The Eight Curious Cases of Inspector Zhang (26 page)

“What could he have possibly used that would have made Mr. Hyde kill himself?”

“String,” said Inspector Zhang. “Or wire.” He took a step to the side and brushed away a clump of ivy, then sat back on his heels. “Wire,” he said.

Mrs. Zhang looked over his shoulder. Half hidden by the ivy was a coil of green plastic-covered wire. Inspector Zhang pushed away more of the ivy to reveal a black fabric eye shade.

“What is that?” asked Mrs. Zhang.

“An eye shade, like the one you wore on the plane,” said Inspector Zhang. “Mr. Dumbleton had difficulty sleeping. He used ear plugs. And I believe he used an eye shade, too. This eye shade.” He took his fountain pen from his jacket and used it to gently turn the eye shade over to reveal the two Velcro strips that kept it in place. The green wire was looped around the eye shade at about the halfway point. Inspector Zhang nodded thoughtfully. “Now that was clever,” he said.

“What's clever?” asked Mrs. Zhang.

Inspector Zhang straightened up. “That was how he prevented Mr. Hyde from calling for help,” he said.

Mrs. Zhang bent down to look at the eye shade. “How did it end up here?” she asked.

“Can't you see, it's tied to the wire?”

Mrs. Zhang nodded. “I think I'm starting to understand.”

Inspector Zhang smiled at his wife. “Why don't you tell me how he did it?”

“I'm not the detective,” she said.

“I'd like you to try,” said Inspector Zhang.

She squeezed his arm. “And I'd like you to try to iron your own shirts, but we both know that I do it better.”

Inspector Zhang laughed and kissed her on the cheek. “Then I shall tell you what happened,” he said. “Mr. Dumbleton went to see Mr. Hyde and somehow managed to get inside his room. This was long before the mystery murder lunch. Maybe after breakfast. I didn't see either of them at any of the morning sessions. Mr. Dumbleton probably said he wanted to apologise. He'd have said whatever he had to in order to convince Mr. Hyde to let him in. Once inside the room, he overpowered Mr. Hyde. He handcuffed him and gagged him by stuffing a handkerchief in his mouth and keeping it in place with the eye mask. His plan was to wait until the murder mystery lunch was about to begin.”

He took off his spectacles and began polishing them with his handkerchief. “Mr. Dumbleton is a writer of mysteries, albeit not very good ones, and I think he had spent some time planning this, perhaps for a story. But yesterday, after his shouting match with Mr. Hyde, he decided to put it into practice. He fixed a rope around the door, then put a chair under the noose. Then he forced Mr. Hyde onto the chair and placed the noose around his neck. He then tightened the noose to restrict Mr. Hyde's movement but not enough to cut off his air supply. It must have been a nightmare for Mr. Hyde, not being able to move or to cry out.”

Mrs. Zhang shuddered. “That is horrible. Really horrible.”

“Mr. Dumbleton is a sociopath. I am sure he enjoyed making Mr. Hyde suffer,” said Inspector Zhang as he continued to work the handkerchief over the lenses of his glasses. “He took the wire and attached it to the eye shade, knotting it so that when the wire was pulled it would drag the eye shade away from Mr. Hyde's face. Mr. Dumbleton looped the wire around the leg of the chair. Then he passed both ends of the wire out of the bathroom window, allowing it to mix in with the ivy. Later, when he was outside, pulling on both ends of the wire would yank the eye shade away from Mr. Hyde's mouth and then a fraction of a second later the loop would catch on the chair and pull it over. Mr. Hyde would fall and be strangled. And Mr. Dumbleton would simply pull one end of the wire through the window, bringing the eye shade with it. He had just enough time to coil up the wire and hide it here before returning to the banquet room. From start to finish it would have taken less than a minute.”

“That's horrible,” said Mrs. Zhang. “Truly horrible.”

“The maid heard the chair tumble but Mr. Hyde didn't have time to cry out. Later, when she opened the door to clean the room, she discovered the body. And by the time the alarm was given, Mr. Dumbleton was eating his dessert. He had the perfect alibi, surrounded by several hundred mystery fans.” He put his handkerchief away and replaced his spectacles. “That probably gave him a great deal of pleasure, to carry out the perfect murder in front of so many mystery fans. Sociopaths love to show the world how clever they are.”

“But why would he kill Mr. Hyde?”

“Jealousy,” said Inspector Zhang.

“He killed a man for that?”

“Men have been killed for less, I'm afraid. But it's clear that Mr. Dumbleton is unbalanced. A sociopath, or a psychopath perhaps. His mind does not function in the same way as yours or mine.”

“He's mad?”

‘We don't use words like that these days,” said Inspector Zhang. ”But yes, he is quite mad. I could see it in his eyes.”

“And he killed Mr. Hyde because he was jealous of his success?”

“That was the spark that ignited the fire, I think. But when his online campaign of harassment didn't achieve its objective, he became increasingly frustrated. The final straw, I think, was when he was publicly humiliated at the event where Mr. Hyde was speaking. That is what pushed him over the edge.”

“So he is a murderer, there is no doubt?”

“None at all,” said Inspector Zhang. They walked together around the corner to the front of the hotel.

“But can you prove it?”

Inspector Zhang shrugged his shoulders. “I think the police here are as adept technically as we are in Singapore,” he said. “I don't think that Mr. Dumbleton would have worn gloves, or at least if he had done they would be here with the wire. That means his DNA is almost certainly on the wire. There should be marks on the window frame in the bathroom where the wire rubbed against it and I myself remember seeing marks on one of the chair legs. I am assuming that Mr. Dumbleton did not come to Harrogate planning to kill Mr. Hyde which means he almost certainly bought the wire locally. And if he used the sleeping mask himself, his DNA will be on it.”

“Does that mean you will arrest him?” asked Mrs. Zhang.

The inspector looked over at Mr. Dumbleton. Mr. Dumbleton smiled and nodded and raised his cigarette. The inspector nodded back. “I have no powers of arrest in England,” he said. “And besides, a man as deranged as Mr. Dumbleton can be dangerous. He might well lash out when cornered.” The two English policemen walked out of the hotel. Chief Inspector Hawthorne looked at his watch and said something to Sergeant Bolton, then they began walking in Inspector Zhang's direction. “I will simply inform the local police of my findings and leave it up to them.”

“So they will take the credit?”

“It is not about the credit, my dear,” said Inspector Zhang. “It is never about the credit.”

She squeezed his arm. “And you know what? We never did find out who the murderer was at the dinner.”

“That? That was easy. It was the professor. He killed the victim with the shard of glass and then wiped the prints off with the victim's handkerchief. He then planted the handkerchief in Miss Smith's handbag when he sat down next to her in the library. He knew he would be alone in the greenhouse because he reset Mr. Miller's alarm clock when he went to see him that morning. By resetting the clock by just one hour he knew Mr. Miller would miss the appointment and the victim would be alone in the greenhouse.”

“And what about the motive?”

Inspector Zhang nodded thoughtfully. “That was the difficult part. Because they were so keen to lead us astray, they gave strong motives to the three innocent parties. But Professor Green seemed to have no motive at all. In fact the real motive was only hinted at when he referred to the death of his partner, Mr. Livingstone. Everyone assumed he was referring to a business partner but I think that he actually meant he and Mr. Livingstone were lovers. Mr. Livingstone, if you recall, killed himself after the victim took almost all the royalties from his first novel, the one that was a bestseller. I think that Professor Green killed the victim for revenge, one of the purest of motives.”

“I have such a clever husband,” said Mrs. Zhang.

“And I have the best wife in the world,” said Inspector Zhang. “Now, let me talk to the English detectives and then we shall go for a walk around this marvellous city.“

INSPECTOR ZHANG AND THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD

“Do you think it will rain again?” asked Sergeant Lee, peering out of the window at the street below and then up at the darkening sky.

“It is the monsoon season so there is a high probability of rain,” said Inspector Zhang. They were in the Major Crimes Division office at the New Bridge Road police headquarters building and they had just received a call to attend a murder scene on Sentosa Island. Sentosa was one of Singapore's major tourist attractions with long sandy beaches, two golf courses, a number of top hotels and the Universal Studios theme park. There were also several very upmarket housing developments where Singapore's wealthier residents could enjoy a house with a garden, a rarity in crowded Singapore where most people lived in cramped apartments.

“Shall I bring an umbrella, do you think?” asked Sergeant Lee. She had her hair clipped up at the back and was wearing a pale blue suit.

“Better safe than sorry,” said Inspector Zhang.

They took the elevator down to the ground floor. They had decided to use Inspector Zhang's car and he drove south out of the police station car park. It was early evening but the worst of the rush hour traffic had gone. “So remind me what we have, Sergeant,” said the inspector.

Sergeant Lee studied her notebook. “The victim is Dr. Samuel Kwan. His house was broken in to and Dr. Kwan was stabbed. His wife, Mrs. Elsie Kwan, discovered the body.” She looked up from her notebook. “I suppose I should say widow. Not wife. Now that he is dead.”

“Wife or widow is fine,” said Inspector Zhang.

“Widow is, I think, more appropriate,” said Sergeant Lee. “Anyway, the police have already secured the area.”

“There have been a number of break-ins on Sentosa Island,” said the inspector. “But always late at night and no one has been hurt previously.”

“Perhaps Dr. Kwan disturbed the burglar,” said Sergeant Lee.

Inspector Zhang looked at her over the top of his spectacles. “And perhaps we should at least wait until we have examined the crime scene before we jump to conclusions,” he said.

Sergeant Lee's cheeks flushed and she averted her eyes.

“Do you know how Sentosa Island got its name?” asked Inspector Zhang.

“The name means peace and tranquillity in Malay,” said the sergeant.

“Indeed it does,” said the inspector. “It was given the name in 1972, I suppose as a way of attracting tourists. Prior to that it was known as Pulau Belakang Mati – which literally means Island of Death from Behind.” He smiled. “That name was obviously not so tourist-friendly. It was also referred to as the Dead Island or the Island of the Dead.”

“Why such a dark name?” asked Sergeant Lee.

“No one is sure,” said the inspector as he joined the traffic heading over the causeway that led to the island. “There was definitely murder and piracy in the island's past. But there are some Malay legends that say there are warrior spirits laid to rest on the island. There were also a lot of deaths in the past thought to be a result of swamp fever though it later proved to be malaria. The government's first malaria research station was located on the island.”

They drove on to Sentosa and Sergeant Lee gave the inspector directions to the estate where Dr. Kwan's house was located. There were several dozen large houses built on a smaller island surrounded by tributaries that led to the sea. Most of the homes had expensive yachts and cruisers moored at private jetties jutting their properties. Even from a distance it was clear which was Dr. Kwan's house – there were two police cars, a forensics van and an ambulance parked outside and the area had been cordoned off with blue and white police tape. Inspector Zhang pulled up behind one of the police cars. As he climbed out of the car he saw the tower blocks of the city state's business district in the distance, dotted with lights. There were three cars parked on the driveway in front of the house: a Mercedes sports car, a Porsche Cayenne SUV and a white Lexus.

A uniformed officer was standing on the other side of the police tape. Inspector Zhang flashed the man his ID. “Who is the senior officer?” he asked.

“That would be Sergeant Wu,” said the officer. He lifted up the tape so that the two detectives could duck under it.

“Where is he?”

“She
is in the house with Mrs. Kwan,” said the officer.

Inspector Zhang and Sergeant Lee walked towards the front door of the house. “Jenny Wu, I went to the Police Academy with her,” said Sergeant Lee.

“She seems to have done a good job of securing the house,” said Inspector Zhang. They reached the front door just as Sergeant Wu emerged. She had short hair and an upturned nose on the end of which were perched a pair of wire-framed spectacles. Her eyes widened and she smiled when she saw Sergeant Lee. “Carolyn, how are you?” she asked.

“I'm fine,” said Sergeant Lee.

“I haven't seen you for more than a year.”

Sergeant Wu looked as if she was about to continue the conversation and Inspector Zhang gave a quiet cough. “I'm here with Inspector Zhang,” said Sergeant Lee, hurriedly. “From Major Crimes.”

“Of course, of course,” said Sergeant Wu. She turned to Inspector Zhang. “Sergeant Wu, sir. We have secured the crime scene. The victim is a Dr. Kwan. He appears to have been stabbed. The body was discovered by his wife and a Dr. Mayang. The only other person in the house was the Filipino maid.”

“Where is Mrs. Kwan?”