“I have something I want you to see,” I told the old Chinese when I was standing in front of him, or, rather, in front of the table that was in front of him.
“That eye is privileged indeed which may gaze on anything brought by the Father of Avengers.”
“I have heard,” I said, as I put my hand in my pocket, “that all that starts for China doesn’t get there.”
The Whistler jumped up from his chair again, his mouth a snarl, his face a dirty pink. Chang Li Ching looked at him, and he sat down again.
I brought out the photograph of The Whistler standing in a group of Japs, the medal of the Order of the Rising Sun on his chest. Hoping Chang had not heard of the swindle and would not know the medal for a counterfeit, I dropped the photograph on the table.
The Whistler craned his neck, but could not see the picture.
Chang Li Ching looked at it for a long moment over his clasped hands, his old eyes shrewd and kindly, his face gentle. No muscle in his face moved. Nothing changed in his eyes.
The nails of his right hand slowly cut a red gash across the back of the clasped left hand.
“It is true,” he said softly, “that one acquires wisdom in the company of the wise.”
He unclasped his hands, picked up the photograph, and held it out to the beefy man. The Whistler seized it. His face drained grey, his eyes bulged out.