped ’round to our offices on the next street. I gave the door a good, hard knock.
The door opened slowly and I was treated to the sight of my employer in his dressing gown, his hair askew, with a Colt in his hand.
“Are you going to use that thing?” I asked.
“I am debating it. What are you doing here at this hour?”
“The trap is sprung. We’ve caught a rodent, but whether it is a mouse or a large rat, you must decide.”
“It is too late to be cryptic,” he growled. “I’ll get dressed while you explain. Come.”
I went over everything from the whistle I heard in the alley to my knocking on the office door. During it all, Barker was in the back room making himself presentable for Scotland Yard.
“What is your impression, lad?” he asked. “Do you think Han might be the one we are looking for?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “I must say he put up a real struggle. I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of that heel to the stomach or fist to the nose, for that matter. And he was reaching for our gate, remember.”
“True,” my employer conceded from the side room. “He was also one of Bainbridge’s suspects. I wonder where he’s been hiding himself. Poole’s been running a dragnet for over a week now.”
He came out, neat as a pin as always, despite the late hour. In a few moments we were walking along Whitehall toward Scotland Yard. It appeared the most peaceful of nights. Everyone was at home asleep in bed, everyone who was not an enquiry agent, that is.
At the station, we made our way through the halls of the Criminal Investigation Department. All had been rebuilt after a bombing had occurred last year, but as Inspector Munro of the Special Irish Branch had threatened, the area where Barker had once taught antagonistics for the benefit of officers had now been turned into offices. One of those offices was for questioning.
In response to Barker’s knock, Poole came out and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Evidently, it wasn’t just private agents who went without sleep. Poole gave a big yawn and shook his head.
“Have you got a confession?” Barker asked.
“I’m not even sure if this blighter speaks English.”
Barker looked in. “His lip is bleeding. Have you beaten him?”
“He hit his mouth on the edge of a chair. He’s a bit roughed up, is all,” Poole said.
“May I see if I can get anything out of him?” Barker asked.
“Why not, since you parlez the jabber.”
“Is his solicitor coming,” I asked, “or an interpreter?”
“What are you talking about?” Poole asked, puzzled. “He’s a Chinaman. We’ll tell the legation in the morning. If they want to send someone over, we can’t stop them. ’Til then, he’s ours.”