THE POWER OF THE UNDERWORLD
This was a blow. Decidedly, a blow.
As the door closed behind Murphy, Mr. Temple and the boys looked at each
other with dismay written plainly on every countenance. They were to be
taken to sea at once, and to an unnamed destination. Furthermore, Mr.
Temple had been compelled to write to the Palace Hotel management a note
which would prevent suspicion being aroused by their failure to return
to their rooms. Mr. Temple's business associates would inquire for him
at the hotel next day, when he failed to keep appointments, and would be
told of the explanation contained in the note. They might consider his
departure abrupt and unusual, but certainly they would not be likely to
consider it so strange as to demand investigation by the police.
What hope was there that their disappearance would cause a police
investigation that might, possibly, lead to their relief? Or that at
least would be heralded in the papers, and so come, perhaps, to the
attention of Inspector Burton, who could guess the solution?
None.
Without a word spoken, these thoughts passed through the minds of all.
They realized they were in the hands of a very shrewd scoundrel, who had
foreseen the possibilities of the situation and had taken care to guard
against the arousing of public suspicion over their disappearance.
There was this other phase, too, to be considered--namely, that "Black
George" might vent his anger against them for their attack upon him in
fiendish tortures. As Mr. Temple thought of this, he groaned aloud.
"Boys," he said, without raising his head from his hands, "I've
certainly gotten you into a terrible situation."
Big Bob laid a hand on his father's shoulder.
"Don't take it so hard, Dad," he said. "We aren't dead yet."
"No," said Frank, his spirits rebounding, "and we are not likely to be
dead, either, for some time to come. Why, Uncle George, we have bested
this rascal at every turn so far. It's true, we are his prisoners. But,
without his knowing it, we already have set the machinery of the
government in motion to put an end to his smuggling of Chinese coolies.
And in the fight, we most certainly got the best of him and his Chinese
friend."
Mr. Temple raised his head, and looked a bit more hopeful.
"Besides," declared Jack, "we were in some pretty tight places on the
Mexican border, and yet came through with flying colors. And I'm
confident we will do so again."
Mr. Temple even essayed a trace of a smile, as he regarded the tall,
handsome, curly-haired lad. Jack was a year older than Bob and, though
not so stout of frame, was fully as tall. Both were an inch under six
feet. And Jack, like his companions, was hard as nails.
"Why, Jack," said Mr. Temple, "I believe you like to be in a bad hole.
Actually, I believe you are enjoying yourself."
"Bob and Jack had most of the fun on the Mexican border, flying to the
Calomares ranch and rescuing Mr. Hampton, while I was left behind at the
cave with nothing to do but----"
Big Bob thwacked his chum on the back resoundingly.
"Yes, with nothing to do but save the day and half kill a husky Mexican
officer," he said. "You certainly were out of luck!"
"Oh, that's all right," said Frank. "Just the same, you fellows had more
fun out of that adventure than I did. Now it looks as if I was declared
in. And I can't say that I'm entirely grief-stricken."
Mr. Temple shook his head.
"You boys will be the death of me," he said.
Nevertheless, their sturdy courage and optimism cheered him greatly.
For some time the talk went back and forth, the boys doing their best to
cheer Mr. Temple. They realized dimly how great was his anxiety, far
more on their account than on his own. And by belittling the dangers and
persisting in regarding the whole matter as a lark, they hoped to dispel
his gloom to some extent.
The various objects of the room came in for attention. The room itself
proved to be steel-walled, and circular, the walls covered with heavy
Oriental hangings. No lights were suspended from the ceilings. The only
light came from several tinted bowls on a massive walnut table, very low
and stained with age. Investigation disclosed electric light bulbs
within the bowls.
"Let's find the switch and throw the room into darkness when they come
for us," cried Frank eagerly. "Then we can jump them and gain the upper
hand."
The big door close to where he stood grated slightly and swung open and
Matt Murphy stood in the aperture.
Had he heard, wondered Frank. He gave no sign.
"Come," he said.
Mr. Temple and the boys regarded each other gravely. Without a word
spoken and without premeditation, they clasped hands. Then Bob sprang to
take the lead from his father. If danger threatened in the corridor, he
would receive the brunt, rather than let his father accept that exposed
position. Jack forced Frank to fall in behind Mr. Temple, and then
himself brought up the rear.
But nothing unexpected occurred in the corridor, and they reached the
dark courtyard, after passing through the guarding doors, without
mishap. If any of them thought to cry out for help now that the outer
air was gained, that thought speedily was dispelled. Matt Murphy leaned
close, revolver in hand.
"One word and you are all dead men," He said. Then he waved toward a
clump of shadowy figures ahead, which the boys and Mr. Temple could
discern as their eyes became more accustomed to the darkness.
"Chinese," he said, "an' awful quick with their knives. I'm warnin' ye.
That's all."
Thereupon Murphy fell silent, standing beside Mr. Temple. And the group
ahead, between the prisoners and the dark mouth of the alley exit to the
streets of Chinatown, also was motionless. A slight sound, sibilant, as
of whispering, came from it. Murphy, however, vouchsafed no
conversation.
"What are we waiting for?" whispered Frank, the irrepressible.
"Ye'll see in a minute," answered Murphy, shortly.
Out of the doorway behind them, a moment later, debouched a little
cavalcade. In the center of a group of six or eight bobbing heads rose a
dark object that swayed perilously as it lurched through the door.
Murphy sprang toward it with a low-voiced curse.
"Careful there, ye haythens," he commanded.
The object steadied and came closer. Then the boys could see it was a
closed palanquin, borne by eight Chinese.
"Whew," whispered Frank, impressed in spite of himself. "I didn't know
there were any of those things left in existence."
"Must be that old Chinaman we laid out," ventured Bob.
The burden bearers passed the little group. Silken curtains were drawn
tightly about the palanquin, and the boys could not see within. It
disappeared with its bearers, looking in the darkness like some gigantic
spider, into the mouth of the alley across the court. Murphy joined
them.
"Come," he said. "An' remember. One cry out o' ye an' ye are all dead."
"Was that the old Chinaman?" whispered Frank.
Murphy, a talkative man himself, already had noted that irrepressible
quality in Frank. He chuckled grimly.
"Ye'd talk in hell, youngster, wouldn't ye?" he said. "No old Wong Ho
stays here. That was the Big Boss."
They were moving across the courtyard, obedient to Murphy's command. The
guard of Chinamen had closed around them.
"But, say," asked Frank, "will they carry that thing through the
streets?"
"Shut up," growled Murphy, "an' do what you're told. Here we are. Now in
with you."
They had emerged upon the dimly lighted street of Chinatown whence they
had approached the courtyard trap under the impression they were being
taken to a Joss House. Not a shuffling sandal slithered up or down the
block. All was deserted as a graveyard. There was a reason. Guards at
either end of the block, unostentatiously loitering on the sidewalk, had
dropped a word, and in that quarter it was sufficient. No whites
happened to be passing, and as for the Chinamen they scurried away
without looking back.
"In with you," repeated Murphy, pushing the boys and Mr. Temple into a
taxicab with blinds drawn, which stood at the curb. It was the same in
which they had approached Chinatown, although they did not realize that
fact.
A motor van stood behind. The palanquin had been placed in it with the
ends of the supporting poles resting in leather thongs dependent from
the sides. This was calculated to break any shocks of the passage to the
pain-wracked form of "Black George."
Murphy swung in with his prisoners, as did one of the Chinese guards.
The taxi started downhill. Behind lumbered the van.