Buddy Slesson was waiting for them in one of Hop Ching’s cars at the Oakland airport. He and Torchy exchanged meaning glances as the dark and sinuous Julia, trim and morning-fresh and smiling, in her yellow sports costume, dismounted from the plane. But, other than that one glance, they ignored her.
At Hop Ching’s residence, Grant got out, but held up his hand as Julia started to follow him. “Nn, nn!” he commanded. “Mr. Slesson will drive you across the bay to Frisco, Julia. The Palace is a good hotel.”
“Gee, you’re a pain in my neck, Jimmy!” the girl exploded. “I want to meet that Chink millionaire pal of yours. Or are you afraid he’ll cut you out with me?”
“Heaven forbid!” snorted Grant. “Chinese gentlemen of the old school insist that women are useful for very few purposes, none of which is planning a tong war.”
“Now if you’re going to be nasty—”
“Run along, Julia,” Grant’s tone lost its banter: “I’ll see you at the Palace, as soon as I can make it.”
Julia settled into her seat and tilted her nose. “Drive on, Mister Slesson,” she ordered.
Hop Ching, the silk-robed sage, opened the conference, after the usual prolonged courtesies, by quoting the proverb, “Thousand mile journey begins with single step, Mr. Grant. My unworthy grandson’s seemingly insignificant information justifies that saying. Poo Yong is indeed imprisoned in San Francisco. While awaiting arrival of your Chicago rodmen, I make diffident suggestion that you move to city. Sly unworthy son, Doctor Hop Wu, who had honor of attending your wounded friends, has insignificant apartment not too far from street which bears your reputable name. My son hopes that you will favor him by acceding his home as your own, although it is small and meanly furnished.”
Which, from what Grant had learned of the circumlocutions of Chinese conversation, was sufficient to convince him that Dr. Hop Wu’s house would prove to be little different than a miniature Oriental palace.
The sage continued, “I have arranged for Elders of Hop Sing Tong to receive you and appoint you temporary commander-in-chief. They are deeply moved by your unselfish devotion to insignificant Chinese servant, and they are equally impressed by your raid in San Jose.”
“Holy smoke!” gasped Grant.
“It is unusual, I concede,” said Hop Ching. “But, during your absence, I took liberty of adopting you as my son. This makes you quite as eligible for membership in Tong as my other son, Dr. Hop Wu—your elder brother, so to speak. Your filial conduct in avenging death of your own father makes you peculiarly acceptable for such adoption.”
“Well—I’ll be damned!” was Grant’s only available reply.
Hop Ching smiled. “Remarks not exactly appropriate. But sincerity of purpose is better than knowledge of ritual.— My grandson, Hop Wang, will escort you and your personal companions to San Francisco at once. You will confer with Elders of Tong; and they will serve you as they would me. But be not rash. Remember that Kung-Fu-Tsze said: Cautious man seldom errs.” The kind old eyes of the sage twinkled as at some hidden jest, as he paused and then added, “Also Kung-Fu-Tsze has said: Bow never unbent is useless.”
Grant looked sharply at his host, wondering what this proverb portended. “Well?”
“Therefore, so that you may have plenty of rest and recreation,” Hop Citing continued. “The homely and insignificant Chinese girl, Tin Yuk, will attend to your comfort and diversion while in humble home of my unworthy son.”
Grant gasped as he realized that, due to his having saved the life of the little Chinese girl, and having rescued her from a fate worse than death, Oriental etiquette placed upon him the entire responsibility for her future welfare. For in China, a rescuer owes an obligation to the rescued, instead of vice versa, as in America.
So he thanked Hop Ching for his thoughtfulness, and was driven by the slim young grandson, Hop Wang, along with Slesson, Cullinane, Novak and Foo Sam, over to the Frisco Ferry. On arriving at the other side, they proceeded up Market Street, until a little more than halfway to Van Ness Avenue, they swung tight and headed north.
Finally Hop Wang pulled up in front of a dingy brown front, jammed up against the sidewalk. But the interior was breathtaking. Its spacious rooms were appointed with erotic magnificence. The master bedroom, consistent with Chinese ideas of safety, was at the rear, while the suites for Grant’s personal followers were facing the street.
The entire house was a network of telephones and signal-buzzers, and the heavy doors could in an instant be made into a succession of barricades from either front or rear. Hop Wang explained the setup. Grant saw no sign of Tin Yuk; though, as he lugged his suitcase into the master bedroom, he caught a whiff of a familiar, exotic fragrance, and was certain that he had heard the soft swish of silk, and the rustle of an embroidered hanging.
A bow never unbent is useless? Grant repeated to himself as the lingering, foreign sweetness persisted in his nostrils. He sighed “I suppose I ought not to hurt the old scholar’s feelings—.”
One of the dragons embroidered on the counterpane seemed to be maliciously winking at him. Grant strode determinedly over toward the piece of tapestry which he thought he had seen sway slightly. But he was interrupted by a timid knock on his door. Wheeling around, he approached the door, and flung it open. The young Chinaman, Hop Wang, stood on the threshold.
“I have called the Elders of the Tong,” Wang announced. As he spoke, he pulled aside a lacquer cabinet in the hall, disclosing the top of a secret stairway. “They will presently be here.”
In less than a minute, six middle-aged, mild-mannered Chinese came up and out through the dark opening. They had scarcely seated themselves about a long table in the living room, when there was a tapping at one of the wall panels. Hop Wang opened it to admit a dozen younger Chinese: alert, grim-faced fellows in American garb. Grant knew without being told that they were highbinders, the “salaried soldiers” of the Hep Sing Tong; the old-time hatchet-men brought up to date and equipped with automatics, though as a last resort, each would revert to type and blossom out with a basketful of knives. The highbinders silently aligned themselves along the wall.
Hop Wang addressed the gathering in Chinese. The Elders, substantial business men, replied in the same language.
Then Hop Wang said in English, “Mr. Grant, we are dispensing with rituals and ceremonies, which in our language would be meaningless to you. Our salaried soldiers have now seen you, and will recognize and obey you. Every Hep Sing member, quite without your knowledge will have you constantly under his eye. Your own army can serve only against the American allies of our enemy. However, in case of a general battle—which I fear we can not avoid—all forces will combine together. We are certain that Foo Yong is imprisoned in the notorious Hall of Everlasting Spring. The presence of strange Americans there confirms our information. And whenever you are ready, we will start the attack.”
* * * *
They spent half an hour studying the details of a sketch of the Hall of Everlasting Spring, a drug store which was much more than a place where one purchased dried horn-toads, serpent’s livers, gentain root, and powdered tigers’ hearts.
“There has been a lean American,” concluded Hop Wang, “with a dry cough, a face like a hatchet, and eyes like a serpent. And many of his men are in town.”
“That’s Slim Hammond,” said Grant “And wherever Slim shows up, it means that the Big Shot on Long Island is trying to horn in. Well, we’d better wait for reinforcements. But don’t bring them here, for undoubtedly we are watched by On Leon spies. Foo Sam, you and Buddy Slesson sneak over to the Oakland airport. Round up all our men from Chicago and keep them under cover until ten o’clock tonight. Then surround the Hall of Everlasting Spring. If I don’t come out, you come in. Savvy?”
They nodded.
Grant continued, “Torchy, you and I need sleep. Hop Wang wake me at eight You and I and Torchy and Mike will get goi
ng at nine. Worthy elder brothers, will you arrange to have your hatchet-men follow and guard us, but keep under cover?”
The Elders sagely nodded their heads, then filed majestically into the black depths of the secret stairway.
Grant strode back into his suite, with keen anticipation. The bow was about to unbend, as counseled by the sage Hop Ching.
The exotic fragrance of Tin Yuk still hovered about the place; but, explore as he would behind tapestries and articles of furniture, Grant could find no secret doorways, no shifting panels. A sudden modesty deterred him from venturing out and proclaiming to all the household that he sought the Heavenly Jewel.
Perhaps, after all, rest would be a better preparation for the night’s work, than recreation would be. So he lay down on the soft and luxurious red lacquer bed, and soon was sound asleep.
He awoke with a start. It was pitch dark. He switched on the bed-light and glanced at his wristwatch. Nine o’clock! Great grief! Hop Wang was supposed to have called him at eight.
A Chinese gong stood on the table beside the bed. Grant struck it with its knobbed stick; and instantly one of the tapestries was drawn aside, and Tin Yuk, modestly clothed in black-embroidered pajamas, and looking sweeter than ever, stood before him.
Curtseying properly, yet with a twinkle in her slant eyes, she inquired in a put-on sing-song voice, “What does the lord of the sun and moon desire?”
Grant drank in her loveliness with one enveloping glance. “I’d hate to tell you,” said Grant, grinning, “but just now I’ve got to rush out and kill a lot of On Leons.”
“Then I shall call the honorable Hop Wang,” said she demurely, curtseying again, and leaving by the door.
Grant got up and hastily pulled on his clothes. He had just completed dressing, when the young Chinaman arrived.
“Come on, Wang. No time to lose!” said Grant “Tin Yuk, please see that Torchy Cullinane and Mike Novak are called at once.”
“But the time,” Hop Wang began.
“Skip it!” said Grant, to cut-off the man’s expected apologies.
He inspected the pocket machine-gun that was slung beneath his left armpit, and slipped a few extra clips into his pocket. The little red-headed Irishman and the big blond Polack came running.
“But I thought—” Torchy began.
“Skip it!” Grant commanded. “You and Mike take the Packard. Go down the Avenue they named after me, and park near the corner of Sacramento Street; facing downhill for a quick getaway. Come on, Wang, you are to be my guide. Let’s go.”
“I shall await my lord’s return,” the girl demurely interpolated.
Hop Wang glared at her for this breach of etiquette, but she stared impishly back at him. Finally, unable to stare her down, his eyes fell, and he led the party to the secret stairway. Down it they passed.
Chill mists marched through the streets of Chinatown, blotting out the gilt and red adornments of windows and lintel and heavily barred doors. The street lamps, supported by electroliers shaped like writhing dragons, serpentine spirals of fog from the bay. Chinatown was quiet—ominously quiet.
And—so Hop Wang whisperingly explained to Grant as they made their way through the fog-swept dimness—the hardboiled Chinatown police squad, cursing the bone-splitting chill, had decided that if a few Chinks wanted to blot each other out, let ’em go to it. The cops were now all hospitably detained in warm odorous places, comfortably resting their brogans, smoking fifty-cent cigars, and warming their blood with sips of ng kaa pay. A cop lives longer, and becomes wealthier, if he knows when not to be vigilant on Chinatown patrol duty.
All of which Hop Wang whispered to Grant as they approached the Hall of Everlasting Spring. And he added, “The street is not as deserted as it seems. Were it not for your presence, I would have been shot down before I had walked a block. But my countrymen hesitate to kill an American or his escort—in public, at least.”
He said it as calmly as though commenting on the chilling mist; but Grant’s shudder was not due to the climate.
And then they entered the dimly-lighted pungent Hall of Everlasting Spring.
“Mat ye?” sang the wizened proprietor. “What do you want?”
Hop Wang intoned a reply. Grant smelled trouble. It was too easy. The proprietor led the way to the rear. He parted a curtain, and beckoned. But before Grant could cross the threshold, Hop Wang jerked him aside, and simultaneously yanked the curtain from its support.
A heavy block of concrete crashed from the lintel to the floor. Grant, alert only for snipers, would have been crushed by the deadfall, if it had not been for his companion’s vigilance. He instinctively reached for his pocket machine gun, but quick as he was, Hop Wang’s gesture was a split second faster. A silvery, shimmering streak zipped across the room. The proprietor dropped with a knife buried in his back, dead before he could observe the result of his trap.
The impact of five hundred pounds of concrete stirred the Hall of Everlasting Spring to rapid life. A door popped open. A swarthy, black-haired Mexican thrust his head out: Smoke Rivera, one of Hammond’s mugs. He was grinning in pleasurable anticipation—until he saw that Grant was quite unharmed. He reached for his gat as the blast of Grant’s forty-five shook the room. Smoke pitched back in a heap, and the circus opened, with two more white mobsters following Rivera into the room.
Grant yelled a warning to Hop Wang, jerked aside, and dropped prone, as a hail of lead tore slivers from the door jamb. The answering thunder of his own machine gun drowned the crackle of Hop Wang’s pistol. Their combined fusillade cleared the door. As Grant bounded forward, his ally turned, jerked the front door shut, and barred it. Far in the rear, came a confusion of savage yells and the muffled smack-smack of pistol fire.
The Hep Sings were closing in from the rear; and the barred front door would block the police—if they showed up at all, which was unlikely.
“Give ’em hell, Wang!” shouted Grant, reloading and leaping across the threshold. He dashed down a narrow hallway. A side door burst open. Two white men came out, guns blazing. A sweeping blast from Grant’s gun mowed them both down. Leaping over their bodies, Grant swung down the side passage, slipping in a fresh clip as he advanced toward the tumult at the rear.
A dozen long strides brought him to an inner court that was no more than an air shaft. And there he saw a battle that was a battle.
A score of yellow men were fighting with Mongol savagery, hand to hand, knife and pistol, hatchet and teeth and fingernails.
The air was thick with acrid smoke, and the paving was drenched with blood. It was a hopeless entanglement of Hep Sings and On Leons. Grant did not know friend from foe, but Hop Wang bounded into action.
Grant paused irresolute.
A seven-foot Manchu hurled an empty pistol, catching him full in the chest. Before Grant could swing up his gun, the Manchu giant, knife in hand, closed in.
They crashed headlong against the wall, jarring Grant’s gun from his hands. The Manchu broke away to drive home with his knife. Grant snatched his wrist and deflected the thrust. The blade splintered against the paving and Grant, wrenching clear, drove his knee to the Manchu’s stomach. It jarred him loose, but did not stop him. His powerful hands sank into Grant’s throat with a strangling grip. Red motes danced before Grant’s eyes. Another second, and Grant’s thumbs found their mark. The Manchu groaned, vainly jerked his head, then released his strangling grasp to tear the torturing thumbs from his eyeballs.
That was Grant’s chance. He shifted, swung one arm into a hammerlock about the Manchu’s neck, and squeezed with all his force, before the corded throat could set to resist the murderous torsion.
A snap, an agonized shudder, and the giant lay in a quivering heap, his neck broken as though by a hangman’s noose. Grant picked up his gun and stood alert.
The howling, raging vortex of butchery broke into half a dozen hand-to-hand
engagements. He caught a glimpse of Hop Wang struggling to his knees, with another Chinaman plunging at him with drawn knife. Grant smiled grimly, as he blasted the enemy hatchet-man; here was one chance to tell friend from foe in this confused melee, where all Chinks looked alike except Hop Wang.
The Hep Sings now had the advantage. Hop Wang seized a hatchet, and bounded like a dancing dervish, hacking and blasting wherever an On Leon was tangled with a Hep Sing. And Grant, back to the wall, followed him with his eyes and gun-muzzle, and often succeeded in blasting down the combatant whom Wang’s actions identified as one of the enemy. Each Hep Sing, thus left with empty hands, began mopping up in turn. A moment of massacre, and the deck was clear. Only Hep Sings remained alive in the slaughter-pen.
Hop Wang, slashed and bleeding, spoke a command, that seemed like a shout in that sudden silence, unbroken except for hoarse breathing. The Hep Sings retrieved pistols and hatchets, chopping through a door, and surged onward, into an empty maze of passages.
Grant eyed the gruesome tangle of white and yellow corpses, gulped in an effort to subdue his rebellious stomach, and followed the advance.
The search of the Hall of Everlasting Spring netted not a trace of Foo Yong. They passed through deserted living quarters, hacked open sliding panels, lifted trap-doors. They found the upper rooms that had been occupied by Slim Hammond’s rodmen; found, and cut down, a solitary lurker before Grant could interfere and question him; but the fruit of the raid was only vengeance.
“Even so,” said Hop Wang, “we have taken three for each one we have lost.”
“Do you think someone gave us a bum steer?” wondered Grant.
“The police,” Hop Wang began with apparent irrelevance, “have tactfully ignored this party. Which hints that they were on the side of the enemy, and were tipped off not to interfere in what was going to be an On Leon victory. Thus I would conclude that someone did give us what you call a bum steer, or else that the On Leons discovered the leak and moved our prisoner. It would now be expedient for us to leave before the enemy’s main party learns that we came out on top.”
E. Hoffmann Price's Two-Fisted Detectives Page 39
