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

He pulled a knitted cap over his bald head against the chill of the basement. “All over China, I suspect. There is a very large clan in Hong Kong, I am told. But here — not so many now. Perhaps the Bureau of Census, third floor?”

It occurred to Lin that the name Eng also means “fish.” A coincidence, of course. Dreams are but a wiping clean of the memory, a dumping of useless data from temporary storage. Just a coincidence that he should dream of a talking fish or two.

There was no computer yet in this office of the Bureau of Census. Any compilation would have to be made by hand, which would require several days. Lin took a chance.

“Please give me only the names of those sons of Eng who are not scholars or teachers. I can wait for the rest.”

Of these the clerk could find only three. She wrote their names and addresses in neat classic characters, using a felt pen she had carefully shaped to a wedge point.

Consulting his map, Lin Po called on these three, but he found none of the men at home. He left word for each of them and hurried to his mother’s house, where she was busy preparing a special meal.

“Since your honorable father died, I have made good friends with some older ladies.” She poured tea in his cup. “They’ve taught me the western game of contract bridge, and it is my turn to be the hostess tonight.”

“That should appeal to your mathematical mind, Mother. Bridge is, of course, a matter of probabilities. Much more healthy for you than that bunch of would-be magicians and fortunetellers who played mah-jongg.”

“Shh!” she hissed. “They are even now at the door!”

But superstition was not absent from the cardtable. After an excellent meal, while his mother set the kitchen to rights, the other three ladies amused themselves with “spirit writing.” A tray was covered with sifted sand. The “pen” was a T-shaped wand of plastic. One woman balanced each arm of the T on the tips of her index fingers. The leg of the T ended in a hooked point that rested in the sand.

Soon the wand began to jitter across the sand, leaving its marks for the three to discuss as though they were actual writing.

His mother approached, removing her apron. “Would you like to try, my son? Just for fun.”

“I have no magic in me. But here’s a real game for those who do have a mind for the spirit world.” He took the clerk’s paper from his briefcase and laid it on the table, blank side up. “On this paper are three names. One of these may be the name of a murderer, but which one?”

From the back side they could see that there were three columns of characters. “Oh my!” exclaimed the eldest lady. “This is exciting, isn’t it? How shall we begin?”

Another said, “Can’t we use the wand? Scatter sand on the back of the paper, and ask the spirits to find the evil one.”

It was quickly prepared. Sand was sifted onto the paper and the wand put to work. For the first lady no clear answer was discovered.

“Let’s make it simpler,” said Po. “Just ask for a yes or a no. Spirits, is this the name of a murderer?”

The plastic point made a scrawl.

“Is this one a murderer?” The point skittered more violently.

“Is this, then, the one?” Another scrawl.

His mother exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. Kung, it’s so clear!” But Lin Po saw only the squiggles of an elderly hand.

Mrs. Kung passed the wand to another, and the sand was smoothed. The same question was asked, and confusion! A different answer was obtained.

Lin Po took the tray and turned it, again and again. “Try once more, please.” He offered his mother the wand.

An even different answer resulted. There was no need for statistics. No matter how Lin turned the tray, and even with the woman blindfolded, no one column of characters stood out.

“Ask a different question, my son.”

“Very well. Who will help me find the murderer?”

This time the wand scratched out the ideogram for a fish. A fine looking fish, and it was Lin Po’s own hands that drew the symbol.

The bridge game was still going on when he went to bed. It seemed to be as much a commentary on the rearing of grandchildren as it was a game of cards.

Only one of the three Engs worked anywhere near the construction site. This was a window washer, one Eng Cho, who spent his days swinging from a platform let down over the edges of roofs. Lin Po dressed himself as a postal worker and followed Eng Cho and his buckets homeward.

But Eng Cho did not climb the stair to his apartment. Instead, he turned away and entered a tavern. Lin Po followed, and soon the two sat at the same table, drinking beer. By chance a barber mentioned the accident, and Lin Po grasped his cue.

“The family Eng has also suffered tragedy at that site, is it not true, Comrade Eng?”

Eng Cho stared at Lin Po but said nothing. A fire of hatred and distrust smoldered behind his eyes.

Lin Po took a brown envelope from his mail pouch. “Would you look at these letters, and tell me what you think, Comrade Eng?”