He was a bad shot with the pistol, but this derived from faulty coordination of hand and eye, not from tremors or sudden surges of hot blood. Nevertheless, he chewed his lower lip now and when he was not cursing he invoked the aid and protection of the supernatural. He was tailing the black sedan at a respectful distance, over the canal and north through Ha Ta Men, and every time he slowed for a cyclist, a honey cart or a gaggle of pedestrians he risked stalling. Moreover, to remain inconspicuous he could not lean on the horn, and the siren was unthinkable. He took a chance: cutting away from Hatamen Street, he raced for Sung Yun’s compound. If this was Kanamori! Again he imagined himself a true policeman in an ordinary city. “Sergeant Shin? Inspector Yen here. I want twenty men fully armed, here and here and here, and roadblocks in this place and that place, and in precisely thirty minutes you will place a telephone call to the venerable Master Sung …” Instead of which, one weary if barbered inspector was racketing through grimy alleys, heart and engine knocking.
