“Why, that’s—” he began, and stopped, let the photograph drop to his lap, and slumped down in an attitude of defeat.
That puzzled me. I had expected to argue with him, to convince Chang that the medal was not the fake it was.
“You may have what you wish in payment for this,” Chang Li Ching was saying to me.
“I want Lillian Shan and Garthorne cleared, and I want your fat friend here, and I want anybody else who was in on the killings.”
Chang’s eyes closed for a moment—the first sign of weariness I had seen on his round face.
“You may have them,” he said.
“The bargain you made with Miss Shan is all off, of course,” I pointed out. “I may need a little evidence to make sure I can hang this baby,” nodding at The Whistler.
Chang smiled dreamily.
“That, I am regretful, is not possible.”
“Why—?” I began, and stopped.
There was no bulge in the velvet curtain behind The Whistler now, I saw. One of the chair legs glistened in the light. A red pool spread on the floor under him. I didn’t have to see his back to know he was beyond hanging.
“That’s different,” I said, kicking a chair over to the table. “Now we’ll talk business.”