affected for business reasons by Mock Hen, was a mile and a half away.
But Mock took his time. Twenty-five full minutes elapsed before he
leisurely climbed the steps and slipped into the big reading room. There
was no one there and Mock deftly turned back the hand of the automatic
clock over the platform to three-fifty-five. Then he began to whistle.
Presently Miss Fanny entered from the rear room, her face lighting with
pleasure at the sight of her pet convert.
"Good afternoon, Mock Hen! You are early to-day."
Mock took her hand and stroked it affectionately.
"I go Fulton Mark' buy li'l' terrapin. Stop in on way to see dear Miss
Fan'."
They stood thus for a moment, and while they did so the clock struck
four.
"I go now!" said Mock suddenly. "Four o'clock already."
"It's early," answered Miss Fanny. "Won't you stay a little while?"
"I go now," he repeated with resolution. "Good-by li'l' teacher!"
She watched until his lithe figure passed through the door, and
presently returned to the back room. Mock waited outside until she had
disappeared.
Then he changed back the clock.
* * * * *
"We've got you, you blarsted heathen!" cried Mooney hoarsely as he and
two others from the Central Office threw themselves upon Mock Hen on the
landing outside the door of his flat. "Look out, Murtha. Pipe that thing
under his arm!"
"It's a bloody turtle!" gasped Murtha, shuddering
"What's the matter, boys?" inquired Mock. "Leggo my arm, can't yer?
What'd yer want, anyway?"
"We want you, you yellow skunk!" retorted Mooney. "Open that door!
Lively now!"
"Sure!" answered Mock amiably. "Come on in! What's bitin' yer?"
He unlocked the door and threw it open.
"Take a chair," he invited them. "Have a cigar? You there, Emma?"
Emma Pratt, clad in a wrapper and lying on the big double brass bedstead
in the rear room, raised herself on one elbow.
"Yep!" she called through the passage. "Got the bird?"
Mock looked at Murtha, who was carrying the terrapin.
"Sure!" he called back. "Sit down, boys. What'd yer want? Can't yer
tell a feller?"
"We want you for croaking Quong Lee!" snapped Mooney. "Where have you
been?"
"Fulton Market--and Hudson House. I left here quarter of four. I haven't
seen Quong Lee. Where was he killed?"
Mooney laughed sardonically.
"That'll do for you, Mock! Your alibi ain't worth a damn this time. I
saw you myself."
"You saw someone else," Mock assured him politely. "I haven't been in
Chinatown."
"Say, what yer doin' wit' my Chink?" demanded Emma, appearing in the
doorway. "He was sittin' here wit' me all the afternoon, until about
just before four I sent him over to Fulton Market to buy a bird. Who's
been croaked, eh?"
"Aw, cut it out, Emma!" replied Mooney. "That old stuff won't go here.
Your Chink's goin' to the chair. Murtha, look through the place while we
put Mock in the wagon. Hell!" he added under his breath. "Won't this
make Peckham sick!"
* * * * *
Mr. Ephraim Tutt just finished his morning mail when he was informed
that Mr. Wong Get desired an interview. Though the old lawyer did not
formally represent the Hip Leong Tong he was frequently retained by its
individual members, who held him in high esteem, for they had always
found him loyal to their interests and as much a stickler for honor as
themselves. Moreover, between him and Wong Get there existed a curious
sympathy as if in some previous state of existence Wong Get might have
been Mr. Tutt, and Mr. Tutt Wong Get. Perhaps, however, it was merely
because both were rather weary, sad and worldly wise.
Wong Get did not come alone. He was accompanied by two other Hip Leongs,
the three forming the law committee appointed to retain the best
available counsel to defend Mock Hen. In his expansive frock coat and
bowler hat Wong might easily have excited mirth had it not been for the
extreme dignity of his demeanor. They were there, he stated, to request
Mr. Tutt to protect the interests of Mock Hen, and they were prepared to
pay a cash retainer and sign a written contract binding themselves to a
balance--so much if Mock should be convicted; so much if acquitted; so
much if he should die in the course of the trial without having been
either convicted or acquitted. It was, said Wong Get gently, a matter of
grave importance and they would be glad to give Mr. Tutt time to think
it over and decide upon his terms. Suppose, then, that they should
return at noon? With this understanding, accordingly, they departed.
"There's no point in skinning a Chink just because he is a Chink," said
the junior Tutt when his partner had explained the situation to him.
"But it isn't the highest-class practise and they ought to pay well."
"What do you call well?" inquired Mr. Tutt.
"Oh, a thousand dollars down, a couple more if he's convicted, and five
altogether if he's acquitted."
"Do you think they can raise that amount of money?"
"I think so," answered Tutt. "It might be a good deal for an individual
Chink to cough up on his own account, but this is a coöperative affair.
Mock Hen didn't kill Quong Lee to get anything out of it for himself,
but to save the face of his society."
"He didn't kill him at all!" declared Mr. Tutt, hardly moving a muscle
of his face.
"Well, you know what I mean!" said Tutt.
"He wasn't there," insisted Mr. Tutt. "He was way over in Fulton Market
buying a terrapin."
"That is what, if I were district attorney, I should call a Mock Hen
with a mockturtle defense!" grunted Tutt.
Mr. Tutt chuckled.
"I shall have to get that off myself at the beginning of the case, or it
might convict him," he remarked. "But he wasn't there--unless the jury
find that he was."
"In which case he will--or shall--have been there--whatever the verb
is," agreed Tutt. "Anyhow they'll tax every laundry and chop-suey palace
from the Bronx to the Battery to pay us."
"I'd hate to take our fee in bird's-nest soup, shark's fin,
bamboo-shoots salad and ya ko main," mused Mr. Tutt.
"Or in ivory chopsticks, oolong tea, imitation jade, litchi nuts and
preserved leeches!" groaned Tutt. "Be sure and get the thousand down; it
may be all the cash we'll ever see!"
Promptly at twelve the law committee of the Hip Leong Tong returned to
the office of Tutt & Tutt. With them came a venerable Chinaman in native
costume, his wrinkled face as inscrutable as that of a snapping turtle.
The others took chairs, but this high dignitary preferred to sit upon
his heels on the floor, creating something of the impression of an
ancient slant-eyed Buddha.
Wong Get translated for his benefit the arrangement proposed by Mr.
Tutt, after which there was a long pause while His Eminence remained
immovable, without even the flicker of an eyelid. Then he delivered
himself in an interminable series of gargles and gurgles, supplemented
by a few cough-like hisses, while Wong Get translated with rapid
dexterity, running verbally in and out among his words like a carriage
dog between the wheels of a vehicle.
It was, declared Buddha, an affair of great moment touching upon and
appertaining to the private honor of the Duck, the Wong, the Fong, the
Long, the Sui and various other families, both in America and China. The
life of one of their members was at stake. Their face required that the
proceedings should be as dignified as possible. The price named by Mr.
Tutt was quite inadequate.
Mr. Tutt, repressing a smile, passed a box of stogies. What amount, he
inquired through Wong Get, would satisfy the face of the Duck family? A
somewhat lengthy discussion ensued. Then Buddha rendered his decision.
The honor of the Ducks, Longs and Fongs would not be satisfied unless
Mr. Tutt received five thousand dollars down, five more if Mock Hen was
convicted, three more if he died before the conclusion of the trial, and
twenty thousand if he was acquitted.
Mr. Tutt, assuming an equal impassivity, pondered upon the matter for
about an inch of stogy and then informed the committee that the terms
were eminently satisfactory. Buddha thereupon removed from the folds of
his tunic a gigantic roll of soiled bills of all denominations and
carefully counting out five thousand dollars placed it upon the table.
"H'm!" remarked Tutt when he learned of the proceeding. "_His_ face is
_our_ fortune!"
* * * * *
"Look here," expostulated District Attorney Peckham in his office to Mr.
Tutt a month later. "What's the use of our both wasting a couple of
weeks trying a Chinaman who is bound to be convicted? Your time's too
valuable for that sort of thing, and so is mine. We've got three white
witnesses that saw him do it, and a couple of dozen Chinks besides. He
doesn't stand a chance; but just because he is a Chink, and to get the
case out of the way, I'll let you plead him to murder in the second
degree. What do you say?"
He tried to conceal his anxiety by nervously lighting a cigar. He would
have given a year's salary to have Mock Hen safely up the river, even on
a conviction for manslaughter in the third, for the newspapers were
making his life a burden with their constant references to the seeming
inability of the police department and district attorney's office to
prevent the recurrence of feud killings in the Chinatown districts. What
use was it, they demanded, to maintain the expensive machinery of
criminal justice if the tongs went gayly on shooting each other up and
incidentally taking the lives of innocent bystanders? Wasn't the law
intended to cover Chinamen as much as Italians, Poles, Greeks and
niggers? And now that one of these murdering Celestials had been caught
red-handed it was up to the D.A. to go to it, convict him, and send him
to the chair! They did not express themselves precisely that way, but
that was the gist of it. But Peckham knew that it was one thing to catch
a Chinaman, even red-handed, and another to convict him. And so did Mr.
Tutt.
The old lawyer smiled blandly--after the fashion of the Hip Leong Tong.
Of course, he admitted, it would be much simpler to dispose of the case
as Mr. Peckham suggested, but his client was insistent upon his
innocence and seemed to have an excellent alibi. He regretted,
therefore, that he had no choice except to go to trial.
"Then," groaned Peckham, "we may as well take the winter for it. After
this there's going to be a closed season on Chinamen in New York City!"
Now though it was true that Mock Hen insisted upon his innocence, he had
not insisted upon it to Mr. Tutt, for the latter had not seen him. In
fact, the old lawyer, recognizing what the law did not, namely that a
system devised for the trial and punishment of Occidentals is totally
inadequate to cope with the Oriental, calmly went about his affairs,
intrusting to Mr. Bonnie Doon of his office the task of interviewing the
witnesses furnished by Wong Get. There was but one issue for the jury to
pass upon. Quong Lee was dead and his honorable soul was with his
illustrious ancestors. He had died from a single blow upon the head,
delivered with an iron bar, there present, to be in evidence, marked
"Exhibit A." Mock Hen was alleged to have done the deed. Had he? There
would be nothing for Mr. Tutt to do but to cross-examine the witnesses
and then call such as could testify to Mock's alibi. So he made no
preparation at all and dismissed the case from his mind. He had hardly
seen a dozen Chinamen in his life--outside of a laundry.
* * * * *
On the morning set for the trial Mr. Tutt, having been delayed by an
accident in the Subway, entered the Criminal Courts Building only a
moment or two before the call of the calendar. Somewhat preoccupied, he
did not notice the numerous Chinamen who dawdled about the entrance or
the half dozen who crowded with him into the elevator, but when Pat the
elevator man called, "Second floor!--Part One to your right!--Part Two
to the left!" and he stepped out into the marble-floored corridor that
ran round the inside of the building, he was confronted with an unusual
and somewhat ominous spectacle.
The entire hallway on two sides of the building was lined with
Chinamen! They sat there motionless as blue-coated images, faces front,
their hands in their laps, their legs crossed beneath them. If anyone
appeared in the offing a couple of hundred pairs of glinting eyes
shifted automatically and followed him until he disappeared, but
otherwise no muscle quivered.
"Say," growled Hogan, Judge Bender's private attendant, who was the
first to run the gantlet, "those Chinks are enough to give you the
Willies! Their eyes scared me to death, sticking me through the back!"
Even dignified Judge Bender himself as he stalked along the hall,
preceded by two police officers, was not immune from a slight feeling of
uncanniness, and he instinctively drew his robe round his legs that it
might not come into contact with those curious slippers with felt soles
that protruded across the marble slabs.
"Eyes right!" They had picked him up the instant he stepped out of the
private elevator--the four hundred of them. If he turned and looked they
were seemingly not watching him, but if he dropped his glance they swung
back in a single moment and focused themselves upon him. And every one
of them probably had a gun hidden somewhere in his baggy pants! The
judge confessed to not liking these foreign homicide cases. You never
could tell what might happen or when somebody was going to get the death
sign. There was Judge Deasy--he had the whole front of his house blown
clean out by a bomb! That had been a close call! And these Chinks--with
their secret oaths and rituals--they'd think nothing at all of jabbing a
knife into you. He didn't fancy it at all and, as he hurried along,
supremely conscious of the deadly cumulative effect of those beady eyes,
he fancied it less and less. What was there to prevent one of them from
getting right up in court and putting a bullet through you? He shivered,
recalling the recent assassination of a judge upon the bench by a Hindu
whom he had sentenced. When he reached his robing room he sent for
Captain Phelan.
"See here, captain," he directed sharply, "I want you to keep all those
Chinamen out in the corridor; understand?"
"I've got to let some of 'em in, judge," urged Phelan. "You've got to
have an interpreter--and there's a Chinese lawyer associated with Tutt &
Tutt--and of course Mr. O'Brien has to have a couple of 'em so's he'll
know what's going on. Y' see, judge, the On Gee Tong is helping the
prosecution against the Hip Leongs, so both sides has to be more or less
represented."
"Well, make sure none of 'em is armed," ordered Judge Bender. "I don't
like these cases."
Now the judge, being recently elected and unfamiliar with the situation,
did not realize that nothing could have been farther from the Oriental
mind or intention than an attack upon the officers engaged in the
administration of local justice, whom they regarded merely as nuisances.
What these Chinamen supremely desired was to be allowed to settle their
own affairs in their own historic and traditional way--the way of the
revolver, the silken cord, the knife and the iron bar. Once enmeshed in
Anglo-Saxon juridical procedure, to be sure, they were not averse to
letting it run its course on the bare chance that it might automatically
accomplish their revenge. But they distrusted it, being brought up
according to a much more effective system--one which when it wanted to
punish anybody simply reached out, grabbed him by the pigtail, yanked
him to his knees and sliced off his head. This so-called American
justice was all talk--words, words, words! From their point of view
judges, jurymen and prosecutors were useless pawns in life's game of
chess. Perhaps they are! Who knows!
When Judge Bender entered the court room it was, in spite of his
injunction, full of blue blouses. A special panel of two hundred
talesmen filled the first half dozen rows of benches, the others being
occupied by witnesses both Chinese and white, policemen and the
miscellaneous human flotsam and jetsam that always manages somehow or
other to find its way to a murder trial. Inside the rail O'Brien, the
assistant district attorney, was busy in conversation with three cueless
Chinamen in American clothes. At the bar sat Mock Hen with Mr. Tutt
beside him, flanked by Wong Get, Tutt, Bonnie Doon and Buddha.
The judge beckoned Mr. Tutt and O'Brien to the front of the bench.
"Is there any chance of disposing of this case by a plea?" he inquired.
O'Brien looked expectantly at Mr. Tutt, who shook his head. The judge
shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, how long is it going to take?"
"About six weeks," answered the old lawyer quietly.
"What!" ejaculated judge and prosecutor in unison.
"A day or two less, perhaps," affirmed Mr. Tutt, "but, likely as not,
considerably longer."
"I shall cut it down as much as I can," announced the judge, appalled at
the prospect. "I shall not permit this trial to be dragged out
indefinitely."
"Nothing would please me better, Your Honor," said Mr. Tutt with the
shadow of a smile. "Shall we proceed to select the jury?"
The accuracy of Mr. Tutt's prophecy as to the probable length of the
trial was partially demonstrated when it developed that most of the
talesmen had a pronounced antipathy to Chinese murder cases, and a
deep-rooted prejudice against the race as a whole. In fact, a certain
subconscious influence affecting most of them was formulated by the
thirty-ninth talesman to be rejected, who, in a moment of resentment,
burst forth, "I don't mind trying decent American criminals, but I hold
it isn't any part of a citizen's duty to try Chinamen!" and was promptly
struck off the jury list.
"I say, chief," disgustedly declared O'Brien to Peckham at the noon
recess as they clinked glasses over the bar at Pont's, "you've handed me
a ripe, juicy Messina all right! I won't be able to get a jury. We've
been at it since ten o'clock and we haven't lured a single sucker into
the box!"
"What's the matter?" inquired the D.A. apprehensively.
"I can't quite make out," answered O'Brien. "But most of 'em seem to
have a sort of idea that to kill a Chinaman ain't a crime but a virtue!"
"Well, don't tell anybody," whispered Peckham, "but I'm somewhat of that
way of thinking myself. Set 'em up again, John!"
However, by invoking the utmost celerity a jury was at last selected and
sworn at the end of the nineteenth day of the trial. As a jury O'Brien
confidentially admitted to Peckham it wasn't much! But what could you
expect of a bunch who were willing to swear that they hadn't any
prejudice against a Chink and would as soon acquit him as a white man?
The truth was that they were all gentlemen who, having lost their jobs,
were willing to swear to anything that would bring them in two dollars a
day. The more days the better! And it is historic fact that during the
sixty-nine days of Mock Hen's prosecution not one of them protested at
being kept away from his wife and children, his business or his
pleasure. On the contrary they all slumbered peacefully from ten until
four--and when the trial ended, on the whole they rather regretted that
it was over, the only genuine opinion regarding the case being that the
Chinks were all as funny as hell and that Mr. Tutt was a bully old boy.
The evidence respecting the death of the unfortunate Quong Lee made
little impression upon them. Seemingly they regarded the story much as
they did that of Elisha and the bears or Bel and the dragon--as a sort
of apocryphal narrative which they were required to listen to, but in no
wise bound to believe. They were much interested in Quong's suit of
chain mail, however, and from time to time awoke to enjoy the various
verbal encounters between the judge and Mr. Tutt. As factors in the
proceedings they did not count, except to receive their two dollars per
diem, board, lodging and hack fare.
The trial of Mock Hen being conducted in a foreign language, the first
judicial step was the swearing of an interpreter. The On Gees had
promptly produced one, whom O'Brien told the court was a very learned
man; a graduate of the Imperial University at Peking, and a Son of the
Sacred Dragon. Be that as it may, he was not prepossessing in his
appearance and Mr. Tutt assured Judge Bender that far from being what
the district attorney pretended, the man was a well-known gambler, who
made his living largely by blackmail. He might be a son of a dragon or
he might not; anyway he was a son of Belial. An interpreter was the
conduit through which all the evidence must pass. If the official were
biased or corrupt the testimony would be distorted, colored or
suppressed.
Now he--Mr. Tutt--had an interpreter, the well-known Dr. Hong Su,
against whom nothing could be said, and upon whose fat head rested no
imputation of partiality; a graduate of Harvard, a writer of note, a--
O'Brien sprang to his feet: "My interpreter says your interpreter is an
opium smuggler, that he murdered his aunt in Hong Kong, that he isn't a
doctor at all, and that he never graduated from anything except a
chop-suey joint," he interjected.
"This is outrageous!" cried Mr. Tutt, palpably shocked at such language.
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" groaned Judge Bender. "What am I to do? I don't
know anything about these men. One looks to me about the same as the
other. The court has no time to inquire into their antecedents. They may
both be learned scholars or they may each be what the other says he
is--I don't know. But we've got to begin to try this case sometime."
It was finally agreed that in order that there might be no possible
question of partiality there should be two interpreters--one for the
prosecution and one for the defense. Both accordingly were sworn and the
first witness, Ah Fong, was called.
"Ask him if he understands the nature of an oath," directed O'Brien.
The interpreter for the state turned to Ah Fong and said something
sweetly to him in multitudinous words.
Instantly Doctor Su rose indignantly. The other interpreter was not
putting the question at all, but telling the witness what to say.
Moreover, the other interpreter belonged to the On Gee Tong. He stood
waving his arms and gobbling like an infuriated turkey while his
adversary replied in similar fashion.
"This won't do!" snapped the judge. "This trial will degenerate into
nothing but a cat fight if we are not careful." Then a bright idea
suggested itself to his Occidental mind. "Suppose I appoint an official
umpire to say which of the other two interpreters is correct--and let
them decide who he shall be?"
This proposition was received with grunts of satisfaction by the two
antagonists, who conferred together with astonishing amiability and
almost immediately conducted into the court room a tall, emaciated
Chinaman who they alleged was entirely satisfactory to both of them. He
was accordingly sworn as a third interpreter, and the trial began again.
It was observed that thereafter there was no dispute whatever regarding
the accuracy of the testimony, and as each interpreter was paid for his
services at the rate of ten dollars a day it was rumored that the whole
affair had been arranged by agreement between the two societies, which
divided the money, amounting to some eighteen hundred dollars, between
them. But, as O'Brien afterward asked Peckham, "How in thunder could you
tell?"
The court's troubles had, however, only begun. Ah Fong was a
whimsical-looking person, who gave an impression of desiring to make
himself generally agreeable. He was, of course, the star witness--if a
Chinaman can ever be a star witness--and presumably had been carefully
schooled as to the manner in which he should give his testimony. He and
he alone had seen the whole tragedy from beginning to end. He it was, if
anybody, who would tuck Mock Hen comfortably into his coffin.
The problem of the interpreters having been solved Fong settled himself
comfortably in the witness chair, crossed his hands upon his stomach and
looked complacently at Mock Hen.
"Well, now let's get along," adjured His Honor. "Swear the witness."
Mr. Tutt immediately rose.
"If the court please," said he, "I object to the swearing of the witness
unless it is made to appear that he will regard himself as bound by the
oath as administered. Now this man is a Chinaman. I should like to ask
him a preliminary question or two."