Free The Limehouse Text by Will Thomas

this is and what sort of patron it caters to.”
    “How long?” Ho asked. “One day? Three day?”
    “I don’t know yet, but the more you cooperate the faster you’ll get out again. I am going to have to put these darbies on your wrists.”
    There was a tense moment and I wondered if Ho would fight. His knives and cleavers were within easy reach. Instead, he shrugged a shoulder and put out his hands. Poole, surprised it had been so easy, clapped steel on them.
    “Lock up,” Ho said to Barker.
    “I shall,” came the response. The Guv could not let the matter pass. “I suppose these are Henderson’s orders.”
    “Of course they are,” Poole said bitterly. “He wants this man in for questioning. Be glad it isn’t you. I have no freedom in this case. Everyone is telling me what to do. If they would just leave me alone, I could get on with it. I didn’t buy my way to becoming an inspector, you know.”
    Barker looked away and nodded.
    “This one looks like a trained fighter,” Poole warned his constables. “Keep your distance and be ready should he try to escape. Let us go.”
    Then we were alone. A half hour before, the room had been full of people, but now it had an empty, forlorn aspect.
    Barker heaved a sigh. “This is not good,” he said. “If I engage my solicitor for Ho, it shall only confirm his guilt in the eyes of Henderson. He shall have to spend a few days in custody. But then, it won’t be the first time Ho has been in jail.”
    We turned off the gas and made our way to the stairs. The Guv lit one of the naphtha lamps. It was not a time to be taking chances.

7
    B Y THE TIME WE GOT BACK TO OUR OFFICES, IT was five thirty, by the tolling of Big Ben around the corner.
    “Are we done, sir?” I asked. A great deal had happened since my less-than-brilliant decision to follow Miss Winter’s cab this morning. I had been in several public conveyances and would like nothing better than a good, stationary easy chair.
    “One more place, I think. What would you say to a visit to the Café Royal?”
    “The Café Royal? Are you serious?” Barker was not the type of person who frequented fashionable restaurants and evening establishments.
    “I am always serious, lad. You know that.” He raised a hand and a moment later, a cab glided to a halt in front of us.
    Ten minutes later, we pulled up in Regent Street and alighted. I had always wanted to stop at the Café Royal but had never had the money and the time together. The Royal catered to the arts crowd. The arbiters of next year’s tastes in literature, art, fashion, and thought were here, and one could rub shoulders, sometimes quite literally, with famous men. Mr. Whistler came here, as did Oscar Wilde. I had to wonder what would bring Barker to such a place.
    I looked about the room at the gilt fittings, the pantheon of immortals painted on the ceiling, and the mirrored walls, which gave the room added depth. Almost every table was full. I saw one shaggy-looking fellow arguing volubly with another man. Barker stood in the doorway, inevitably drawing attention to himself, then slowly, he reached up and touched the side of his nose. Recognizing it as a signal, I glanced about, to see if it was returned. It was, but in the most unlikely of places. A group of wags were seated upon the crimson velvet benches staring at the figure that is Cyrus Barker. While his comrades laughed, one reached up and touched the side of his nose. He rose and went toward the back to consult with one of the waiters, who wore long white aprons over black waistcoats and trousers. Then he continued out of the room.
    Barker raised his chin and I immediately followed the dandy, the Guv after me. We went into the next room, past the entrance of a Masonic temple, of all things, then down a spiral staircase to an anteroom, occupied by one other person, a large burly man who was leaning back with his head against the wall, sleeping. His lips formed an O under his mustache and he was,