And in the next moment, I would have given much to recall the words. The lad slipped to the table behind me, the table where the conspirators of Chinatown sat in conference, and made the courteous suggestion that if they were finished with the Fa K’ei newspaper the gentleman at the other table would like it.
My last wish was to invite any unnecessary attention to myself, particularly the attention of such men as the three behind me.
However, the damage was done.
There came the sound of slippered feet, the rustle of a newspaper, and it was spread before me, folded just as it had been at the other table.
Headlines stared up at me.
ED JENKINS LOCATED IN CHINATOWN... PHANTOM CROOK DISGUISED AS CHINESE MINGLES WITH YELLOW RACE.
“It is believed that Ed Jenkins, wanted for murder in this state, will be in custody within the next forty-eight hours.
“Captain Ransome, who is in charge of the investigation, states positively that it has been learned that Jenkins is in hiding in the local Chinatown, disguised as a Chinaman.
“ 'Jenkins has earned the reputation of being able to slip through any police net,’ said Captain Ransome to a reporter of the Clarion. 'This reputation has given him the nickname of “The Phantom Crook.” It now appears that many of his escapes have been because of his uncanny ability in the art of disguise. But when he murdered Detective Bob Garret, he signed his death warrant. Never has any police search been conducted with such thoroughness as the search for Jenkins. Never has such an air-tight net been thrown about the city to prevent the escape of a criminal. Jenkins should be in custody within forty-eight hours.’ ”
Then there followed a blurb about my criminal history, and the circumstances surrounding the murder of Bob Garret, who had been found dead before the safe in Paul Boardman’s private study. It was the theory of the police, supplied by Paul Boardman, that I had come to that safe, that Garret had been awaiting me, and that I had killed him with a shotgun.
They didn’t have much evidence, and they didn’t need much. All they needed was to play up my criminal record in the newspaper a bit, and emphasize my flight. That and the statement of Paul Boardman was all that would be required to hang me.
If I should raise my voice to tell the real facts of Garret’s death I would be laughed down, hooted to the gallows. Garret had been a prominent detective, Boardman was one of the political powers of the city. If I, a known crook, should try to tell my story that Boardman and Garret tried to get me in their power by framing the girl I loved, that I had rescued her from their clutches, and that the two had then baited a trap for me with a shotgun planted to kill me when I came to the room, that I had tricked Garret into entering the trap — well, I might tell my story, but it would be considered worse than a pipe dream. A good lawyer in my behalf, would insist that the truth was too improbable to believe, would have forced me to plead insanity or self defense.
In one thing the newspaper article was right. Never had such a search been conducted for any criminal. Boardman feared me. I could not raise my voice against him, but he had seen something of what I might do. As long as I was free he was in danger. And there was a chance that I could convince some of the higher officials of the truth of my story. I had a photograph that he would have trouble explaining.
Oh, he had directed a search all right! It was a search that included every different angle. The police officers were instructed to shoot first and arrest afterward. The underworld had received the mysterious tip that the yegg who crashed a bullet into Ed Jenkins’ heart would have immunity until he had made his pile.
Boardman wanted me out of the way all right. He wanted my lips sealed in death. Conversely, I wanted his life spared. Boardman was the only witness living who knew the real inside of Garret’s death. I could never be cleared until I had obtained a written confession from him — and dead men can not sign confessions.
A short time ago clearing my name before the world meant nothing to me. I had let the police frame what crimes they wanted to on me and said nothing. When things got too hot, I slipped into California and availed myself of a loophole in the extradition laws. They couldn’t send me back, and they had nothing on me in California.
Now things were different. There was Helen Chadwick. Not that I would even allow myself to think there could ever be anything between us. She was of the upper crust, the inner circle of society. I was a branded crook. True she had once been the object of clutching tentacles which had twined up from the dark subsurface of crookdom and sought to drag her down — and then was when I had met her, had cut those tentacles, managed it so her name never appeared in the subsequent developments. All of her life she had been free to do as she pleased, had looked the world in the eye, demanded her rights. Now she could not understand why I could not see something of her, return the friendship which she was willing to offer.
Perhaps she thought me indifferent, when I would have laid down my life for her any time. But friendship with me was dangerous.
Probably Helen Chadwick realized it by this time. Boardman had sought to strike at me through her. He couldn’t get his hands on me directly, but he knew that if he threatened Helen Chadwick with danger I would come to her rescue. Where he had slipped was in not realizing the desperation with which I would come. I had walked into his trap and demolished it, but first I had his accomplice spring the trap, collect the two barrels of buckshot which had been loaded for me.
I laid the paper to one side with a sigh.
There could be no rest for Ed Jenkins until after Paul Boardman had been mastered. Just as there could be no safety for Boardman until I was out of the way.
And then behind me, cutting through the air with the hoarse sibilants of danger, came a swift sentence in Chinese.
They were taking the roll call of the tongs!
Instantly I sensed the trap that had been laid for me. No matter how much I might study the habits of the Chinese, there was one chapter that was closed. The tong life was safeguarded by initiatory ceremonies that a white man could not hope to pass save and except as a white man, taking an honorary membership. Any disguise would be penetrated in the ceremonies preparatory to initiation.
That article in the paper had been fiendish in its effect, masterly in its simplicity. That was the reason those three Chinese at the table behind me had been mentioning it with such interest. Chinatown had been offered a big reward to smoke Ed Jenkins from his hiding place. After all, it would be simple. Somewhere within Chinatown was a white man disguised as a Chinaman. The police offered a secret reward to the political heads of Chinatown. They would make their own search, take a roll call of Chinatown, call the tongs together. The white man would be located by the process of elimination.
The tong messenger was approaching, going from table to table, bending low, giving a secret summons, getting a whispered password, a password concerning which I knew nothing.
I arose, left the price of my meal on the table, and slipped toward the rear of the half-lit room. Chinese do not like to have white men penetrate their inner lives. Such knowledge as I had secured had been at the expense of infinite patience, untold effort. The very extent of that knowledge was a source of danger. It would not need the promise of a reward to spur the Chinese on to getting rid of a foreigner who had penetrated the intricacies of their language, the secrets of organized Chinatown.