At that moment the two guards came running, attracted
by the noise.
“Here’s the Chink,” Hutchins said; “take care of him, you two, till I can get dressed. Don’t hurt him.”
Mindful of a hard day before him, Hutchins indulged in a refreshing bath and was pleased with the quality of the absent Locke’s soap and towels.
He was half regretful after he had done this, for, he ruminated, “maybe I spoiled some perfectly good evidence by messing up this bathroom. Can’t help it now, though, and anyway, the Charley thing is here to clean up after me. Incidentally, perhaps he can rustle some breakfast for me! It’s an ill wind, etc., or do I mean, God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb?”
He found that the two guards had cannily placated Charley, and had already set him to work in the kitchen, under threat of instant arrest if he disobeyed a single order.
But obeying orders was Charley’s middle name, and he broke eggs and brewed coffee skillfully and not uncheerfully.
“Well, youngest scion of the Ming Dynasty, you arrived on time, didn’t you?”
“Yes, always at six.”
The Chinaman who talked pidgin or not as he chose looked at him calmly. He was intelligent and respectful, but Hutchins had planned his own line of talk.
“What time did you go away last night?” he said, in a matter-of-fact way, as if a true answer were inevitable.
“When the pollismans come.”
His air was as matter of fact as Hutchins’ own, and the detective believed him—so far.
“Why?”
“No like. Aflaid,”
