“Come on,” growled Poland, leaning across the table. “I know, and I'm in on it. D'ye hear me? I'm in on it. These are hard times, and we've got to stick together.” “Oh,” said Cohen, “that's the game, is it?” “That's the game right enough. You won't go wrong if you bring me in, even at fifty-fifty, because maybe I know things about old Huang that you don't know.” The Jew's expression changed subtly, and beneath his drooping lids he glanced aside at the speaker. Then: “It's no promise,” he said, “but what do you know?” Poland bent farther over the table. “Chinatown's being watched again. I heard this morning that Red Kerry was down here.” Cohen laughed. “Red Kerry!” he echoed. “Red Kerry means nothing in my young life, Jim.” “Don't 'e?” returned Jim, snarling viciously. “The way he cleaned up that dope crowd awhile back seemed to show he was no jug, didn't it?” The Jew made a facial gesture as if to dismiss the subject. “All right,” continued Poland. “Think that way if you like. But the patrols have been doubled. I suppose you know that? And it's a cert there are special men on duty, ever since the death of that Chink.” Cohen shifted uneasily, glancing about him in a furtive fashion. “See what I mean?” continued the other. “Chinatown ain't healthy just now.” He finished his whisky at a draught, and, standing up, lurched heavily across to the counter. He returned with two more glasses. Then, reseating himself and bending forward again: “There's one thing I reckon you don't know,” he whispered in Cohen's ear. “I saw that Chink talking to Lala Huang only a week before the time he was hauled out of Limehouse Reach. I'm 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.”