wondering, Diamond, if, with all your cleverness, you may not go
the same way."

"Don't try to pull the creep stuff on me, Jim," said Cohen
uneasily. "What are you driving at, anyway?"

"Well," replied Poland, sipping his whisky reflectively, "how did
that Chink get into the river?"

"How the devil do I know?"

"And what killed him? It wasn't drowning, although he was all
swelled up."

"See here, old pal," said Cohen. "I know 'Frisco better than you
know Limehouse. Let me tell you that this little old Chinatown
of yours is pie to me. You're trying to get me figuring on
Chinese death traps, secret poisons, and all that junk. Boy,
you're wasting your poetry. Even if you did see the Chink with
Lala, and I doubt it-- Oh, don't get excited, I'm speaking
plain--there's no connection that I can see between the death of
said Chink and old Huang Chow."

"Ain't there?" growled Poland huskily. He grasped the other's
wrist as in a vise and bent forward so that his battered face was
close to the pale countenance of the Jew. "I've been covering
old Huang for months and months. Now I'm going to tell you
something. Since the death of that Chink Red Kerry's been
covering him, too."