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

Sweat stood up in drops on Eng Cho’s bald head. “I am a poor washer of windows. I know nothing of calligraphy and find trouble enough in signing my name.”

“I think you can read better than you would have me believe. Look again. The writing is not the hand of a scholar but was obviously written by a more humble sort.”

Eng Cho stared at the three copies. “Not so. A student cannot use the brush like a master, but a master can easily imitate a clumsy student.” He drained his mug.

“You are familiar with steel scaffolding?” asked Lin Po. “The keeper pins were missing from all eight of the scaffold’s first tier of pipes, a strange coincidence.”

“So?” Eng Cho gained a little courage, perhaps from the beer. “I know that such scaffolds will not fall, even with the pins missing. The pins are an extra safety measure in case the scaffold should be knocked about or shaken by an earthquake. You are a policeman, not a high-iron worker, or you would know such things.”

Lin Po considered Eng’s words. “If you wanted to make such a scaffold fall, how would you do it?”

“Not possible,” said Eng. “You would have to push it over with a truck.”

That night before retiring Lin Po wrote a report for the detective in charge of the investigation, the dour Chiang. The next day Chiang found Lin Po in the police laboratory, seated at a microscope examining the three anonymous letters.

Chiang scowled. “Chief Inspector Koon has ordered me to bring your three suspects in for questioning. You may be present if you wish.”

“Thank you, deputy inspector, but I have a few things to follow up.” Lin Po carefully caused a single drop of water to fall on the paper. Instantly the red smudge dissolved.

Chiang turned to leave. “Curious, isn’t it? Three suspects and a victim, all with the same family name.”

“The survivor is named Eng?” Lin Po felt stupid for not having asked the names of those dead and injured.

“Indeed, and from the same family of scholars who built the shrine that was tom down to make room for the bank. Oh, I should have mentioned that doctors think the survivor is now able to answer our questions. I plan to see him as soon as I have done with these other poor fish.”

“That is curious indeed,” said Lin Po. “Is the injured Eng a laborer?”

“He is a young engineer,” said Chiang, “not long out of school, but his family is humble enough. I think all four Engs might have the same grandfather.”

Chiang left, and Lin Po returned to his microscope. At 20X magnification, other bits of color were revealed, each adhering to the back sides of the three letters. The paper used was from three different sources; the ink was the black ink cake used by millions of calligraphers throughout Asia. Only the faint smudges of color were common to all three.

He took from his pocket his pair of cheap white gloves and carefully brought the microscope to bear on the fingers. The same flakes of color were revealed, trapped by fibers in the gloves. In only one place could Lin Po have picked up such a collection of pigments.

He slid the gloves into a plastic bag, which he labeled and placed in the file. Soon he was standing on the pedals of his bicycle, speeding between groaning trucks and honking buses and countless bicycles, on his way to the hospital.

The Intensive Care section was a ward, much like any other but equipped to care for those with special needs. A police officer stood at attention at the foot of the bed where Eng Tou lay. Lin Po asked her if Eng had had any visitors since he was admitted.

“Only the one,” she said, “his sister, who even now helps the nurse change dressings.” It was common practice for relatives to assume the minor tasks of nursing care, such as feeding or washing those who could not do so for themselves. “But I was advised to expect persons from his office to arrive today for the usual courtesies.”

Eng Tou lay with a leg raised and in traction. Both his arms were in casts, and the nurse was winding a new bandage around his head. Tubes entered his nose, and another snaked from beneath the gray sheet to a pouch half full of urine. His eyes peered from between purplish bruises, and his voice was faint and rasping.

The man’s sister was afraid of the police, like so many Chinese, and kept her eyes from Lin Po’s face. “I will come back when you are finished, deputy inspector,” she murmured.

“Please sit,” ordered Lin Po. “I will have questions for you before I leave.” She sat, with her hands in her lap and her head lowered, staring at her shoes. Lin Po too looked at her shoes, and thought they might cost as much as a new bicycle.

“He was very fortunate,” said the nurse, “to fall four stories and live. He clung to the scaffolding on the way down, and it partially broke his fall. But his limbs will heal, and his scalp is cut without serious head trauma.”

Lin Po asked outright, “Citizen Eng, have you any reason to believe that some person might wish you dead?”

His sister made a noise in her throat, and Eng’s eyes blinked. “No,” he said.