Two floors below, at the unloading dock, the evening's collections were arriving in canvas bags and being sent upstairs on conveyor belts to be sorted. It was 6 pm.

  Spencer took out a photostat of the bomber's handwriting from the inside pocket of his coat. He examined it. The first canvas bag reached the top of the conveyor belt and was hurled in the direction of a sorting table by one of the junior mail officers.

  It went crash! onto the steel-topped surface.

  *

  The Wharf Cove granite quarry, set back from Hong Bay Beach Road on the western side of the district, was lit by a battery of floodlights. Feiffer pulled his car up to the padlocked wire gate entrance and glanced at his watch in the glow. It was 7.15 pm. He locked his car door and went up to the gate. There was a guard dog on patrol around a group of huts just inside the gate. It came unhurriedly to its side of the wire fence and watched him. The dog was a young, ninety pound Alsatian in good condition with no need to prove anything. It made no sound. It crouched a little on its haunches without any concerted effort to be threatening and watched the man on the other side of the fence. Feiffer tested the padlock on the wire. The dog made a deep growling noise and went down a little lower on its spring loaded thigh muscles. Feiffer stepped back from the gate. He went back to his car, unlocked it, and pressed the horn button three times. Behind the wire, the dog sat and watched him.

  A man's voice from somewhere to one side of his car asked Feiffer out of the darkness in English, 'Yes?' The dog got up and began making low snarling noises. There was someone in the shadows, coming towards him: a tall man wearing a cap. He came closer: he was in uniform. He asked again, 'Yes?'

  'Who are you?'

  The tall man in the uniform (it had a flash on the shoulder with the word SECURITY embroidered on it in gold letters) ignored the question. He had a truncheon on his belt and something slung over his shoulder. Like the dog, he made no effort to be frightening. The thing slung over his shoulder was a shoulder-stocked Mauser broomhandle automatic pistol. The man asked in accented English, 'Who are you?' He asked, 'Are you lost?'

  Feiffer said, 'I'm a police officer. Who are you?'

  The security guard (now that he was closer Feiffer could see he was prematurely bald under the cap) said, 'May I see your identification?' He had an unhurried, even sort of voice with an accent that sounded Portuguese. He said reasonably, 'You'll appreciate my request.'

  Feiffer took out his warrant card and opened it. The security guard shone a flashlight into it and looked hard at the photograph. He said in that same, calm tone, 'What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?' He said to the dog in an easy conversational tone, 'Friend.'

  'You are—?'

  The security guard said, 'Mr Mendoza.' He moved forward to the wire gate and took out a key for the padlock, 'Come inside and have a cup of coffee.' He unlocked the gate, held it open for the Chief Inspector (the dog cast a final glance at Feiffer), and then, when he had come through himself, re-locked the door. (The dog came up and licked Feiffer's hand.) He said to the dog, 'Coffee,' and to Feiffer, 'He likes it. He has it out of a bowl.'

  'Oh.'

  Mendoza said, 'He'd have it out of a cup like me only his nose is too long.' He patted the dog man-to-man on the head and said, 'I told him you liked coffee but your nose is too long to drink out of a cup.' He said to the dog, 'Ha, ha.'

  The dog made a sound that Feiffer could have sworn was 'Ho, ho.'

  'Hmm,' Mendoza said, 'What can I do for you?' They went into Mendoza's hut where there was a pot of coffee percolating on a primus stove under a shelf. There was a box of ammunition on the shelf and something that looked like a disassembled battery-electric toothbrush. He asked, 'Sugar and milk?' and wishing the Mauser and propped it carefully in a corner.

  'Black.' It was a toothbrush. The man must have been repairing it.

  Mendoza said to the dog, 'The same as you.' He poured the dog a cupful of coffee into its bowl and then went to pour out Feiffer's and his own.

  Feiffer glanced at the dog. Dogs usually made slurping noises drinking out of bowls. This one didn't. It sipped. Feiffer said pleasantly, 'I'm looking for a man named Wong. I thought there'd be a night shift working.'

  Mendoza shook his head. 'New Government regulations about noise. Can't fire off any explosions after 6 pm.' He said unnecessarily, 'The dog and I keep an eye on things until the morning shift starts at 5 am.' He said, 'Wong's a fairly common name.' He said, 'Funnily enough though, in all the time I've been here we've only ever had one Wong work for us.' He said by way of explanation, 'When I get bored I read the personnel records in the office to make sure everyone's who and what they say they are.'

  'This particular Wong has a brother who runs a chestnut stall on the corner of Yellowthread Street and Canton Street'

  'That's right.' The dog finished its coffee and waited for Mendoza to refill the bowl.

  'You know him?'

  'Which one?'

  'The chestnut—'

  'I knew his brother worked here.'

  'What's he like?'

  The chestnut—'

  'The one who works here.'

  'I've seen worse. Why?'

  Feiffer asked, 'And are explosives kept here on the site?'

  'Sure.' Mendoza nodded at the dog, 'That's why we're here. Him and me.' He glanced at the Mauser, 'We don't really need that, but the company thinks it's necessary.' He said, 'If you've come to check the Arms Licence it's all right with me if you take it back.'

  'No.'

  The dog looked disappointed. He glanced at the gun and sniffed. Mendoza said, 'They keep about two hundred pounds of explosives in the magazine at any one time.' He said, 'It's locked up, but I've got the key if you're interested.'

  'This man Wong, does he have access to the magazine?'

  'No.'

  'You don't know what sort of explosives?'

  'Polar amnion gelignite and detonators.'

  'New stuff?'

  'It is, as a matter of fact You can't get the old brand any more.' Mendoza said, The factory blew up or something. It's all a different brand now.'

  'And this man Wong, he wouldn't have been able to get his hands on any of it?'

  'Not the new stuff, no. He might have pinched some of the old stuff.' The dog came up to Mendoza to be patted. Mendoza patted it. The dog made a faint baby-burping sound in its throat. Mendoza said, 'Why do you ask?' He smiled at the dog and said, 'The Chinks are a funny lot. They wouldn't pinch explosives.' He said more to the dog than anyone else, 'They're all too superstitious, aren't they?'

  'About explosives?'

  Mendoza laughed. Compared to his normally pleasant voice it was a harsh grating sound. He said to the dog, 'About everything! ' He said, 'If you knew a way to tap Chinese superstition for profit you could make a fortune!' He looked to the dog for agreement, 'Isn't that right?'

  The dog made a growling noise and licked Mendoza's hand.

  'Who checks the explosives records?'

  'The police.' (Feiffer nodded) 'And me.' Mendoza said, 'Chinks can't count. So I do it' He said, 'They need a levelheaded European to do anything important.' He said conspiratorially to Feiffer, 'You know that.'

  'And has there been anything missing lately?'

  Mendoza laughed. He glanced at the dog's fangs significantly. He shook his head.

  'What time does Wong start work here again?'

  Mendoza laughed for the third time. The dog also looked amused. 'Never!' Mendoza said, 'He was fired.'

  'When?'

  'About four months ago. He was late two days in a row without an excuse.'

  So much for the brother theory. 'No.' Feiffer said, 'His brother told me he still worked here.'

  Mendoza paused. He patted the dog pleasantly on the head. Mendoza said, 'Superstition.' He smiled at the dog, 'You see. Face. Bad joss to be fired. Too proud to admit he's been given the arse. Bad luck for the family.' He said, 'It's all superstition and luck with the Chinks, all gods and ghosts and spirits.' He said as one round-eyed trustworthy white face to another, 'All they are is a load of shit.' He said, 'If you could find a way to tap all the shit they talk you could make a fortune.' He said happily to Feiffer, 'Have another cup of coffee.' He asked the dog, 'How about you? What do you think?'

  6

  When he got back to the Station, Feiffer's phone was ringing.. It was the Commander. It sounded as if he had had a good dinner. He asked in an extremely tranquil tone of voice, 'Harry, tell me straight if you think there's anything at all in my idea about the Triads.' He said, 'I've been having a few confidential words to a Superintendent I know in the anti-secret societies squad and he doesn't give it much credence.' He asked, 'How much do you give it?'

  Feiffer paused. He said, 'To be honest, Neal, not very much.'

  'Why not?'

  'Well, for a start, the Triads usually don't bother about letter bombs. They prefer planted ones.'

  The Commander said, '—working on the assumption that for all their many iniquities they don't care for blowing up people by accident—innocent people?' He asked Feiffer, 'Is that what you mean?'

  Feiffer said, 'It's bad for business.'

  'And the other reason? You said, "for a start" so I assume you have more than one thing against it?'

  'The Triads don't make a habit of signalling their moves to the police.' He said, 'If they want a bomb to go off then it goes off. They don't give the local cops a chance to get to it first. That's my other reason.' He asked the Commander pleasantly, 'Does that accord with what the Superintendent said?'

  'More or less.' The Commander prided himself that he was never one to hang onto a good theory gone wrong simply because, at the time, it had seemed like a good theory. He said, 'I was wrong about that.' He asked, 'You're the man on the spot—' he paused momentarily, '—what are your feelings?' He said, 'I gather from that strange man Ho that you're following up a lead from Wong. How's it coming?'

  'It went. I've just been around to Wong's brother's address and apart from anything else he's been in Macao for the last two weeks looking for work.'

  The Commander said, 'I'm holding a news clamp on it all, of course, but I don't know how long it can last.' He said, 'Two or three hundred years ago when I was a young man with a fuzzy moustache on my face and a Major's pips on my shoulders, someone once threw a hand grenade into a Korean fox-hole I was inhabiting. I've never cared too much for bombs since then.' He paused.

  Feiffer said, 'And?'

  'It failed to go off.' The Commander said, 'In those days it seemed the Chinese weren't too hot at putting together things that went bang.'

  Feiffer said, "They appear to have got the hang of it now.'

  'I assume you have a man at the Post Office vetting tomorrow's mail?'

  'Detective Inspector Spencer.'

  'Good.' The Commander said, "The nasty thing about letter bombs is that they have an absolutely unlimited target potential.' He said, 'It's like being kicked in the groin by a total stranger in the middle of a crowded street.' He said, 'I don't suppose a motive has started to emerge yet?'

  'I've got a lot of questions, the prime one being why the bomber bothers to tell us in advance about his victims, and the second asking why he puts political on his letters when his victims apparently have nothing to do with politics.' He said, 'But I don't have any answers. We're hoping to get one of the bombs intact.'

  There was a pause. Feiffer wondered what the man was thinking about in his office in Kowloon, or remembering. He said, 'Commander?'

  'Yes?'

  'Is there anything else?'

  There was another pause. The Commander said, 'No.' He said, 'Thanks, Harry. Goodnight.'

  He hung up.

  *

  O'Yee's voice was going. He was getting terminal laryngitis. He would spend the rest of his life as a prematurely aged old man rasping out monosyllables through parched lips from a brain grown crazed and whiskery from the smarmy tones of elocuted antique dealers. He said to the fourteenth antique dealer on the list in a tone of utter weariness, 'Stuffed toucans? Got any—'—he paused to draw a last shallow breath— '— any stuffed toucans for sale?'

  There was a long pause.

  O'Yee said feebly, 'Thank you...'

  He hung up.

  *

  In the sorting room of the Hong Bay Central Post Office, Spencer stretched his back. He yawned. There was still an enormous mountain of canvas sacks spread around the sorting tables waiting to be sorted. He found a chair and sat down by a sack marked Beat 3 Collections, Hong Kong Postal Service on a yellow label. Spencer turned the label over and back again. The label read Beat 3 Collections, Hong Kong Postal Service. Spencer wished he'd brought a paperback.

  He glanced around the room. Nothing much to look at. There was another bag on the floor near his chair. He leaned forward to see what the label on that one said.

  It said, Beat 3 Collections, Hong Kong Postal Service.

  At the main sorting table, Mr Choy's fingers went flick, flick, flick with the letters going into the pigeonholes. Spencer yawned again. He felt bored—

  *

  Feiffer's phone rang. It was The Fingerprint Man. The Fingerprint Man said, 'Good evening, Chief Inspector.'

  'Good evening.' (No one but O'Yee seemed to know the man's name.) Feiffer asked, 'Have you got anything for us?'

  'Not much, I'm afraid.'

  'Did you get any good lifts ?'

  'Not a one.' The Fingerprint Man said, 'From the little I learnt at school about chemistry I seem to recall that one of the constituents of most commercial explosives is nitric acid.' He said, 'So you can imagine what condition the prints were in.' He said, 'I've got a few partials, but they're not usable from a point of view of identification unless you've already got a complete set for me to match.' He said sympathetically, To make sabre-toothed tiger stew first catch your sabre-toothed tiger.' He said, 'I'm sorry, but I did my best'

  'I know that.'

  'Is Christopher O'Yee on tonight? I wanted to invite him over to my father's farm at Sheung Shui for the weekend.'

  He's on, but he's off on something of his own. I haven't seen him all evening.'

  'I'll ring his wife.' The Fingerprint Man said, 'I gather by the way, that you're about to become a father.'

  'Yes.'

  'How's your wife?'

  Feiffer said, 'Unhappy.'

  'They always get that way.'

  'Do they?'

  'Oh, yes.' The Fingerprint Man said, 'No doubt about it. It's perfectly normal.'

  Feiffer said, 'How many children do you have yourself?'

  There was a brief silence. The Fingerprint Man said, 'Oh, incidentally, I had the handwriting expert here have a quick look at one of the letters—the Leung one—to see if he could come up with anything.'

  'And?'

  'Nothing, I'm afraid. Just a scrawl. Standard secondary school scribble.' The Fingerprint Man said, 'I thought it was worth a try.'

  I appreciate it.' Feiffer said, 'How many children of your own do you have?'

  The Fingerprint Man said, 'As a matter of fact, none.' He said, 'Um—' He seemed a little embarrassed, 'Um, it was like the handwriting man, you know . . .' He sounded very embarrassed. He said, 'I was just trying to be helpful.'

  Feiffer paused. He said, 'I appreciate it.'

  'You do?' The Fingerprint Man said, 'I believe that trying to do good is the most important thing in life.'

  'I agree.'

  'You do?'

  Feiffer said, 'Thanks for ringing.'

  The Fingerprint Man said, 'I know an old Korean fortune teller in Khartoum Street. He reads your entire past and future from your handwriting.' He said enthusiastically, 'I'll try one of the letters on him.' He said very quickly, 'I'll be discreet of course.'

  'Fine.'

  That's OK? You don't mind?'

  'It all helps.'

  The Fingerprint Man said, 'Great!' He said vigorously, 'I'll get right onto it! 'Bye!' He hung up.

  Feiffer put the phone down. Auden asked, 'Who was that?'

  'That was the Fingerprint Man.'

  Auden nodded. 'Everyone calls him that.' He asked, 'What's his real name? Do you know?'

  Feiffer said, 'Albert Schweitzer.'

  Auden said, 'Of course it is. I knew I'd heard it somewhere.' He seemed happy he'd remembered.

  *

  Spencer watched Mr Choy's fingers go flick, flick with the letters. He said aloud, 'Prestidigitation.' That was a nice word. He said again to himself, 'Prest-i-dig-itation.'

  Leger-de-main.

  *

  It was a very soft woman's voice, faint, like something very quiet and fragile. Feiffer said into his telephone, 'Hullo? Are you there?'

  The soft voice said, 'Is Mr Spencer there to speak to me please?' The voice had an odd accent, not Chinese, softer, from farther away.

  Feiffer said, 'I'm afraid Mr Spencer isn't here at the moment. This is Chief Inspector Feiffer speaking.'

  'Harry?' the voice broke up into two syllables, testing it.

  Feiffer said, 'Who is this?'

  The voice said (Feiffer thought, "If I heard a voice like this coming out of a Chinese girl in Hong Kong I'd think she'd been watching too many reruns of Suzie Wong movies"), 'I am Bill's friend, Frances Nu.' She was Burmese.

  'Frances?'

  'Yes.'

  Feiffer tried to recall Spencer mentioning someone named—

  He said suddenly, 'Frank? Are you Frank?' He said, 'Good God!'

  The soft voice said from a long way away, 'Pardon?'

  'I meant I, ah—' Feiffer said, 'Of course I've heard him speak of you.' He said quickly, 'In a discreet way. I have the impression he's rather hiding you away.' He asked, 'Nu is a Burmese name, isn't it?'

  'Yes. My family was originally from Rangoon.' She said happily, 'Bill Spencer is from Stratford-upon-Avon in England, did you know that?'

  'Is he?'

  'Yes.' Frank said, 'Where Shakespeare was born.'

  'Oh, yes.'

  'I'm studying English literature at the University.' She said, 'It was very fortunate for me.'

  'Quite.'

  Frances Nu said in her soft voice, 'He's very nice, isn't he?'

 

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