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Updated: June 25, 2025
The carpet was of a biscuit colour and covered the room flush to the wainscot. Opposite the fireplace was a big, dark red, irregular stain. Tarling's face grew tense. "This is where Lyne was shot," he said. "And look there!" said Whiteside excitedly, pointing to the chest of drawers. Tarling stepped quickly across the room and pulled out a garment which hung over the edge of the drawer.
Tarling, nothing has been discovered?" "At any rate, I didn't expect to discover you here this morning!" smiled Tarling. "I thought you were busy at the Stores." Milburgh shifted uneasily. "The place has a fascination for me," he said huskily, "I I can't keep away from it." He dropped his eyes before Tarling's keen gaze and repeated the question. "Is there any fresh news?"
He got into Tarling's cab, and a few minutes later they were at the nursing home. The matron came to them, a sedate, motherly lady. "I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour of the night," said Tarling, sensing her disapproval. "But information has come to me this evening which renders it necessary that Miss Rider should be guarded." "Guarded?" said the matron in surprise.
There was a chuckle. A cold shiver ran down Tarling's spine; for, though he had never met the man, instinct told him that he was speaking to Sam Stay. "You'll find her to-morrow," screamed the voice, "what's left of her. The woman who lured him on ... what's left of her...." There was a click, and the receiver was hung up. Tarling was working the telephone hook like a madman.
He spoke in English he had not employed Chinese since he discovered that Ling Chu understood English quite as well as he understood Cantonese, and Whiteside was able from time to time to interject a word, or correct some little slip on Tarling's part. The Chinaman listened without comment and when Tarling had finished he made one of his queer jerky bows and went out of the room.
The detective called a cab and together they drove, not to Scotland Yard, but to Tarling's little office in Bond Street. It was here that the man from Shanghai had established his detective agency, and here he waited with the phlegmatic Whiteside for the return of the detective he had sent to withdraw Sam Stay from his shadower.
"It was protected with heavy bars," said Tarling, "so nobody could have escaped that way." "I examined the wound," Milburgh went on, nodding his agreement with Tarling's description, "and knew that it was fatal. I do not think, however, that Mr. Thornton Lyne was dead at this time.
"The master has never asked me," said the Chinaman quietly, and to Tarling's surprise his English was without accent and his pronunciation perfect. "That is not true," said Tarling sternly. "When you told me that you had heard of the murder, I said that you did not understand English, and you did not deny it." "It is not for me to deny the master," said Ling Chu as coolly as ever.
At the back of his fuddled brain lingered an idea that there was somebody who would be hurt. That cruel looking devil who was cross-examining him when he fell into a fit Tarling. Yes, that was the name, Tarling. It happened to be a new telephone directory, and by chance Tarling's name, although a new subscriber, had been included. In a few seconds he was talking to the detective.
He is a born teller of stories and piecer together of circumstances that fit so closely that it is difficult to see the joints. Yet the man had been frank, straightforward, patently honest. He had even placed himself in Tarling's power by his confession of his murderous intention. Tarling could reconstruct the scene after the Chinaman had left.
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