Dodging a passing ambulance, Hank Martin walked to the edge of the wharf and looked out absently into the Bay, trying to collect his thoughts. Directly to the north of him ran the eastern half of the Bay Bridge, in its final phases of construction. A long truss-style span stretched out to an island right in front of Hank, then a second, suspension span connected the island to San Francisco. Hank had no way of knowing it, but he was looking straight at Sid and Rosie’s prison.
The Baroness was in the station’s main office, still pacing like a cat, watching as the route manager placed long distance calls to his counterparts in Chicago and elsewhere. Finally the man threw up his hands in exasperation.
“Look, lady, I’ve talked to everybody: SP, Union Pacific, New York Central. They all say the same thing. Your friends got to Chicago on time. The car was being transferred to the Coastliner when somebody called up and asked them to hold it for a few hours. The guy said he was from the Adirondack-Poughkeepsie line, knew all the details. Why wouldn’t they believe him? Then he calls back, says put it on the Juggernaut, which they did. And there’s the Juggernaut,” — he pointed out the window — “and there’s your car. We know your friends got back on board at Chicago, the station agent saw to it. If they ain’t here now they must’ve got off somewhere. Are you sure you didn’t just miss them on the platform? There was a lot of people out there, it happens all the time.”
There was no mistaking it. The upset furniture and broken wine glasses were clear signs of a struggle, and Hank found evidence that either Sid or Rosie, maybe both, had been tied up in one of the smaller sleeping berths for a while. He also found a bloodstained bandage in a garbage can, but he didn’t mention this to the Baroness. Not yet.
* * *
“Y’know Angel, sometimes I think we should give those creeps what they want. Just leave the dingus on the street with a big red bow on it and a note sayin’ no hard feelings. I mean, they got your pop, then that smuggler, now Sid and Rosie. How much longer ’til they get us all?”
Hank and the Baroness had crossed back to San Francisco and returned to their hotel. The cylinder was out of its canvas wrapper again and cast a cool green glow throughout the room. It was somewhat brighter now than it had been in New York, and pulsed more vigorously. It gave the Baroness’s face a mysterious, almost spectral cast.
“You know we can’t do that, Hank. We’ve been through this a dozen times. This was important to my father; more important than his own life. And the smuggler felt the same way. I won’t let those sacrifices be for nothing. Whatever is going on, it’s big. And we’re the only ones who can stop it.”
Hank shrugged his bearlike shoulders. He would stay beside the Baroness, even if common sense told him it was madness. They were marching straight into the heart of the mystery, and now it had claimed two of them. Who would be next?
They considered switching to another hotel, staying on the move to evade capture, but decided it was better to stay put. If the enemy had traced the train, they must know the Baroness was somewhere nearby. They would probably check hotel registrations, watch the lobbies, keep tabs on police activity. But they wouldn’t be looking for a man named Colombo. Hank’s alias was the last shred of safety they had; switching hotels now would only increase the chances of their cover being blown.
At seven o’clock that evening, Hank set out for the meetings with his contacts. First up was Tony Mezzrow, the well-connected ex-cop. They met at a quiet Italian restaurant called Carlo’s, and took a table near the rear. The only other patrons were a couple of mooning kids parked by the front windows, and they were interested only in each other’s eyes. The two detectives could speak freely.
“There are no Chinese gangs looking to steal antiques from the United States,” Tony said flatly. “There are a few who bring ’em in, though. Fake Ming vases and that sorta thing. You interested?” Hank was not.
“That’s what I figured. Now this other thing you mentioned, about the guys in black masks. There we may have something. Granted, this is a real long shot, but... You ever heard of something called the Shadow Order?”
“Do tell,” said Hank. “It don’t sound any nuttier than the rest of this fish story.”
“Very secretive set of fellows. Only the old-timers ever heard of ’em. Nobody knows much, but they came over here once before, about twenty years ago. There was a lot of political trouble in China then, warlords running all over the place. Seems this Shadow Order showed up from out of nowhere, threw in with some guys who were taking over the opium export trade. Next thing you know they’re here in San Francisco, creating an unholy ruckus in Chinatown, creepin’ around the Barbary Coast... It took an alliance of all the local tongs to kick ’em out, and it didn’t come cheap.”
Hank whistled. “Pretty tough gang, huh?”
“Friend, these guys are not a gang. They’re an army — a mercenary army. That means they’re taking orders from somebody else. If you’re telling me they’re after your client, and they came all the way from Shanghai to get him, then I’m telling you to get out of it right now. Go back to New York and forget the whole thing. You don’t stand a chance against them.”
* * *
An hour later, Hank met Hector Garcia at a waterfront bar just off the Embarcadero. A jazz sextet was playing something slow and sleazy, with insouciant lyrics about a floozy who lost her man, found him again, then shot him. The “finder” seemed troubled as he pulled Hank into a dimly lit booth, smoothing down his pencil-thin mustache before he spoke.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said quietly, “But there are a lot of people running scared in this town.”
Hank pulled grimly on his scotch, his hairy eyebrows furrowed like angry caterpillars.
“When you mentioned guys in black suits and masks, I thought that sounded real familiar. There’s been a rumor — whispers, really — about some guys just like that. Three of ’em. They’ve been around for a few months, but nobody knows who they are or what their game is. They say these guys come in by boat at night, do whatever they do, clear out before dawn. By boat. So their H.Q. ain’t even in the city.”
He did the thing with his mustache again and lit a hand-rolled cigarette. Hank noticed it was not tobacco.
“A few weeks ago, things started getting weird. A steamer from Shanghai failed to show. It was carrying a lot of stuff on the sly, including opium, heroin. Several of our local entrepreneurs were counting on it for this month’s profits.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Hank. He saw no need to mention Sid’s story of the ghost ship, the Golden Star, but he made the connection.
“All of a sudden, people start seeing your spooks skulking around a lot more often. And get this...” he took a drag from his reefer, holding in the smoke for a moment before continuing. “A couple days ago, right before you showed up, somebody new comes to town. I don’t know who; some Chinese cat, I think. Starts recruiting local tough guys, real bad eggs, killers and gunmen all of ’em. Guys with twitchy fingers, you know? First in Chinatown, then all over the city. And guess who follows this guy everywhere he goes? Two more of your spooks.”
Hank was staring intently now; the timing was too good for coincidence. “You said they was comin’ in by boat. Do you know where they are? Where their hideout is?”
“As a matter of fact, I think maybe I do.” Garcia paused for another drag. “It’s a nice night,” he said at last. “Let’s take a little walk.”
The men stepped outside, leaving the jazz band and their songs of vice behind. It was a cool, clear night, with a little breeze coming in off the bay. Leading Hank to the end of a nearby pier, Garcia motioned silently over the water, pointing out a dark lump in the middle of the bay. It was the same island that Hank had regarded a few hours earlier, from the opposite shore. The big detective nodded grimly.
“One more thing,” said Garcia. “I think these creeps are all looking for your client. A high-class dame, perhaps? Short-cut black hair, knockout looks?” Hank bristled.
“Uh-huh. I don’t know where you got her hid, but you better keep her hid. She’s the only one they got a good description of. They know she ain’t workin’ alone, but they don’t know nothin’ about you.”
“Thanks, Hector; you’re a pal,” said Hank, slipping a small wad of currency into Hector’s hand. Hank’s mind was a whirl. He knew where they were, but they still didn’t know where he was, or even who he was. That gave Hank and the Baroness an advantage. And if Hector was right, the enemy camp was a straight shot across the water from the Oakland train station; if Sid and Rosie were still alive, he’d put down money they were on that island right now.
Sonny, Professor Armbruster and Captain Doyle were due to arrive with the Delahaye in two days. That would give him four men, plus the Baroness, against five spooks, an unknown number of gunmen and their new boss.
Hank made his decision instantly, almost unconsciously. He was going to that island. He was going to take Sid and Rosie right from under those bastards’ noses.
The only question was how.
* * *
While Hank Martin walked the San Francisco waterfront, alone with his thoughts in the dark night, the Black Dragon sat upon his throne in the Great Hall and gazed forth. Before him, as always, were two columns of ten men each, tall and motionless. They were Chenggi, hand-picked for their loyalty. Without question or hesitation, they would follow his every command; even take their own lives.
The Dragon’s gaze drifted higher, to the large window that looked out over his dominion. A light snow fell under leaden skies. Somewhere below, just out of view, there stood a whole legion of soldiers, the fearsome Shadow Order, ready to enforce his will with swift, silent efficiency, anywhere in the world.
Except America. Even after all this time, the Dragon had not established more than the tiniest foothold on the western continents. He had grand plans for San Francisco, Chicago, New York, but these were years from fruition. And now the Americans had risen up to threaten him, like ants who think they can topple a mountain.
He had made up his mind. It was time once again for the Black Dragon to go out into the world, to wade amidst the idiot masses and their corruption. Distasteful, yes, but it was the only way.
The Dragon had men, a great many of them. But not all were loyal, and none of them were he. None had his unsurpassed genius or his indomitable will. The Chenggi smuggler’s betrayal had been small — one piece of an enormous puzzle stolen, taken to a faraway land where it would be seen as nothing but a gaudy trinket, a curiosity. But the implications of this small act were writ large. The Dragon’s master plan, not just for America but for the whole world, hinged on the recovery of that one object. And his pitiful organization in America still did not have it, even after he gave them the names of de Rothburg and the Chenggi traitor, gave them the train to San Francisco. Still the fools could not find it!
The Black Dragon rose from his seat and strode across the room to an elaborately carved cabinet, one of many lining the ruddy stone wall. With careful movements, he lifted out the object that rested there and beheld it with a mix of wonder and avarice.
The carved stone cylinder filled the room with a dazzling, pulsing green light, and sang to him.
Chapter XII
A PLAN OF MADNESS
—
YERBA BUENA ISLAND, also known as Goat Island, Wood Island, or Sea Bird Island, is a drab, scruffy pile of rocks and trees dropped in the middle of San Francisco Bay. It’s not much to look at, but Hank Martin spent most of his Tuesday staring at the island as he rode the ferries back and forth across the water, over and over, memorizing its layout and contours from every angle through a pair of high-powered binoculars. He had nicked those, as well as the Luger pistol under his jacket, from the Baroness’s plane.
There were several points of interest. The southeast end of the island housed a Coast Guard installation and a lighthouse; on the opposite side were several houses and low buildings that had once been a training station for the U.S. Navy, now abandoned. A couple of roads wound around the low peak, but the Bay Bridge was the dominant element, plunging into the center of the island from either side. A tunnel connected the two spans. Looking up, Hank was surprised to spot a truck on the bridge, midway between the island and the city. But of course, he reasoned, there had to be some way for construction and inspection crews to get up there, even if the bridge wouldn’t open to the public for several more weeks.
Just north of the island was a broad, flat expanse of earth poking just above the waterline. A fellow rider explained to Hank that this was landfill: an artificial island was being constructed to house the upcoming Golden Gate International Exposition. There was already talk of transforming the new island into an airport once the fair was over, and Hank could see its potential as a landing strip even in its current muddy state.
It was on the third pass that he saw them: two figures all in black, walking in front of a large house on the San Francisco side. The house sat perhaps a hundred feet above the Bay, and quite close to the tunnel: a hundred yards or less. On his next pass he saw them again: guard duty from the look of it, although Hank could discern a gradual drop in interest as the day wore on, their early alertness visibly degenerating to distraction and finally ennui. By mid-afternoon, they appeared to be asleep at their posts.
The previous week, in Cleveland, Hank had purchased a copy of that Doc Savage magazine Sid was always talking about, to distract himself from the horrors of air travel. He was hooked. Once in Frisco, he loaded up with more: The Shadow, Two-Fisted Detective, even Weird Excitement. Now, as he crossed the Bay again and again, weaving among the lumbering tugboats and hulking freighters, a plan began to form in Hank’s mind that could have come straight from those pulpy pages. It would require everybody: the Baroness would have to come out of hiding, and if Sonny and the scientists failed to arrive on time tomorrow, there was no chance. But even with them, Hank’s idea was audacious, fantastic, and undoubtedly foolhardy. It was perfect.
* * *
Hank didn’t know it, but the Baroness was already out of hiding. Sitting in a hotel room while her friends were in danger was not Angelica de Rothburg’s idea of a good plan, and the confinement chafed.
So on Tuesday morning, shortly after Hank left for his survey of the island, the Baroness tucked a notebook and the little Derringer pistol into her handbag and headed for the Explorer’s Institute on Montgomery Street, a little-known private club with an extensive library. Franz de Rothburg and his daughter each had lifetime memberships.
Her first stop was the Institute’s newspaper collection: it took only a few minutes of searching to find an item of interest in the Honolulu Gazette, dated three weeks earlier:
NARCOTICS SEIZED FROM GHOST SHIP
By Gazette Staff
Police are baffled by strange doings on the ghost ship Golden Star, docked in Honolulu Harbor since Thursday evening.
A night watchman reported seeing a mysterious person, tall and possibly Chinese, carrying a bundle from the ship in the dead of night. The watchman called out, and a single shot was fired, but the intruder got away unharmed.
When the ship was searched, it was seen that a previously undiscovered door in the cargo hold had been opened, revealing sacks of opium, heroin and other contraband valued at many thousands of dollars. Police have seized the cargo and will hand the ship over to Naval authorities today.
Whether the man was spiriting away part of this illicit haul or something else entirely remains a mystery.
* * *
So it was true. The strange caller at the mansion really was a smuggler. He had indeed forsaken his ship’s illicit cargo — and sacrificed his life — just to deliver the cylinder for her father. It was a sobering thought.
The Baroness’s next line of inquiry was into the Shadow Order. Here the research proved more difficult. For hours she chased false leads into dead ends, and she was almost ready to give up entirely when she found something in Bartholomew St. Cyr’s Strange Tales
of the Orient, a quasi-scholastic volume of little authority but great entertainment value. The queer little book held a crazy quilt of serious history mingled with outlandish tales of monsters and magic like something out of the Arabian Nights.
The chapter on the Shadow Order was brief, but written in extravagant, twisting prose. According to St. Cyr, fleeting mentions of the Order could be found lurking in Chinese Imperial chronicles going back several centuries. He believed, but could not prove, that the Order originally came from somewhere outside of China. They had started in a monastery, much like the Shaolin monks who were masters of martial arts, but were organized like an army. They wore masks at all times, not simply to obscure their identities but as a wholesale rejection of them: they thought and acted as a single entity.
St. Cyr argued that despite their “barbarian” origins the Shadow Order had played a covert role in Chinese politics at the highest level, first keeping the Ming Dynasty in power, then forsaking them to facilitate the rise of the Manchu. They had gone dormant in the nineteenth century, only to re-emerge in the present time (the book was published in 1917) as allies of warlords opposed to the nascent Kuomintang republic. The Order, St. Cyr concluded, was long past its glory days. But they were still potentially dangerous and absolutely secretive.
That was all. There was no mention of otherworldly weapons that could turn men to smoke, or ancient artifacts that glowed; just a secret military force available for hire to the highest bidder. Indeed, as the Baroness flipped through the rest of the book, she concluded that this was the least fantastic chapter in it. But perhaps in the past twenty years this Shadow Order had found a new patron, one very different from their previous employers.
It wasn’t much to go on, but the Baroness decided to check the book out of the library, just in case.
* * *
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