Yellowthread Street (10 page)

‘They’re getting into five cars, all black Fords’—she read off the licence plate numbers—‘I counted eight or nine of them.’ There was a pause. Feiffer could hear the traffic going past in the street and the voices of two men bartering over the price of a tailoring job in the shop Minnie was evidently ringing from. Then there was the sound of a tram going past.

‘Minnie?’ Feiffer said into the noise of the tram, ‘Minnie?’

The tram went past. ‘Minnie?’

‘What’s the matter?’ Auden said urgently.

‘Minnie’s seen Boon and his friends.’ He said again into the phone, ‘Minnie? Damn it, answer!’

‘Oh, no . . .’ Spencer said to himself quietly. He said forebodingly, ‘Oh, no . . .’

O’Yee watched Feiffer. He said to Spencer, ‘She can take care of herself.’ He said to Feiffer, ‘Harry?’

Feiffer shook his head. ‘She just went off the—’

‘Inspector Feiffer?’ Minnie’s voice asked.

‘Yes. Where the hell were—’

‘I went into the street to see where they went.’ She paused. She said, ‘The three lead cars went up Icehouse Street and turned right.’ She dropped her voice and added urgently, ‘They’re coming up Yellowthread Street. They should pass you any minute.’

‘Right,’ Feiffer said. He said, ‘You get the hell up here as fast as you can and don’t come near anyone until you get in the back door and draw yourself a weapon.’ He hung up and said to the others as one, ‘They’re coming up the street. Out!’

Spencer looked at him.

‘Everyone,’ Feiffer said. He drew his pistol and stuck it more accessibly in the waistband of his trousers.

Auden took his Colt Python from its desk drawer and checked it.

The telephone rang shrilly on Feiffer’s desk. He picked it up quickly.

The drunk said, ‘Now listen, Feiffer—’ Feiffer hung up.

‘O.K.,’ he said to the detectives, ‘No bloody shooting, but I want the one with the shotgun.’

Spencer made it to the door before any of them.

The Government Medical Examiner was a tall, fair-haired Aryan type with a Roman nose who chain-smoked French cigarettes. With him bending over the body of the dead Mr Tan, a Hong Kong Chinese corpse of Taiwanese extraction,
it was like a minor meeting of the United Nations.

‘Doctor?’ Constable Cho enquired politely. He had his notebook poised to take on the spot comments.

‘Well,’ Doctor Macarthur said, ‘it’s obvious. Death was caused by the carotid artery being severed by a single blow to the neck from a sharp instruments possibly a knife or a small hatchet.’ He turned his head and regarded Mr Tan’s neck from a different angle, ‘No, probably not a hatchet. Perhaps a butcher’s cleaver.’ Constable Cho wrote down
‘butcher’s cleaver’.
‘No, not a butcher’s cleaver, wrong configuration.’ Cho crossed out
‘butcher’s cleaver’
. ‘Have you ever seen a wound from a cleaver?’

Constable Cho nodded.

‘More than one?’

Constable Cho nodded.

‘Not a butcher’s cleaver, is it?’

Constable Cho kept silent. It was not for him to offer suggestions.

‘Not allowed to put ideas into my head, aye?’ Macarthur said. ‘Quite right. It’s—’ he knelt down and moved back a flap of skin from Tan’s gaping throat (Constable Cho looked away. Tommy Lai put his handkerchief to his mouth and went into the back room), ‘It’s a—’ he looked at Cho, ‘it’s a funny wound, isn’t it?’

‘Funny,’ Constable Cho said. He was beginning to feel a little sick too. He wished Macarthur would hurry up so the photographers and fingerprint men from Scientific could come down, the ambulance could come down—in fact anyone could come down and he could go out.

‘Very odd,’ Doctor Macarthur said. ‘It’s a—’ He moved the head that was only connected by courtesy to the dead neck, ‘It’s a—’

‘It’s a kukri,’ Cho said. He had interviewed the assistant and the assistant knew what it had been, ‘It’s an Indian Gurkha kukri.’

‘Quite right,’ Macarthur said. ‘Quite right.’ He said, ‘You
took the words out of my mouth.’ He gazed at the wound for a final, fascinated time, ‘Kukri, quite right. Of course it is.’

Constable Cho wrote down
Kukri
where, above it as part of Tommy Lai’s statement, he had written down
Kukri.

Down the road, behind a tram and an empty hearse, the gangsters’ cars came. They drove very slowly and correctly and Feiffer, from his concealment in front of a parked Thunderbird car of dubious suspension, thought that was one charge he couldn’t get them on. He shot a quick checking look across the road to where O’Yee crouched in front of a Volkswagen truck with Spencer and looked for Auden.

Auden lounged against the wall of the police station looking like a cop lounging against the wall of a police station pretending he was just lounging.

Feiffer glanced back down the street. A few people turned their heads to wonder what a European in a stained white suit was doing hiding in front of a Thunderbird car in Yellowthread Street. Constable Lee, on patrol behind the group of passing people, stopped.

He said, ‘Sir?’ but Feiffer reached over and pulled him down beside him. The group of people did not wonder what a European in a stained white suit was doing wrenching a uniformed Chinese policeman down beside him in front of a Thunderbird car in Yellowthread Street or why they watched three black cars cruise very legally and carefully towards them, they
knew.
They took to their heels and ran.

The first black car stopped. The second black car stopped. The third black car stopped.

‘Stop them!’ Feiffer ordered Lee, and Lee stepped out into the middle of the road, raised his hand, and said, ‘Halt!’

The three black cars were already halted, so they did the next best thing: they roared into reverse.

Auden stopped lounging. He pushed himself off the wall and drew his revolver in the same moment, ran across the road, smashed the ribbed barrel of the heavy weapon through the
side window of the first vehicle and said, ‘Freeze!’

O’Yee at the open window of the second said, ‘Don’t move!’ The third car made it into reverse. Feiffer drew his weapon and took aim at the front tyres. Spencer ran across his line of vision. He yelled, ‘Spencer! Get out of the—’ but Spencer continued to run directly between the car and Feiffer’s line of fire. Constable Lee drew his own revolver and took a steady two handed aim at the driver of the reversing car.

He shouted at the top of his lungs in Chinese, ‘Stop or die!’ and then Spencer ran into his line of fire too. The third car swerved across the road, manoeuvring to turn and Ah Pin, behind Feiffer, shouted at him, ‘My cousin! Don’t shoot my cousin!’

Spencer had his own gun out. He waved it in the approximate direction of the driver. Spencer thought, ‘A crime, I’m going to solve a crime,’ and flung the pistol through the front windscreen. It landed on the seat on top of The Fourth Gangster in an explosion of breaking glass and fractured his kneecap.

The third driver, to wit, The Fourth Gangster, to wit, Ah Pin’s cousin, to wit, Spencer’s victim, grasped at his knee, slapped the gearstick into first, rammed at the accelerator with his broken knee joint and ran down a vegetable cart whose owner had fled and left it in the middle of the road, and in a cascade of melons, pears, and cabbages, The Fourth Gangster’s car came to a halt as Constable Lee and Detective Inspector Spencer of the Thrown Revolver piled in to subdue him.

Feiffer holstered his gun and strolled over to the first car, against whose bonnet Mr Boon from Hanford Hill, Hernando Haw from Macao, and the Buddha figure of Low Fat stood with their legs and arms spreadeagled.

‘Good morning,’ Feiffer said to Mr Boon. ‘Bit late for a drive, isn’t it?’

Auden finished frisking Low Fat. He said to Feiffer, ‘Nothing,’ and did not object when Mr Boon released himself from his spreadeagled position and turned to face Feiffer.

‘What did you say, sir?’ Mr Boon enquired politely.

‘Where are the guns?’

‘Guns?’ Mr Boon asked. It seemed the word was an unfamiliar one, ‘Guns?’

‘Guns,’ Feiffer said, ‘knives, bombs, cleavers, hatchets; you know: that sort of thing.’ He glanced at O’Yee at the second car. O’Yee had The Club (With Nails), Shotgun Sen, Crushed Toes and Osaka Onuki against it, but it seemed they too wore nothing more lethal than their braces under their coats. O’Yee shook his head.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Mr Boon said, ‘but we’ll pay the ransom anyway.’

‘What ransom?’

‘The ransom respectable businessmen pay when Hong Kong gangsters kidnap them,’ Hernando Haw said. He straightened up and turned around, ‘We only ask to be returned to the bosoms of our wives and children. Nothing more.’

‘You people are the gangsters.’

‘Us?’ Mr Boon asked incredulously, ‘Us?’ He turned to Low Fat, ‘Did you hear what this dishevelled person said?’

‘No,’ Low Fat said. He got up from his lean against the car, ‘What did he say?’

‘He said we were gangsters.’

Low Fat’s face registered a total inability to credit the information. ‘Then who are these people if we are the gangsters?’ he asked in a tone of bewilderment.

Feiffer drew a breath. ‘We are the fucking police!’

‘I haven’t been doing any fucking,’ Low Fat said, ‘I’ve been taking a drive.’

Feiffer glanced back at O’Yee. O’Yee shook his head for the second time.

‘May we be on our way?’ Mr Boon asked.

‘No,’ Feiffer said. He looked desperately towards the third car. Shadows moved behind the shattered windscreen, but no one came out.

‘I want to search your car,’ Feiffer said.

Mr Boon sighed. ‘If you wish.’ He stood to one side of the door to allow Feiffer admission. He looked at his watch, ‘Please do not detain us too long with this routine checking of traffic that passes down Yellowthread Street in order to gather information for the placement of Stop signs and pedestrian crossings.’ He smiled evilly.

Feiffer glanced back at the third car. He saw Spencer come out. Spencer held up something in his hand and said, ‘Inspector Feiffer!’ It was, Feiffer was delighted to behold, a wooden club (with nails).

Feiffer smiled evilly at Mr Boon. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, ‘a club.’

‘With nails in it,’ Hernando Haw added. He had keener eyes than the rest.

‘You don’t say so!’ Mr Boon said. ‘My goodness, the streets aren’t safe.’

Spencer held up his second trophy.

‘And a sawed off shotgun,’ Feiffer said.

Constable Lee held up The Fourth Gangster and supported him across the road.

‘And one gangster,’ Feiffer said. Someone’s eighty-year-old voice cried, ‘Cousin!’

‘With relatives,’ Mr Boon said. ‘Really, this is all absolutely fascinating.’ He turned to Low Fat and patted him on the shoulder, ‘This is
life,
my friend. What an education for us boring commercial people: life in the raw.’

‘Hmm,’ Low Fat said. He wondered if he had done the right thing about Tinkerbell Lin Wong. Anyone who could satisfy a Mongolian who went around chopping off ears, fingers and heads—‘Well,’ he thought, ‘maybe I made a mistake there . . .’

Spencer held up three pistols: two Mausers and a Luger. He dropped the Luger on to the road. It didn’t go off. He picked it up, returned the handguns to the seat of the car, and displayed a sword and a hatchet. ‘My goodness!’ Mr Boon said, ‘It’s an arsenal that man in the third black car that
coincidentally looks like ours whom we do not know and have never seen before has. Is it not, Mr Haw?’

‘An arsenal,’ Mr Haw said. ‘That man who you have just arrested does not know us and we do not know him. He will not say he knows us.’

‘Won’t he?’ Feiffer asked.

‘He will not,’ Mr Boon said.

‘Oh? Why is that?’

‘Because he does not know us,’ Low Fat said. He checked with Mr Boon: ‘How was that?’

‘Admirable,’ Mr Boon said. ‘Perfectly expressed.’

‘Where are the other two cars?’

‘Indeed,’ Mr Boon said.

‘Yes,’ Hernando Haw agreed.

‘What other two cars?’ Low Fat asked.

‘Indeed,’ Mr Boon said.

Hernando Haw said, ‘Yes. What other two cars?’

Mr Boon said, ‘Indeed.’

Feiffer looked at Mr Boon. He knew when he was beaten. He said lamely, ‘You keep your people away from Camphorwood Lane or there’ll be trouble for you.’

‘A good citizen obeys the instructions of the police,’ Mr Boon said. (Feiffer thought, ‘I’m not starting that again.’) ‘We will, of course, take your advice,’ Mr Boon said.

‘We will get back into our vehicles now and proceed on our peaceful way,’ Hernando Haw said. He smiled. Mr Boon gave him a warning look: enough was enough. ‘Yes, sir,’ Hernando Haw said to Inspector Feiffer. He got into the car.

Feiffer held Mr Boon’s eyes. Feiffer said, ‘Don’t put in a claim for compensation for the broken window, Boon.’

Mr Boon raised his hands to Heaven. A broken window was the least an honest citizen could donate to the cause of capturing a dangerous gun-runner loose in the streets.

‘O.K.,’ Feiffer said, ‘You and your friends piss off.’ He watched as the two cars went down the street.

O’Yee came over to join him. He said, ‘At least we got their
weapons.’ He said, ‘That’s something.’

It may have been, but it wasn’t much. The two carloads of gangsters drove unerringly to a fish stall minus their guns, knives, hatchets, clubs (with nails), and their Japanese short sword and picked up from the owner of the stall guns, knives, hatchets, a club (with nails), and—the stall owner didn’t even blink at the request—a Japanese short sword.

Then they rendezvoused with the other two black cars in Canton Street and continued on their original journey to Camphorwood Lane to kill the Mongolian.

The first thing Mrs Skilbeck saw as she passed the parked Thunderbird in front of the Police Station was the two dumb cops standing out in the middle of the road looking at a mess of squashed melons, mashed cabbages, and run-over pears.

She said in a very loud voice that carried above the traffic,
‘Hey, you cops!’

Feiffer turned around. He saw Mrs Skilbeck.

‘You’re standing in the middle of the road, you dumb cops!’
Mrs Skilbeck yelled.

The dumb cops walked back to the footpath.