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

“Isn’t that nice, so polite.” His mother shuffled to the kitchen. “Inspector Koon must be a very nice man.”

“Or a very angry one. Maybe he is too polite.” But Koon couldn’t have heard from Lin Po. He had never sent his report to anyone. Only his own chief inspector could have mentioned the report. A chill cramped his stomach.

“Mother, what is the gossip about the construction accident, first day of New Year?”

“Oh, the usual, you know. Some say that Lo Pan, god of carpenters, has been offended, since steel was used instead of the traditional bamboo scaffolding. Others point to the red soil that was found in the diggings, saying it is dragon’s blood. No priest was called when the dragon was disturbed, which is the height of foolishness as anyone will tell you.”

“And what do you say, Mother?”

“Same I said to you. Bad fung shui, that place.”

Lin Po could not bring himself to accuse his mother of betraying a confidence. But he slept poorly, worrying about the meeting with Inspector Koon. And once again the two talking fish appeared in his dreams.

Unlike his peers in other precincts Koon made his office on the first floor of the police building. This was not, as it appeared, from a desire to keep close watch on his officers. No, the building was old, and the district prone to earthquakes. Koon had cut a private exit door, quite near his desk, leading directly to the street.

Lin Po was admitted at once without waiting. This was a good sign as was Inspector Koon’s smile.

“Ah, deputy inspector. Welcome to our little corner of the world.” He looked at his receptionist. “Some tea, quickly.” Another good sign. After sitting, Koon plunged at once into his subject.

“You were the first officer at the scene of an accident in the time of the New Year? Of course you were. I spoke with your chief inspector recently. He suggested that since you would be here on leave to visit your mother it might be rewarding if we chatted more about your... ah... observations at the time. There has been much public sensation around this unfortunate affair but very little hard evidence.”

This was not a good sign, since he had no hard evidence. The tea arrived.

“You may not be aware that, on the next day after the accident, a letter was posted to the chief architect.” Koon waved a paper with hand-inked characters.

“I was not aware, no, sir.”

“This letter, not signed, claims responsibility for the tragedy, which makes it a double murder at the very least.” He passed the letter across the desk. Lin Po pulled on cotton gloves. Written in the stiff, formal manner of long ago, the letter was addressed to Architect Sim, stating that the construction disturbed sacred ground and politely threatening more accidents until work was stopped and the soil replaced. He held the sheet to the light. There was a faint smudge of bright red on the reverse side in a lower corner.

“Inspector, when the victims were taken away, I examined the scaffold. It collapsed from one side only, coming apart at the bottom, but few pipes had buckled. I looked for the metal pins that secure these pipes to each other, expecting to find they had sheared from excessive stress. I found no pins at all in that first section.”

“None?” The inspector had a way of scowling whenever he asked a question, a manner which would upset any witness.

“Eight pins were missing, inspector. It hardly seems possible that I could miss finding even one of eight pins, or their broken remains, despite the mud.”

Koon smiled. “I knew our meeting would be profitable. By the time we received this letter, the scaffolding had been taken apart and any footprints destroyed.”

Again he scowled. “Your chief inspector suggested that because of your excellent reputation in dealing with superstitious people you might consent to look into this matter with us while you are here. Of course, we don’t wish to take you from your mother...”

“I shall be happy to offer my services. But I must have the official approval of—”

The inspector smiled. “I have already received the approval of your chief, in writing. Deputy Chiang is in charge of the investigation. His office is on the third floor, rear.”

Chiang was an older man wearing a dirty shirt and a harried scowl. He favored a limp and a narrow mustache that straggled to his chin, and he watched Lin Po approach from the edge of his eyes. Lin Po told his story quickly, trying not to make a judgment about the man’s slovenly ways.

Chiang sighed. “So, it was deliberate. My hope was that the letter was a prank. Now we have another nasty tangle and the promise of more paperwork.” He gathered a sheaf of paper and slapped it to his desk.

“You have examined the letter,” said Lin Po. “Did you notice the reverse side?”

Chiang’s eyes turned opaque. “I noticed the brushwork, which was not done by a scholar. There was nothing written on the back.”

“No. Nothing written.” A thought struck Lin, and he was silent, thinking.

Chiang snarled. “You are still here? I should think you’d have done enough, for one day.”