LO MONG YUNG’S expression did not change. He did not show anger. It was not in his philosophy to let the fires of rage destroy the wisdom of his venerable years. His was the power of a placid man.
“Truly, my son,” he said quietly, “the burnt child is wary of the fire. And the man who has reached the mandarin’s palace does not seek the coolie’s hut. The insidious poppy once ravaged our people like a leprosy. We have been the burnt child. But we have smothered the velvet fumes of the opium pipe, have broken the needle of the hypodermic. No longer do Mingmen court the devil dust of morphine that mocks them with visions of lotus blossoms while it shrivels their souls and shrinks them, body and mind. We have left the coolie’s hut of poverty. We have sipped the nectar of prosperity. No, O son, the weight of my years be upon my words! No Mingman is guilty of this evil.”
The Agent bowed low, and his gesture of humility was sincere.
“Forgive me, most venerable sage,” he said, “and accept my deepest thanks for the manner in which you have answered my question. Know, too, that I am happy in the assurance that the brothers of our Ming Tong are innocent of any traffic with this evil. And now I would draw upon your wisdom a little longer. Have you, O father, given any thought as to what man, or group of men, may be behind this strange thing?”
Before he answered “X’s” latest question, the venerable father of the Ming Tong arose and crossed the room that was like any business office except that ancient Eastern art mingled with modern Western efficiency. Built into the back wall was a large filing cabinet.
On it stood an enameled bronze incense burner of the Ming Period. Across the paneled wall stretched a scroll of flowers and birds, which “X” knew to be the work of Pien Lan, an artist of the Tang Dynasty, who lived in the eighth century. There were specimens of Chinese craftsmanship; carvings of teakwood, jade, rose quartz and ivory. On the glass-topped desk lay a cinnabar box of delicate design, and chrysanthemums filled a glazed flower vase of the Ching Dynasty.
Lo Mong Yung lighted a coiled joss-stick and placed it before the idol of Buddha, then he seated himself again and spoke in the solemn tones of some Eastern oracle.
“My son, long before the bluecoats swarmed the streets and caused our people to bolt the doors and draw the blinds, I knew that our noble order was suspected. I have sent out many of our brothers to try and pierce the mystery. But we have learned little. It may be that the dragon of a foreign power is breathing fire on America — seeking to weaken the nation for invasion.”
The eyes of Agent “X” gleamed as Lo Mong Yung said this. He crouched forward toward the ancient Chinaman with something of the look of a questing hawk about his face and posture.
“That thought has troubled me,” he said softly. “If a hostile country is fostering this dread thing, then the leaders must be caught before guns roar and men are mobilized for wholesale slaughter. But possibly a madman, jaded by riches and jaundiced against the goodness of the world employs this treachery to feed his hatred and cultivate his wickedness.”
“The suggestion has the color of logic,” replied Lo Mong Yung. “Whether it carries the substance of truth, I do not know. I can speak only in feeble conjectures. But I do know of one powerful white drug ring that is like a volcano, rumbling in its depths and boiling with the threat of devastating eruption. We have learned that this ring is combing the underworld for gunmen — for the vicious gray rats and snarling jackals who slew during the prohibition era. Maybe it is behind this blight for some reason we do not know, and maybe it is marshaling forces to fight a competition that threatens its ruin.”
The Secret Agent pressed his fingertips together till the nails showed white. His eyes seemed to carry leaping points of fire in their depths.
“O father,” he said quickly, “you may have given the lead that will direct me to the heart of this trouble. Tell me where these men gather to plot their wickedness.”
Before Lo Mong Yung could answer something disturbed the quiet of the room. The shrilling note of a police whistle pierced the tense stillness of Chinatown. Then a harsh Western voice roared out orders that brought a look of distress to the ancient Chinaman’s face. A gun cracked sharply, and somewhere a window crashed shut.
From a lower floor arose a shrill chatter in Canton dialect. Then came a ripping, splitting racket that was almost deafening. Axes were splintering the front doors. The headquarters of the Ming Tong was being raided.
Chapter II
IN a moment there was a bang as the door was flung back. Heavy footsteps thumped in the lower hallway. The guard, Sung, began protesting in pidgin English.
Agent “X” heard a snarled oath, then the crack of a fist against flesh and bone. Sung’s outburst was cut short. Immediately there was the pounding of steps on the stairs.
The Agent slipped his hand in his pocket and brought out a gun. Lo Mong Yung put a restraining hand on “X’s” arm, and shook his head. He did not know that the weapon discharged only gas pellets, which aided the Agent in his captures and escapes, but which did no harm other than render the victim unconscious for a short time.
“One killing in the house of the Ming Tong,” said Lo Mong Yung, “and I would join my ancestors knowing that our society would be forever blackened in the eyes of the law. I speak now as the father of the Mingmen. Come!”
It was a command, and the Secret Agent bowed to it, following the fragile Chinaman across the room. Already the police had reached the floor, and were pounding at the door.
The Agent thought he would have to fight, for there appeared to be only the one exit, and the law was swarming in the corridor. But Lo Mong Yung slid his slender hand like a caress over the scroll of Pien Lan, and a long-nailed finger touched the bill of a humming-bird drawn during the Tang Dynasty, when even Europe was a land of barbarians.
Instantly the filing cabinet moved forward, revealing an aperture through which a man could squeeze. “X” needed no prompting. He was through the opening in a second, and the cabinet was rolling back, leaving him in a vaultlike room lighted by an oil lamp. The room seemed sealed, except for a secret entrance, but the air was fresh, so there was some other means of ventilation and probably another exit.
The Agent was amazed how clearly sounds came from the other room. He carried a small, portable amplifier, but he didn’t need it now, for the vault was equipped with a microphone connected with the office. The members of the narcotic squad were in the room. “X” pictured Lo Mong Yung greeting them with the sedate, unruffled graciousness of a philosopher. Lo Mong Yung’s voice reached his ears now.
“A violent entrance and a furrowed brow imply an interest which a doddering old heathen like myself does not merit,” he said in faultless English and with gentle irony.
A quick retort came.
“Listen, you slant-eyed old fossil! I’m Inspector Bower of the Narcotic Division. We got a tip-off that you had a Chink dope runner cached in here. Bring him out or we’ll tear this dump down and sell it for kindling wood.”
“Your request fills me with regret,” said Lo Mong Yung. “You ask me to perform a task not in my humble capacity to achieve. Had I the power of Confucius I could not lessen my unworthiness by bringing forth the dope runner in question, for he does not exist except in the fertile realm of your excellent imagination. If you will honor me, however, by accepting a glass of Tiger Bone wine, or a choice draft of Gop Goy in which a lizard has taken ten years to dissolve, I will feel that I have made partial atonement. Or, if liquor while on duty is forbidden, perhaps I can tempt you with cockroaches in honey, a delicacy that caused the Emperor Shih-tsu to neglect the affairs of state.”