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

“Sorry, Chiang.” He omitted the man’s title. “I will speak to the architect and give you a report. Until tomorrow, then?” He didn’t wait for a response because his anger lay too close to his mouth.

Sim and the project manager waited for him, not in their generous and comfortable offices but in a large room filled with drawing boards and busy draftsmen. The two were most polite at first, answering Lin Po’s questions with smiles.

“Have there been other threats like this?” he asked.

Sim smiled. “Actually, yes. Two other letters were brought to my attention a week or so before the tragedy. I reported them, of course.”

Lin Po recognized Sim as the man in the hard hat at the accident scene. “The police were advised?”

“Actually, no, I told the bureau’s directors. No offense, deputy inspector, but no one likes to disturb our busy police department. You understand—”

“The law requires that such matters of public safety must be reported.” Lin Po’s face was a blank. “But for your thoughtfulness the tragedy might have been prevented. Where are these other letters?”

“I have them ready for you,” and he gave Lin Po an envelope, “with copies of my correspondence, giving the dates they were received and where they were posted—”

Lin Po put on his gloves and drew the letters into the light. These too were roughly brushed in what might be a student’s hand. And each bore on the reverse side faint smudges of color, this time blue and green. “I’ll need a fist of all people connected with this project. All construction people, all those from this office as well.”

Sim looked at the project manager, who looked at Lin with round, innocent eyes. “Every person connected — umm, that will take some time, you know.”

Lin Po did not blink. “With addresses and I.D. numbers, please. Anyone connected with the building from the very beginning. When do you think that could be ready?” He looked closely at the fingers of his gloves, then removed them, folding them with care.

Again Sim looked to the manager. “Three, maybe four weeks. There are many records to search—”

“It will require only two days to obtain a court order to close the work as a hazard to the public safety.” Lin smiled. “Meanwhile I can close it on my own authority at any time. Do you think you could have the list by this time tomorrow?”

The face of the works manager darkened. “You speak of three hundred, four hundred names!”

“We speak of a madman who will kill without warning. What is the cost of your list measured in the lives of our citizens?”

Sim showed his teeth. “Let’s compromise. We will find those who might have a reason to hold a grudge against the department.” He glanced again at the manager. “We will put as many people to work on this as necessary so we may have a partial fist by tomorrow morning at nine. We will have the rest in another twenty-four hours.” The works manager rubbed his knuckles but said nothing.

“Many thanks.” Lin Po stood. “Now I would like to see your file of the deeds for the property. It seems a shrine once stood on the site.”

“Certainly, deputy inspector. Miss Wang will get you anything of that nature that is in our possession.” He lifted his phone. “Miss Wang?”

One deed caught Lin’s attention. It was in the name of the family Eng and was recorded soon after the 1911 revolution. The family had indeed purchased a corner of the lot from the revolutionary government for the purpose of erecting a shrine. Unfortunately in 1960, during the Cultural Revolution, the shrine had been destroyed.

Just a year ago the property was officially conveyed to the government by the People’s Court for the reason of abandonment, and no record existed of expense for a priest to make peace with the spirit world. Miss Wang made copies of the entire file, which she tied in a plastic bag against the rain.

He received directions to the Court and Hall of Records, buying a bowl of rice on the way. At the Hall he was taken to the basement, to a short bald man who seemed always to smile as though he knew something, some great secret he could not divulge to such as Lin Po.

“Ah, the Engs. A highly respected clan. Many scholars in that family, and regrettably many died in the Cultural Revolution. But you are interested in the revolution of Dr. Sun Yat-Sen and that dog Chiang Kaishek. Year of the revolution... here we are. Yes. Before the Manchus were overthrown, there were many executions of university students, teachers, publishers, in the name of the boy emperor. All is recorded here, Comrade Lin.”

And there it was. Eng, father and son, with eleven other agitators, were put to death at the public gibbet for “crimes against the Empire.”

Lin Po asked, “Were the bodies given over to their families?”

The man smiled more brightly. “Oh no. It was thought to be more — effective to deny such persons a proper tomb. They were buried near the gibbet in quicklime and the site paved over so the noise of traffic would forever disturb their sleep.”

“And where would the Engs be found today?”