The Blonde in Lower Six

Chapter Twenty-Two

The hotel lobby hummed with activity. Plain-clothes police, detectives, special detail men appeared and disappeared like scum upon boiling syrup. Once more Jenkins had slipped through the police net, and the police didn’t like it.

After a while things quieted down, but I knew they would be watching, guarding every exit as best they might. They would make no commotion, but everyone leaving the hotel would be inspected carefully.

A very short while before I had been a guest of the hotel as a South American millionaire, dark, swarthy-skinned, indolent. Now it would take sharper eyes than those at the moment looking for me to discover the same man with carefully trimmed mustache and Van-dyke — a tourist who wanted to see much and had little time for it.

I strolled to the desk. Here a Chinatown party was made up every night. A licensed guide was on hand and a knot of people had already gathered. At the proper moment I paid three dollars for a ticket and joined the crowd.

A luxurious bus, glistening with plate-glass and polished brass, drove up to the side entrance, the guide signaled the party, and we filed out into the car, some eighteen of us.

A plain-clothes man watched us sharply. A motorcycle cop stared at each passenger. I met the stare frankly, curious.

The bus lurched forward, rounded the corner and slid down the boulevard. Behind us sounded the bark of an exhaust, the wail of a siren. A police car slid alongside, packed with officers.

“Pull over to the curb,” ordered the man in charge.

The bus pulled in to the curb and stopped.

The police car waited. Had a man made a break for liberty he would have been riddled with buckshot.

A policeman climbed out of the car, walked impressively toward us. He searched each of our faces, then paused — and drew some pasteboards from his pocket.

“Your last chance to get tickets to the policemen’s masquerade ball, folks,” he said. “It starts tonight and the hotel management asked us to reserve tickets for any of the guests who wanted to go.”

I chuckled. It had been a great police bluff. According to their theory if I had been in the car I would have tried to escape.

As it was, I held up two fingers.

“Give me two,” I said.

Fifteen minutes later we were in Chinatown. The guide began his stereotyped lecture consisting of a garbled mass of misinformation. The Eastern tourists thrilled with the atmosphere of mystery, rubbered at the red signs with their weird characters, and followed the guide about like sheep.

I waited until we were on the sidewalk where a secret passageway came from the back of the Yat King Café. Here I pressed a concealed button, heard the click of a lock, and stepped inside.

The guide turned sharply.

Once within the Yat King Café I enjoyed more leeway. Many white people as well as Chinese were dining. My evening clothes attracted but little attention, and I obtained a curtained booth.

My dinner at the Clearview had been interrupted, so I ordered some of the more palatable Chinese dishes. At the entrance was a telephone booth, and I risked a call to the residence of Soo Hoo Duck, the uncrowned king of Chinatown.

Luck was with me. His daughter, Ngat T’oy, whose name, translated, meant “Little Sun,” answered the call. She it was I wanted. I knew that I could count upon her as a friend. Guardedly I suggested that if she would join a gentleman in booth twelve at the Yat King Café she would meet an old friend.

“Does this friend wear a ring?” she asked.

I knew she was referring to a great dragon ring her father had given me, a ring which was well known in Chinatown. I had earned this ring at the old man’s hands by resenting an insult to his daughter. At the time, I had thought but little of it. Later, I realized the ring was the symbol of his power in Chinatown. It had some sacred or political significance.

“Your friend has a ring,” I told Ngat T’oy, “but it is not for the vulgar gaze. He carries it in a pouch about his neck.”

“Tell my friend that I will come at once. I have much to tell him,” she said, and hung up.

Feeling well pleased with the world, chuckling at my last escape from the police, I stepped from the telephone and into the curtained booth.

And then, suddenly, my feeling of security underwent instant change. A stoop-shouldered, hawk-faced man entered and swept the diners with cold eyes.

Something special had called Captain Mansfield to the Yat King Café.

I stepped within the curtains, adjusted them so I could see the entrance to the café, and waited anxiously. This was different from the Clearview. The police would be under no compunctions about disturbing the trade here. Given the right incentive, they would bring up the wagon and take every diner there to headquarters.

Mansfield was reputed to be the cleverest crook-catcher in the department. He had worked up to a position of power by framing such men as the police wanted put away, and making the frame-ups stick.

Did he suspect I was in the café? The police had noticed the Chinatown party leaving the Clearview. They might well have planted a plain-clothes man in the crowd. Then when I had left and a check-up showed seventeen instead of eighteen...

No need to speculate longer.

A pock-marked, evil face flitted across my range of vision. It clung to the shadows back of the entrance, and was itself a shadow. Chuck Gee, head of the hatchet-men, the organized killers of Chinatown. He was there for a reason, and I was the reason.

Two and two make four, and Captain Mansfield and Chuck Gee added up to the grand total of discovery.

I gathered my feet under me, wondering if I had eluded the police of so many states, almost at will, to be finally trapped in this Chinese restaurant by a crooked police officer and the head of the Chinese highbinders.

At any rate, I could only do my best, and that quickly...

Ngat T’oy was in the doorway.

In the excitement I had almost forgotten my appointment with her. She was decked out in Chinese finery, pink silk trousers, an embroidered jacket to match, a box-like hat, Chinese slippers. Under her arm she carried a pasteboard box, and her attitude was that of one who was hurried.

I wondered at the Chinese costume. Usually she dressed as a graduate of one of the best Western colleges should dress. And her clothes were just as flapperish as the law allowed.

She was pure Chinese. Yet she had been educated in California, and she combined the East and the West, the education and air of the flapper, the reasoning processes of the Oriental.

She slippety-slopped her embroidered slippers directly to my booth, parted the curtains and entered.

I arose and extended my hand.

“Greetings, Little Sun.”

“H’lo, big boy. How’s tricks? You’re in a jam.”

I grinned at her.

“I always am. What now?”

She scowled, then shrugged her rounded shoulder.

“Sergeant Hollman telephoned my father. He said that you had again come to Chinatown. You escaped an hour ago from the Clearview Hotel and have been traced to this block.”

I sighed. Damn it, life was just one mess after another now that Paul Boardman had decreed my death. As a fugitive, wanted by that powerful politician, the police trailed me with a relentless efficiency they had never displayed when they sought to capture me as a mere crook.

“Little Sun, you shouldn’t have come here. There’ll probably be trouble. If they know I’m here they’ll be watching the whole district.”

She nodded and grinned.

“That’s why I’m here. To help.”

I patted her hand.

“Ngat T’oy, you’re a pal worth having, but there’s nothing you can do, and you might get hurt.”

Her dark eyes flicked over mine in a gaze of whimsical humor.

“Key down, big boy. The worst is yet to come.”

I met the smile in her eyes.

“Break it to me gently, Little Sun. You know my nerves are weak.”

And then, even as we sat there, grinning at each other, her dark eyes lost their smile, became as impassive as polished ebony. Her face assumed the mask of the Oriental, and a veil dropped between us. When she retired back of the Western veneer into her Chinese psychology she was a closed book to me.

“It is written that gratitude is a noble emotion. It is also written that respect and honor of parents come before all else in the world. Because of you, because of my gratitude to the girl whom you love, I have violated the teachings of my race and have committed a great evil.”

I searched her face with narrowed eyes. It was a bland mask of Oriental impassivity. She might have done anything from murder to treason.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“I have brought disrespect upon my house. Yet it is the only way. I placed a sleeping powder in the tea of my father.”

I frowned.

“What was the big idea in doing that?”

She unwrapped the pasteboard box which had been under her arm.

“And I brought you his clothes, his spectacles, his hat.”

As she spoke she took the articles from the box and laid them on the table.

“You are to dress as my father. For the evening you will be safe. I have seen something of your skill in disguises and you should be able to make yourself look enough like him to leave the café unmolested.”

It was a good idea. Perhaps it was desperate, but it was the best chance that offered. Having Ngat T’oy with me, I would not be subjected to as close scrutiny as though I had tried the disguise unaccompanied.

“I will turn my back while you make your change, and do not hesitate,” she went on; and then, suddenly snapped back into her flapper manner. “In other words, make it snappy.”

I waited for no second invitation. No false modesty was going to stand between me and my freedom. My dress suit came off in record time and I slipped the loose blouse, the wide-sleeved jacket and the baggy trousers on, adjusted the spectacles, took out my make-up outfit and put on the finishing touches, the grease-paint about the eyes, the puckers over the lips, the gray on the hair.

In a pinch I’d get by — as long as the girl was with me.

She turned out the light over the table so that the booth was illuminated only by the lights from without.

“That’s better,” she said.

With the words there came an increase in the light, a shadow danced about the booth, and I looked up to find a form in the doorway.

Police Captain Mansfield, the hypocrite, the fixer, the framer, known and hated by every crook in the profession, stood upon the threshold.

“Well, what’s the idea of the darkness? Come on. Let’s have a look at you. The police are making a search. Turn on that light.”

Ngat T’oy turned toward him, partly arose from her stool, stood in such a position that her shoulder was between the detective and myself.

“The subdued light is for the resting of my father’s eyes,” she said. “He has a headache. Your assumption of the right to order us about as though we were cattle will doubtless go far toward curing it.”

He peered at her, then laughed.

“Hello, Ngat T’oy. How’s the little spitfire? I didn’t know you folks were here. We’re after Jenkins again.”

“Again?”

His eyes narrowed.

“All right, yet, if you want it that way.”

I thought it best to add a word to the conversation. I have always had the gift of mimicry. A voice which I have once heard I can imitate fairly well, particularly if it has some individuality of timbre.

“That which is worth finding is worth seeking,” I husked, imitating the dry, almost expressionless, tone of Soo Hoo Duck.

Mansfield’s reply was casual. Already he had accepted me. By monopolizing the conversation at the start, the girl had drawn his attention. Now he accepted me without bothering to even look closely.

“Yeah, you birds are great on philosophy. I’m strong on results... Say, Soo Hoo Duck, you and I can talk a little business profitably.”

Ngat T’oy swung about with a lithe motion, interposing her body between the detective and myself.

“You forget that we came here to eat, and that my father has a headache.”

Mansfield’s smile faded from his lips as though the grinning veneer had melted under the heat of his wrath.

“Say, listen, don’t hand me no razzberry because I won’t stand for it. You folks may be pretty high an’ mighty in Chinatown, but you need the police back of you, see? When I say I want to talk, I mean I want to talk, see? This is important. If your dad has got a headache he can turn out every damn light in the place if he wants to. But I want to talk, savvy?”

I knew there was truth in what he said. Soo Hoo Duck needed the friendship of the police. Moreover, if he should penetrate my disguise now, he could arrest Ngat T’oy as an accessory after the fact. All in all, it was a pretty kettle of fish.

And I needed Ngat T’oy there with me.

So long as her vivid personality dominated the situation Mansfield would take me for granted. With her gone, he stood a good chance of penetrating my disguise. The dim light was a protection. It had enabled us to get by so far — that was all.

I glanced through the slit in the curtain again.

The café swarmed with activity. Plain-clothes men were making a swift search, peering into the faces of the diners, looking into the curtained booths. They had trailed me to the café, and they were determined that The Phantom Crook should not escape them this time.

Once more the light grew stronger. The curtains were being parted. I raised my hand as though to shield my eyes, and, by doing so, covered my features.

A plain-clothes officer was in the doorway.

“Here, turn on that light... Oh, it’s you, Captain Mansfield. Pardon me, I didn’t get yuh at first. Nope, we haven’t anything so far, but the place is surrounded. He wouldn’t be here in the main dining-room, anyhow. We’ll catch him in one of the passages. Chuck Gee’s watching all the dark spots. We’re going through the light places. Savvy?”

Mansfield nodded.

“Yeah. That’s all right. Make a good job of it.”

The curtain dropped back into place and I lowered my hand. Any minute now he might discover the truth. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim light. I must work fast.

The officer’s eyes suddenly grew frosty as he turned to me.

“Soo Hoo Duck, there’s a rumor about Chinatown that you’re helpin’ Ed Jenkins in his getaways, see? We know that he knocked down a couple of wise crackers that tried to get fresh with Ngat T’oy on the street, an’ yuh probably felt grateful to him for that little turn. I know how you Chinks are. Yuh love your friends and hate your enemies, an’ when a bird doesyuh some little good turn like that yuh think yuh have to cut off your head if he needs it.

“Well, forget it. That’s out of the picture. The word s gone out that Jenkins is all through, see? Don’t mix around with him. You play ball with me an’ I’ll see yuh through; but yuh try any funny business an I’ll make Chinatown too hot to hold yuh, see?”

It was vital that I say something, yet I wondered just what they had on Soo Hoo Duck. He had helped me. Ngat T’oy more than the old Chinaman. There had been the matter of that jade dragon ring Soo Hoo Duck had given me...

I got my feet in under me and toyed with a water glass, ready to crash it down on his head at the first sign of suspicion.

Then — “What you hear about Soo Hoo Duck?” I asked, following the custom of many of the Chinese in referring to themselves in the third person during a conversation in which they have little interest.

His eyes narrowed.

“Well, for one thing, you had a ring that represents some heathen power, some sort of a combination of all the tongs. It’s supposed to be a symbol that every Chink has to obey. If what I hear’s true, that ring got into Ed Jenkins’ possession somehow. Now suppose you just tell me how.”

I fumbled within my blouse, hoping that the shadows would conceal the lines of my hand.

“Daughter, show the man that which he seeks,” I said, and tossed the ring over to Ngat T’oy.

She was quick to perceive the situation.

Calmly, the girl took the ring, slipped it securely upon her middle finger, then thrust her delicate hand into the tobacco-stained fingers of the detective.

“Observe,” she said.

He held her hand while he studied the ring intently.

“Humph,” he said, at length, and released the hand.

A shadow loomed on the curtain over the door. Once more I ducked my head as the curtains parted and light streamed into the room.

The situation was dangerous. I dared not let the light strike my features, yet every time I lowered my eyes, raised my hand to my face, I knew I was courting discovery. Mansfield was no one’s fool and it would not be long before his suspicions were aroused. We were sitting on the edge of a volcano, the girl and I.

“It’s no use, Captain, he’s given us the slip again. We’ve examined everyone in the restaurant and Chuck Gee has sent men through every passageway. We’ve finecombed the block.”

A less dangerous man than Mansfield would have cursed, made some outward display of his emotion. Mansfield sat calm. His gray eyes bored steadily into the table, his head bowed in thought.

“That’s all, then, Saunders. We’ll go ahead with the other.”

The man in the doorway seemed uncertain.

“The other?”

Mansfield scowled.

“The yellow shadows,” he said, at length.

The curtain dropped back into place. There was cold sweat on my forehead. Mansfield was thinking, and when he thought he thought clearly. I had been trailed to the restaurant. I had not left. Every nook and corner had been searched. Therefore, by the process of elimination, I must be in the only place they hadn’t subjected to a detailed examination, to wit, sitting there with Mansfield.

Would he put two and two together? If the faintest flicker of suspicion ever crossed his mind he would instantly appreciate the significance of my “headache,” of my lowered eyes and raised hand every time the light came into the room. It seemed so plain to me that I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t tumbled before.

It was not for myself I feared. It was for the girl. She would be trapped as an accomplice.

There was only one hope. Ngat T’oy had carried off the situation so far simply because she held herself in the foreground. She was so unmistakably genuine that she carried me with her — and she kept Mansfield from considering me without constant interruption.

Now she rose to the occasion once more.

“In a way I am glad,” she said brazenly.

Mansfield flicked his cold gray eyes over her youthful features.

“I know it,” he said.

There was silence for a second or two. I had not liked the calm way Mansfield took that statement. She had sought to draw him into a discussion, to anger him — and she had failed.

“You are friendly with Helen Chadwick,” went on Mans field, after a pause. “She is in love with Jenkins. Perhaps you have seen Jenkins, for all I know. Probably you were the one who interceded with your father for him.”

Ngat T’oy shook her head quickly.

“You should not say such things of Miss Helen Chadwick,” she asserted.

I heaved a gentle sigh of relief. I was glad she had said that. The police were not entirely sure as yet of just where Helen Chadwick stood in my affections. Had they known, she would have been doomed. But they suspected, and that was almost as bad. She was of the upper social strata, one of the best families in the city, friendly with Mrs. Loring Kemper, the society leader of the charmed, inner circle. The police hesitated to drag her into the thing; and yet they had made one or two futile attempts.

Mansfield let his eyes bore into the inscrutable almond-shaped eyes of the girl, then shrugged his shoulders.

“You can have your opinion, see? I’ve got mine. The department can’t stop you bein’ friends with Helen Chadwick, but I can give you fair warnin’. Keep out of what’s goin’ to happen. See?”

His eyes left the girl and turned to me.

“As for you, Soo Hoo Duck, let me give you a word of advice. You keep your hands off from Chuck Gee. Savvy? He’s helpin’ the department in this thing, and Jenkins has got to be caught, savvy?”

I bowed my head in dignified acquiescence.

There was a steady, ominous silence until I raised my eyes again. Mansfield was staring at me with a peculiar expression upon his face. It was not entirely suspicion, but it was a recognition of something that wasn’t exactly as it should be.

For a moment we faced each other. Discovery was near at that instant. The slightest false move would have crystallized his mind to the present.

But he was preoccupied with his own schemes. His message fitted in with some carefully laid plan, and he was a thinker. That alone saved us, for his eyes clouded with thought and he repeated his warning advice to us.

“Whatever happens, Chuck Gee is to have a free hand at the policemen’s ball tonight. Do you savvy that?”

Ngat T’oy took advantage of the opportunity again to attract his attention.

“At the policemen’s ball?”

There was puzzled curiosity in her tone.

“At the policemen’s ball,” he said, and from the ring of his voice I knew that he had accomplished what he had in mind all along. That note of curiosity in Ngat T’oy’s voice was what he had been angling for.

I puckered my brows in thought.

Why at the policemen’s ball? Why would Chuck Gee be there? Why must he have a free hand? What were the yellow shadows Mansfield had mentioned to Saunders? Why had he sought to arouse curiosity in Ngat T’oy concerning what was to happen at the ball?

Mansfield was smooth, smooth and diabolically clever.

He arose.

“Better let me take you folks out to the street. There’ll be a bunch of my men scattered around the place; and if anybody’s going to be manhandling little spitfire here I want to be the one.”

Together we descended the stairs to the street, Ngat T’oy walking stiff and straight, her beady eyes looking into the distance, as impersonal as a waxen figure; Captain Mansfield inclined to swagger a bit for all that Ed Jenkins had once more slipped through his fingers.

As for myself, I preserved a grave and dignified demeanor. Keeping my shoulders bowed as became one of my assumed years, trying to feel just as Soo Hoo Duck would have felt in order that my actions should be entirely in keeping with the part I had assumed, I shuffled down the stairs and out upon the sidewalk.

There was a crowd of curious spectators about the place, and the police were breaking these up into knots, forcing them to walk on. Men in uniform and men in plain-clothes were gathered about, waiting further instructions. On the outskirts jabbering Chinese flitted hither and thither, conversing in their sing-song dialect. Some of these were doubtless the men of Chuck Gee, some were merely curious spectators.

I attuned my ears to the varied tones of the Cantonese dialect, seeking to pick up some information which might enlighten me, getting my mind away from my own problems and into tune with the difficult language, knowing that at any minute one of the men might address a remark in Chinese to me, and that I would be forced to reply in kind, giving to my voice just the right tonal inflection.

A Chinaman wriggled his way through the crowd, made as though to pass in front of us, then paused to let us go by. His eyes were upon the police.

“Ho sheng!” he hissed as we went past, a sharp word of Chinese warning.

I did not turn my head, but scattered my reply over my shoulder, Chinese fashion, letting him know that I had already received my lesson and would be very cautious, a reply which was sufficiently indefinite to satisfy him whether he intended to convey some specific warning or was merely cautioning Soo Hoo Duck against too close an association with the police.

Ngat T’oy flashed a roguish look from her almond eyes at me, but I shuffled onward, head lowered, face grave.

We passed through the outer ring of the police, mingled with the knots that were being dispersed and sent on their way, and still Mansfield remained with us. Now I was certain that he was playing a game, some game which had been previously planned and decided upon when his assistant had reported that Ed Jenkins had once more slipped through his fingers.

Ngat T’oy sensed the electric suspense of the moment, realized that we had not yet made our escape, and once more that mask of inscrutable calm descended upon her features. In silence we three walked on, walked until we were well out of the crowds. The side street down which we were to turn opened before us. For one wild moment I thought that Mansfield was going to insist upon accompanying us home.

And then, abruptly, he changed his manner.

“Well, I guess I’ve gone far enough with you folks, no need of my takin’ you clean home. Remember, now, and play along with me and I’ll treat you square. Get funny with me and you’ll find that I’m a mean fighter. Savvy?”

I bowed courteously to him, a bow which might have been taken as a sign of assent.

Ngat T’oy stepped out of her Chinese impassivity long enough to resume the flapper manner of a flippant generation.

“Bologny!” she said.

He grunted at that, but turned and went away.

What had brought about his sudden change in manner? Why had he been so intent upon arousing the curiosity of Ngat T’oy as to what was happening at the policemen’s ball? Why had he ordered Soo Hoo Duck to let Chuck Gee have a free hand at that ball?

Helen Chadwick would never attend such a ball. It was absurd to think that I would be there. Ngat T’oy did not go to public dances. A cabaret party once in a while, perhaps, but not a policemen’s ball.

As I tried to puzzle out the answers to the questions, feeling that they were all inter-related, all having the same answer, my eye noticed a shadow detach itself from the side of a wall and step out on the sidewalk.

I had seen him as soon as we rounded the corner. He had shown as an indistinct patch of darkness against the half-lit street, and he contrived to give to his manner that surreptitious something that marks the skulker.

A thought flashed through my mind.

Had Captain Mansfield seen this shadow by the wall? Had it been the sight of the shadow which convinced him there was no use of escorting us farther? If so, he had accompanied us to the corner in order to make sure the shadow was there. This man was a pawn in the game he was playing, and a vital pawn.

I had time for only a word of warning to Ngat T’oy, delivered in the Cantonese dialect after the manner of a parent chiding his daughter.

There was time for no further conversation. The shadow was abreast of us. The light from a street lamp disclosed a battered countenance, a face in which evil had plowed deep furrows.

“Got a message for Ngat T’oy,” he mumbled from the side of his mouth as we went past.

She stopped.

“Yes?”

“Not here, not here. Five minutes from now in the Tsoy Far Low Café. And be alone. Not a soul with you. Make it snappy.”

That and he was gone, absorbed in the street shadows as ink is absorbed by a black blotter.

The girl turned to me, a question in her eyes.

“He is Sammy Sneed, a stool-pigeon. He works hand in glove with Mansfield. He had been planted here to wait for us. I would not go to meet him.”

She took a few steps in silence, then threw back her head and laughed.

“Well, I’m going to meet him. That’ll leave you free to make your escape. Otherwise, they’ll be shadowing us to see why and what.”

There was truth in that. Mansfield was running this affair, and he had use for Ngat T’oy.

“Promise me you won’t walk into any trap. Go to the café if you want. Listen to what he has to say. I’ll be waiting across the street, disguised as a fortune-teller. Stop by and let me tell your fortune.”

Her slant eyes widened a bit.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Get out of Chinatown and stay out. Chuck Gee is after the price that’s on your head, and he’ll get it if you hang around here.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“He will be worm-food when he gets it,” I said; but it was sheer bluff. Too well I knew the danger I was running; but I felt the fingers of police corruption were clutching at this girl, and I wanted to see her through.

“Would Helen Chadwick go to the policemen’s ball?” she asked abruptly.

I shook my head.

“I should think not. Anyhow, she’s promised me not to go out without a dependable escort — some one who has sufficient influence to keep the police from framing anything on her.”

Ngat T’oy extended her slim brown hand.

“Well, 'father,’ your daughter’s stepping out for the evening. You run along home and read a little philosophy until you see me again.”

“Across the street — remember, the fortune-teller,” I told her, and then shuffled along the dim sidewalk, keeping to the part of old Soo Hoo Duck, Chinese philosopher, father of Ngat T’oy, the Chinese flapper.

I was not followed. Whatever Mansfield’s plans may have been, he apparently had not questioned but what I was the man I seemed. No, his business had been with Ngat T’oy.

I rounded a corner, stepped into an alley, whisked off part of my hastily assembled disguise, adjusted stringy white whiskers, great horn-rimmed spectacles, grayed my face, painted in a few more wrinkles, and risked a light long enough to survey the effect in the little mirror I cupped in the palm of my hand.

I would pass, and this time I would stand a closer inspection.

Shuffling along slowly, moving with bowed head, heedless of the flitting forms which scouted through the shadows, I went to a place opposite the Tsoy Far Low Café. Having procured a stool and a small fable, I set myself up as a fortuneteller.

Minutes passed.

A party of gawking tourists, under the escort of a licensed guide, came around the corner, blocked the narrow street, then slowly moved on.

One or two paused before my little table, making some patronizing comment. Two furtive Chinamen slipped around the corner as silently as shadows. Gunmen these, paid killers in the employ of Chuck Gee. I watched them from the cover of my horn-rimmed spectacles. They moved as men move who have a purpose, some definite goal before them.

One took up his station some ten feet from the corner. The other went to the next corner, and then sought to mingle with the shadows.

There sounded the harsh clickety-clack of heavy-soled shoes, contrasting with the whispering feet of the Chinese.

Almost before he rounded the corner, I knew whom to expect. Captain Mansfield, more stoop-shouldered than ever, yet walking rapidly, cold eyes flickering through the shadowed doorways, mouth grimly set in a thin line.

Had he discovered the fraud I had worked on him? Did he now realize that the real Soo Hoo Duck had been asleep in his rooms while I masqueraded in his clothes?

I could not tell from his expression. This much I did know. He was laying one of his slimy plots, plots in which he pitted the emotions of men one against the other, set the stage for his human pawns, and then watched from the wings, subtly directing the action that was to follow. No man on the force had ever possessed a tenth of his uncanny skill in manipulating human emotions.

He slowed his walk as he came opposite the entrance of the Tsoy Far Low Café, looked casually into the grimy interior of a shop window, stopped to light a cigarette, flicked a little dust from his coat, and looked for some one whom he could engage in conversation.

My table offered him his opportunity. He came to me.

“You savvy me, John?”

He was not in uniform, and I put as much hostility in my voice as I dared.

“Heap no savvy. You likum see Chinatown you catchum guide. Me no savvy.”

He laughed at that.

“You tellum fortune, John?”

He carried on the conversation in the pidgin-English which white men use in conversing with the lower, coolie class, and I could see he was enjoying the situation.

“I no savvy white man’s fortune. Heap savvy China boy’s fortune.”

Again he laughed and flipped open his coat.

“You savvy police badge?”

I grew sullen.

“Heap savvy.”

“All right. You lookum badge. You heap tellum my fortune. You no tellum, makum you get off street, buy license, make lots trouble.”

I stroked my beard.

“What for you come Chinatown? You come for makum arrest me?”

He shook his head, his frosty eyes twinkling.

“No. I come to pickum poppy. You savvy poppy?”

“Pickum poppy?”

“Yes, pickum poppy.”

“How you find one piecee poppy Chinatown street?”

Again he laughed, a cold, remorseless laugh.

“Maybe so, pickum two piecee poppies. Use poppies catchum wolf.”

I turned that over in my mind while he chuckled to himself at having mystified an old man.

I glanced up, and, as I did so, I saw a taxicab swing around the corner, come to a stop before the Tsoy Far Low Café, and the driver dash up the lighted stairs, carrying a package under his arm.

Mansfield watched that cab driver, too, watched him with preoccupied, veiled eyes. Seemingly he had forgotten me.

The cab driver came back down the stairs. Almost at his heels came Sam Sneed, the police stool-pigeon. Mansfield stiffened to attention.

Sneed saw him, nodded his head, turned sharply to the right, slipped along the sidewalk close to the buildings, and vanished in an oblong of darkness which marked the entrance to an alley.

Mansfield heaved a sigh, and his mouth relaxed into a self-satisfied smile.

And then there came a flutter of pink, a flounce of skirts.

Ngat T’oy, in the costume of a red poppy, was running swiftly down the café stairs.

One bare suggestion of a glance she flashed me, hardly a pause in the swift motion of her eye, and then she was in the taxicab. The gears clattered, the wheels spun, and the cab hurtled around the corner and was gone.

I sat there, puzzled, apprehensive.

On the curb Captain Mansfield nodded his head and smiled, then turned and walked rapidly away.

Ngat T’oy had been in a costume of the kind that can be readily rented for masquerades. A cap made of red buckram fluttered imitation poppy petals in the air. A collar of green fringe merged into great green leaves which extended over her arms. Her legs were attired in green stockings.

And I dared not fold up my table and leave just then.

Too many people had watched me while I was conversing with Mansfield. Chuck Gee’s spies were still stationed on either corner of the block.

Whatever had happened it had caused Ngat T’oy to rush from the place in too big a hurry to pass any word to me. It had been planned by Mansfield, and her hurried departure had fitted in with his plans. And he had spoken of picking poppies.

Impatiently I plucked at my false beard, and contemplated my next move.

Fifteen minutes passed, and I gathered up table and stool and started shuffling down the street.

In the alley back of the Tsoy Far Low Café I removed my stringy beard, straightened my carriage somewhat and approached the café entrance. I knew that I would be taking risks, but I wanted a taxicab, and aged Chinese fortune-tellers do not telephone for taxicabs to come to them.

There was still an eddy of excitement about the café. I did not take a cab which stood near the entrance, but waited until one came cruising up to the stand. From a point somewhat to the rear of the line I gave the driver a signal. He swung over to me, and I popped into the door.

The ten dollars that I pressed into his hand gave him far more speed than any story I could have concocted. There was a newspaper upon the seat, one of the late evening editions, and I raised this in such a manner that it completely covered my face as we went past the lighted café entrance. To an observer on the sidewalk I was merely a passenger immersed in the news, suffering from our twentieth century complex which demands that we must have our morning papers issued the night before, and must read them “on the run.”

With my eyes on the printed page before me, but with my mind on Ngat T’oy in the red poppy dress, I soon began to see a big light.

I set the paper down on the seat and gave the address of a costume company to the driver. Events were moving rapidly, and the next two hours would see much accomplished. I must discover Mansfield’s game and block it. A trap had been set, and I must slip through that trap. I had my own plans for the future, and the first step was to convince Boardman that I could laugh at his efforts to apprehend me.

At the costumer’s I secured the costume of a clown and changed into it at once. I have always been partial to such a costume. The big nose, the peaked cap, the baggy trousers and blouse make recognition almost impossible, even when one has unmasked; and the costume is easy to slip on and off.

At the curb I found another taxi.

“To the policemen’s ball,” I told the driver as I fished one of the oblong pasteboards from my pocket, the sale of which had tested my nerves earlier in the evening.

It was late, but cabs were still arriving and departing. The stairs were thronged with a laughing, chatting crowd. Masks were everywhere in evidence, and costumes represented every form of disguise which the mind of man could conjecture. There were comic-strip characters, moving-picture policemen, hick constables, lizards, chanticleers, fiction characters, caricatures, all thronging about the immense hall, rubbing elbows, chatting, laughing.

I looked at my watch.

Ten o’clock. They were to unmask at midnight.

On a raised dais in the center of the hall were seats for guests of honor. These guests were not masked, and Paul Boardman was among them.

I knew that my costume wouldn’t win any of the prize money, but I felt pretty certain it would enable me to circulate through the crowd long enough to find a red poppy, and to dance with her until I could learn something about the trap that was being set.

No sooner had I started to mingle with the throng than Paul Boardman began a speech.

As a member of the police commission he was in his element. Nor could there be any doubt of his political power. His moves were made with shrewd insight. His influence was extended day by day until he had dominated every branch of the police department except the chief and one or two of the old standbys. The chief had been a prominent figure, had done much to stamp out the crime wave which had swept the city under the previous administration, and the people would not stand for his summary removal, without some good excuse.

In the meantime Boardman was greasing the skids for him, making friends in the force, pretending to act with wide-eyed impartiality. In reality he was establishing a deep-rooted system of graft which reached down into the lowest dive in the city. From hundreds of such dives, from gilded cafés, from big-time criminals, from exclusive gambling joints, Paul Boardman was mulcting graft. The men who worked with him would stop at nothing. They were bound together by mutual profits, illegal activities, quick riches. Murder was as nothing to them, and the underworld knew it. Never had such a system been built up in the city. And this system had been built up under the guise of a reform administration. So smoothly did it function, so well were the newspapers controlled, that the average citizen on the street believed Paul Boardman had done as much as any man in the city to stamp out crime, to abolish graft and to increase police efficiency.

Now he was indulging in his forte, making a political speech.

Officially it was a statement of thanks on the part of the police department for the wonderful support which the citizens had given to the ball. Really it was a skilful piece of propaganda, patting the police commission on the back, commenting on the increased efficiency of the police officers, intimating that the old regime must be absolutely swept away.

Just as he finished, and there came a roar of applause which shivered through the walls of the place, I found the costume I was looking everywhere for.

She was in a corner, her eyes covered by a red mask, the poppy effect startlingly real as she stood, feet together, slender, well-formed legs indicating a sweep of green stem, leaves blossoming out where the arms left the body, the face furnishing the bud, and the hat sweeping upward in an expanse of quivering red petal.

“Ah, little poppy, may a clown claim a dance?”

I disguised my voice slightly, not wanting Ngat T’oy to recognize me too readily, fearful that she might be watched, and knowing that I must appear elaborately casual.

For answer she stretched out her arms as the music swung into the catchy melody of one of the popular airs, and couples swayed out upon the floor.

I knew the truth as soon as I touched her.

“Ed!” she breathed, a happy catch in her whisper.

This was not Ngat T’oy! This was Helen Chadwick herself!

“Helen!” I exclaimed. “Why did you come here?”

The eyes behind the red mask glittered.

“Because I had the strange idea that you would be here.”

Mechanically my feet followed the music. My mind was seething with a mass of seemingly unrelated facts, trying to co-ordinate them.

Mansfield had arranged the whole thing. He had arranged that Ngat T’oy should be given a similar costume to that which Helen was wearing... He had insisted that Chuck Gee’s men should be given a free hand at the ball... He had known of an ultimatum that Paul Boardman had given to the Chief of Police — Get Jenkins or Quit... But what was the connection of it all?

Those questions pulsed through my brain, keeping time to the cadences of the music. And through it all was the intoxicating sense of physical contact with the girl who swayed in my arms, dancing with thistledown feet.

“Who is your escort?”

“Mr. Loring Kemper. I told him that I was coming and he decided that he had better come, too. He’s in the costume of the monk. He’s got his eye on us right now. See him, over there? There, he waved his hand.”

Inwardly I heaved a great sigh of relief. Loring Kemper was a power in the city. He never dabbled in politics, but he represented one of the wealthiest and oldest families. He was independently wealthy and numbered his friends by the thousand among the inner circle of bankers, professional men, executives, and clubmen. The police would hardly dare to question the word of such a man.

Yet there was the ultimatum to the Chief — “Get Jenkins or Quit.” And there was some mysterious plan of Captain Mansfield, a plan which could be counted upon to be devilish in its ingenuity.

I let it slide for the moment, gave myself up to the spell of the occasion. With Helen Chadwick in my arms I felt the music throbbing through my soul, and police chicanery, plot and counterplot, were left behind as I soared to heights which lifted me out of myself, attuned me to a great peace.

I have no idea of the time of that dance. I seemed in a place where there was no time. The rhythm of the music rippled through every fibre of my being. Human affairs dropped away. There was only a great peace, a perfect understanding...

And then the music stopped.

There came a clapping of hands. People started chatting and laughing.

Once more the physical necessities of everyday life enveloped me in a great surge of revulsion. I was Ed Jenkins, the Phantom Crook, a price on my head, surrounded by enemies, standing within a trap the nature of which I could neither conjecture nor comprehend.

The monk drifted toward us. There was no particular exchange of words, merely a commonplace greeting which might have been witnessed or overheard by any of the masqueraders who were crowded about. But the hand which rested lightly upon my shoulder gripped in a warm clasp of steady encouragement.

“Let’s go where we can talk,” I suggested, and led the way to the balcony.

“I don’t want to talk,” protested Helen as she followed me. “This is to be our night together. Please, Ed. Let’s dance and forget.”

The monk held back, apparently feeling that he was intruding, but I continued toward the balcony, and he reluctantly followed us.

The cool air of the night struck our faces with foggy freshness. Wisps of fog trailed around the eaves of the building, streamed out into the night. The street lamps shone redly through a moist halo. The band struck up another dance, and we had the balcony to ourselves.

Quickly I told them of Ngat T’oy, of the events of the evening, of Mansfield’s remarks concerning the picking of poppies.

I could see Helen’s lips set in a fine line of pink determination.

“Very well, Ed. She has not come here yet, I am sure, for I have looked at every one, watching for you. And if she has not come by this time, she must have been kept away. You must go to her. She is in danger.”

Loring Kemper added a thought, speaking with the calm deliberation of one who is accustomed to take his time in pondering over any given situation.

“But don’t you think that the whole thing is an elaborate trap, Helen? That Mansfield is counting upon something of the sort and is waiting for Ed Jenkins?”

Helen made a gesture of worried impatience. “There are two sides to this, both leading in the same direction — Ngat T’oy. It is evident now that they learned what my costume would be and had it duplicated for Ngat T’oy. Therefore, knowing how I would appear, they will watch for some one paying me special attention. It is dangerous for you, Ed, to remain here a moment longer. Furthermore, my coming here at all is the cause for whatever scheme they have against that sweet little Chinese girl. And I already owe her too much not to be willing to sacrifice almost — anything to save her. It’s our luck, Ed — our—”

I caught her to me, held her tight for one swift, throbbing second, and then I was out, over the edge of the balcony, catching my hands in clinging vines, keeping within the foggy shadows cast by the protruding corner.

I had no particular idea as to my next move, other than that I would strive to pick up the trail of Ngat T’oy and follow it as far as possible.

I sprinted for a cab.

Several officers in uniform were standing about the entrance to the hall, and one of these caught sight of me, scowled, said something to his companions, and they all turned.

The door of the taxi slammed, and I waved a hand to the officers, waved with the careless familiarity of one who is sure of himself, who knows his position.

“Going after another quart,” I shouted, as the cab pulled away from the curb.

My assurance got me by.

Whatever their purpose in guarding the door they remained there, probably deciding I was a cop myself, out for a lark.

One thing I had as a starting point, the number of the cab in which Ngat T’oy had left the café. It took me half an hour to run down the driver.

“I’m from the policemen’s ball,” I told him importantly. “Give me all the dope on that fare from the Tsoy Far Low.”

He needed no second invitation.

“Say, boss, I’m sure glad you showed up. The guy that hired me was a dick, had a star and all of the credentials, but it sure was a funny set-up. He said he was layin’ a trap to catch a crook, an’ that it was all right, but I got to wonderin’ afterward.”

“Can all that,” I interrupted, after my most hard-boiled police manner. “Never mind the alibis. Tell me what happened, and tell me quick.”

“Well, boss, I was to be waitin’ with a poppy costume for a call. When I got it I went an’ delivered the package. The jane went into the dressing-room an’ made the change, an’ then came out.

“She seemed all hopped up about something an’ kept tellin’ me to make speed. She wanted to go to the corner of Second and Helmold and after that to drive slow. Well, I’d had my instructions before, so they didn’t surprise me so much. I got to Second street, and then I drove slow through the Chink quarter, taking the alleys about half the time.

“Along about halfway in the block back of the Mandarin Café four or five Chinks with guns stepped out and stopped the car, an’ pulled the jane out and into another car that was standin’ there. An’ will yuh believe it, boss, she was actually glad to see ’em. I heard her say ‘Thank God!’ when the Chinks stepped out an’ grabbed her.

“But she went through the motions of makin' a struggle when the Chinks pulled her out of the car. Still, she didn’t scream none, nor do much fightin'. Of course, they had a gun throwed down on me, an’ I sat there with my hands up in the air.

“I’d been told in advance what was goin' to happen, an' I could see this jane was a Chink an’ the four or five men were all Chinks, so I figured it was none o’ my funeral. When they got her out they told me to drive on an' keep my mouth shut, an' I drove on.

“That’s all I know, boss.”

I could see the man was telling the truth.

That had been nearly an hour and a half ago. And it had all been planned with diabolical cunning. But why? Ngat T’oy must have had some big reason to overlook her promise to me and leave the café without even attempting to let me know where she was going. She had taken a cab dressed as a red poppy, and had apparently expected to be kidnapped en route. Why?

And a cold, clutching fear began to creep up around the vicinity of my heart.

Helen Chadwick was at the policemen’s ball dressed exactly as Ngat T’oy had been dressed.

It was all part of some subtle scheme, and Mansfield was a wonder at subtle schemes. In some way — easy to him — he had assured himself that Helen Chadwick was going to do this extraordinary thing — attend the policemen’s ball — and found out what her costume would be. Upon these facts his scheme was built.

But what his scheme could be was beyond me. Loring Kemper was with Helen Chadwick. Kemper was a man who could not be trifled with. His word would be accepted at face value anywhere.

I pondered the matter and the more I pondered the more perplexed I became. There seemed but one thing to do. I climbed into the taxicab, ignoring the anxious queries of the driver as to whether he had done right, and gave him the address of Soo Hoo Duck.

Would the old man surrender me to the police when he once became certain of my identity? Would he blame me for what had happened to his daughter?

If Soo Hoo Duck wanted to surrender me to the police he could do so. Helen Chadwick would be safe. Ngat T’oy would be safe after I made my confession to her father. I would take what Fate had in store for me.

To try and hunt through the maze of Chinatown for Ngat T’oy would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. There was only one person who could command instant results, and that was Soo Hoo Duck. Regardless of what the girl may have thought she was doing, I knew she had walked into a trap. Twice before she had risked her liberty to save me, and now I would return the compliment.

Would Soo Hoo Duck let me in?

I had been in his apartment once before; but it was so planned that it was impossible to gain access to it unless the owner was willing. Now, disguised as a clown, I stood before the massive door, the center of interest for shifting, beady eyes which surveyed me in sudden silence.

A panel in the massive door glided back, then slammed closed. There was silence. Then, without warning, the door noiselessly swung back. A black oblong loomed before me.

“Wait, there,” I told the taxi driver, and stepped forward into the darkness.

Behind me, the door slammed shut. There came the click of an electric lock. I advanced a few paces. Another door barred further progress. I turned and tried the door behind. There was no knob on it, nothing but a smooth surface. It was worked by an electrical connection somewhere. Was I to be held prisoner in this passageway with the two barred doors preventing any further progress?

“Who are you?”

The voice was that of Soo Hoo Duck. It came from the darkness, perhaps through some speaking tube, perhaps through an opening in the inner door. I have always been acutely sensitive to voices, and I could tell not only that the voice belonged to the old Chinaman but that he was laboring under some intense emotional strain.

“I bring news of Ngat T’oy,” I answered.

“Who are you?” the question was repeated.

Damn it, I couldn’t stand there all night while every second was precious. Hang the old philosopher, anyhow. I’d give it to him in bunches. After all, Ngat T’oy had risked everything for me.

“I’m Ed Jenkins, the crook,” I snapped.

There was a draft upon my face as the inner door swung open. A faint light disclosed a long passageway, and the faint odor of heavy incense came to my nostrils.

“Soo Hoo Duck will see Ed Jenkins, the crook,” said the voice, sounding almost at my elbow. Yet there was no other person in the passageway.

Impatient, weary of all this Oriental mystery, sensing that great events were impending and that every second of delay was an additional handicap, I walked rapidly along the passageway, climbed a flight of stairs, and then knew my ground. I had been in this passageway before.

Quickly I turned to the right, took the first turn to the left and knocked at the door.

It was opened by Soo Hoo Duck, himself.

“I see that you have been here before,” he said, his eyes boring into mine accusingly.

“I have been here before,” I said, giving him as steady a gaze as he sent.

And then I caught the faintest flicker of a smile in the beady eyes.

“It is well. The gods favor a truthful man,” he remarked, and stood to one side.

I was in no mood to waste time.

“You have seen me several times, disguised as a Chinaman,” I said. “Once or twice I think you suspected my identity. At any rate I have come to look on you as a friend.”

He bowed without either affirming or denying.

And then I plunged right into the middle of things, giving him briefly an account of the adventures of the evening. I even told him of Ngat T’oy’s assistance with the disguise by which I escaped from the Yat King Café, masquerading as old Soo Hoo Duck, himself. I went on, told him of the conduct of Mansfield, how he had escorted us until he was certain that Sam Sneed was waiting with his message, how he had been before the Tsoy Far Low Café to make sure that the plans worked right. Then I told him of the ball, Helen Chadwick’s presence in the costume of a red poppy, gave him the story of the taxicab driver who waited below.

He heard me through without comment. So far as I could see there was no change in the expression of his face.

When I had finished, he picked up a small ebony striker, and tapped a gong which hung suspended before him.

Instantly, a wicket slid to one side in the wall, not over a foot from my head, and a gray bearded countenance was framed in the opening. It was the face of a Chinaman, but it might as well have been carved of bronze for all the expression that was on it. The beard was of the two-stranded variety which grows on aged Chinamen. The head was almost bald. There were thousands of fine wrinkles about the face, particularly about the eyes. The eyes were compelling. They glittered with cold impassivity.

“You heard?” asked Soo Hoo Duck in Cantonese.

“My Lord, I heard.”

“Then go at once and use the information.”

The wicket slammed shut.

Soo Hoo Duck’s eyes bored into mine.

I met his gaze without flinching. If he had meant that the aged listener should summon the police that was his privilege. I knew how much old Soo Hoo Duck thought of his daughter. She was more than the apple of his eye. She was his sole reason for living.

Finally he spoke again. His voice was now as calm as his countenance.

“There is a Fate which masters the efforts of puny man. Yet such powers as we have were given to us for use.”

I nodded. Personally, I was in no mind to discuss abstract philosophy. Yet I knew how much more he suffered than I did, and I was willing to let him take the lead.

“You knew, perhaps, that Chuck Gee had gone to his fathers?”

Perhaps it was because he slipped in the statement so casually, sandwiched in between bits of philosophy. Perhaps it was because I had been thinking so much of Ngat T’oy that I was listening mechanically. Whatever the reason, I could feel my eyes widen in incredulous surprise.

“Chuck Gee!” I exclaimed.

Soo Hoo Duck bowed in grave assent.

“Chuck Gee. He is with his fathers.”

“Who did it?”

His eyes suddenly raised from the teakwood table and bored into mine.

“He was shot down from an automobile which drew up close to the curb.”

“Did they see who was in the machine?”

He nodded, his eyes as hard as two pieces of polished ebony.

“Yes. The shots were fired by a man who yelled that he was Ed Jenkins. He was accompanied by a girl who was dressed as for a masquerade ball. She wore the costume of a red poppy.”

I clutched at the table.

What hellish scheme had Mansfield planned? What was the diabolical significance of his plot? Why should these two girls who meant much to me, who had sacrificed much to help me, be placed in red poppy costumes, and on a night when Chuck Gee had been murdered by a man who used my name, who was accompanied by a girl in a red poppy dress?

A sudden thought came to me.

I arose and made for the door. Dimly I was conscious of the heavy teakwood chair toppling over backward. Almost as one in a trance, I saw a huge, half-naked Chinaman stand before me with a curled scimitar upraised. I plunged madly forward, and, for some reason, he made no attempt to strike, but fell back. I took the steps two at a time, pounded impatiently at the smooth surfaces of the doors which barred my way.

There came a faint clicking as though an electrical contact had been made and a magnet had pulled a piece of steel. Then the doors opened and I was once more out in the night.

The taxicab was still there.

I pulled the startled driver close to me, lest some other ears should hear the question I asked.

“Was there an undertaker’s wagon parked near the alley down which you took your poppy?”

He scowled for a moment in contemplation, then slowly nodded.

“Yes, I believe there was, boss. I ain’t sure just whereabouts. I remember seein' a dead-wagon parked near the curb, an' a tall chap was sittin' on the box.”

I climbed into the cab.

“Drive out Grower Street,” I told him, “and make it just as snappy as the bus'll stand.”

Twice before I had crossed the trail of the tall man who drove the dead-wagon. He was in with the police in some manner. Boardman used him as a tool, and such bodies as the police did not care to officially account for were removed in this sombre, black-boxed automobile and eventually received regular interment in the pauper’s field, officially recorded as “indigent dead.”

The last time I had crossed the trail of this man I had managed to track him to his place of business. Abe Grue, undertaker, were the words that appeared on the sign which was thrust in the scanty lawn of the cheap house.

Very well, that information would come in handy. Boardman did not know that I knew the identity of his scavenger. Certainly, Grue would not divulge the information. Far be it from him to kill the goose that lay the golden eggs by admitting that I had tracked him to his lair.

Perhaps he had been in on this thing. It was a clue well worth following. The hidden interior of that black wagon could be used to transport the living as well as the dead. There was a chance that Ngat T’oy had been given a ride in that gruesome vehicle, either as a captive or as a corpse.

If Abe Grue knew where she was, he would tell. That I vowed. Ngat T’oy had been the victim of some scheme be cause of her friendship for Helen Chadwick or me, and I quivered with rage at the thought. I had been too long on the defensive. Now they could see me fighting back.

Then and there, in the interior of that swaying taxicab I determined to fight back, and fight back hard.

I stopped the driver two blocks from Abe Grue’s place. Everything seemed quiet. The neighborhood was not of the best, but it was one that went to bed early, and had received rigorous training in minding its own business.

I took to the alleys and backyards. If there were any watchers keeping vigil on Abe Grue’s place of “business” they could have their pleasure for their pains. I didn’t know just what my interview would lead to, but I knew what it would be about, and I wasn’t advertising my presence.

I still retained my clown masquerade, and the white clothing caused me a little uneasiness as I slipped through the shadows. However, I made a back window undetected. None of the windows was open, and all of them were latched on the inside with the conventional catch. There was little to choose from between them so I picked a wide one.

The catch yielded to a little persuasion, and I raised the sash and reached within.

Then I got a surprise that sent little tingles up and down my spine. The darkness back of that window was artificial darkness, caused by a thick felt curtain which hung from some point on the inside of the window. At the touch of my hands the curtain pushed back and I sat, framed in the window, looking upon such a scene as caused the hairs on the back of my neck to tingle and bristle.

It takes something well out of the ordinary to make the cold waves ripple up and down my back-bone. But this time I’d run into something that was an utter stranger to the word, “usual.”

The window was wide because it opened into the buzzard’s “workshop.” During the daytime it doubtless furnished him with ample light. When he worked at night he covered the window with felt to keep the white light of the incandescents in the ceiling from arousing curiosity in the neighboring houses.

Below me was a marble slab.

On either side stretched a row of big bottles.

On the marble slab was the body of a young woman, a young woman who had met a death of violence. Her face was bruised and scratched. There was a look of wild horror in the open eyes, and her throat showed as a ghastly slit.

Bending over her, his long, ungainly arms seeming all elbows, his long-necked head wagging back and forth, performing some technical trick of his gruesome trade, was Abe Grue, the outlaw undertaker, he whom I had labeled “the buzzard.”

In a chair, tied hand and foot, gagged, her eyes absolutely inscrutable, was Ngat T’oy, still attired in the costume of a red poppy.

While he worked, the buzzard talked.

“It won’t be long now, little one. I’ll just get this body fixed up, and then I’ll attend to you. My, my, but they expect a lot of me. Think of having to fix this body up so it’ll look natural if anyone opens the casket. A high-necked dress will do it, but high-necked dresses cost money. Why can’t they learn to do their stuff below the shoulders?

“But it’ll be different with you, little one. I’ll fix you so you’ll be a credit to the profession. There won’t be a wound that’ll show on your whole body. Just an opened artery or two and they’ll believe that was done in embalming.”

“I'll have to readjust rates, though. I’m only supposed to attend to a removal of the bodies, not to go into the murder business. But they were so insistent that you must absolutely vanish... and old Abe Grue’s the one to fix that up, all right.

“When I get done with you you’ll be a poor little pauper that’s buried all regularly as an indigent dead. Six feet of earth between your face and those who are looking for it. Ha, ha, ha! That’s the way old Abe Grue does things.”

I sat there on the sill, crouched, frozen into immobility. Directly below me was the marble slab and the body of the girl. Her wide eyes, glazed with death, yet staring in horror, seemed to hold my own. I could not jump down without lighting directly on that marble slab.

And then the felt curtain which I had thrust to one side came loose from its fastenings, and fluttered down, coming to a rest directly over the face of the corpse below, covering it completely.

Abe Grue, looking more like a buzzard than ever, crooked his long neck and raised his red-rimmed eyes.

What he saw was a clown, his face dead white, a permanent smile painted in red, thousands of smile wrinkles grinning from the eyes, a peak cap on its head, grinning down at him. Doubtless the sight startled him as much as what I had seen had startled me.

“Eh?” he said. “What’s that?”

I twisted my lips, broadened the painted grin on my face.

“Death, Abe, death. You always thought of me as a skeleton, didn’t you. But I’m not. I’m just a clown, a big joke, and the biggest part of the joke is that it’s on you.”

The words as much as my appearance puzzled him. He blinked rapidly, and then, suddenly, snapped back into the world of reality. His awkward elbow croked into angular action. His hand started back toward his hip pocket.

My own hand reached out, seeking a handhold to aid me in my spring, caught on one of the big bottles that sat on the shelf, and furnished me with an inspiration.

I gave every ounce of strength I could muster into a sweeping throw that took the heavy bottle from its place, plunged it forward and down. It caught the buzzard’s upturned face in a crashing impact of broken glass and ill-smelling fluid.

He toppled backward to the floor amid the jagged fragments of glass, the pistol falling from his nerveless hand.

And I made a great spring, cleared the marble slab, and was at the side of Ngat T’oy.

She was conscious, and she recognized me at the first words of reassurance I poured into her ear. My knife cut the ropes and gag, my hands chafed circulation into her numbed limbs, and I raised her to her feet, turned her so that her eyes did not, perforce, take in the gruesome marble slab and the sprawled form of the outlaw undertaker.

Her arm clung around my neck, her weight resting largely upon me, and I could see she was physically weak, mentally shocked; but as to the thoughts that went on in her mind I was totally ignorant. The almond eyes which she turned upon me were as inscrutable as her father’s had been, as I led her to a couch in an adjoining room.

“Tell me everything, Ngat T’oy. Make it short, sketchy.”

Her face became perfectly expressionless, her slant eyes fixed upon some point beyond the four walls of the room, and she recited, in a matter-of-fact tone a tale of adventures which would have driven a white girl to madness.

“The man you called Sneed told me of a plot against Helen Chadwick. She had been inveigled to attend the policemen’s ball as a red poppy. She was to be kidnapped. A taxi driver had been bribed. He would take her down Second Street, and Chuck Gee was to have men there to take her from the cab. Of course, I suspected a trap. I excused myself and telephoned Helen’s maid. Then I learned that he was right. Helen had just left the house, dressed as a poppy.

“An idea came to me. Perhaps Sneed suggested it. I cannot remember clearly. I would secure the costume of a red poppy. I could get a cab and reach Second Street before Helen did. The Chinese would kidnap me and then leave. When they found out that I was Ngat T’oy, daughter of Soo Hoo Duck, they would release me.

“I asked Sneed where the poppy costume had been obtained, and he said he could find out by telephone, and have a duplicate sent at once.

“The cab driver brought the costume. I changed in the dressing room. I did not come across the street to the fortuneteller, because there was but little time. I told the driver to hurry to Second Street, then to drive slowly, and not to resist anyone who tried to hold us up.

“We met five men who took me from the car. I struggled a bit, but kept my mask on. They took me into another car and drove me off. At the next corner a man got in who was dressed as a monk. He said something in a low tone, and the car whirled around a corner, swung swiftly to the wrong side of the street, and there stood Chuck Gee and three of his men.

“They looked up, and the man who was dressed as a monk leaned forward, over the door of the car. 'I’m Ed Jenkins,’ yelled the man dressed as a monk. Chuck Gee took a swift step toward us, and then the man who was dressed as a monk shot him. The driver stepped on the gas, and the car whizzed away.

“The man took off the monk disguise and I saw he was Sam Sneed. A black wagon such as is used for the dead was parked in the alley and they forced me to crawl into this, slammed the doors and then drove me here. A man sat with me in the car, tied and gagged me as we traveled.

“I told him there was a mistake, that I was Ngat T’oy, took off my mask. He laughed. Then I knew I had been trapped. But I fear for Helen Chadwick.

“We came here. I was taken out under a sheet. The man instructed the undertaker to see that I was properly prepared for burial. I was to be underground at nine o’clock in the morning.

“Then you came. That is all I know.”

There was silence for several seconds. I noticed that the room we were in had been fitted as a funeral chapel. A huge clock mournfully clacked off the seconds of passing time. Through my mind there ran the philosophy of the Chinese, that the present is a part of eternity as much as the future.

“Is there anything you wish to ask me?” she inquired.

I shook my head. I wanted to think.

“Very well,” she said calmly, and fainted — abruptly, without warning.

I opened her clothes, fanned her, placed pillows under her head and opened the window. It was of no avail. I could not bring her to.

Sitting there in the stuffy funeral chapel of the outlaw undertaker, the clock clacking off the seconds, audible evidence of man’s puny effort to measure eternity, I wrestled with the problem, moving from one fact to another.

And then I reached a solution.

There were probably fine points of the game which I did not have, but in the main I could see the plan.

Chuck Gee knew too much. There was a shake-up in the police department impending. The Chief was slated for the discard. They must reach me at any cost. Helen Chadwick knew too much. Ngat T’oy knew too much. I was making powerful friends. Hourly, I was in a better position to fight back. Boardman was becoming afraid. Afraid not only of Helen Chadwick and her friends, of Ngat T’oy and her friends, but afraid of Ed Jenkins, and what he might do.

Therefore Chuck Gee must die. Helen Chadwick must die. Loring Kemper must be removed. Ngat T’oy must tell no tales. And Ed Jenkins, the Phantom Crook, must vanish forever.

They tricked Ngat T’oy to wear the costume of the red poppy when they had found out that Helen Chadwick was going to the ball so attired. A car carrying two people, a monk and a red poppy had boldly driven to the curb in front of the Bing Gung tong house and the monk had shot Chuck Gee. That eliminated Chuck Gee. There were a hundred highbinders who would seek vengeance. What more natural than that they should suppose the two costumed occupants of that murder car were at the policemen’s ball? Vindictive Chinese, bent upon revenge, would slink through the shadows about the hall where the ball was being held. At the proper moment they would strike. The monk and the red poppy would fall, riddled with bullets.

How easily the police would explain the murders.

It was a typical Mansfield plot.

I arose and took stock of the situation.

Ngat T’oy stirred, heaved a troubled sigh, and sat erect.

“I feel rested now,” she said, calmly, sat up, took a compact from her stocking and began calmly powdering her nose, touching up her lips. Her fingers were as steady as those of a graven image. Her eyes contained no expression beyond one of utter and absolute calmness.

“You have reasoned it out, Ed?”

I nodded.

“It is Mansfield?”

Again I nodded.

She closed the compact and slipped it back in her stocking.

“I shall kill him,” she proclaimed with the utmost calmness, “by the method of a million cuts. I shall sharpen a knife, and slice him, a little at a time until there is nothing left but the quivering, red flesh and the white bones,” and in the next breath:

“Tell me, Ed, is my mouth straight?”

I nodded, nor wasted time in argument seeking to dissuade her, nor in mental comment upon the incongruity of her remarks. Some one had made a psychological hybrid out of her. To the base of a pure Oriental character, with its thousands of years of ancestral habit, had been added a veneer of western education, flapper reactions. She embodied both the East and the West. And she would, beyond doubt, kill Captain Mansfield by the method of a million cuts, a choice torture of her native land. That is, she would unless I killed him first.

I stepped back into the workroom of Abe Grue.

We had left the human vulture stretched on the floor, lying amidst jagged glass, completely dead to the world.

Now he was gone. Nor was there any trace of his going. The only door from the room was the one into the chapel.

He had not come through that. It was as though the human buzzard had flapped his awkward wings and whisked himself out into the night, through the open window above the marble slab.

I knew then that time was limited, every second counted.

I went back to the chapel.

“You will have to play the game, old girl,” I told Little Sun. “Grue has gone to warn the others. They will scour the town for us. Now we do know too much, and we may block their plot. Do you feel well enough to stand the gaff?”

She grinned.

“Lead me to it, big boy.”

I led her to it.

The front door was locked. A side door opened into a passageway and in front of this side door was parked the gruesome dead wagon which Abe Grue used to cany off the victims of illegal activities.

I climbed to the driver’s seat, motioned Ngat T’oy to my side, stepped on the starter, and threw in the gear. I had one consolation. Abe Grue had slipped away, but he had escaped on foot, while we had the automobile, such as it was.

I took corners on two wheels, skidded across boulevard stops, violated traffic rules, and made time. Ngat T’oy asked no questions. I removed her poppy hat and threw it away. She crouched at my side, bareheaded, hair streaming in the breeze, her dark eyes fixed on the road ahead, as inscrutable as the eyes of a bronze Buddha.

She saw where I was going.

“Can’t I come, Ed?”

I shook my head.

“There is danger. You can’t help. You’ll go home.”

She made no further comment.

I skidded to a stop before her house.

I had dreaded that moment when she would have to leave the car, when the loitering Chinese would see her costume, the green stockinged legs, the dress with its green collar, the green sleeves made to represent leaves.

But there was no need.

The heavy door swung open and Soo Hoo Duck stepped to the curb. A robe was over his arm, and he threw this over his daughter’s shoulders, helped her from the seat of the car.

It seemed that the old bird had some uncanny way of knowing everything. How he had been advised of my coming was more than I could tell. Yet there he was, a robe over his arm. Perhaps he, too, had been doing some thinking. Certain it was that he had hundreds of points of contact in Chinatown.

He crooked his withered arm about his daughter, and raised a perfectly bland, expressionless face to my own.

“You will have to hurry, my son,” he said in Cantonese, then, inscrutable as ever, turned away from the car.

There was no word of thanks either from himself or from Ngat T’oy. They turned into the darkness of their mysterious hallway with no other word.

I sighed, slammed in the gear and stepped on the throttle.

The ride with Ngat T’oy had been wild. This was worse. I took everything the car had and prayed for more. It was approaching midnight, and I fancied there would be something doing at the policemen’s ball before midnight.

I ran the gruesome dead-wagon up an alley which ran back of the hall where the ball was in progress. There was a police officer on duty at the entrance to the alley. He saluted and stepped to one side. Evidently there had been given strict orders concerning the dead-wagon of Abe Grue, the official buzzard of the underworld.

I parked the car, but did not enter the ballroom at once. I wanted to verify one fact first.

It took me but a few seconds.

A figure crouched in the foggy shadow of a hedge. Another skulked behind a palm tree. A third clung to the shadows cast by the side of the huge building. The street light glimmered redly through the wisps of fog, but failed to show any white blur of faces. They were yellow men, these skulking shadows who waited some word, some signal. The yellow shadows of Chuck Gee, intent upon avenging the death of their leader.

I found a back entrance where refreshments had been unloaded from caterers, and slipped within, rushed through deserted passages, through a kitchen where there was a great clatter of dishes and tableware, up a flight of stairs and into the ballroom.

It was approaching midnight.

I looked about the room. Within ten seconds I saw the waving red mass of a poppy hat across the room. I saw the advantage and disadvantage of that red hat. It could be located without delay towering, as it did, a good eighteen inches above the heads of every masquerader in the place.

I made my way toward that hat, moving through the swirling throngs as fast as I dared. I did not wish to attract attention to myself. My costume looked as though it had been through the mill.

They were serving spiked punch, and the odor of perfume and perspiration mingled with the acid smell of crushed fruit.

A monk worked his way toward me, and then the red poppy turned and saw me.

“Ed!” she breathed softly, a question and a greeting in one.

Loring Kemper’s strong fingers gripped my arm in an agony of silent apprehension.

I nodded slightly.

“All safe so far; but we’ve got to get a change of costumes at once.”

That silenced them. It was a big order, getting three new costumes on a moment’s notice, but it must be done. The red poppy and the monk were marked for death, and any moment Abe Grue might arrive with the warning that would identify the clown as Ed Jenkins, the phantom crook.

“But, Ed, how can we get a change of costume?”

I grinned cheerfully. “Oh, we'll manage somehow.”

The words were brave enough. It wouldn’t do to let her realize how desperate the situation was.

“I know what!” she exclaimed. “You and I’ll change costumes. We can get in one of the necking corners and make the change. If you’re in danger you can slip out in my costume and they can arrest me in yours. They won’t hold me long.”

Poor kid. She didn’t know that all three costumes were marked by death! I think Kemper did. He flashed me one of those silent glances of swift interrogation and read the answer in my eyes.

And, at that moment, there was a swirl of figures about the entrance. A woman screamed — a thin, shrill scream. A long, ungainly figure, forehead streaked with blood, arms and legs working with awkward angularity, pressed through the crowd, working his way toward the dais where Paul Boardman sat.

Abe Grue had arrived with his warning.

I stiffened with apprehension. In the swirling crowd I was caught in as close a trap as I had ever experienced. Boardman would doubtless raise an immediate alarm. I had but one consolation. I had arrived in time to warn Helen and Loring Kemper. They would be saved from death. The commotion that would follow, the posting of police guards about the building, the alarm that would go up if I should escape, or the excitement that would be caused by my death, would lessen the menace of those yellow shadows who crouched without.

I started away from them, trying to move casually so Helen would not appreciate the danger. Kemper could be trusted to take care of her. If new costumes were a possibility he would get them.

“Whatever happens, don’t leave the place in those costumes,” I said, trying to make my voice sound casual, and started to elbow my way through the packed mass of humanity.

Immediately I sensed the futility of such a course. People were wedged tightly into a small space. I could work my way slowly through the crowd, but rapid progress was out of the question.

And then a new voice came to my ears.

“Big Boy!” came the soft, liquid tone, “come back!”

I turned swiftly.

A girl attired in glittering Chinese robes, a package under her arm, stood at the side of the red poppy.

Ngat T’oy had followed me!

There was a conventional mask over her face, but her dark eyes glittered with excitement. That was why she had left me with no word of thanks. She and her father realized there remained swift work to be done.

I heaved a sigh of relief and turned, following my little group into one of the dark, palm-protected alcoves.

Ngat T’oy worked with unhurried swiftness, a swiftness that was a marvel of efficiency. The package, ripped open, disclosed three coats of flowing, Chinese silk, coats that were embroidered in writhing dragons, gaudy butterflies, spreading flowers. Each one of the coats was a work of art, and each one was virtually priceless, the genuine handiwork of a race which has never been excelled with the needle. Here were no cheap, machine-made garments for sale to curio dealers. These were genuine, priceless silks.

The whole thing took less than ten seconds. In part the silks slipped on over our other costumes. It needed but a few swift adjustments, a fitting of Chinese box hats, tasselled on the top, glistening with fine silk — and we were out, back in the crowd, a crowd that was already milling with excitement.

And then an excited voice spoke close beside us:

“The clown. He was here a moment ago. They’re looking for him. Where did he go?”

Word had spread. Trusted officers, grim of face, their hands held stiffly at their hips, were circulating through the throng, seeking to locate the clown who had been seen but a minute before. They wanted to get him without a general alarm, and they preferred him dead to alive.

We made our way to the exit.

Paul Boardman, acting the part of a professional politician, pretending to know us with that ready semblance of friendship which is the stock in trade of all politicians, waved his hand affably.

“Have a good time?” he asked, but his hungry eyes were watching the group of officers who were searching purposefully. He did not even notice that we failed to answer his question.

And so we went out into the night, past the yellow shadows who were crouching, waiting; out of the clutches of the searching officers, making good our escape by a matter of split seconds.

Ngat T’oy had a car waiting at the entrance, a high-powered creation of swift speed. The motor was running and a young China lad, his eyes looking straight ahead, crouched over the wheel.

There were tears glistening in Helen Chadwick’s eyes as I helped her in, but Ngat T’oy’s face was as expressionless as a full moon.

“You will come to the house of my father...” she started to say, and I knew she meant business. The Chinese are a race of square shooters. Gratitude with them overshadows all other emotions. Felon that I was, I knew Soo Hoo Duck would shelter me regardless of the risk to himself or to her whom he loved more than himself, his daughter.

My eye caught the eye of a taxi driver, and I was impolite enough to slam the door of the glittering closed car on the middle of Ngat T’oy’s sentence. Hang it, they must understand! I was a criminal, wanted by the police, and I brought danger to my friends.

I sprinted for the cab and jumped inside.

“Away from here. Drive like the devil,” I snapped at the driver.

He was a youngster with youth’s desire for adventure and youth’s disregard of consequences. He slammed the gears in, snapped back his foot, and the car lurched forward.

At the same time Ngat T’oy’s car purred smoothly away. She had realized the truth of what I said, and yet I knew, and she knew that I knew, that her father’s house would always be sanctuary for me, regardless of what it might cost them.

From behind, there came the faint sound of a police whistle. I glanced apprehensively at the cab driver. His attention was concentrated on the job of taking a corner on two wheels and he had not heard it. Bracing myself, I looked back. The hall was debouching police who ran with drawn revolvers to the curb.

They had discovered my escape.

And then the lurch of the car threw me against the cushions. There followed a series of jolts as the machine gathered momentum.

“Where to, boss?” yelled the driver without looking back, his hands wrestling with the steering wheel.

“Anywhere,” I called back, and felt a tug at my heartstrings as I yelled the word.

Once more I was out in the world — alone, a menace to my friends.

I snapped my teeth together.

Very well, I’d show my enemies that I was a menace to them. Mansfield and Boardman would pay for this night’s work; but, in the meantime...

I settled back in the cab cushions, my thoughts leaping ahead, while the driver obeyed instructions, piloting the lurching cab to his conception of anywhere.