The Ribbon Clues

CHAPTER XVII. THE YELLOW HORDE

BACK at the old Hotel Albana, a gloom had settled in the eighth-floor corridors. Poorly illuminated by daylight, the approach of dusk had made the hallways vague. One could scarcely distinguish the numbers on the doors.

A yellow face bobbed into view from the stairway by the service elevator. That visage had not been present when The Shadow had made his departure; but it had come very shortly afterward. Dark eyes watched through slitted lids as this henchman of Leng Doy crept forward into the corridor.

A door opened; voices were heard. The Chinaman ducked back to the stairway and peered from a corner while a group of men came into view. There were four in all: Commissioner Weston, Joe Cardona and the two detectives. The quartette was on its way to a Hudson River dock.

“Hungerfeld’s all right with Markham,” Weston was saying. “I would rather leave one man here — one competent man — than a group. We can count on Markham to be alert.”

Cardona grunted his agreement. The detective was thinking of someone other than Markham. He made remark while they waited for the elevator.

“Burke’s down in the lobby, commissioner,” informed Joe. “I told him he could stay there. He’s waiting for a story. What will I do about him?”

“Bring him along,” replied Weston, in jovial tone. “We can crowd him into one of the boats. It is better to have him with us. That will keep him from trying to interview Justin Hungerfeld.”

The elevator door clanged open. The four men entered. The door closed. The watching Chinaman crept from his hiding place, came along the corridor and stole to the door of 816. After listening for a few moments, he returned to the stairway.

Soon other faces came in view. A trio of whispering Mongols, nodding to the words of some hidden leader. These Chinamen started forward; others arrived at the top of the stairway. They edged large hampers into the corridor; then one of them crept to the door in the main corridor, the one that bore the number 814.

Slyly, this Celestial produced a large ring of keys. He began to try them in the door of Hungerfeld’s inner room. The lock-picking Chinaman proved himself to be cautious as well as an expert. He fitted a key and turned it; then looked toward the stairway and nodded. The Chinamen with the hampers whispered to someone past the corner.

TWO men stepped into the corridor in answer to the signal. One was Dave Callard, his rugged features discernible despite the gloominess of the hall. The other was a squatly, bespectacled Chinaman, whose face looked owlish. Callard’s companion was Leng Doy, the missing Chinese merchant.

Callard paused when he reached the door of 814. Leng Doy kept on to where the passage turned. The Chinaman made gestures, ordering his minions to take posts. He, himself, went to the door of 816 and beckoned for two to join him.

A yellow horde had gained possession of these corridors; others were shifting in from the stairway. A full dozen Chinamen were ready at the beck of Leng Doy. Both doors of Hungerfeld’s suite were covered.

Minions were at the corner of the passage, ready to give alarm.

They were waiting for Dave Callard to begin action. Flanked by two wiry Cantonese, the American turned the knob of the door marked 814. He opened the barrier and peered into an empty bedroom. A large window furnished fair illumination from the dusky outside sky. Callard saw that the room was empty.

Entering, Callard left the door ajar behind him. The door to the living room was open; lamps were lighted and the sound of voices came to the intruder’s ears. Justin Hungerfeld’s crackly tones were answered by Markham’s gruff speech.

“I shall rest a while, sergeant,” the old man was saying. “After that, we can have dinner served here. You will dine with me, of course?”

“Sure thing,” returned Markham. “Thanks, Mr. Hungerfeld. How long do you want to rest?”

“A half-hour nap will be sufficient.”

“O.K. I’ll call you when time’s up.”

Callard sidled to the wall as Hungerfeld appeared in the doorway from the living room. Markham was behind the stooped man; the detective sergeant glanced toward the window; then turned about and went back into the living room. He did not glimpse Callard. Close by the door to the hall, Dave made a signal.

It was observed by a peering Chinaman.

HUNGERFELD fumbled about and found a floor lamp. He pulled a cord; then approached the bed, intending to lie down. Again, Callard motioned. The door opened; and the two Chinamen crept in.

Hungerfeld was glancing toward the window; but his ears, surprisingly keen, must have heard the sound that the intruders made.

The old man came to his feet, turning about with surprising agility. He made no outcry, for he was staring into the muzzle of a revolver that flashed from the fist of Dave Callard. At the same moment, Hungerfeld heard a sound from the outer room. Someone was knocking at the door of 816.

The Chinamen who had entered were crouched as if to spring. Their threat was added to Dave Callard’s soft hiss for silence. Hungerfeld stood motionless as Callard stole toward the connecting door. Again the rap had sounded at 816. Markham had drawn a revolver and was on his way to answer the call.

Callard watched the detective sergeant from the connecting door. There was little reason for Markham to suspect danger, for he might have thought that Weston and Cardona had decided to return. But Markham was vigilant; he was ready with his gun as he opened the door.

The detective sergeant stared into an empty hall. For a moment, he hesitated as he stood in the doorway.

Then he caught the sound of a sharp cry from Hungerfeld’s bedroom. Quickly, Markham whirled about, just as the crackled call was stifled.

Hungerfeld had delivered a warning in spite of the Chinamen who threatened him. The Mongols had pounced upon him promptly, smearing their clawlike hands upon his face. That was why the cry had been stifled; yet Markham had heard it. Oddly, however, the incident had worked to the advantage of Dave Callard.

Standing with leveled gun, Callard had been ready to attract Markham’s attention on his own. Hungerfeld had saved him the trouble. Markham’s spin was just what Callard wanted. It brought the intruder face to face with the detective sergeant; and Callard had the bulge.

With a defiant growl, Markham swung to aim, dropping back toward the hall as he did so. Callard could have dropped the detective sergeant with a volley, for Markham’s clumsy move was a foolish one. Shots proved unnecessary, however. Before Markham could bring his gun to action, a surge of lurking Chinamen pounced upon him. The burly dick went down beneath the deluge.

Clawing hands snatched away Markham’s revolver. Wiry Celestials rolled the fighting sergeant into the living room. Gripping fingers clutched his arms and legs; yellow fists stifled Markham’s vicious protest.

Behind the surge came Leng Doy. Placidly, the owl-faced merchant closed the door to the hall while half a dozen of his Cantonese henchmen conquered the lone fighter who lay beneath them.

Ropes were coming from the pockets of these American-garbed Chinamen. Gags were being stuffed into Markham’s mouth. Held helpless, the detective sergeant was trussed hand and foot. His body was doubled, his face was muffled. All Markham could do was glare at Callard from above a wrapping of bandages.

CALLARD chuckled harshly as he recognized Markham as the dick who had been with Cardona that night at the dock. Turning about, the young man walked into the bedroom, to find Justin Hungerfeld, subdued and helpless. The old man was huddled in a chair beside the bed.

“Do you know who I am?” demanded Callard, in a low growl. “I’ll tell you. I’m David Callard. You knew my uncle, didn’t you?”

Hungerfeld hesitated; then nodded, pitifully.

“Don’t be worried,” growled Callard, sourly. “You think I’m here to kill you. Well, I’m not.” He paused; then deciding that a threat was necessary, he added in a harsh tone: “Not if you talk the way I want.”

“The ribbon,” gasped Hungerfeld. “I–I’ll give you the ribbon. Here—”

The old man struggled and reached into his vest pocket as Callard ordered the Chinamen to ease their hold upon him. Weston had left the bit of ribbon in Hungerfeld’s possession.

The old man found it where he had placed it and brought it into view. Callard plucked it from Hungerfeld’s shaking fingers. He grunted as he studied the letters R X.

“Did Mallikan see this?” he demanded.

Hungerfeld nodded.

“Did he know what it meant?” continued Callard.

“Not — not at first,” responded Hungerfeld. “But later, when he was pressed, he managed to tell us. A friend of the commissioner’s decided that R X was part of a word—”

“Go on. What word?”

“The word Xerxes. The name of a ship.”

“The Xerxes! The old boat that ran between Hong Kong and Calcutta?”

Again, Hungerfeld nodded.

“And where is the Xerxes?” quizzed Callard. “Did Mallikan know?”

“Yes,” replied Hungerfeld weakly. “The vessel is with the ghost fleet, near Poughkeepsie. The police commissioner has started there by boat.”

“Is Mallikan with him?”

Hungerfeld shook his head.

“No,” he gasped. “Mallikan has left. He is sailing for Bermuda. He — he left here some time before the police commissioner. Mallikan was very worried—”

“Never mind the rest of it.” Callard’s interruption sounded like a snarl. “You can talk later Hungerfeld.”

CALLARD delivered singsong words to the two Chinese. The powerful Celestials pounced upon Hungerfeld. The old man’s protests subsided as they gagged him.

Callard watched Leng Doy’s henchmen bind the old man; the task was easy, for Hungerfeld was already in a forward doubled position.

Leng Doy entered and spoke to Dave Callard in Chinese. The American replied; the two continued their conversation. Leng Doy finally went back into the living room and clapped his hand lightly together.

Four Chinamen hoisted Markham from the floor. They carried the detective sergeant through the bedroom and out into the hall. Two Chinamen were waiting with an opened hamper. The burden carriers plopped Markham inside. A Chinaman closed the lid.

Hungerfeld’s captors arrived, bringing the old man. They put him in the second hamper. At Leng Doy’s bidding, the members of his yellow horde began to slink down the stairs until only two remained. These were the huskiest of the lot; they were stouter than the rest of Leng Doy’s tribe.

Leng Doy remained with the pair while Dave Callard went back to lock up the doors of Hungerfeld’s suite. The American reappeared and rang for the main elevator.

Leng Doy waited until the door had opened and the young man had gone aboard. As soon as that had happened, the chief of the Chinese horde pressed the button on the service elevator.

A minute passed before the car arrived. It had evidently come from the basement, for it was manned by a janitor in overalls. The man took a pipe from his lips and stared at the three Chinamen with their big clothes hampers.

“We are the new laundry men,” announced Leng Doy, his English perfect, but in jerky tones. “You will take us downstairs, please?”

“Sure thing,” returned the janitor. “Where’d you get them hampers?”

“Not bringee wash,” put in one of Leng Doy’s henchmen. “Commee to takee. Melican man givee us these.”

“Say takee outside,” added the other henchman.

“All right,” agreed the janitor. “Load ‘em aboard. The way this joint is run beats me. Ringing in a Chinese laundry is the hottest yet. Nobody handed the news to me; but that’s the way they work around here.”

Leng Doy’s men had lifted aboard the hamper that contained Justin Hungerfeld. They had handled that burden with ease. As they started to pick up Markham’s hamper, Leng Doy added an aiding hand.

The janitor noticed that the burden was heavy; but so smoothly and solemnly did the Chinese work that he never gained a passing thought that the hamper might have contained a human being, let alone a man of bulk.

The elevator descended to the street level. On the way, the janitor decided for himself that the Chinamen must have come up by the regular elevator.

He noted a barred door to the stairway beside the service elevator. One glance told the janitor that the barrier was locked. Leng Doy’s lock picker had attended to that little detail.

The street was gloomy behind the bulk of the Hotel Albana. There was a light truck standing there. Two Chinamen came from it to help the others aboard with the hampers. The janitor was no longer present.

He had taken the service car down to the basement.

The laundry truck drove away. Leng Doy walked to a parked sedan and entered to join three waiting Chinamen. His two companions had gone along with the truck.

LENG DOY took the wheel and drove toward the West Side. He reached an alleyway beside an old garage and drove into the opening. Two vehicles were waiting; one was another sedan; the other was the laundry truck. Dave Callard was standing with a group of Chinese. The American had picked up his sedan outside of the Hotel Albana.

Hampers were unloaded. Chinaman opened them and brought out the two prisoners. They loaded Markham and Hungerfeld in the back of Leng Doy’s big sedan. A Chinaman took his place between the bound victims.

Leng Doy and Dave Callard pulled up the folding seats of the seven-passenger car and joined the guard who was between Hungerfeld and Markham.

Two other Chinamen took the front seat. One handled the wheel and backed the sedan from the alley.

The second sedan followed, also loaded with yellow-faced occupants. Two Chinamen remained to take away the laundry truck.

Two cars sped northward along an avenue. The setting sun was shining from across the broad North River. The big sedans were bound on a trip that would parallel the Hudson for a course of more than sixty miles. High-powered vehicles, they were due to clip the mileage in a hurry.

A race had begun; its goal a forgotten vessel in the ghost fleet below Poughkeepsie. Into that mad game had come a new contestant. David Callard, wanted for murder, was riding with a group of yellow-skinned allies to find the goal chosen by his dead uncle.

The only men who could have told of the invading yellow horde were prisoners in the hands of Leng Doy’s Chinese. Dave Callard, through his daring coup, had snatched away Justin Hungerfeld and Detective Sergeant Markham without the knowledge of the law.

Nor did The Shadow, his own goal set, have evidence of the swift invasion that had worked so silently within the walls of the old Hotel Albana.