“All ready, Chief,” came a voice. “I’ve got the door jammed.”
“Good. Now Corrigan, join us. You two men get inside but hang on to the door.”
There came further scuffling. The men, two black silhouettes, crossed the narrow opening.
“Are you ready?” rapped Nayland Smith.
“All ready, Chief.”
“Pull. Now, Corrigan, we have to get the spar inside.”
Pulling simultaneously, the thing was done and the spar laid down against one wall of the tunnel.
“Now,” Nayland Smith directed breathlessly, “ease the door to. Don’t let it bang if you can help it.”
Slowly the door, propelled by a powerful spring, closed, almost dragging the two men with it; and as it closed, that second door which resembled a sluicegate rose, inch by inch. At last:
“Can’t hang on any longer, Captain,” one of the men reported; “we shall get our hands jammed.”
“Let go,” Smith ordered.
The door snapped to; there was a slight grinding sound as its edge came in contact with the obstacle which had been placed there to hold it. Nayland Smith flashed his light upward. . . .
Less than two inches of the drop-gate showed in the slot in the ceiling of the tunnel.
The exact working of this cunning mechanism was not clear, and the place in which they stood afforded no cover whatever.
“I get your idea,” said Corrigan, “but short of shooting ‘em down, we haven’t a chance.”
“No shooting without orders.”
“I guess they’ll see the door’s phony, anyway,” said one of the men.
“Once they’re under the dock, Eastman will drop on ‘em,” Corrigan replied. “Get your guns out, boys. The moment that door comes open, the order is ‘stick ‘em up.’“ ,
There was a moment of silence broken only by river sounds audible through the narrow opening made by the wedge.
“Just check up,” said Corrigan. “I’m thinking, Chief, maybe the machinery won’t work unless the door is tight closed. There’s just time to see if we can haul it open. Go to it, boys!”
“I can just get a hold,” came hoarsely.
“Pull—not far—just to see if she moves.”
Another interval and then:
“Sure, we could haul it open right enough.”
“Then stand by,” rapped Nayland Smith; “haul if there’s any hitch.”
Up above, Eastman, peering through a gap in a row of barrels, saw the little motor craft stealing downstream, sometimes bathed in light, sometimes lost in darkness. One of the two Chinamen on board squatted in the bows, looking out sharply ahead, as the other drove the engine. A dim figure was seated astern; mist hovered over the water.
“This is some damned conjuring trick,” Eastman muttered.
The man in the stern, as moving lights from a passing steamboat momentarily had revealed, wore black oilskins and a gleaming sou’wester beneath the brim of which his features were entirely hidden. His dress was identical with that of the other four who had preceded him as passengers in the launch!
The concealed party on the dock watched breathlessly as the little craft, rolling on an oily swell, was turned into the narrow opening all but invisible from mid-river and brought to the ladderway. The manoeuvre was performed smoothly;
the man in the bows grasping the rail, extending one hand to the passenger in the stern. The engine had been shut off as they took the bend, and all lights doused.
Stepping cautiously, the passenger came forward and was assisted on to the ladder. There was an exchange of whispered words, indistinguishable to the men above. But Eastman, who had watched a previous arrival through binoculars from a police boat, guessed that the Chinaman who had been in the bows was leading the way. . . .
Inside, in utter darkness, four men waited tensely. Faintly to their ears came the sound of footsteps on the ladder.
“Stand by,” said Corrigan in a low voice; “cover ‘em.”
The door opened—whether automatically or because it was pulled by the two men on duty was not at the moment apparent.
“Hands up!” rapped Nayland Smith.
He shot the ray of a torch fully into the face of the man who entered; a meaningless Mongolian face, which ever under these circumstances exhibited no change of expression whatever. The man raised his hands above his head. The figure immediately behind him clad in gleaming black made a similar movement.
From outside came a muffled shout, a clatter of footsteps— the sound of a splash in the river, and:
“Get that man!” Eastman was heard shouting. “He went in off the stern of the boat!”
Answering shouts responded, scurrying movements.
“Search the blackbird, Waygood,” Corrigan directed. “You— search the Chink.”
