Chapter Twenty-seven
Closing the front door, I stood for a moment in the darkness of the hallway at 824 Seoul Tower, listening. I was remembering I'm Sun-taek's' words: 'But you can take care of yourself, can't you, Moon? . A lot of other people have said the same thing . Perhaps Chang Chu-chu said it .' it was a risk I had to take.
I crossed to the living room door and pushed it wide with a gloved hand. I wasn't going to be caught a second time if Lee should have any reason to look for fingerprints again. The room was in darkness, the heavy curtains already drawn across the window. In the light from my pocket torch the chairs and sofa yawned at me vacantly.
I went quickly to the bedroom and eased the door open. An empty, pink-duveted bed; a wardrobe with its door ajar; two feathered mules nestling like love-birds on the floor; the faint, elusive fragrance of Su-mi's perfume. That was all.
I went back into the living room, and switched on the light. Then, suddenly, my mind clarified. I would try to re-enact the scene when Doyle had faced his murderer.
All my reasoning was based on two assumptions; that the aroma of the cigar smoke I'd noticed in the room on the night of the murder had more than usual significance; and that Doyle's immediate reaction to an attack had passed unnoticed by his murderer. Also, I was gambling on the chance that the previous searchers hadn't followed my own line of reasoning, in which case it was unlikely they would have found what I was looking for.I went over to the spot where Doyle's body had lain, took a cigarette from my case, and put it in my mouth. Then I turned towards the door, imagining I'd suddenly realised the imminence of an attack, and acted in the instinctive manner of a man about to grapple with an assailant. I tore the cigarette from my mouth and flung it from me; and only then did I take my eyes from my imaginary adversary.
My cigarette had fallen beside a waste-paper basket. I picked up the cigarette, then examined the contents of the waste-basket. Torn envelopes and circulars were not what I was looking for, but there was nothing else. I did some weights and measures calculations. What Doyle had snatched from his lips would have carried twice the distance of a flimsy cigarette. Accordingly, I widened the radius of my search and presently came to the fireplace.
My hands were trembling as I knelt down and fumbled under the iron legs of an electric fire on the hearth. Then my fingers touched a smooth, cylindrical object. I drew it out and stood up. In my hand I held a half smoked cigar in a chunky holder. It was the holder I had last seen clamped between Doyle's teeth at the Chinese Dragon.
I crossed to a table, took out my breast pocket handkerchief, spread this out, and put the cigar and holder on it. Using a paper-knife which was lying on the table, I cut open the cigar. There was a pungent smell of stale tobacco. I shredded the leaf between my fingers, then picked up the cigar-holder, and examined it closely. It was heavily stained with nicotine, about two inches long. I'd been holding it gingerly between finger and thumb, not much relishing its intimate association with the dead Doyle, when I spotted a groove between the mouthpiece and cup. Using the thumbs and fingers of both hands this time, I unscrewed the mouthpiece. Taking a match from my pocket I prodded the obstruction in the cup of the holder .
Two fair-sized stones, sparkling prismatically, fell into the palm of my hand .