The constable turned to Madden. “Who else is on the place?” he wanted to know.
“Nobody but Ah Kim here. He’s all right.”
The officer shook his head. “Can’t always tell,” he averred. “All these tong wars, you know.” He raised his voice to a terrific bellow. “Come here, you,” he cried.
Ah Kim, lately Detective-Sergeant Chan of the Honolulu Police, came with expressionless face and stood before the constable. How often he had played the opposite role in such a scene—played it far better than this mainland officer ever would.
“Ever see this Louie Wong before?” thundered the constable.
“Me, boss? No, boss, I no see’um.”
“New round here, ain’t you?”
“Come las’Fliday, boss.”
“Where did you work before this?”
“All place, boss. Big town, litta town.”
“I mean where’d you work last?”
“Lailload, I think, boss. Santa Fe lailload. Lay sticks on ground.”
“Ah—er—well, doggone.” The constable had run out of questions. “Ain’t had much practice at this sort of thing,” he apologized. “Been so busy confiscatin’licker these last few years I sort of lost the knack for police work. This is sheriff’s stuff. I called him before we come out, an’he’s sendin’Captain Bliss of the Homicide Squad down tomorrow mornin’. So we won’t bother you no more tonight, Mr. Madden.”
The coroner came forward. “We’ll take the body in town, Mr. Madden,” he said. “I’ll have the inquest in there, but I may want to bring my jurors out here sometime tomorrow.”
