THE SIGN OF THE BLUE HAND
“When shall I do it?” asked Larry.
“Let me see,” mused Mr. Newton. “I’ll have to lay my plans carefully. I
guess to-morrow night would be a good time. We’ll write another
personal, and put it in the paper to-morrow, telling the gang the
document will be in the cigar store.”
“Then when they come to get it we’ll have a policeman on hand, and
arrest whoever comes for it,” said Larry. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly.”
“I would think that was the thing to do.”
“You don’t know these chaps, Larry. If we arranged to have a detective
on guard, ready to grab whoever claimed the paper, the gang would learn
of it in some way, and they would never come near the place. We will
have to be foxier than that. We’ll have to do the watching ourselves, or
rather I will. I believe none of the gang knows me. I’ll arrange to be
in the cigar store to-morrow night, and I’ll follow whoever calls for
the paper.”
So it was arranged. The document, unsigned, was placed in the envelope
which the men behind the land plot had sent to Larry. He took it to the
cigar store. The proprietor of the place kept a sort of private
post-office, and had a number of boxes in which he kept mail or other
things for his customers who preferred doing business that way rather
than through the government agency.
Larry handed the envelope to the man. The young reporter wanted to ask
who Mr. Hand was, and where he lived, but he refrained, for he thought
the cigar man would probably refuse to answer, or else say he did not
know.
That evening Mr. Newton stopped in the store to get a cigar. He thought
the proprietor eyed him rather sharply, but Mr. Newton was used to
meeting all sorts of persons in his capacity as a reporter, and did not
mind being stared at. He tried to engage the proprietor in conversation,
but the cigar dealer was not in a very pleasant mood, and answered
shortly.
“I promised a friend I would meet him here this evening,” said the
reporter. “Have you any objections to me waiting in your store?”
“Well, I don’t like people hanging around,” was the rather ungracious
answer. “This place is small, and I need all the room there is to do
business.”
“My friend might want to buy a box of cigars,” said Mr. Newton.
“Oh, of course, if he’s coming here in the way of trade,” said the cigar
man, “I’ve no objections to your waiting, but as a general thing I don’t
like it.”
He tried to be polite, but it was hard work. He even got a chair for Mr.
Newton to sit on, but all the time the cigar man seemed nervous and ill
at ease. He kept watching the door, as though he expected someone to
come in who would object to the reporter’s presence.
An hour passed, and there was no sign of the blue-handed man or any
messenger from him. Several persons called, and got letters or packages
from the boxes, but the document which Larry had placed in the envelope
in accordance with the instructions contained in the personal, was not
disturbed.
“I wonder if they are suspicious,” thought the reporter. “They may have
someone on the watch, or the proprietor may have sent them word that a
stranger is in the store, and advising them to be cautious. However,
I’ll wait a while longer.”
Another hour passed, and it was getting on to eleven o’clock. Mr. Newton
was about to give up his vigil as fruitless, when a youth entered, went
quickly up to the box, and took out the envelope. Mr. Newton screened
his face with a newspaper, but looked over the top of the sheet to see
who the messenger of the mysterious gang was.
“Well, if it isn’t Peter Manton, who used to be a copy boy on the
_Leader_!” thought Mr. Newton. “Well, of all things! To think of him
being mixed up with that gang!”
He was so surprised that he forgot to keep the paper up in front of his
face, and lowered the sheet. After getting the letter from the box,
Peter glanced over in the corner where Mr. Newton sat. He recognized the
reporter at once, and seemed much startled on beholding him.
Shoving the envelope containing the blank agreement into his pocket,
Peter hurried out of the store.
“I must get after him!” thought Mr. Newton. He purchased a few cigars
from the storekeeper to make some compensation for his long use of the
chair, and, murmuring something about his friend probably having been
detained, hurried from the place after Peter.
As soon as he got outside he looked up and down the street to see in
what direction the former copy boy had gone. At first he could catch no
glimpse of him. There were only a few persons on the thoroughfare,
however, and soon Mr. Newton’s trained eyes picked out the youth
hurrying along on the opposite side of the street.
“He’s trying to get away,” thought Mr. Newton, as he stepped out
briskly. “But I’ll trail him.”
If Mr. Newton could have seen the figure of a short, stout man glide out
from the shadow of the cigar store, as he himself left the place, and
follow after him, he might not have felt so easy in his mind about his
ability to catch Peter. The man, taking after Mr. Newton, moved rapidly
along, taking care to keep well in the shadows. His hat was pulled down
low over his face, and on his hands were a pair of new gloves.
“You’re trying a smart trick,” the man muttered, as he shadowed Mr.
Newton, “but I guess we’re on to your game. It’s a good thing I sent the
boy instead of going myself.”
Meanwhile the double chase continued. Peter hurried on, obeying the
instructions he had received. He crossed several streets, and made his
way to that part of New York known as Chinatown, in the neighborhood of
Pell and Mott streets, the place of the slums and opium joints.
After him came Mr. Newton, who kept as close behind the lad as was
possible without detection. After Mr. Newton came the man wearing a new
pair of gloves.
“It’s a good thing Larry didn’t undertake this thing alone,” thought Mr.
Newton. “The chase is leading into a dangerous part of town. But it’s
just the place where I’d expect the gang to have its headquarters.”
“I hope he doesn’t give up until he gets where I want him to,” murmured
the man with the gloves. “If he doesn’t we’ll show him a thing or two,
and I guess he’ll not be so fond of monkeying with other people’s
affairs after this,” and he smiled in a cruel sort of way that boded no
good to Mr. Newton.
Peter was playing his part well. He must have known he was being
followed, yet he gave no sign. If Mr. Newton had not been so intent on
the chase, he might have noticed that the former copy boy was not going
as fast as would have a messenger on a somewhat dangerous mission. Peter
was only leading the reporter on.
The boy swung into the Bowery, which at this hour of midnight was ablaze
with lights, and crowded with people. Mr. Newton had some trouble
keeping the youth in sight, but by shortening the distance between
himself and Peter, he managed to get glimpses of him now and again.
Finally Peter turned into Pell Street. He walked on past several houses,
and came to a halt in front of a Chinese store. In the windows were all
sorts of queer things that the Celestials use for food.
There were vegetables like cucumbers, pickled watermelon rind, sweetened
ginger root, Lichi nuts, sunflower seeds, pickled eggs, dried sharks’
fins, the pith of bamboo shoots, ready for eating, bottles of rice wine,
odd-shaped dishes, and many chopsticks. It was a Chinese grocery.
At the left of the main entrance was a smaller one leading up a flight
of stairs. In the hallway a lamp, shaded by red paper on which were some
Chinese characters, gave a faint illumination.
With a careful look about him, as if to see whether he was followed,
Peter entered the hallway, and began to mount the stairs. Mr. Newton
hesitated. He might be running into a trap if he went in. Though he knew
he was in New York, and that there were police officers close at hand,
he realized that often many crimes were committed in Chinatown that
never reached the police.
But he wanted very much to find out what sort of a gang was behind the
mysterious operations that had involved the Dexter family, and which
gang also seemed to be mixed up in the safe-robbery.
“I think I’ll chance it,” thought Mr. Newton.
He paused a few seconds, as if to look at the things in the grocery
window. Instead of observing them, however, he was carefully looking
around to see if there were any suspicious characters in the
neighborhood.
He did not see the man with the gloves, for that individual, as soon as
he had seen the reporter stop in front of the building Peter entered,
had hidden himself in a nearby doorway.
“Here goes!” exclaimed Mr. Newton to himself, as he entered the hallway.
It was quite dark, in spite of the lamp. He went up the first flight,
and found himself in a narrow hall, from which several doors opened.
“I wonder which room he went into,” thought the reporter. “I can’t knock
at all of them and ask. Few of the Chinese understand English when you
want ’em to.”
He decided to go to the top floor, and get an idea of the layout of the
place, before making any inquiries. So he continued up the next flight
of stairs. The floor above was like the second, except that the portal
of one room was open. Going past it Mr. Newton peered inside. He saw two
solemn-faced Chinese playing a card game, and smoking long-stemmed
pipes.
“I guess he’s not in there,” thought Mr. Newton. “I’ll try the next
floor.”
Up he went, listening now and then to see if he was being followed. He
could hear no footsteps, and there was good reason for it, as the man
with the gloves, who had glided into the hallway a few seconds after Mr.
Newton had entered, had slipped over his heavy shoes a pair of large
felt slippers that made no sound.
“He’s walking right into the trap!” said the man with the gloves. “We’ll
have him now.”
Mr. Newton reached the top hall. He saw a number of doors. At the end of
the corridor, in front of one portal, there burned a dim hanging-lamp.
“I’ll see what’s in there,” the reporter mused.
He reached the door. He was about to knock when he happened to glance
up.
He was startled to see confronting him, painted on a panel of the door,
a large blue hand.