Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

When a local deputy inspector arrived, Lin Po introduced himself and was excused from further service. He arrived at his mother’s home a full hour late.

Lin Po removed his shoes. “I’m sorry, Mother.” He wiped his bicycle with a rag and brushed the tires clean, removing every trace of mud and water before taking it inside. She shut the door, and the smoke of smoldering joss sticks stopped wavering above the altar table.

“It’s all right. I wasn’t finished with the floors anyway. I always like to have the house spotless for the New Year.” She spread newspaper just inside the door, and he rolled the cycle onto it.

“It’s getting colder. There was ice.” He crossed his arms, tucking his hands in his armpits, but his uniform was damp and offered no warmth. “A regrettable accident where they are building the People’s Bank, and I had to stop.”

She offered him a towel and a robe. “Someone was hurt? How sad to start the year in such a way. Some hot tea for my son? You are ready for supper, I should think.”

“Yes, thank you, Mother.” He sat crosslegged at the round table. “Two were killed. A scaffold fell.”

“Not unexpected, though.” She brought his soup, a large bowl of noodles with fish balls. “Everyone knows they shouldn’t build in that place. Bad fung shui.”

He grasped his mother’s hand and smiled. “So now you are a fung shui expert. But maybe those who put up the scaffold were in a hurry. Maybe one was drunk, or stupid with hunger and cold. We still have hunger, Mother, despite what you read.”

“Don’t argue with your mother. No one would build a tomb in that place. The intersection lies low and wet, on the north side of the hill. Always there are accidents there, in the street. Not so long ago, it is said, a gibbet stood at the crossroads, where criminals were hanged until the birds picked out their eyes. Why, just last year — sit, my son. I’ll serve you—”

“No, Mother. You sit. I’ll pour the tea.”

They ate without speaking until Lin Po looked up, wanting to break the silence. “You will say nothing of this, Mother, but I think the two were murdered.”

“Oh my! Don’t speak of such things at my table.” She made a sign to chase evil away.

“I’m sorry. I will say no more. The problem is, I can’t prove the crime. I don’t even have a suspect.”

That night he slept in his mother’s house, and he dreamt of fish. Two talking fish.

“The Ninth District is far outside your jurisdiction.” Chief Inspector Yu was clearly unhappy. “Have you so little to do, Deputy Lin, that you must make work for yourself?”

“I have plenty to occupy my time, chief inspector. But I was the first officer at the scene, and the third victim is yet close to death—”

“And therefore you feel compelled to make a report.” The chief unwound a rubber band from a pack of cigarettes. The rubber band served as a small reminder that he wished to stop smoking. “Unless I err, you were actually off duty, on holiday leave at the time?” He did not take a cigarette but held the pack in both hands and stared at it.

“On my way to my mother’s house, actually.”

“Ah. Inspector Koon will be pleased to receive your gratuitous observations, especially since they are the direct opposite of his. Inspector Koon, I remind you, is brother-in-law to a judge of the People’s Court. A very powerful family.” He returned the pack to his pocket.

“Yes, I know. I have not seen Inspector Koon.”

“I suggest you renew your acquaintance with the inspector before you present this report for distribution. Perhaps you will see a way in which you can avoid being assigned to an outpost in farthest Mongolia. Remember what happened to Won Wai.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “And before you release that report, be sure it bears my chop.”

“Thank you, chief inspector.”

Won Wai would not be forgotten by any who had known him. Twelve years and the man was still in Mongolia, in Kashgar, at the far edges of the Mongolian desert, a lone Han among Muslims who drank tea with butter in it. Such is the fate of one who questions his superiors.

She greeted him at the top of the stair. “What a surprise, to see my son twice in the same week!”

“I’m sorry, Mother. Didn’t you get my message?” Once more Lin Po cleaned and dried his bicycle.

The little round woman peered across the street. “Here comes the messenger now, that loafer! He knows not to expect a tip from me, so he waits in the comfort of the tavern until you come, to make his delivery.”

But the courier was not entirely moved by greed. “Deputy Inspector Lin Po? I have a message, to your hands only.” Then he turned to Lin’s mother. “Have also one for you, Grandmother.” He received a tip, after all, but from Lin Po’s hand.

The message was from Inspector Koon, Ninth District, and Lin Po read it the second time aloud: “Deputy inspector: I have been informed that you will be in my district on personal business, and I would be honored if you would stop by my office, at your convenience, of course.”