Officially it was a statement of thanks on the part of the police department for the wonderful support which the citizens had given to the ball. Really it was a skilful piece of propaganda, patting the police commission on the back, commenting on the increased efficiency of the police officers, intimating that the old regime must be absolutely swept away.
Just as he finished, and there came a roar of applause which shivered through the walls of the place, I found the costume I was looking everywhere for.
She was in a corner, her eyes covered by a red mask, the poppy effect startlingly real as she stood, feet together, slender, well-formed legs indicating a sweep of green stem, leaves blossoming out where the arms left the body, the face furnishing the bud, and the hat sweeping upward in an expanse of quivering red petal.
“Ah, little poppy, may a clown claim a dance?”
I disguised my voice slightly, not wanting Ngat T’oy to recognize me too readily, fearful that she might be watched, and knowing that I must appear elaborately casual.
For answer she stretched out her arms as the music swung into the catchy melody of one of the popular airs, and couples swayed out upon the floor.
I knew the truth as soon as I touched her.
“Ed!” she breathed, a happy catch in her whisper.
This was not Ngat T’oy! This was Helen Chadwick herself!
“Helen!” I exclaimed. “Why did you come here?”
The eyes behind the red mask glittered.
“Because I had the strange idea that you would be here.”
Mechanically my feet followed the music. My mind was seething with a mass of seemingly unrelated facts, trying to co-ordinate them.
Mansfield had arranged the whole thing. He had arranged that Ngat T’oy should be given a similar costume to that which Helen was wearing... He had insisted that Chuck Gee’s men should be given a free hand at the ball... He had known of an ultimatum that Paul Boardman had given to the Chief of Police — Get Jenkins or Quit... But what was the connection of it all?
Those questions pulsed through my brain, keeping time to the cadences of the music. And through it all was the intoxicating sense of physical contact with the girl who swayed in my arms, dancing with thistledown feet.
“Who is your escort?”
“Mr. Loring Kemper. I told him that I was coming and he decided that he had better come, too. He’s in the costume of the monk. He’s got his eye on us right now. See him, over there? There, he waved his hand.”
Inwardly I heaved a great sigh of relief. Loring Kemper was a power in the city. He never dabbled in politics, but he represented one of the wealthiest and oldest families. He was independently wealthy and numbered his friends by the thousand among the inner circle of bankers, professional men, executives, and clubmen. The police would hardly dare to question the word of such a man.
Yet there was the ultimatum to the Chief — “Get Jenkins or Quit.” And there was some mysterious plan of Captain Mansfield, a plan which could be counted upon to be devilish in its ingenuity.
I let it slide for the moment, gave myself up to the spell of the occasion. With Helen Chadwick in my arms I felt the music throbbing through my soul, and police chicanery, plot and counterplot, were left behind as I soared to heights which lifted me out of myself, attuned me to a great peace.
I have no idea of the time of that dance. I seemed in a place where there was no time. The rhythm of the music rippled through every fibre of my being. Human affairs dropped away. There was only a great peace, a perfect understanding...
And then the music stopped.
There came a clapping of hands. People started chatting and laughing.
Once more the physical necessities of everyday life enveloped me in a great surge of revulsion. I was Ed Jenkins, the Phantom Crook, a price on my head, surrounded by enemies, standing within a trap the nature of which I could neither conjecture nor comprehend.
The monk drifted toward us. There was no particular exchange of words, merely a commonplace greeting which might have been witnessed or overheard by any of the masqueraders who were crowded about. But the hand which rested lightly upon my shoulder gripped in a warm clasp of steady encouragement.
“Let’s go where we can talk,” I suggested, and led the way to the balcony.
“I don’t want to talk,” protested Helen as she followed me. “This is to be our night together. Please, Ed. Let’s dance and forget.”
The monk held back, apparently feeling that he was intruding, but I continued toward the balcony, and he reluctantly followed us.
The cool air of the night struck our faces with foggy freshness. Wisps of fog trailed around the eaves of the building, streamed out into the night. The street lamps shone redly through a moist halo. The band struck up another dance, and we had the balcony to ourselves.
Quickly I told them of Ngat T’oy, of the events of the evening, of Mansfield’s remarks concerning the picking of poppies.
I could see Helen’s lips set in a fine line of pink determination.
“Very well, Ed. She has not come here yet, I am sure, for I have looked at every one, watching for you. And if she has not come by this time, she must have been kept away. You must go to her. She is in danger.”
Loring Kemper added a thought, speaking with the calm deliberation of one who is accustomed to take his time in pondering over any given situation.
“But don’t you think that the whole thing is an elaborate trap, Helen? That Mansfield is counting upon something of the sort and is waiting for Ed Jenkins?”
Helen made a gesture of worried impatience. “There are two sides to this, both leading in the same direction — Ngat T’oy. It is evident now that they learned what my costume would be and had it duplicated for Ngat T’oy. Therefore, knowing how I would appear, they will watch for some one paying me special attention. It is dangerous for you, Ed, to remain here a moment longer. Furthermore, my coming here at all is the cause for whatever scheme they have against that sweet little Chinese girl. And I already owe her too much not to be willing to sacrifice almost — anything to save her. It’s our luck, Ed — our—”
I caught her to me, held her tight for one swift, throbbing second, and then I was out, over the edge of the balcony, catching my hands in clinging vines, keeping within the foggy shadows cast by the protruding corner.
I had no particular idea as to my next move, other than that I would strive to pick up the trail of Ngat T’oy and follow it as far as possible.
I sprinted for a cab.
Several officers in uniform were standing about the entrance to the hall, and one of these caught sight of me, scowled, said something to his companions, and they all turned.
The door of the taxi slammed, and I waved a hand to the officers, waved with the careless familiarity of one who is sure of himself, who knows his position.
“Going after another quart,” I shouted, as the cab pulled away from the curb.
My assurance got me by.
Whatever their purpose in guarding the door they remained there, probably deciding I was a cop myself, out for a lark.
One thing I had as a starting point, the number of the cab in which Ngat T’oy had left the café. It took me half an hour to run down the driver.
“I’m from the policemen’s ball,” I told him importantly. “Give me all the dope on that fare from the Tsoy Far Low.”
He needed no second invitation.
“Say, boss, I’m sure glad you showed up. The guy that hired me was a dick, had a star and all of the credentials, but it sure was a funny set-up. He said he was layin’ a trap to catch a crook, an’ that it was all right, but I got to wonderin’ afterward.”
“Can all that,” I interrupted, after my most hard-boiled police manner. “Never mind the alibis. Tell me what happened, and tell me quick.”