Presently he found the number he sought, and climbed a shadowy stair. At a landing where crimson and gold-lettered strips of paper served as a warning to evil spirits, he paused and knocked loudly at a door. It was opened, and against the light from within stood the figure of a Chinese, tall, with a gray meager beard and a loose-fitting, embroidered blouse of black satin.
For a moment neither spoke. Then Chan smiled. “Good evening, illustrious Chan Kee Lim,” he said in pure Cantonese. “Is it that you do not know your unworthy cousin from the islands?”
A light shone in the narrow eyes of Kee Lim. “For a moment, no,” he replied. “Since you come in the garb of a foreign devil, and knock on my door with the knuckles, as rude foreign devils do. A thousand welcomes. Deign to enter my contemptible house.”
Still smiling, the little detective went inside. The room was anything but contemptible, as he saw at once. It was rich with tapestries of Hang-chiu silk, the furniture was of teakwood, elaborately carved. Fresh flowers bloomed before the ancestral shrine, and everywhere were Chinese lilies, the pale, pungent sui-sin-fah, a symbol of the dawning year. On the mantel, beside a tiny Buddha of Ningpo wood, an American alarm clock ticked noisily.
“Please sit in this wretched chair,” Kee Lim said. “You arrive unexpectedly as August rain. But I am happy to see you.” He clapped his hands and a woman entered. “My wife, Chan So,” the host explained. “Bring rice cakes, and my Dew of Roses wine,” he ordered.
He sat down opposite Charlie Chan, and regarded him across a teakwood table on which were sprays of fresh almond blossoms. “There was no news of your coming,” he remarked.
