“Well, boss, I was to be waitin’ with a poppy costume for a call. When I got it I went an’ delivered the package. The jane went into the dressing-room an’ made the change, an’ then came out.
“She seemed all hopped up about something an’ kept tellin’ me to make speed. She wanted to go to the corner of Second and Helmold and after that to drive slow. Well, I’d had my instructions before, so they didn’t surprise me so much. I got to Second street, and then I drove slow through the Chink quarter, taking the alleys about half the time.
“Along about halfway in the block back of the Mandarin Café four or five Chinks with guns stepped out and stopped the car, an’ pulled the jane out and into another car that was standin’ there. An’ will yuh believe it, boss, she was actually glad to see ’em. I heard her say ‘Thank God!’ when the Chinks stepped out an’ grabbed her.
“But she went through the motions of makin' a struggle when the Chinks pulled her out of the car. Still, she didn’t scream none, nor do much fightin'. Of course, they had a gun throwed down on me, an’ I sat there with my hands up in the air.
“I’d been told in advance what was goin' to happen, an' I could see this jane was a Chink an’ the four or five men were all Chinks, so I figured it was none o’ my funeral. When they got her out they told me to drive on an' keep my mouth shut, an' I drove on.
“That’s all I know, boss.”
I could see the man was telling the truth.
That had been nearly an hour and a half ago. And it had all been planned with diabolical cunning. But why? Ngat T’oy must have had some big reason to overlook her promise to me and leave the café without even attempting to let me know where she was going. She had taken a cab dressed as a red poppy, and had apparently expected to be kidnapped en route. Why?
And a cold, clutching fear began to creep up around the vicinity of my heart.
Helen Chadwick was at the policemen’s ball dressed exactly as Ngat T’oy had been dressed.
It was all part of some subtle scheme, and Mansfield was a wonder at subtle schemes. In some way — easy to him — he had assured himself that Helen Chadwick was going to do this extraordinary thing — attend the policemen’s ball — and found out what her costume would be. Upon these facts his scheme was built.
But what his scheme could be was beyond me. Loring Kemper was with Helen Chadwick. Kemper was a man who could not be trifled with. His word would be accepted at face value anywhere.
I pondered the matter and the more I pondered the more perplexed I became. There seemed but one thing to do. I climbed into the taxicab, ignoring the anxious queries of the driver as to whether he had done right, and gave him the address of Soo Hoo Duck.
Would the old man surrender me to the police when he once became certain of my identity? Would he blame me for what had happened to his daughter?
If Soo Hoo Duck wanted to surrender me to the police he could do so. Helen Chadwick would be safe. Ngat T’oy would be safe after I made my confession to her father. I would take what Fate had in store for me.
To try and hunt through the maze of Chinatown for Ngat T’oy would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. There was only one person who could command instant results, and that was Soo Hoo Duck. Regardless of what the girl may have thought she was doing, I knew she had walked into a trap. Twice before she had risked her liberty to save me, and now I would return the compliment.
Would Soo Hoo Duck let me in?
I had been in his apartment once before; but it was so planned that it was impossible to gain access to it unless the owner was willing. Now, disguised as a clown, I stood before the massive door, the center of interest for shifting, beady eyes which surveyed me in sudden silence.
A panel in the massive door glided back, then slammed closed. There was silence. Then, without warning, the door noiselessly swung back. A black oblong loomed before me.
“Wait, there,” I told the taxi driver, and stepped forward into the darkness.
Behind me, the door slammed shut. There came the click of an electric lock. I advanced a few paces. Another door barred further progress. I turned and tried the door behind. There was no knob on it, nothing but a smooth surface. It was worked by an electrical connection somewhere. Was I to be held prisoner in this passageway with the two barred doors preventing any further progress?
“Who are you?”
The voice was that of Soo Hoo Duck. It came from the darkness, perhaps through some speaking tube, perhaps through an opening in the inner door. I have always been acutely sensitive to voices, and I could tell not only that the voice belonged to the old Chinaman but that he was laboring under some intense emotional strain.
“I bring news of Ngat T’oy,” I answered.
“Who are you?” the question was repeated.
Damn it, I couldn’t stand there all night while every second was precious. Hang the old philosopher, anyhow. I’d give it to him in bunches. After all, Ngat T’oy had risked everything for me.
“I’m Ed Jenkins, the crook,” I snapped.
There was a draft upon my face as the inner door swung open. A faint light disclosed a long passageway, and the faint odor of heavy incense came to my nostrils.
“Soo Hoo Duck will see Ed Jenkins, the crook,” said the voice, sounding almost at my elbow. Yet there was no other person in the passageway.
Impatient, weary of all this Oriental mystery, sensing that great events were impending and that every second of delay was an additional handicap, I walked rapidly along the passageway, climbed a flight of stairs, and then knew my ground. I had been in this passageway before.
Quickly I turned to the right, took the first turn to the left and knocked at the door.
It was opened by Soo Hoo Duck, himself.
“I see that you have been here before,” he said, his eyes boring into mine accusingly.
“I have been here before,” I said, giving him as steady a gaze as he sent.
And then I caught the faintest flicker of a smile in the beady eyes.
“It is well. The gods favor a truthful man,” he remarked, and stood to one side.
I was in no mood to waste time.
“You have seen me several times, disguised as a Chinaman,” I said. “Once or twice I think you suspected my identity. At any rate I have come to look on you as a friend.”
He bowed without either affirming or denying.
And then I plunged right into the middle of things, giving him briefly an account of the adventures of the evening. I even told him of Ngat T’oy’s assistance with the disguise by which I escaped from the Yat King Café, masquerading as old Soo Hoo Duck, himself. I went on, told him of the conduct of Mansfield, how he had escorted us until he was certain that Sam Sneed was waiting with his message, how he had been before the Tsoy Far Low Café to make sure that the plans worked right. Then I told him of the ball, Helen Chadwick’s presence in the costume of a red poppy, gave him the story of the taxicab driver who waited below.
He heard me through without comment. So far as I could see there was no change in the expression of his face.
When I had finished, he picked up a small ebony striker, and tapped a gong which hung suspended before him.
Instantly, a wicket slid to one side in the wall, not over a foot from my head, and a gray bearded countenance was framed in the opening. It was the face of a Chinaman, but it might as well have been carved of bronze for all the expression that was on it. The beard was of the two-stranded variety which grows on aged Chinamen. The head was almost bald. There were thousands of fine wrinkles about the face, particularly about the eyes. The eyes were compelling. They glittered with cold impassivity.