Personal report of detective John Durham to
chief inspector Kerry, officer in charge of
Limehouse inquiry

Dear Chief Inspector,—­Following your instructions I returned and interviewed the prisoner Poland in his cell.  I took the line which you had suggested, pointing out to him that he had nothing to gain and everything to lose by keeping silent.

“Answer my questions,” I said, “and you can walk straight out.  Otherwise, you’ll be up before the magistrate, and on your record alone it will mean a holiday which you probably don’t want.”

He was very truculent, but I got him in a good humour at last, and he admitted that he had been cooperating with the dead man, Cohen, in an attempt to burgle the house of Huang Chow.  His reluctance to go into details seemed to be due rather to fear of Huang Chow than to fear of the law, and I presently gathered that he regarded Huang as responsible for the death not only of Cohen, but also of the Chinaman who was hauled out of the river about three weeks ago, as you well remember.  The post-mortem showed that he had died of some kind of poisoning, and when we saw Cohen in the mortuary, his swollen appearance struck me as being very similar to that of the Chinaman. (See my report dated 31st ultimo.)

He finally agreed to talk if I would promise that he should not be charged and that his name should never be mentioned to anyone in connection with what he might tell me.  I promised him that outside the ordinary official routine I would respect his request, and he told me some very curious things, which no doubt have a bearing on the case.

For instance, he had discovered—­I don’t know in what way—­that the dead Chinaman, whose name was Pi Lung, had been in negotiation with Huang Chow for some sort of job in his warehouse.  Poland had seen the man talking to Huang’s daughter, at the end of the alley which leads to the place.  He seemed to attach extraordinary importance to this fact.  At last: 

“I’ll tell you what it is,” he said.  “That Chink was a stranger to Limehouse; I can swear to it.  He was a gent of his hands; I reckon they’ve got ’em in China as well as here.  He went out for the old boy’s money-box, and finished like Cohen finished.”

“Make your meaning clearer,” I said.

“My meaning’s this:  Old Huang Chow is the biggest dealer in stolen and smuggled valuables from overseas we’ve got in London.  He’s something else as well; he’s a big swell in China.  But here’s the point.  He’s got business with buyers all over London, and they have to pay cash—­no checks.  He doesn’t bank it:  I’ve proved that.  He’s got it in gold, or diamonds, or something, being wise to present conditions, hidden there in the house.  Pi Lung was after his hoard.  He didn’t get it.  Cohen and me was after it.  Where’s Cohen?”