A slight, dark-haired European woman in Asian dress opened the inner door. She wore a gold-colored robe in a dragon-and-phoenix pattern. Whitecapped waves lapped across the gown’s hem and along the edges of the sleeves.
“Come in, Inspector.”
Tennant followed China Sal into an exotic inner chamber. A low platform in the middle of the room supported three chairs and a tea table. Walnut columns etched with a lotus design rose from the corners and held up a canopy of emerald silk. A three-paneled screen painted with a landscape of mountains, clouds, and lakes divided the room. Brass-fitted cabinets lined the far wall, and he spotted the end of a table stacked with boxes stamped with a lotus motif.
China Sal nodded to a pair of rattan seats under the canopy. “Park yourself in one of ’em.”
She sat opposite him, a tiny figure dwarfed by a wicker chair whose back fanned like a throne. A low rosewood table separated them. On it, a silver tray etched with palm trees held tea for one.
China Sal may have been clothed and cosseted by goods from the exotic East, but she was an East Ender, born and bred. In a Cockney accent, she asked, “Fancy a cuppa?” Without waiting for his answer, she shouted, “Yee. Another teacup.”
The man carried a delicate, bowl-like cup without handles in his square fist. His broken knuckles reminded Tennant of O’Malley’s, except this man’s right hand had three dots tattooed in a triangle above his thumb and index finger. Yee poured, bowed, and withdrew.
China Sal palmed her cup and sipped, eyeing Tennant over the rim. She assumed a candid expression, gazing at him with violet-blue eyes fringed with dark lashes.
“So . . . a missing person at my pub. Someone’s lost a Chinaman?”
Tennant settled back in his chair. “To save time and pointless evasion, I’ll tell you that I know Arnie Stackpole left you in charge of his Chinese girls. They were meant for Margot Miller, and you handed them off to Herbert Rawlings.”
“You know it all, luv. Nothing left to tell.”
“I want to know where he took the girls. And I want Rawlings. Indeed, I do.”
“Can’t help you there. And I don’t know the girls’ whereabouts. Never asked.”
“Why do I find that difficult to believe?”
“Stackpole said Margot would collect them and pay me for their room and board. Then Rawlings turns up with papers, pays me, and takes them away.” Sal shrugged. “With her dead and gone, what was I to do? Right sorry I was that somebody offed her. She was a good customer and a friend.”
“Customer?”
“Bought laudanum off me.”
“Marked S. Cooper, London?”
“That’s right, my own formula.”
“I found your boxes in Margot’s flat.”
She tapped the side of her nose and winked. “Honey, sherry, some spices of the East, and ten percent opium. Arnie Stackpole keeps me supplied with the stuff.” She cocked her thumb at the door. “And smoking it is the only thing that keeps those poor, idle buggers happy until they ship out.”
“You knew why Stackpole brought those girls to London. Or you guessed.”
China Sal shifted in her chair. “They were models for Margot’s painting lark.”
“You don’t believe that. As a woman, have you no fellow feeling, no pity for—”
“Can’t afford it, mate,” she snapped. “And what do you know about it anyway? What women the likes of me and Margot do to survive.”
Tennant looked around the room. “You look snug enough.”
“You think so? You know nothing, sonny boy.”
“Enlighten me.”
“When my Jack hauled me off to Hong Kong, he promised a fortune. Instead, cholera got him and left me on my own with a mountain of debt. Clawed my way back, and Margot was the same. Peas in a pod, she once told me.”
“For your sake, I hope not. Your friend came to a bad end. Nor was she frank with you about her activities.”
