The Chinese Disks

CHAPTER XV. GENTLEMEN OF CRIME

THREE days had elapsed since Harry Vincent’s trip about New York. A huge man in gorgeous uniform was standing by a doorway near Sixth Avenue. It was Jericho, the ex-employment agent from Harlem.

On the second floor above where Jericho stood, the large-lettered announcements of an advertising dentist were plastered in the window. Jericho, as he bowed to passers, was handing them cards that bore the dentist’s name.

Jericho had walked into this job. He had visited the dentist, shown him the uniform, and had offered to work for a surprisingly low wage. Jericho’s broad smile had clinched the job. The perfect teeth that the African displayed were as good advertising as the cards that he passed out.

The dentist had been rather surprised that Jericho had pressed him for the job. There were other dentists with larger businesses who would have paid more. Yet Jericho was satisfied with this spot. There was a reason that his employer did not suspect.

From the doorway outside the steps that led to the dentist’s offices, Jericho commanded a perfect view of a Chinese laundry across the way. Hour after hour, the big African could spy the activities of two Celestials who kept bobbing back and forth between the front room of the laundry and the back.

Those two Chinese were Loon Goy and Hoy Wen. Formerly the tools of Tam Sook, they now served the master who had taken the merchant’s place. They were underlings of Diamond Bert Farwell, who had visited them in the guise of Tam Sook and who had left their place as an American.

Patiently, Jericho watched. This was the third day that he had kept tabs on the medley of customers that came in and out of the laundry. Loon Goy and Hoy Wen appeared to be doing an excellent business.

Most of the persons who visited their place either brought laundry or left with packages.

There were a few who had come and gone empty handed. Jericho had eyed such persons carefully; but all had passed his inspection. By this time, Jericho felt convinced that any persons who communicated with the Chinamen would certainly be bringing or taking laundry as a blind.

From his post, Jericho had fair opportunity for observation. Nevertheless, he could not see as closely as he wanted. Sometimes persons spent several minutes in the shop; but Jericho had not yet gained suspicions of any one individual.

FIVE o’clock passed. The big African lost his smile as he kept on handing cards to passers. Then, suddenly, Jericho’s grin returned. He saw a solemn-faced man enter the laundry. The fellow’s sober gait and severe garb marked him as a serving man of a well-to-do master.

This man had left a package of laundry two days before. He was obviously returning for it. But Jericho, sighting through the window, saw him pause and speak to one of the Chinamen. The solemn man held his hand cupped, as though displaying some object in his palm.

The Chinaman stopped as he was about to hand the fellow a package. Taking the bundle with him, he went to the back room; then returned and gave the package to the customer. That was enough for Jericho.

The African let a card fall to the sidewalk. In picking it up, he dropped others. He stepped forward to gather them. Finding them grimy, he stepped into the doorway, ostensibly to get replacements. But Jericho did not ascend the steps to the dentist’s office.

Instead, he thrust the gathered cards into an ample pocket of his uniform. He produced a new packet, these cards of various colors. Upon a blue card, he scrawled a few words of direction, with a short lead pencil.

As Jericho stepped back to the street, the customer was leaving the laundry. Jericho did not gaze in that direction. Instead, he spread a fan of advertising cards, flaunting them so that passers could reach for them.

Jericho’s dropping of the white cards had been a signal. A man had spied it from the corner, more than one hundred feet away. As Jericho reappeared, a figure came sauntering along the street. The arrival was Hawkeye.

Like other passers, the little spotter paused to grasp a card. But Hawkeye did not take one of the upper cards, those that were most readily available. Farther down in the fan, he spied the lone blue card. He plucked it from the group. Glancing at it curiously, Hawkeye kept on.

He had turned the card over in his hand. He was reading the penciled writing that he found on the under surface. Thrusting the card in his pocket, Hawkeye threw a shifty glance across the street. There he saw the solemn-faced man with the laundry bundle. Hawkeye took up the trail.

DOWN on the old-fashioned street where Marlin Norse’s wholesale establishment was located, an Italian fruit vendor was doing business along the curb. It was Pietro. He was finding business fairly good in this locality. Other venders had chosen the same street. There was nothing odd in Pietro’s appearance.

But the Italian had business of his own. With the same wary glance that he had used on pilfering street-boys in the East Side, Pietro was keeping an eye upon the jewelry store. He had seen a well-dressed customer enter. In natural fashion, Pietro pushed his fruitstand past the front of the store.

The man was not inside. Pietro paused to make arrangements among the piles of fruit. Turning, he glimpsed the well-dressed stranger coming from a door at the rear of the store. Evidently, the man had been in the office. As he pushed the cart along, Pietro saw a stoop-shouldered man following the other from the office door. He knew this fellow was Marlin Norse.

Past the building, Pietro gave the cart a jolt. A box of oranges toppled. Some of the fruit went rolling in the street. Pietro scrambled after the oranges and collected them. It was a signal, like the dropping of Jericho’s cards.

From a far corner, a taxi shot forward. Moe Shrevnitz was at the wheel. He came cruising up to the curb near the front of the jewelry store. The well-dressed customer arrived from Norse’s. Pietro purposely dropped an orange that he was replacing on his wheeled stand.

“Taxi?” growled Joe.

The man from the jewelry store gave a nod. He entered Moe’s cab. The taxi driver saw that his passenger was a man of about thirty-five, handsome and evidently prosperous. But the passenger did not spy Moe’s face. The collar of Moe’s coat was turned up.

Nor did the card behind the front seat enlighten the passenger as the cab pulled away. The photograph at which the fare stared was that of a fat-faced man. It bore the name of Tobias Coyle. Moe had planted that phony card.

“Castellan Apartments,” ordered the passenger.

Moe nodded without turning his head. The passenger added the exact location, which was not far from Times Square. Amid gathering dusk, the taxi speeded toward its destination.

THE Castellan Apartment Hotel was an imposing structure north of Times Square and just east of Seventh Avenue. While Moe Shrevnitz’s cab was on its way there, a man entered the lobby of the pretentious building. This fellow was the solemn-faced individual who had Hawkeye on his trail.

With the laundry package under one arm, the man stopped at the desk and inquired for the key to Room 1420. The clerk handed it to him. Hawkeye, who had followed into the lobby, heard the request as he stood at the news stand, looking over magazines.

The little spotter was well-dressed. Moreover, he had a way of rendering himself inconspicuous when he chose. He lounged about a few minutes after the man had entered an elevator. Then he started for the outer door.

At that moment, Moe Shrevnitz pulled up in front of the Castellan. Hawkeye, about to go through the revolving door, gained a glimpse of the alighting passenger. Acting on a hunch, the spotter strolled back to the news stand. He was buying a magazine when Joe’s passenger entered.

“Fourteen twenty,” said the man, as he approached the desk. “The key, please.”

“Just gave it to your man,” replied the clerk. “He went upstairs, Mr. Agland.”

“All right,” responded the arrival. “Thanks. I hadn’t expected Hubert back so soon. I sent him out on errands this afternoon.”

Hawkeye took a good look at Agland as the man swaggered to the elevator. Then the spotter moved from the lobby. He had a call to make; he decided to use an outside telephone. He wanted to report to Slade Farrow that Hubert, a suspicious visitor at the laundry, was in the employ of a man named Agland, who lived in Suite 1420 at the Castellan.

When Hawkeye went by, a taximan was talking to the door attendant. It was Moe Shrevnitz; but Hawkeye did not know him. As yet, Hawkeye had contacted only with Jericho. Hawkeye kept on his way. Moe, remaining, made an explanation to the doorman.

“That guy that just went in,” said Moe. “He had half a buck comin’ to him in change. He walked away before I could give it to him.”

“He must have meant it as a tip,” replied the doorman. “He has plenty of money.”

“It ain’t everybody who hands out half a buck these days,” observed Moe. “I’d like to carry that bird in my cab again. Who is he, anyway?”

“His name is Monte Agland,” replied the doorman, responding to the casual question. “A gentleman of leisure. He lives here at the Castellan. Mr. Agland and his valet, Hubert.”

Moe stepped back into his cab. He drove away, turned a corner and parked in front of a cigar store.

From there, he called the number that Harry Vincent had given him. He put in his report to the quiet speaker that replied. Receiving new orders, Moe reentered his cab, circled the block and drew up within view of the Castellan Apartments.

Meanwhile, Hawkeye was returning. Spying a cheap eating house across the street from the Castellan, Hawkeye went in and took a table by the window. It was dinner time. Hungrily, Hawkeye ordered a meal. He stalled with his food; and while he dawdled, he kept a watchful eye on all who came and went from the apartment hotel.

UP in Suite 1420, Monte Agland was talking to Hubert. He was questioning the valet about the errands that he had performed that afternoon. Strolling into his living room, Agland noted the package of laundry.

“The laundry,” he remarked in a casual tone, “I had almost forgotten that it was on your list, Hubert. By the way, do you have that disk I gave you?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the valet. “Here it is. I showed it to the Chinaman as you told me. May I ask, sir, just what was its purpose?”

“Just a business custom among the Chinese,” laughed Agland. “I’ve dealt with a great many of them. They give these disks to good customers. No Chinaman will ever overcharge any one who carries such a token.”

“An odd custom, sir. I recall now that the Chinaman added a special ticket to your package. That red strip of paper on the bundle. Maybe you noticed it, sir.”

Agland nodded. Hubert went into another room. Agland opened the package. He dropped the slip on a desk, picked up two blotters and laid them like ruled edges, to hide portions of the Chinese characters.

He chuckled; then crumpled the slip and tossed it in the wastebasket.

THERE was a ring at the door of the apartment. Hubert answered the call to admit a well-dressed visitor. The man removed a muffler that was about his chin. He took off a hat with low-turned brim. He stepped into the living room, where Monte Agland greeted him. Agland dismissed Hubert and closed the door.

In routine fashion, Agland and his visitor displayed a common token. Agland showed the disk that he had taken back from Hubert. The visitor also produced a Chinese disk.

“This mug that works for you,” he said. “You haven’t told him anything at all?”

“Hubert?” inquired Agland, with a laugh. “Not a chance. The less he knows, the better.”

“He doesn’t even know who I am?” asked the visitor.

“Not a chance,” chuckled Agland. “Say — wouldn’t I be a dub to let him know that Ruke Perrin came up here to see me.”

“Think he’d recognize my name?”

“Probably. You’re pretty well known, Ruke, even though you do keep your rackets under cover. But there’s not many people who have ever seen you — outside of those in the rackets — so it’s safe enough for you to come here anonymously.”

“You’re right, Monte,” agreed Ruke. “There wouldn’t be any gorillas hanging around this swell joint. But let’s get down to business. Any word from Diamond Bert?”

“Yes. The job is set for to-night.”

“Good. I’ll have the mob there.”

A pause while they lighted cigarettes. Then Ruke made a casual remark.

“Diamond Bert is smart,” said the racketeer. “I can’t figure yet how he pulled that job at Tatson’s.”

“You were there, weren’t you?” inquired Monte.

“Sure,” replied Ruke, “but not on the inside. Diamond Bert had a fellow with him, but I didn’t get a good look at the guy. I was outside with the mob, grabbing Joland.”

“You took Joland away?”

“Yeah, but Diamond Bert picked him up afterward. I guess he’s got him now. Say — Diamond Bert is a slick customer when it comes to picking hideouts.”

“Agreed. I haven’t an idea where he is located. I send him messages in laundry bundles and get them back the same way. That’s all I know.”

“Not quite,” put in Ruke, with a grin. “You’ve seen the fellow who gave you the dope on Tatson; and on this job to-night.”

“You mean Norse,” returned Monte. “Of course I’ve seen him. I put those ads in the newspapers, so Diamond Bert could read them while he was in stir. But that’s all I’ve done. You had your job, too.”

“Shipping him those pigeons?” quizzed Ruke. “What of it? I didn’t know where the birds came from, did I? They were shipped to me first off. When Diamond Bert let them out from the big house, they flew back to the starting point.

“Say — you and I may be big wheels in the machine that Diamond Bert’s got, but there’s plenty of other wheels turning us. That’s the way I like it. I’ll bet there’s not one guy in the whole works that could queer the racket if he squawked.

“Take that safe at Tatson’s. How did Diamond Bert bust it? Don’t ask me. How’s he going to crack this box at Lewkesbury’s to-night? I can’t guess. It’s a hundred per cent straight through, this racket. I’m for it. All I was figuring is — what happens after to-night?”

“I don’t know yet,” admitted Monte. “All I can tell you is that Norse is out of the picture. He’s got nothing else worth while. But I’m playing a bet of my own. If it comes through, it will be the best of the lot.”

“Here’s hoping,” grinned Ruke. He tossed his cigarette in a stand. “Well, I’m on my way. I’ll see you later, Monte. Unless you want to phone me.”

“Meetings are better,” decided Monte, “unless things get hot. I’ll let you know if we have to lay low. But if it keeps on smooth like it has been, we won’t have any worries.”

Ruke Perrin arose and strolled from the apartment. Monte Agland called Hubert. The valet appeared, bringing Tuxedo, shoes and shirt. He carried the garments into a dressing room. Monte Agland changed attire with a swiftness that showed he was accustomed to formal dress.

Ten minutes later, Monte left his apartment. He descended to the lobby, whistling softly as he rode down in the elevator. The tips of Monte Agland’s fingers were in the pockets of his vest. Whistling ceased and a smile showed on the man’s lips as his right fingers encountered metal.

Safely in Monte’s pocket was the token that marked him as a man of crime. But to him, it was a talisman that brought wealth and luxury. A willing underling of Diamond Bert, Monte Agland was as dangerous a crook as any who carried a Chinese disk.