High in an apartment house, overlooking a street and something of the
city, Monte Jerome, leader of the Evening Wolves, sat at his ease, a
cigarette in the corner of his thin, merciless mouth, a telephone within
reach.
From the back rooms of the apartment came the sound of heavy breathing,
intermingled with an energetic and unmusical snore. Louie Martin, gem
expert for the gang, and “Doc,” their society specialist, were sleeping.
Monte listened critically to the heavy breathing. He was an expert in
such matters, and his seasoned judgment told him that neither of his
comrades was faking sleep.
With a nod of satisfaction, he stood up and walked soundlessly into the
corridor connecting the rooms, stopping first in that occupied by “Doc,”
and then in the back room where Louie Martin was sleeping. In each room
he paused long enough to make a thorough search of the clothing of the
sleeping robber.
Monte went expeditiously through all the pockets, and even examined
the linings. Just a little exhibition of the honor that obtains among
thieves: Monte Jerome knew that his leadership depended on his ability to
command his companions’ unwilling respect, and he was taking no chances.
“I got a hunch Doc is thinking of ditching the gang, and going it for
himself,” Monte murmured as he returned toward the front room. “If he
thinks—”
The ’phone bell rang suddenly, and the man on duty crossed to the
instrument.
“Yes?” he said.... “Oh, hello, Billy.... What’s that—Hell’s bells! Got
away! Get busy and find him—”
The voice of the Strangler came to him over the wire.
“Keep your shirt on, Chief!” it commanded. “You better come down here
and see for yourself what we was up against!”
Two minutes later Monte was shaking Louie Martin awake.
“Come to life!” Monte grated. “The Count has made his getaway! You get
into your clothes and tend ’phone! This is one hell of a mess!”
Martin climbed sluggishly and unwillingly out of bed.
“You’ve been running things,” he snarled. “If you’ve got ’em in a mess,
it’s no one’s fault but your own!”
* * * * *
At a corner on the outskirts of Chinatown, Monte alighted from his taxi.
This was a special machine, owned and operated by a crook who dealt
indiscriminately in transportation, dope and bootleg whisky.
Monte commanded this worthy citizen to await his return, and plunged into
a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys.
A shrill whistle sounded presently, and he saw the Strangler beckoning
him from a doorway. Crossing over, Monte followed his henchman into an
alley, down a flight of narrow stairs, and into an unlighted basement.
Here they were joined by the “Kid,” who carried an electric torch.
“Come on, Chief,” the “Kid” commanded. “We’ll show you first what we was
up against—watch your step! If you stub your toe you’ll land in hell!”
They turned and went down another stairway, narrower and steeper than
the first. At the bottom their way was barred by a heavy door, studded
with great iron bolts. In one place the wood had been battered away,
disclosing the gleaming surface of a steel panel.
“We followed the Count here, and thought we had him cornered,” the “Kid”
drawled, rolling his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other
and regarding Monte through lazy, sardonic eyes. “When we saw we couldn’t
get through this way, we went up to the floor above and come at him
through the ceiling. Come along—we’ll show you!”
They went back up one flight of stairs and entered a room which evidently
had long been unused. Its walls were crumbling, and in the middle a great
hole had been torn in the floor. The Strangler, who was leading the way,
crossed over to this opening and unhesitatingly disappeared through it.
Next moment a yellow light filtered up through the opening.
“Down you go, Chief,” commanded the “Kid.” “This was the door we made!”
Monte made his way down through the opening, landing on the upper of
two chairs which had been piled precariously together to assist in
the descent. He was followed by the “Kid,” and the three crooks stood
examining the room in which Ah Wing and Colonel Knight had held their
conference.
Monte spoke with a snarl.
“All right, you two!” he cried, “Here is where he was! Where is he now?
Come across with your alibi!”
His two companions exchanged significant glances and the “Kid” took a
slouching step closer to Monte.
“Look here, Chief,” said he, “it ain’t gonna be healthy for you to
talk that way to me! I’m not spielin’ no alibi. What I’m givin’ you is
straight goods, and you better get that twist out of your mush and act
like a gentleman!”
He paused; and his two crumpled ears, which spoke of vicissitudes in the
prize ring, grew red as a rooster’s comb. His glassy gray eyes glared
unblinkingly at Monte.
The latter was not afraid of either of these men, or of both of them
together. Monte had the unflinching courage of the perfect animal. But he
had no notion of breaking up a gang which might prove useful to him.
“All right, boys,” he agreed, more pacifically, although his dark eyes
continued to glow like coals. “If you can afford to take it easy, you got
nothing on me! Tell me what happened.”
“That’s more like it,” the “Kid” growled. “Now you’re talking like a
gentleman, Chief! Well, we follows the Count here, and thinks we has him
holed up. We can’t bust down that door—this is an old Chink gambling
hell, and everything is stacked against a fellow that wants to get in.
But we comes down through the roof—”
Suddenly the “Kid” paused. From somewhere behind there had come a sound
as of the opening of a door. The eyes of his two companions followed his
and together they stood, rigid and alert.
Slowly the back wall of the room opened out toward them. Unconsciously,
the crooks shrank closer together. Their faces were drawn, their figures
rigid.
The panel swung fully open, and a figure appeared in it. It was the form
of a tall man, clad in black silk.
The three crooks stood staring at him silently. So unexpected had been
his appearance that it had affected them with a sort of paralysis. Their
mouths gaped open and their eyes bulged.
Serenely, the intruder stood looking down upon them; and then, with a
courteous wave of his hand, he spoke.
“Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen!” said he. “My little affairs can wait—I
will return later!”
He turned, and next moment the panel had swung silently shut behind him.
Monte Jerome was the first of the three to recover.
“Come on—we’ve got to get him!” he cried.
“That was the Chink we saw spieling with the Count,” the “Kid” cried
hoarsely. “But, for the love of cripe, how did he get here?”
Monte snarled wolfishly:
“Ask _him_ that! We’ve got to bust through here—”
His compact body landed against the panel. It shook, but refused to yield.
“Come back here! Now, all together!” bellowed Monte.
The three leaped forward and struck the partition.
This time it swung inward, slowly and without a sound. The crooks leaped
through the opening, and the “Kid” flashed his torch. They were standing
just inside a vast, windowless room, at whose farther side they had a
glimpse of sagging timbers and ruined walls. Nowhere was there a sign of
the man who had eluded them.
“Get a move on!” Monte growled throatily. His lip drew up and he snarled
at his companions. “A hell of a bunch of crooks, we are! Why didn’t you
take a shot at him, when you saw he was going to make a getaway?”
The “Kid” glared back.
“Cut out that kind of talk, Chief! You got a gat, and two hands! He
buffaloed you just like he did us! Be a sport and take your medicine!”
A determined search of the ruined chamber yielded no results. The “Kid”
dropped to his stomach and wormed his way under the mass of timbers at
the farther side. He found the beginning of a stone-lined tunnel, which
dipped abruptly into the earth.
Damp, mouldy air fanned his cheeks; and as he crouched, motionless,
listening, a distant reverberation came to him from the bowels of the
earth. It sounded like the clanking of a great iron door.
“Let me out of this!” he growled, as he backed toward his companions. “We
got a fat chance of following that yellow devil into his hole. You go, if
you want to!”
Monte shook his head. He had regained his poise, and he had been thinking.
“No use trying to follow,” he admitted. “We got to comb Chinatown for the
two of them. They can’t live down in that burrow forever. But why did
this duck show himself? He must have known we were here—he could hear us
talking!”
The “Kid” smiled craftily.
“Maybe him and the Count left something,” he suggested. “We better have a
look!”
“No, they didn’t leave nothing. I would have seen it if they had. I got
an idea the Chink _wanted us to see him_! He stood there with his face
turned into the light. Well, we got to find him! That’s flat!”
_CHAPTER FOUR_