Behind me came shuffling steps.
Someone followed, calmly, unhurriedly.
I dared not quicken my pace. To do so would be to confess my identity.
The man behind followed with the remorseless certainty of Fate herself.
I slipped through the rear door, into a narrow, ill-smelling passageway which led to the back alley. My stomach muscles sucked up against my backbone as I waited for the feel of cold steel within my vitals. Mechanically my feet kept the regular, shuffling gait of a Chinaman.
Behind me other feet slippety-slopped with the same rhythmic regularity.
I reached the alley, turned the corner, saw that the street was virtually deserted. Some mysterious summons was penetrating through Chinatown. Each and every Chinaman had become a spy in the great round-up which was taking place.
To my ears came the clashing of cymbals, the boom-boom-boom; boom-boom-boom of a tom-tom; the wailing skirl of a reed pipe whining forth its harmonious discords.
The Chinese theatre.
It would be out in fifteen minutes, but much might happen in fifteen minutes.
I paid for a ticket and slipped within. The performance had been dragging through the afternoon, and many of the higher class Chinese had left the theatre before the finish of the show. The rear of the place was well filled, but up nearer the front, in the higher class seats were scattered vacancies.
I slipped into a chair.
Feet slip-slapped down the aisle, and a body rustled into a vacant chair behind me. I dared not turn my head.
Throughout the darkened room was the subtle aroma of incense, the close human smell of packed bodies, the scent of Oriental perfume. On the stage, the performance was in its final spasm. A warrior hurtled a big sword about his head. An actor rolled to the floor dead. An assistant came and placed a pillow for him to lie upon. There was no scenery, not much pretense. The dead man listened with blinking delight to the staccato voice of the warrior as he made his final speech.
A man dressed as a woman smirked and simpered, reciting lines of squeaky Chinese in what was probably intended to be effeminate tones.
Throughout the audience came a rustle.
There would be a big gathering of the tongs after the show. Ushers had probably spread the word earlier in the evening.
Behind me sat my shadow.
By leaving the Yat King Café at just that time I had attracted attention. A tongman had been planted within the building, instructed, doubtless, to shadow anyone who left hurriedly. Throughout Chinatown hundreds of such spies would be on guard.
Ahead of me a man turned a wrinkled face and peered back over the sea of humanity behind. I would have given much to be able to do the same. The identity of the man behind me puzzled me.
The old man with the puckered face was Soo Hoo Duck, himself a mystery. He had gravitated into Chinatown from Pekin, and there was some strange power about him. Within a few short months he had become the uncrowned king of all Chinatown. Men did his bidding unquestioningly. In some uncanny manner he knew everything that went on in Chinatown. Twice before I had encountered him. Each time I had wondered whether his shrewd, old eyes had penetrated my disguise.
He stared at the people about him, and, of a sudden his eyes seemed lidless, so sharp did his gaze become. He was looking at something behind me, perhaps at the man who had followed me into the theatre.
As for myself, I kept my eyes upon the stage, trying to show my utter unconcern.
There was a rustle of motion. The man behind me had made some sign.
And then the wrinkled countenance shifted slightly, the glittering eyes dropped squarely to my face.
“Your name?”
The comment was addressed to me. There could be no evasion, no escape. I was surrounded with a crowd of packed Chinese, and the word of this man was law.
I must bluff it through.
My reply was in the Cantonese dialect, and as my voice rippled through the four tones which are in each of the two octaves and which comprise the eight notes of the Cantonese dialect, I could feel my heart beats quicken.
“The name by which I was christened was Ah Klim, Oh Worthy One; but, compared to the eminence of your learning, I have adopted the name of Dust Underfoot whilst I converse with thee.”
There was a ripple at his side, and a pair of twinkling, mischievous feminine eyes were turned in my direction.
“Father,” said the girl at his side, “I like the sound of his voice.”
Was she taunting me? Had my voice failed to catch the subtle tone inflections of the language, revealed me as a foreigner, an impostor?
The old man turned to her with a gesture.
“Peace. One does not judge of the contents of a chest by an examination of the cover.”
She was not a whit abashed.
“But one judges the quality of the silk by the sound of the rustle.”
I knew her then. She was Soo Hoo Duck’s daughter, whom he had christened “Ngat Toy,” Little Sun. She had been educated in Stanford, and her modem flippancy was the scandal of the old-timers in Chinatown.
The old man did not turn to her again. Instead he began to blink at her words, blink slowly, solemnly, as though he was thinking out some problem which required deep study.
“You will accompany me to my residence at the conclusion of the performance,” he said, slowly.
I could hardly believe my ears.
From behind came a voice which contained respectful protest, a voice which came from the seat occupied by my shadow.
“But, Excellency, is it right that water from the streets be elevated to heaven?”
Again there came that lidless look in the old man’s eyes.
“Yes. When it is drawn by the sun.”
“Then,” came the voice of the other, “it is returned to the gutter as rain and the street knows it again.”
There was subtle satisfaction in his voice.
The girl shifted again, her eyes slipped casually over my face, back to the speaker behind.
“Not always, Chuck Gee. Sometimes it descends in the form of hail, strengthened by its sojourn in the high places, causing those below to rush under cover of some protecting roof.”
I gasped.
The man behind me was Chuck Gee, then. Reputed to be head of the gunmen. Chinese regard murder as a profession, just as law or dentistry. If one has an aching tooth he goes to a dentist. If he desires to eliminate one of his neighbors he employs one of the hatchetmen who make of such things a profession. And Chuck Gee was the head of the hatchetmen, a past master of the art of murder.
The brass cymbals crashed forth one terrific, final blare, the beating of the tom-tom rattled into a hysterical rat-a-tat-tat, and the reed pipe wailed up into a veritable crescendo of sound. Once more the great cymbals clashed, and then there was silence, a silence in which the tortured air writhed and quivered from the sudden cessation of unearthly noise.
And then shadowy figures got to their feet. The play was over.
I escorted the girl down the narrow street. On the other side was Soo Hoo Duck. Behind us walked Chuck Gee. Behind him came the motley rabble from the theatre. In that throng there may have been a spy, there may have been a hundred.
I doubted if Chuck Gee had as yet penetrated my disguise. He had, however, detected something suspicious in my departure from the café. He wanted a word or two with me, and at his own convenience.
Doubtless, when Soo Hoo Duck had turned around, Chuck Gee had made a sign, pointed me out for Soo Hoo Duck’s inspection.
What did Soo Hoo Duck want of me? Had his keen eyes penetrated my disguise? Had his daughter caught Chuck Gee’s sign? Did she suspect my identity? Time would tell, and it would be a short space of time. Meanwhile Chuck Gee trailed along behind me, patient, deadly, suspicious.