A report received out on the street as the party left Wu King’s Bar, from the man whom Hepburn had dispatched to East River, was reassuring. The water-gate referred to by Nayland Smith had actually been discovered; two arrests had been made: operations on that front were proceeding in accordance with plan.
The life of Chinatown within the barricaded area carried on much along its usual lines. The stoicism of the Asiatics, like the fatalism of the Arab, makes for acceptance of things as they are. From a dry-goods store, when a customer entered or emerged, came mingled odours of joss stick and bombay duck; attractively lighted restaurants seemed to be well patronized; lobsters, crayfish and other crustacean delicacies dear to the Chinese palate were displayed in green herbal settings. John Chinaman blandly minded his own business, so that there seemed to be something quite grotesque about the guarded barrier at the end of the street.
Mark Hepburn was badly worried. Nayland Smith’s unique experience had enabled him to postulate the existence of a Chinatown headquarters and of a river-gate. Right in this, it seemed improbable that he was wrong in his theory that there were exits and entrances somewhere on the streets surrounding this particular block.
He turned to Detective Inspector Finney, who silently walked beside him.
“You tell me there’s nothing secret about Chinatown any more,” he said slowly; “if that’s true, there’s a bad muddle here.”
Inspector Finney, a short, thick-set man with a red, square-jawed face, wearing rainproofs and a hard black hat, turned and stared at Hepburn.
“There’s no more iron doors,” he declared defiantly. “An iron door couldn’t get unloaded and set up without I knew about it. There used to be gambling joints and opium dens, but since the new regulations they’ve all moved over there— not so strict. All my boys can’t be deaf and blind. When we get the word, we’ll check up the block. If any strangers have arrived they’ll have to show their birthmarks.”
Mark Hepburn, inside one of the barriers beyond which stood a group of curious onlookers, pulled up sharply, and turning to Finney:
“There’s just one part of this area,” he said, “which I haven’t explored—the roofs.” He turned to one of a group behind him, and: “You’re in charge, Johnson,” he added. “I don’t expect to be long.”
Ten minutes later, followed by Inspector Finney and two men, Hepburn climbed the fire ladders at the back of a warehouse building which seemed to be deserted. No light showed from any of the windows. When at last they stepped upon the leads:
“Stick to the shadow,” said Hepburn sharply. “There’s a high point at the end of the block from which we might be seen.”
“Sure,” Finney replied; “that’s the building where Wu King’s Bar is located. He goes three floors up—the rest is a Chinese apartment house. I checked up on every apartment six o’clock this evening, and there’s a man on the street entrance. Outside of this block we’re overlooked plenty any way.”
“There are lights in the top story of the Wu King building. Maybe you recall who lives there?”
“Wu King and his wife live up there,” came the voice of one of the men, hidden in the shadows behind him. “He owns the whole building but rents part of it out. He’s one of the wealthiest Chinks around here.”
Mark Hepburn was becoming feverishly restless. He experienced an intense urge for action. These vague, rather aimless investigations failed to engross his mind. Even now, with the countless lights of the city around him, the curiously altered values of street noises rising to his ears, the taunting mystery which lay somewhere below, he found his thoughts, and not for the first time that night, leading him into a dream world inhabited by Moya Adair.
He wondered what she was doing at that moment—what duties had been imposed upon her by the sinister President. She had told him next to nothing. For all he knew to the contrary, her slavery might take her to the mysterious Chinatown base, that unimaginable den which in grotesque forms sometimes haunted his sleep. The awful idea presented itself that if Nayland Smith’s raid should prove successful, Moya might be one of the prisoners!
A damp grey mist borne upon a fickle breeze was creeping insidiously through the streets of Chinatown.
“Is there any way of obtaining a glimpse of that apartment?” he asked.
“We could step right up and ring the bell,” Finney answered. “Otherwise, not so easy. Looks to me as if the ladders from that point join up with the lower roof beyond the dip. And I don’t know if we can get from this one down to the other.”
“Stay in the shadows as much as possible,” Hepburn directed.
He set out towards the upstanding storey of Wu King’s building, which like a squat tower dominated the flat surface of the leads.
VII
“There’s something wrong here,” said Nayland Smith.
From the iron gallery upon which he stood he shone the light of his torch down upon slowly moving evil- smelling water.
“We’ve got into one of the main sewers,” said Corrigan:
“that’s what’s wrong. From the time it’s taken us to make it I should say we’re way up on Second; outside the suspected area, anyway.”
He turned, looking back. It was an eerie spectacle. Moving lights dotted the tunnel—the torches of the raiding party. Sometimes out of whispering shadows a face would emerge smudgily as a straying beam impinged upon it. There were muffled voices and the rattle of feet on iron treads.
“Suppose we try back,” came a muffled cry. “We might go on this way all night.”
“Turn back,” snapped Nayland Smith irritably. “This place is suffocating and we’re obviously on the wrong track.”
“There’s a catch somewhere,” Corrigan agreed. “All we can do is sit around the rat hole and wait for the rat to come out.”
