WHEREIN UNEXPECTED ALLIES APPEAR
Although, as shall be seen, the final and complete defeat and extinction
of the London section of the Young Manchus were directly due to forces
set in motion by Furneaux, it was Winter's painstaking way of covering
the ground that unearthed the fraternity's meeting place, and thus
brought matters to a head speedily. For the rest, events followed their
own course, and great would have been the fame of the prophet who
predicted that course accurately.
In later days, when more ample knowledge was available, it was a
debatable point whether or not the inmates of No. 11 Fortescue Square
were saved from an almost maniacal vengeance by the fact that a crisis
was precipitated. Winter maintained stoutly that the police must triumph
in the long run, whereas Furneaux held, with even greater tenacity, that
although the gang would undoubtedly be broken up, that much-desired end
might have been attained after, and not before, a dire tragedy occurred
in the Forbes household.
The pros and cons of the argument were equally numerous and weighty.
They cannot be marshaled here. Each man and woman who reads this record
will probably form an emphatic opinion tending toward the one side or
the other. All that a veracious chronicler can accomplish is to set
forth a plain tale of events in their proper sequence, and leave the
ultimate verdict to individual judgment.
Winter was a hard-headed, broad-minded official, whose long and wide
experience enabled him to estimate at their true value the far-reaching
powers of the State as opposed to the machinations of a few determined
outlaws. On the other hand, the amazing facility with which Furneaux
could enter into the twists and turns of the criminal mind entitles his
matured views to much respect.
At any rate, this is what happened.
Winter was sitting in his office, smoking a fat cigar, and wading
through reports brought in by subordinates concerning every opium den
and Chinese boarding house in the East End, when Furneaux entered.
"Any luck?" inquired the chief, laying aside one document which seemed
to merit fuller inquiry; it described a club much frequented by Chinese
residents in London, men of a higher class than the sailors and firemen
brought to the port by ships trading with the Far East, and an
outstanding feature of the Young Manchus' operations was the intelligent
grasp of the ways and means of modern civilized life these filibusters
exhibited.
"So-so," squeaked Furneaux.
He flung himself into a big armchair, curled up in it like an animated
Buddha, and extracted one of the three ivory skulls from a waistcoat
pocket.
"If you could only speak, you image of evil!" he muttered. "You're not
so dead that you cannot work mischief. Why the deuce, then, can't you
mouth your incantations? Then we would listen and learn."
Winter, still sorting his papers, cocked the cigar inquisitively on one
side of his mouth.
"Oh, I have ascertained a lot about the inner politics of China,"
mumbled Furneaux, irritably, gazing fixedly at the skull after one quick
glance of his colleague. "Every little helps, of course. I have met some
Chinamen this morning who would cheerfully plunge Wong Li Fu into a
cauldron of boiling oil, and stir him round with a long stick when he
was in it. One man, quite an important personage in the jute line, has
lost a brother and a brother-in-law, the one in Canton, the other in
Pekin, and he lays both deaths at the door of the redoubtable Wong.
Another, the fellow who chanced to take up his quarters at Smith's
Hotel, is a delegate sent here specially to hunt out Wong, and destroy
him. I asked him how he meant to set about it, but his scheme is vague.
He's an opportunist of the first water. 'Me catchee and killee Wong Li
Fu one time,' was his best effort. I'm going to confront Len Shi with
these two in Bow Street. They may worm something out of him. But will
they own up if they do? Dashed if I know. The Oriental mind is on a par
with their blessed language. It has three thousand ways of expressing
one idea, and not one of 'em is our way."
"Has Theydon gone to Fortescue Square?"
"I suppose so. He turned up in Jermyn Street--outside Smith's Hotel, if
you please, with a lady in a taxi."
"A lady? Miss Beale?"
"No, his sister, judging from the family likeness. His eyes grew goggled
like yours when he saw the gray car."
"Didn't you explain matters?"
"Not I. Gave him the cut direct. My Chinamen are shy birds, and I
daren't flutter them by letting them think there are too many foreign
devils mixed up in the business. My London Chinaman was the brainy
person who got the Embassy busy when Mrs. Lester's death was announced.
He saw Wong Li Fu's hand in that from the first moment. Oddly enough,
though he and a man from the Embassy followed Theydon from Waterloo to
Forbes's place on Tuesday night, and again to Innesmore Mansions, he
didn't recognize him today. Or perhaps he did. I don't know. Talk about
the impassive Red Indian! A thoroughbred Chink would give a Pawnee chief
one glass eye and a coat of paint, and then beat him hollow at the
haughty indifference game."
"My!" said Winter admiringly, "you've got your tongue loose today. Well,
here's an item which should prove useful. Whitechapel thinks we may find
a Young Manchu or two among that collection," and he threw an official
memorandum across the table.
Furneaux repocketed the skull, and was gazing moodily at the report,
when a uniformed constable announced that a boy messenger wished to see
a "detective" with regard to the typed letter delivered at Mr. Forbes's
house on Wednesday evening.
"Show him up," said the chief, and a smart-looking boy, wearing the
familiar uniform of his corps, was brought in. He glanced around
inquiringly.
"Oh, you're the gentleman who came to our Piccadilly office," he said to
Winter.
"Yes."
"Well, sir, I haven't very much to tell you, but it was I who took the
letter to Fortescue Square. I saw the sender, a foreign-looking
gentleman, he was, with funny eyes, and I think I spotted him again this
afternoon. He was coming out of a house in Charlotte Street."
"Are you sure?" demanded Winter, quickly.
"He was awful like the man who engaged me, sir, and dressed the same
way."
"Did you notice the number of the house?"
"Yes, sir. No. 412."
"Quite certain about that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good boy. If your information is of any service I'll take care you are
not forgotten."
The boy saluted and went out.
"We must look up No. 412," said Winter, quietly; but there was a ring of
genuine satisfaction in his voice, because the clew promised well, and
it was a complete justification of the straightforward method he adopted
in every inquiry, whereas Furneaux invariably preferred an abstruse
theory to a definite piece of evidence.
The Jersey man's face had wrinkled as a preliminary to some sarcastic
comment on what he termed the "handcuff" way of reasoning, when the
telephone bell rang. Winter answered, and at once his self-possessed air
fled. Indeed, it was a very angry man who listened, because a
subordinate was telephoning from Fortescue Square a full account of the
shooting outrage.
The Chief gave a few curt instructions as to securing the adequate
cooperation of the local police, who should take measures to render any
repetition of such daring tactics absolutely impossible.
"No one was injured, you say?" he added.
"No, sir."
"Were the ladies very much frightened?"
"They've gone back to finish luncheon, sir."
"Good. Evidently they're all of the right breed. You can tell them I
said so, if you like. Assure Mr. Forbes that every care will be taken to
protect his house in future. See that strong patrols occupy every point
from which a gun can be aimed at any window, even the attics, in No. 11.
Phone me again when you have discussed matters with the district
superintendent."
The receiver clanged back into its hook. Winter had not foreseen this
latest move. "Sheer impudence," he termed it.
"More bullets?" inquired Furneaux laconically.
"Yes. A long-range attack from across the square. Four shots lodged in
dining room."
"No one hurt, and no one arrested?"
"Not a soul."
"James," said the little man solemnly, "Wong Li Fu is making us a
laughing-stock. Are you aware that the newspapers will get on our track
now? Can't you see the headlines?--'Another Sidney Street.' 'Chinese
Pirates Busy in London.' 'Scotland Yard Outwitted.' By this time
tomorrow the Commissioner will be suggesting that you and I ought to
think about retiring on pensions."
Winter jumped up, overturning a chair in his haste.
"Come!" he said. "If that Chinaman in Bow Street won't speak, I'll
torture him. What of the other fellow who was caught near Innesmore
Mansions?"
"He's a Jap. He knows nothing. He was hired for the job--to put any
interfering bobby to sleep."
The chief inspector angrily bundled some papers into a drawer, and threw
away his cigar, which he had allowed to go out. Furneaux produced an
ivory skull again, and scowled at it, whereupon his superior, snorting
with annoyance, strode to the window, and affected an interest he was
far from feeling in the panorama of the Thames.
And thus they passed a harmonious quarter of an hour, which came to an
end with the appearance of an attendant to announce the arrival of "two
Chinese gentlemen to see Mr. Furneaux."
They went down in the elevator without exchanging a word. At the
entrance stood the gray car, in which the Chinamen were already seated.
Furneaux introduced the chief inspector, and they were whisked to Bow
Street. There in a cell they found Len Shi, a somewhat sullen-looking
man whose European chauffeur's livery seemed curiously raffish and
unsuitable when contrasted with the more picturesque if sober-hued
garments worn by his fellow-countrymen.
At first he maintained the sulky know-nothing role which he had adopted
successfully with the official interpreter. Furneaux, watching the faces
of prisoner and questioners, guessed that small progress was being made,
so, waiting until Len Shi was evidently quite satisfied with himself, he
suddenly thrust an ivory skull before the man's eyes. The result was
unexpected but puzzling. The man was badly scared, beyond doubt, but he
now became obstinately silent.
Winter, than whom no living actor could play up better to Furneaux's
tactics in a touch-and-go encounter of this sort, assumed a highly
tragic air.
"Handcuff that man, and bring him out!" he said to the constable in
charge of the cells.
Len Shi blanched. He estimated the legal methods of Great Britain by
those which obtained in his own land, and probably thought he was being
led forth to immediate execution.
The whole five crowded into the car, and the driver, the same English
chauffeur to whom Theydon had spoken, was told to make for 412 Charlotte
Street, and pass the house slowly, but not pull up. Len Shi, though
quaking with alarm, bore himself with a certain dignified stoicism until
he found out where the car was apparently stopping. Then he said
something in a panic-stricken voice and the jute merchant, who spoke
English fluently, turned to Furneaux.
"Tell the chauffeur to return," he said. "Len Shi will now confess."
Once started, Len Shi talked volubly. The others merely put in a
question now and then, and the detectives curbed their impatience as
best they might until Len Shi was safely lodged in Bow Street again.
Then Winter led his Chinese helpers into an inner office and closed the
door.
"Well?" he said, addressing the jute merchant. The other Chinaman had
very little English and could not maintain a conversation.
But, to the chief inspector's surprise and wrath, the English-speaking
Chinaman had only a request to make.
"Give me and my friend those three ivory skulls," he said.
"Why?" he said.
"Without them we can accomplish nothing."
"Be good enough to explain yourself. Above all, tell me what Len Shi has
been jabbering about. He had plenty to say."
"He told us of the fate of our friends in China. Those things do not
concern you. What you want is to have Wong Li Fu and the others--there
are nearly twenty in all--delivered into your hands. Very well. Give us
those ivory skulls, and bring your men to that house in Charlotte
Street, at one o'clock this night, and you will take them without a blow
being struck."
"That is our business, not yours," said Winter, gruffly decisive. "I
cannot expose you two gentlemen to any personal risk in this affair.
Kindly--"
"You do not understand," broke in the jute merchant, addressing the
burly representative of the Criminal Investigation Department as if he
were a fractious child who must be informed as to the why and wherefore
of a disagreeable duty. "What will you do? Surround the house with
policemen, break in the doors, and fight? You may, or may not succeed.
Some, plenty, of your men will certainly be killed. That is not good. We
do not wish it. Give me those skulls. I and my friend will go there. You
come at one o'clock, tap so on the door, and we will admit you. Then you
take Wong Li Fu and all the others. There will be no fight."
The Chinaman's manner was singularly impressive as he tapped three times
on a high desk to emphasize, as it were, his instructions. The sound,
too, was curious. He did not use his knuckles, but bunched the fingers
of his right hand together, and rapped on the wood with the long nails
which are a mark of distinction in his race.
"We make things easy and certain for you," he added, more by way of
painstaking argument than because any further explanation was really
necessary. "You do not wish to fail, no? You want to be sure that Wong
Li Fu's evil deeds shall be stopped? Good. We do that--I and my friend.
We can pass the door-keepers. Can you? No. At one o'clock we open the
door and the Young Manchus will be wholly in your power, to do with them
what you will. I promise that, and my word is always taken in the city."
Winter turned troubled eyes on Furneaux.
"What do you say?" he muttered irresolutely.
"I think the plan is a good one, and should be adopted," was the instant
reply.
Nevertheless, Winter was perplexed. He hemmed and hawed a good deal.
Seldom did he hesitate in this fashion. As a rule, he was quick to
decide and quicker to act.
"I might entertain your scheme if I were told more about it," he said
dubiously, gazing with troubled eyes at the Chinaman's blandly
inscrutable face. "Please believe me when I say that I trust your good
faith, but I am not sure that even you understand fully the nature of
the adventure you have in mind. Wong Li Fu has already committed one
murder in London. He has attempted others, and is absolutely careless of
consequences. How can I have any guarantee that you and this other
gentleman may not be his next victims? He is a person who displays a
somewhat forced humor. We might enter the Charlotte Street house at one
o'clock and find your corpses there, with labels and ivory skulls neatly
attached."
"That will not be so," was the grave answer.
"If I agree, what time do you propose going there?"
"About midnight."
"And do you expect the police to leave the whole neighborhood severely
alone for another hour?"
"Not unless you wish it. If you so desire you can occupy both ends of
the street, and arrest every Chinaman coming away from No. 412, but let
those pass who go towards it."
"Will others go there--friends of yours, I mean?"
"Oh, yes. We will overpower the Young Manchus by taking them unaware. We
will act quietly, but there will be no mistake. It is you who will err
if you do not accept our help."
Then Winter yielded, though not with a good grace. The implied
suggestion that the London police could not handle a set of Mongolian
ruffians was utterly distasteful, yet he admitted, though unwillingly,
that he did not want to sacrifice some of his best men in rushing the
place.
"All right," he said. "Hand over the skulls, Furneaux! It is quite
agreed," he went on, addressing the Chinaman again, "that I have full
liberty of action in so far as preliminary arrangements are concerned? I
see your point that Wong Li Fu must not be forewarned, and shall take
care that my men are hidden. I have your positive assurance, too, that
you are not exposing your own life in any way?"
"To the best of my belief I shall be as safe in Charlotte Street as I am
here," said the jute merchant, smiling for the first time during the
interview.
"One! Two! Three!" said Furneaux, counting the skulls into the
Chinaman's outstretched hand.
For some reason, the action, no less than the words, jarred on Winter.
"I do wish you wouldn't be so d---- d theatrical!" he growled.
Furneaux said nothing. He accompanied the chief inspector when the
latter escorted the two Chinamen to their car, and whistled softly
between his teeth while Winter and he were walking to Scotland Yard. The
big man glowered at him once or twice, but passed no comment. When they
reached the Embankment, Winter took Furneaux to his room, but left him
instantly. He was absent a long time. When he came in again he was
cheerfully placid.
Walking toward their favorite restaurant in Soho, they met a newsboy
running with an edition of an evening newspaper damp from the press. The
boy was shouting, "'Orrible crime in the West End; Chinese outrage!"
Furneaux bought a paper. It contained a lively account of the attack on
Mr. Forbes's house and described the mansion as an armed fortress.
Scores of police were parading the neighborhood and examining every
passing motor car lest it held Chinese bandits. The arrest of Len Shi at
St. Albans, and of a Japanese outside Innesmore Mansions, was recalled,
and an Eastbourne correspondent had sent a fairly accurate version of
the kidnaping of Mrs. Forbes.
"The pack is in full cry now, James," grinned Furneaux. "Tomorrow--"
"O, bother tomorrow! Let's eat, and talk about something else."
"What? Both? Well, now, if that isn't a bit of luck," cried a pleasant
voice close behind them, and Mr. George T. Handyside held out his two
hands.
"I was feeling kind of lonesome in the hotel, and just strolled out to
look at the shops," he rattled on. "Say, can you boys eat a line? Is
there any place in London where they know what a planked steak is?"
"Planked steak!" snorted Furneaux. "When you've tasted a porterhouse
steak grilled by a master hand you'll never mention any other variety
again. Come right along, Mr. Handyside. Tell us fairy tales about God's
own country. We're in the right mood to believe anything!"
"But what's this story of another shooting up in Fortescue Square? Is it
true?"
Then Furneaux dug him in the ribs.
"This isn't the Wild and Woolly West," he said. "This is London, sir,
poor, old, played-out London, whose beefy citizens do nothing but eat,
talk cricket or golf, and sleep. If you credit the newspapers, you'll
never get us in the right perspective."
Another newspaper boy raced past, bawling loudly.
"All a flam, is it?" said the American quizzically;
"No," said Winter, "it's the truth, and less than the truth. Let's hunt
that steak, and we'll season the dish for you."
Winter never erred when he chose a man as a friend. He liked Handyside,
and was half inclined to drop a hint in his ear as to the night's
program, for the American had seen Wong Li Fu more than once, and might
be useful for identification purposes.