Tarling whistled, a soft, long, understanding whistle.
The Little Daffodil! And the sister of Ling Chu! He knew something of the Chinese, something of their uncanny patience, something of their unforgiving nature. This dead man had put an insult not only upon the little dancing girl, but upon the whole of her family. In China disgrace to one is a disgrace to all and she, realising the shame that the notoriety had brought upon her brother, had taken what to her, as a Chinese girl, had been the only way out.
But what was the shame? Tarling searched through the native papers and found several flowery accounts, not any two agreed save on one point, that an Englishman, and a tourist, had made public love to the girl, no very great injury from the standpoint of the Westerner, a Chinaman had interfered and there had been a "rough house."
Tarling read the cuttings through from beginning to end, then carefully replaced them in the paper package and put them away in the little lacquer box at the bottom of the trunk. As carefully he returned all the clothes he had removed, relocked the lid and pushed it under the iron bedstead. Swiftly he reviewed all the circumstances. Ling Chu had seen Thornton Lyne and had planned his vengeance. To extract Tarling's revolver was an easy matter—but why, if he had murdered Lyne, would he have left the incriminating weapon behind? That was not like Ling Chu—that was the act of a novice.
But how had he lured Thornton Lyne to the flat? And how did he know—a thought struck him.
Three nights before the murder, Ling Chu, discussing the interview which had taken place at Lyne's Stores, had very correctly diagnosed the situation. Ling Chu knew that Thornton Lyne was in love with the girl and desired her, and it would not be remarkable if he had utilised his knowledge to his own ends.
But the telegram which was designed to bring Lyne to the flat was in English and Ling Chu did not admit to a knowledge of that language. Here again Tarling came to a dead end. Though he might trust the Chinaman with his life, he was perfectly satisfied that this man would not reveal all that he knew, and it was quite possible that Ling Chu spoke English as well as he spoke his own native tongue and the four dialects of China.
"I give it up," said Tarling, half to himself and half aloud.
He was undecided as to whether he should wait for his subordinate's return from Scotland Yard and tax him with the crime, or whether he should let matters slide for a day or two and carry out his intention to visit Odette Rider. He took that decision, leaving a note for the Chinaman, and a quarter of an hour later got out of his taxi at the door of the West Somerset Hotel.
Odette Rider was in (that he knew) and waiting for him. She looked pale and her eyes were tired, as though she had slept little on the previous night, but she greeted him with that half smile of hers.