“X” because of a great service he had once rendered the Mingmen, was the only white man ever to be admitted into their society. That night he had sought Lo Mong Yung, venerable father of the Tong. He had asked questions and learned something concerning the Eurasian, China Bobby, which would have caused considerable alarm had the same information reached the ears of the city’s vice and narcotic squads.
Beneath China Bobby’s respectable restaurant, “X” had learned, the Eurasian carried on a flourishing opium traffic, making use of strange underground rooms that many years ago had been closed and sealed by the police.
Was China Bobby a member of the Ghoul’s gang, or simply a human spider spinning a web to snare the rich and unwary? It was very probable that he was both. Ah-Fang had accused him of serving the Ghoul. Betty Dale had told “X” of the man who had aided Drew Devon in her attempt to kidnap Betty; undoubtedly he was China Bobby. The Eurasian’s opium den might well serve as a catch-pool for the Ghoul’s prospective victims.
Agent “X” proceeded down the street from Ming headquarters to an ornately fronted building, brilliantly lighted even at this late hour. From its plate-glass doors, framed in gilt and gleaming lacquer, came the thin and tinkling strains of flute and moon-lute. An emblazoned sign proclaimed that this was the Chinese-American restaurant operated by China Bobby, late of Limehouse, London. There wealthy, sensation-seeking patrons, and sightseeing tourists gather at all hours of the night to sip tea and scented wines and partake of foods more American than Chinese.
Through these gaudy doors passed Agent “X” to deposit his hat and stick with a smiling Chinese girl who had forsaken the dress and mannerisms of her ancestors for those of her Occidental sisters. A swarthy-faced person with features that were unmistakably Latin, led “X” to a small gilded table at one side of the room.
There, “X” ordered wine more to be rid of the waiter than for any other reason. He relaxed in his chair and languidly puffed on a cigarette. Outwardly, he appeared the very picture of boredom; but beneath drooping lids, his eyes missed nothing of what went on about him. He scrutinized every one of the restaurant’s habitues.
While he was making a pretense at sipping his wine, he saw a young, nervous-acting man push back from his table, whisper a word in the ear of the waiter, then walk toward a door at the rear of the room.
A few minutes later, “X” followed the young man’s example, pushed open the door at the rear, and entered a room into which no light penetrated. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly, an ornate, pierced brass lamp above his head was turned on. He found himself confronting the Latin-American who had met him at the door of the restaurant.
“X” uttered a cracked, drunken laugh and put his hand familiarly upon the shoulder of the Latin. “’S funny, everytime I open a door in thish place I find you. Your name’sh goin’ to be Albert. Now what I want, Albert, ish one lil old pipe and pill to put in it.”
The man frowned. “I am sorry, sir. You are laboring under a misapprehension.”
“X” WAGGED his head. “No such thing. Just laborin’ under a yen to twisht up a few.”
“I don’t understand you, sir. Perhaps you had better go back—”
“X” clapped the man on the shoulder. “Sure, you gotta be careful. But not with me, no shir! I’m a genuine, bonifie’ Yen Shee Kwoi,” he said using the term for opium smoker which, though Chinese, was familiar to nearly every addict. “Here, maybe, maybe thish lil old thing will put me right with you.” He fumbled in the pocket of his vest and brought out the tiny brass three-fingered hand which he had removed from the pocket of Jeff Lucko.
Recognition glimmered in the Latin’s eyes. He bowed his head. “Of course, any friend of China Bobby’s is welcome. Just follow me.”
The man led the way to a door at the end of the hall. He unlocked the door, and pointed to a flight of winding steps that extended down beneath the surface of the earth.
“Here,” the Agent thrust a five-dollar bill into the man’s hand, “just a lil token of my eshteem, Albert. Happy dreams!” And on seemingly unsteady legs, he began the descent of the stairs. Behind him, the door closed with an ominous clangor.
The circular staircase ended in a stone arched doorway. There “X” was met by an ivory-faced Chinese wearing American evening clothes. He looked “X” over from head to foot as if trying to determine his worth — in dollars. “X” would have passed the Chinese had not the latter stopped him.
“Just a minute, sir,” said the Chinese in perfect English. “You are of course not familiar with our methods. I have never seen you before. You will pay me before entering the dressing room. The price is sixty dollars.”
“Oh, sure,” replied “X” cheerfully. He pulled out a roll of bills large enough to make even the Chinaman blink. He peeled off the required amount, tossed the bills to the yellow man and stumbled through the door. There he found another Chinese attendant who offered to assist “X” in putting on a suit of embroidered silk pajamas.
“X” cursed the attendant from the room; then, as he staggered across the room, he purposely tripped over the cord of the only lamp in the small dressing-room. He knew that he would be expected to disrobe and put on the pajamas; for the true opium smoker usually spends at least twenty-four hours in his bunk after smoking his two pipes. “X” had feared that he would be watched through some secret opening while he was supposed to be in the act of undressing, and he had certain equipment in the pockets of his clothes that he dared not discard.
Under cover of darkness, he pulled the pajamas on over his clothes and buttoned them tightly around his neck. Since he had apparently entered the place somewhat the worse for drink, this action would not have aroused suspicion had it been discovered. With his knife, he slit the sides of his pajamas so that he could get his gun and other material at a moment’s notice.
He had scarcely completed this preparation, before the door of the dressing room opened and another attendant entered. This man was a Chinese and wore a plain silk, sack-like garment that reached nearly to his heels. He bowed low before “X”, and ushered him through a door into a large circular room.
Never before had Agent “X” seen such a place of beauty put to such a damnable purpose. The ceiling was a low dome formed by branches of a single carved tree, the trunk of which rose like a pillar from the center of the floor. Whether this tree was wrought of wood, metal, or of plaster composition, he could not tell. Bronzing metal in greens and golds tinted the profusion of artificial foliage that covered the ceiling.
And from the black, overhanging branches, tiny yellow lanterns shed light as pale moonbeams. Twined about the black trunk of the tree was a green dragon similarly wrought. From its nostrils and open mouth, wisps of incense smoke drifted lazily to mingle with the heady perfume of opium.
ABOUT the walls of the room were twenty or more bunks built into the walls. Some were closed off by filmy curtains of lustrous Oriental silk. Others were wide open, revealing the sprawled forms of their occupants. Some were wealthy men known to “X”. In a few of the bunks were women, once beautiful but now reduced to frowzy abandonment, twitching in dreams induced by the black smoke.
“X” was led to an open bunk upon which he dropped. The attendant departed. Somewhere in the apartment sounded the dreamy silvery tinkle of a bell. A panel, between two bunks directly opposite “X” slid open and closed again behind the svelte figure of a young Chinese girl. From across the room she appeared a creature of fragile, jewel-like beauty.