THE MANCHU SKULL
by EMILE C. TEPPERMAN
CHAPTER I. THE LEFT-HANDED SWORDSMAN!
THERE was an undercurrent of something strange and ominous in the life of Chinatown tonight. King sensed it at once as he turned into Pell Street from the Bowery. The usual gossiping crowd of yellow men in black alpaca jackets and skull caps was missing from in front of the Chinese Art Theater. The store of Pu Yee, the venerable old curio importer, was closed. The three-story building of the Sung Tong, next door, was likewise dark and deserted. Only the garish neon lights of the Far Long Sin Restaurant, which catered to the sightseeing trade, provided any signs of life in the street.
King walked warily, swinging his silver-knobbed cane in carefully gloved hands. His tall, immaculately clothed figure, and the easy, lithe swing of his body, afforded no indication of the fact that the wallet in his breast pocket contained one hundred thousand dollars in large bills.
It was no new thing for Christopher King to come down to his little office in Chinatown with a small fortune in cash. He was known as a buyer of precious jade, and a man whom the Chinese could trust implicitly. So whenever anything of value had to be sold, King got the first call.
He stopped for a moment to light a cigarette, while still half a block from the Far Long Sin Restaurant. And a short, squat, dark shape sidled out of a doorway.
Instantly, King tautened. He flipped away the match, and gripped the silver-headed cane. But he relaxed at once, upon recognizing the man.
“Hello, Pu Yee,” he said in English.
The old curio importer glanced around nervously. Then he shuffled closer.
“Good evening. King
King's eyes narrowed. “You know why I am here?”
The old man shivered. “Indeed I do, my son. And I am afraid for you. There is a woman with black hair who brings death to Chinatown and it is written that you are to meet her. Also, it is written that many must die tonight. Go home, King
Before King could ask him another question, Pu Yee turned and shuffled back into the darkness of the doorway. His squat, alpaca-clothed figure blended with the shadows.
King puffed thoughtfully for a moment at his cigarette. Then he shrugged, and went on. But he walked even more cautiously than before.
He came abreast of the Far Long Sin Restaurant. There was a big rubberneck bus parked at the curb, with a flamboyant streamer tacked along its side, reading:
WORLD'S FAIR CHINATOWN TOUR 75c
A couple of other cars were parked before and behind the bus, indicating that Far Long Sin was getting a nice volume of business tonight. There was music inside, and King got a glimpse of couples dancing on the small island platform in the center of the dining room. He passed the restaurant, and came abreast of the narrow alley alongside the Far Long Sin building.
SUDDENLY he became taut and motionless. There was something going on in that alley—something silent and sinister. He caught the sound of scuffling feet and muted grunts, and then a queer gurgling oath in Cantonese.
It was pretty dark there in the alley, except for a faint trickle of light slanting down from a hallway window in the side of the restaurant building. He caught a blur of swirling figures—four or five of them in black jackets, with steel flashing dully in their hands—surging in upon a single, lone figure which stood with its back to the wall.
And then King uttered a gasp of amazement. For the light in the window above streamed momentarily across the face of that lone defender, and he saw that it was a woman—a white girl with a slim, supple figure, a long firm throat, and coils of black hair piled high upon her head. She was desperately fighting off the Chinese. Her sole weapon of defense was a black leather handbag, with which she was attempting to ward off the biting thrust of those blades.
King's lips tightened, and he came into the alley on the run. His rubber-soled shoes made no noise. As he smashed into the rear of those Chinese, he vaguely wondered why the girl had not cried out for help.
He brought his cane down with a thud upon the head of the nearest Chinese, and felt bone crack under the blow.
The others hissed in startled alarm and swung around—with knives glistening in their hands.
“Slink away, jackals!” King said in perfect Cantonese. He threw a side glance at the girl and saw that she was staring at him with a queer half-smile upon her lips.
The Chinese hatchet men did not retreat. One of their number hissed a low command, and they all surged in at him with knives held low like swords, for the deadly disemboweling stroke which has been used by Oriental knife men since time immemorial.
King laughed deep in his throat. He always experienced a strange exhilaration at the scent of battle. He took a swift step backward, and felt the comforting solidity of the wall behind him. At the same time, his right hand gripped the middle of the cane while his left seized the silver knob. He pulled on the knob, and a glittering arc of whirring Damascus steel flickered before the astonished eyes of the on-surging knife men. The blade licked out like a striking cobra and bit deeply into the throat of the nearest Chinese.
A gurgling cry escaped from the man's throat. Blood gushed as he fell away. King jerked his sword free, sent it once more in a glittering arc that kept the remaining Chinamen at bay. One of their number, half a dozen feet behind the others, lifted a long knife, holding it by the blade between the tips of his thumb and forefinger, poising to throw.
King saw him out of the corner of his eye. He knew the deadly accuracy with which these men could hurl a knife, for he had seen it done a thousand times both here in Chinatown and in the far reaches of the Orient. He knew that when that man cast the knife, it would travel to its mark with the speed of light and would be as impossible to dodge as the steel-jacketed bullet from a machine gun.
Once more he laughed that deep, booming laugh of his. He took a quick step forward from the wall. His body fell into a long crouch, and his left arm went out in a deadly lunge. The sword pierced the vitals of the nearest Chinaman. The man screamed.
King freed his sword, stepped in quickly and caught the falling man by the lapels of his alpaca jacket. He swung the wounded man around just as the knife thrower made his cast. The dagger hurtled through the air, straight and true. But instead of striking King's heart, it bit into the back of the wounded man whom King was holding.
Now there were only three of the knife men left. King came in at them, his swift-moving sword flashing in a blinding series of dazzling arcs as it lunged and circled before their eyes.
Suddenly one of the yellow men uttered a shrill squeal. “It is the Left-handed Swordsman!” he squeaked in
