from the other side of the fireplace. "Possibly it goes back to the Ming
dynasty--whenever that was--or possibly it was purchased from a
mail-order house in Chicago. Chop suey isn't the only Chinese article
made in this country, you know. But my interest in it commenced with the
night when Ezra Marks--
"However, let's start at the beginning."
* * * * *
Marks [continued the former operative] was, as you probably recall, one
of the best men ever connected with the Customs Service. It was he who
solved the biggest diamond-smuggling case on record, and he was also
responsible for the discovery of the manner in which thirty thousand
yards of very valuable silk was being run into the country every year
without visiting the custom office. That's a piece of the silk up there,
over the picture of Mrs. Armitage....
It wasn't many months before the affair of the Dillingham diamonds that
official Washington in general and the offices of the Customs Service in
particular grew quite excited over the fact that a lot of opium was
finding its way into California. Of course, there's always a fair amount
of "hop" on the market, provided you know where to look for it, and the
government has about as much chance of keeping it out altogether as it
has of breaking up the trade in moonshine whisky. The mountaineer is
going to have his "licker" and the Chink is going to have his dope--no
matter what you do. But it's up to the Internal Revenue Bureau and the
Customs Service to see that neither one arrives in wholesale quantities.
And that was just what was happening on the Coast.
In fact, it was coming in so fast that the price was dropping every day
and the California authorities fairly burned up the wires 'cross
continent with their howls for help.
At that time Marks--Ezra by name and "E. Z." by nickname--was
comparatively a new member of the force. He had rendered valuable
service in Boston, however, and the chief sent for him and put the whole
thing in his hands.
"Get out to San Diego as quickly as you know how," snapped the chief,
tossing over a sheaf of yellow telegraph slips. "There's all the
information we have, and apparently you won't get much more out
there--unless you dig it up for yourself. All they seem to know is that
the stuff is coming in by the carload and is being peddled in all the
hop joints at a lower price than ever before. It's up to you to get the
details. Any help you need will be supplied from the San Francisco
office, but my advice is to play a lone hand--you're likely to get
further than if you have a gang with you all the time."
"That's my idear, Chief," drawled Ezra, who hailed from Vermont and had
all the New Englander's affection for single-handed effort, not because
he had the least objection to sharing the glory, but simply because he
considered it the most efficient way to work. "I'll get right out there
and see how the land lays."
"Needn't bother to report until you discover something worth while,"
added the chief. "I'll know that you're on the job and the farther you
keep away from headquarters the less suspicion you're likely to arouse."
This was the reason that, beyond the fact they knew that an operative
named Marks had been sent from Washington to look into the opium matter,
the government agents on the Coast were completely in the dark as to the
way in which the affair was being handled. In fact, the chief himself
was pretty well worried when two months slipped by without a word from
Ezra....
But the big, raw-boned Yankee was having troubles of his own. Likewise,
he took his instructions very seriously and didn't see the least reason
for informing Washington of the very patent fact that he had gotten
nowhere and found out nothing.
"They know where they can reach me," he argued to himself one night,
about the time that the chief began to wonder if his man were floating
around the bay with a piece of Chinese rope about his neck. "Unless I
get a wire they won't hear anything until I have at least a line on this
gang."
Then, on going over the evidence which he had collected during the weeks
that he had been in San Diego, he found that there was extremely little
of it. Discreet questioning had developed the fact, which he already
knew, that opium was plentiful all along the Coast, and that,
presumably, it was supplied from a point in the south of the state. But
all his efforts to locate the source of the drug brought him up against
a blank wall.
In order to conduct his investigations with a minimum of suspicion,
Marks had elected to enter San Diego in the guise of a derelict--a
character which he had played to such perfection that two weeks after he
arrived he found himself in court on the charge of vagrancy. Only the
fact that the presiding magistrate did not believe in sentencing first
offenders saved him from ten days in the workhouse, an opportunity which
he was rather sorry to miss because he figured that he might pick up
some valuable leads from the opium addicts among his fellow prisoners.
The only new point which he had developed during his stay in the
underworld was that some one named Sprague, presumably an American, was
the brains of the opium ring and had perfected the entire plan. But who
Sprague was or where he might be found were matters which were kept in
very watchful secrecy.
"I give it up," muttered the operative, shrugging his arms into a
threadbare coat and shambling out of the disreputable rooming house
which passed for home. "Work doesn't seem to get me anywhere. Guess I'll
have to trust to luck," and he wandered out for his nightly stroll
through the Chinese quarter, hoping against hope that something would
happen.
It did--in bunches!
Possibly it was luck, possibly it was fate--which, after all, is only
another name for luck--that brought him into an especially unsavory
portion of the city shortly after midnight.
He had wandered along for three hours or more, with no objective in view
save occasional visits to dives where he was known, when he heard
something which caused him to whirl and automatically reach for his hip
pocket. It was the cry of a woman, shrill and clear--the cry of a woman
in mortal danger!
It had only sounded once, but there was a peculiar muffled quality at
the end of the note, suggestive of a hand or a gag having been placed
over the woman's mouth. Then--silence, so still as to be almost
oppressive.
Puzzled, Marks stood stock still and waited. So far as he could remember
that was the first time that he had heard anything of the kind in
Chinatown. He knew that there were women there, but they were kept well
in the background and, apparently, were content with their lot. The
woman who had screamed, however, was in danger of her life. Behind one
of those flimsy walls some drama was being enacted in defiance of the
law--something was being done which meant danger of the most deadly kind
to him who dared to interfere.
For a full minute Marks weighed the importance of his official mission
against his sense of humanity. Should he take a chance on losing his
prey merely to try to save a woman's life? Should he attempt to find the
house from which the scream had come and force the door? Should he....
But the question was solved for him in a manner even more startling than
the cry in the night.
While he was still debating the door of a house directly in front of him
opened wide and a blinding glare of light spread fanwise into the
street. Across this there shot the figure of what Marks at first took to
be a man--a figure attired in a long, heavily embroidered jacket and
silken trousers. As it neared him, however, the operative sensed that it
was a woman, and an instant later he knew that it was the woman whose
stifled scream had halted him only a moment before.
Straight toward Marks she came and, close behind her--their faces set in
a look of deadly implacable rage--raced two large Chinamen.
Probably realizing that she stood no chance of escape in the open
street, the woman darted behind Marks and prepared to dodge her
pursuers. As she did so the operative caught her panting appeal: "Save
me! For the sake of the God, save me!"
That was all that was necessary. Ezra sensed in an instant the fact that
he had become embroiled in what bade fair to be a tragedy and braced
himself for action. He knew that he had no chance for holding off both
men, particularly as he did not care to precipitate gun play, but there
was the hope that he might divert them until the girl escaped.
As the first of the two men leaped toward him, Marks swung straight for
his jaw, but his assailant ducked with what was almost professional
rapidity and the blow was only a glancing one. Before the operative had
time to get set the other man was upon him and, in utter silence save
for their labored breathing and dull thuds as blows went home, they
fought their way back to the far side of the street. As he retreated,
Marks became conscious that instead of making her escape, the girl was
still behind him. The reason for this became apparent when the larger of
the Chinamen suddenly raised his arm and the light from the open doorway
glinted on the blade of a murderous short-handled axe--the favorite
weapon of Tong warfare. Straight for his head the blade descended, but
the girl's arm, thrust out of the darkness behind him, diverted the blow
and the hatchet fairly whistled as it passed within an inch of his body.
Realizing that his only hope of safety lay in reaching the opposite side
of the sidewalk, where he would be able to fight with his back against
the wall, Marks resumed his retreat, his arms moving like flails, his
fists crashing home blows that lost much of their power by reason of the
heavily padded jackets of his opponents. Finally, after seconds that
seemed like hours, one of his blows found the jaw of the man nearest
him, and Marks wheeled to set himself for the onrush of the other--the
man with the hatchet.
But just at that moment his foot struck the uneven curbing and threw him
off his balance. He was conscious of an arc of light as the blade sang
through the air; he heard a high, half-muffled cry from the girl beside
him; and he remembered trying to throw himself out of the way of the
hatchet. Then there was a stinging, smarting pain in the side of his
head and in his left shoulder--followed by the blackness of oblivion.
From somewhere, apparently a long distance off, there came a voice which
brought back at least a part of the operative's fast failing
consciousness, a voice which called a name vaguely familiar to him:
"Sprague! Sprague!"
"Sprague?" muttered Marks, trying to collect himself.
"Who--is--Sprague?"
Then, as he put it later, he "went off."
How much time elapsed before he came to he was unable to say, but
subsequent developments indicated that it was at least a day and a
night. He hadn't the slightest idea what had occurred meanwhile--he only
knew that he seemed to drift back to consciousness and a realization
that his head was splitting as if it would burst. Mechanically he
stretched his legs and tried to rise, only to find that what appeared to
be a wooden wall closed him in on all sides, leaving an opening only
directly above him.
For an appreciable time he lay still, trying to collect his thoughts. He
recalled the fight in the open street, the intervention of the girl, the
fall over the curb and then--there was something that he couldn't
remember, something vital that had occurred just after he had tried to
dodge the hatchet blade.
"Yes," he murmured, as memory returned, "it was some one calling for
'Sprague--Sprague!'"
"Hush!" came a whispered command out of the darkness which surrounded
him, and a hand, soft and very evidently feminine, covered his mouth.
"You must not mention that name here. It means the death, instant and
terrible! They are discussing your fate in there now, but if they had
thought that you knew Wah Lee your life would not be worth a yen."
"Wah Lee? Who is he?" Marks replied, his voice pitched in an undertone.
"I don't remember any Wah Lee. And who are you?"
"Who I am does not matter," came out of the darkness, "but Wah Lee--he
is the master of life and death--the high priest of the Flower of
Heaven. Had it not been for him you would have been dead before this."
"But I thought--"
"That he desired your life? So he did--and does. But they have to plan
the way in which it is to be taken and the disposition which is to be
made of your body. That was what gave me my opportunity for binding up
your wound and watching for you to wake."
In spite of himself Marks could not repress a slight shudder. So they
were saving him for the sacrifice, eh? They were going to keep him here
until their arrangements were complete and then make away with him, were
they?
Moving cautiously, so as to avoid attracting attention, the operative
slipped his right hand toward his hip pocket, only to find that his
automatic was missing. As he settled back with a half moan, he felt
something cold slipped into the box beside him, and the girl's voice
whispered:
"Your revolver. I secured it when they brought you in here. I thought
you might need it later. But be very careful. They must not suspect that
you have wakened."
"I will," promised Marks, "but who are you? Why should you take such an
interest in me?"
"You tried to save me from something that is worse than death," replied
the girl. "You failed, but it was not your fault. Could I do less than
to help you?"
"But what was it you feared?"
"Marriage! Marriage to the man I loathe above all others--the man who is
responsible for the opium that is drugging my people--the man who is
known as Wah Lee, but who is really an American." Here she hesitated for
a moment and then hissed:
"Sprague!"
"Sprague?" Marks echoed, sitting bolt upright. But the girl had gone,
swallowed up somewhere in the impenetrable darkness which filled the
room.
His brain cleared by the realization that he had blundered into the
heart of the opium-runners' den, it took Ezra only a few seconds to
formulate a plan of action. The first thing, of course, was to get away.
But how could that be accomplished when he did not even know where he
was or anything about the house? The girl had said something about the
fact that "they were considering his fate." Who were "they" and where
were they?
Obviously, the only way to find this out was to do a little scouting on
his own account, so, slowly and carefully, he raised himself clear of
the boxlike arrangement in which he had been placed and tried to figure
out his surroundings. His hand, groping over the side, came into almost
instant contact with the floor and he found it a simple matter to step
out into what appeared to be a cleared space in the center of a
comparatively large room. Then, curious as to the place where he had
been concealed, he felt the box from one end to the other. The sides
were about two feet high and slightly sloping, with an angle near the
head. In fact, both ends of the affair were narrower than the portion
which had been occupied by his shoulders. Piled up at either end of this
box were others, of the same shape and size. What could their purpose
be? Why the odd shape?
Suddenly the solution of the mystery flashed across the operative's
mind--coffins! Coffins which appeared to be piled up on all sides of the
storeroom. Was this the warehouse for a Chinese undertaker or was it--
One coffin over which he nearly tripped gave him the answer. It was
partly filled with cans, unlabeled and quite heavy--containers which
Marks felt certain were packed full of opium and smuggled in some manner
inside the coffins.
Just as he arrived at this conclusion Marks' eye was caught by a tiny
streak of light filtering through the wall on the opposite side of the
room. Making his way carefully toward this, he found that the crack
presented a fairly complete view of an adjoining apartment in which
three Chinese, evidently of high degree, were sorting money and entering
accounts in large books.
As he looked, a fourth figure entered the room--a man who caused him to
catch his breath and flatten himself against the wall, for he recognized
the larger of the two Chinamen who had attacked him the night before--or
whenever it was. This was the man to whom the girl had alluded as "Wah
Lee, High Priest of the Flower of Heaven"--which was merely another way
of saying that he had charge of the opium shipments.
As he entered the others rose and remained standing until he had seated
himself. Then one of them commenced to speak in rapid, undistinguishable
Chinese. Before he had had time to pronounce more than a few words,
however, Wah Lee interrupted him with a command couched in English to:
"Cut that out! You know I don't understand that gibberish well enough to
follow you."
"Beg pardon," replied the other. "I always forget. You are so like one
of us that, even in private, I find it hard to remember."
Wah Lee said nothing, but, slipping off his silken jacket, settled back
at his ease. A moment later Marks was amazed to see him remove his
mandarin's cap, and with it came a wig of coal-black hair!
For the first time the government agent realized what the girl had meant
when she intimated that Wah Lee and Sprague were one and the same--an
American who was masquerading as Chinese in order to further his
smuggling plans!
"Word has just arrived," continued the man who had first spoken, "that
the boat will be off Point Banda to-night. That will allow us to pick up
the coffins before daybreak and bury them until such time as the
American hounds are off their guard."
"Yes," grunted Sprague, "and let's hope that that's soon. We must have
fifty thousand dollars' worth of the stuff cached on the other side of
the border and orders are coming in faster than we can fill them. I
think it would be best to run this cargo right in. We can stage a
funeral, if necessary, and avoid suspicion in that way. Wait a minute!
I've got a hunch! What about the bum we carried in here last night--the
one that tried to help Anita in her getaway?"
"Anita?"
"Yes, my girl. I can't remember that rigmarole you people call her.
Anita's her name from now on."
"He is in the next room, unconscious. Two of the men dumped him in one
of the empty coffins and let him stay there."
"Good," chuckled Sprague. "We'll just let him remain--run him across the
border, and bring his body back in a big hearse. The coffin and the body
will be real, but there'll be enough cans of dope packed in and around
him and in the carriages of the 'mourners' to make us all rich. It's the
chance of a lifetime for a big play, because no one will ever suspect us
or even inquire into his identity."
Behind the thin wall which separated him from the next room Marks
stiffened and his fingers wound themselves even more tightly around the
butt of his automatic. It is not given to many men to hear their death
sentence pronounced in a manner as dramatic and cold-blooded as were the
words which came from the outer apartment. By listening intently, Ezra
learned that the coup would be sprung sometime within the next few
hours, the conspirators feeling that it would not be safe to delay, as
the opium shipment was due before dawn.
Moving silently and aided somewhat by the fact that his eyes had become
a little accustomed to the inky blackness, Marks made his way back to
the place where he had awakened. He knew that that was where they would
expect to find him and he also knew that this was the one place to
avoid. So he located the door and, finding it bolted from the outside,
placed himself where he would be at least partly sheltered when the
party entered.
After what seemed to be an interminable time he finally heard a sound
from the hallway--the soft slip-slip of felt shoes approaching. Then the
bolt was withdrawn and the door opened, admitting the four men whom he
had seen in the other room, and behind them, carrying a lantern, came
the girl.
Nerving himself for a supreme leap, Marks waited until all five visitors
were inside the room, and then started to slip through the open doorway.
But his movement attracted the attention of the man called Sprague and,
with a cry of warning, he wheeled and fired before the operative could
gain the safety of the hall. Knowing that his body, outlined against the
light from outside, would make an ideal target, Ezra dropped to the
floor and swung his automatic into action. As he did so the girl
extinguished the lantern with a single swift blow, leaving the room in
total blackness, save for the path made by the light in the hallway.
For probably twenty seconds there wasn't a sound. Then Marks caught a
glimpse of a moving figure and fired, leaping to one side as he did so
in order to avoid the fusillade directed at the flash of his revolver.
By a cry from the other side of the room he knew that his shot had gone
home, and a moment later he had an opportunity to wing another of his
assailants, again drawing a volley of shots. The last shot in his clip
was fired with a prayer--but it evidently went home, for only silence,
punctuated by moans from the opposite side of the room, ensued.
* * * * *
"That night," concluded Quinn, "a big sailing vessel was met off Point
Banda and they found a full month's supply of opium aboard of her. A
search of Lower California, near the border, also disclosed a burying
ground with many of the graves packed with cans of the drug. The raid,
of course, was a violation of Mexican neutrality--but they got away with
it."
"The girl?" I cut in. "What became of her?"
"When the police reached the house a few moments after Marks had fired
the last shot, they found that Sprague was dead with one of Ezra's
bullets through his brain. The three Chinamen were wounded, but not
fatally. The girl, however, was huddled in a corner, dead. No one ever
discovered whether she stopped one of the bullets from Marks's revolver
or whether she was killed by Sprague's men as a penalty for putting out
the lantern. Undoubtedly, that saved Ezra's life--which was the reason
that he saw that she was given a decent funeral and an adequate memorial
erected over her grave.
"He also kept her jacket as a memento of the affair, turning the hatchet
over to me for my collection. Under it you will find a copy of the wire
he sent the chief."
Curious, I went over and read the yellow slip framed beneath the weapon:
Opium smuggled in coffins. American, at head of ring, dead.
Gang broken up. Opium seized. What next?
MARKS.
"Didn't wait long for another assignment, did he?" I inquired.
"No," was the response. "When you're working for Uncle Sam you come to
find that excitement is about the only thing that keeps your nerves
quiet. Sometimes, as in Marks's case, it's the thrill of the actual
combat. But more often it's the search for a tangible clue--the groping
in the dark for something you know exists but which you can't lay your
hands on. That was the trouble with the Cheney case...."
XV
THE MAN WITH THREE WIVES
One of the first things to strike the eye of the visitor who enters the
library-den of William J. Quinn--known to his friends and former
associates in the United States Secret Service as "Bill"--is a frame
which stands upon the mantel and contains the photographs of three
exceptionally pretty women.
Anyone who doesn't know that this room is consecrated to relics of the
exploits of the various governmental detective services might be
pardoned for supposing that the three pictures in the single frame are
photographs of relatives. Only closer inspection will reveal the fact
that beneath them appears a transcript from several pages of a certain
book of records--the original of which is kept at the New York City
Hall.
These pages state that....
But suppose we let Quinn tell the story, just as he told it one cold
November night while the wind was whistling outside and the cheery
warmth of the fire made things extremely snug within.
* * * * *