break up. His quick imagination presented a moving picture of things which might have happened. Johnson was perfectly capable of taking charge of routine here on the street; indeed, Johnson had done most of the work, Hepburn merely supervising and taking reports. On the other hand, a dash to the waterfront would be technically to desert his post. He turned to the man beside him.
“Go personally,” he directed in his monotonous way; “take a launch if you can’t make it on shore. Then hurry right back to me to report just what you have seen.”
“All right, Captain.”
The man set out.
Mark Hepburn entered the bullet-proof car and gave brief directions to the driver.
Outside Wu King’s Bar the car stopped. Mark Hepburn went in, followed by the three men who had accompanied him. The place was almost wholly patronized by Asiatics, except when squads of sightseers were brought there, Wu King’s being one of the show places in Chinatown tours.
A buzz of conversation subsided curiously as the party entered. Following Hepburn’s lead they walked through the restaurant to the bar at the farther end, glancing keenly at the groups of men and women occupying the tables set in cubicles. Behind the bar Wu King, oily and genial, presided in person, his sly eyes twinkling in a fat, pock- marked face.
“Ah, gen’I’men,” he said, rubbing his hands and speaking with an accent which weirdly combined that of the Bowery and Shanghai, “you want some good beer, eh?”
Everyone in the place except Wu King spoke now in a lowered voice; this serpentine hissing created a sinister atmosphere.
“Yes,” said Hepburn, “some beer and some news.”
“Anything Wu King know, Wu King glad to tell.” He pumped up four glasses of creamy lager. “Just say what biting you and Wu King put right, if know enough, which probably not.”
Mark Hepburn paid for the beer and nodded to his companions. Leaning against the bar they all directed their attention toward the groups in the little cubicles. There was another room upstairs, and according to the local police, still another above that where fan-tan and other illegal amusements sometimes took place.
“You seem to be pretty busy?” Hepburn said.
“Yes,” The Chinaman revealed a row of perfect but discoloured teeth. “Plenty busy. Customers complain funny business outside. You gen’I’men know all about it I guess?”
“My friends here may know. What I want is copy.”
“Oh sure! You a newspaperman?”
“You’ve got it, Wu. I guess you know most of your customers?”
“Know ‘em all, mister. All velly old friend. Some plenty money, some go tick, but all velly good friend. Chinaman good friend to each other, or else”—he shrugged his shoulders— “What become of Chinaman?”
“That’s true enough. But I’m out for a story.” He turned, fixing deep-set eyes upon the fat face of the proprietor. “I’m told that one of
Less experienced than Nayland Smith in the ways of the Orient, he looked for some change of expression in the pock-pitted face—and looked in vain. Wu King’s immobile features registered nothing whatever.
“The Seven?” he said innocently. “What seven’s that, mister?”
“I’ll say I’m glad to get out,” said Corrigan as, assisted by willing helpers, he crawled under the partly raised door. “I don’t like the looks of that tunnel.”
From out of the echoing hollow under the dock came a shouted order:
“Silence!”
A buzz of excited words ceased. The men crowded into the narrow space between the two doors—the outer one partly jammed open by the spar—became silent.
“That’s Eastman,” said Corrigan. “Let’s see what’s new.”
Outside in a Dantesque scene peopled by moving shadows:
“Launch just been signalled from the bridge,” the invisible Eastman explained. “Are you held up there?”
“We were,” Corrigan replied shortly. He turned to Nayland Smith. “What now?”
Nayland Smith, a parody of his normal self, wearing a shabby suit and a linen cap which had once been white pulled down over one eye, stood silent behind the speaker. He was tugging at the lobe of his left ear.
“A change of plan,” he rapped. “This is something I had not foreseen. Get all the men under cover again, Corrigan, and run the launch out of sight downstream. Pick two good men to remain with us. Jump to it.”
“D’you hear that, Eastman?” Corrigan shouted. “Everybody under cover, just like when we first came up. The launch to clear the dock, lay up and wait for signals. Get busy.” He turned to two men who stood near to the spot where the spar projected into the partly open doorway. “You two,” he said, “stand by. Everybody else up the ladder.”
An ordered scuffling followed; three men tumbled into the launch and the others, some of whom had been crowded into the narrow space between the two doors, hurried up the ladder to the deck of the dock above. The launch went out astern, a phantom craft against the myriad lights reflected in the water, and disappeared from view.
“I want a small wedge fixed in that door; a clasp-knife would do, or anything that will bear pressure.”
Smith ran inside, flashing the light of his torch ahead, and springing over the spar which crossed the tunnel. The iron door beyond was about two-thirds raised.
