Books: Number Seventeen

L >> Louis Tracy >> Number Seventeen

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"I believe you are all jealous," she vowed. "I am the only one who has
really been in the forefront of the battle. No. I forgot you, Mr.
Theydon. Didn't that horrid man knock you down?"

"Yes," said Theydon, moistening his lips with his tongue. There was
such a peculiar rasp in his voice that it evoked a general laugh.

Obviously the guests meant to avoid serious topics during the meal.
Evelyn Forbes chimed in with a reminiscence of her schooldays in
Brussels, and soon the talk was general, ranging from the year's
Academy to the Ladies' Gold Championship.

Mrs. Paxton, an excellent mimic, was amusing them with imitations of
the voice and manner of a certain well-known lady golfer, when she was
interrupted by three sharp, irregular cracks which seemed to come from
the dining-room windows. Simultaneously a picture frame on the
opposite wall was split and a Worcester vase on a sideboard was
smashed to atoms.

Theydon, owing to his position at the table, was the first to notice
three small, starred holes in the plate glass of the windows.

"Don't stand up!" he said, instantly. "Some one is shooting at the
house. Crouch on the floor, for Heaven's sake!"

That urgent appeal was emphasized by a fourth bullet, which, taking a
lower flight, barely missed Forbes, upset a Venetian glass flower vase
on the table, and buried itself in the lower half of the sideboard.

Forbes, heedless of the possible consequences to himself, sprang to
his wife's assistance, and, interposing his body as a shield between
her and the windows, led her to an angle of the wall where she would
be safe. The younger women, after a momentary hesitation, dropped to
the floor and crawled to the same refuge. Theydon ran out. The front
door was open.

The police had heard the shooting, the sound of which had been
deadened to those in the dining room by the breaking glass and china.
But within a few minutes a useless pursuit was abandoned. The
fusillade had come from a car which halted close to the garden
railings on the far side of the square. Though the trees were nearly
in full leaf, and dense shrubberies seemed to shut off every house
from any such method of attack, investigation proved that it was
possible to estimate accurately the position of the dining-room
windows in No. 11.

When Theydon returned he found Forbes and the ladies gathered in the
hall.

"Another narrow escape on both sides," he said coolly. "Two policemen
were just too late to interfere. Of course, they did not anticipate a
move in that quarter."

"Have the-- er-- enemy made off in a car?" said Mrs. Forbes.

"Yes. A constable in a taxi is trying to follow them."

"Well, then, let us finish our luncheon. I had hardly touched my
cutlet."

"By Jove, Helena, that doctor of ours was decidedly in error," cried
her husband. "You're right. If we're besieged we must carry ourselves
according to the code. Mrs. Paxton, I hope it won't disturb you if a
shell bursts before coffee is served!"

Theydon glanced through a window before resuming his seat.

"That volley has done things!" he announced. "London is stirring at
last. There's a crowd in front of the house, and a short, fat man is
explaining the procedure. Prepare now to receive the press in
battalions."

CHAPTER XVI

WHEREIN UNEXPECTED ALLIES APPEAR

Although, as shall be seen, the final and complete defeat and
extinction of the London section of the Young Manchus were directly
due to forces set in motion by Furneaux, it was Winter's painstaking
way of covering the ground that unearthed the fraternity's meeting
place, and thus brought matters to a head speedily. For the rest,
events followed their own course, and great would have been the fame
of the prophet who predicted that course accurately.

In later days, when more ample knowledge was available, it was a
debatable point whether or not the inmates of No. 11 Fortescue Square
were saved from an almost maniacal vengeance by the fact that a crisis
was precipitated. Winter maintained stoutly that the police must
triumph in the long run, whereas Furneaux held, with even greater
tenacity, that although the gang would undoubtedly be broken up, that
much-desired end might have been attained after, and not before, a
dire tragedy occurred in the Forbes household.

The pros and cons of the argument were equally numerous and weighty.
They cannot be marshaled here. Each man and woman who reads this
record will probably form an emphatic opinion tending toward the one
side or the other. All that a veracious chronicler can accomplish is
to set forth a plain tale of events in their proper sequence, and
leave the ultimate verdict to individual judgment.

Winter was a hard-headed, broad-minded official, whose long and wide
experience enabled him to estimate at their true value the
far-reaching powers of the State as opposed to the machinations of a
few determined outlaws. On the other hand, the amazing facility with
which Furneaux could enter into the twists and turns of the criminal
mind entitles his matured views to much respect.

At any rate, this is what happened.

Winter was sitting in his office, smoking a fat cigar, and wading
through reports brought in by subordinates concerning every opium den
and Chinese boarding house in the East End, when Furneaux entered.

"Any luck?" inquired the chief, laying aside one document which seemed
to merit fuller inquiry; it described a club much frequented by
Chinese residents in London, men of a higher class than the sailors
and firemen brought to the port by ships trading with the Far East,
and an outstanding feature of the Young Manchus' operations was the
intelligent grasp of the ways and means of modern civilized life these
filibusters exhibited.

"So-so," squeaked Furneaux.

He flung himself into a big armchair, curled up in it like an animated
Buddha, and extracted one of the three ivory skulls from a waistcoat
pocket.

"If you could only speak, you image of evil!" he muttered. "You're not
so dead that you cannot work mischief. Why the deuce, then, can't you
mouth your incantations? Then we would listen and learn."

Winter, still sorting his papers, cocked the cigar inquisitively on
one side of his mouth.

"Oh, I have ascertained a lot about the inner politics of China,"
mumbled Furneaux, irritably, gazing fixedly at the skull after one
quick glance of his colleague. "Every little helps, of course. I have
met some Chinamen this morning who would cheerfully plunge Wong Li Fu
into a cauldron of boiling oil, and stir him round with a long stick
when he was in it. One man, quite an important personage in the jute
line, has lost a brother and a brother-in-law, the one in Canton, the
other in Pekin, and he lays both deaths at the door of the redoubtable
Wong. Another, the fellow who chanced to take up his quarters at
Smith's Hotel, is a delegate sent here specially to hunt out Wong, and
destroy him. I asked him how he meant to set about it, but his scheme
is vague. He's an opportunist of the first water. 'Me catchee and
killee Wong Li Fu one time,' was his best effort. I'm going to
confront Len Shi with these two in Bow Street. They may worm something
out of him. But will they own up if they do? Dashed if I know. The
Oriental mind is on a par with their blessed language. It has three
thousand ways of expressing one idea, and not one of 'em is our way."

"Has Theydon gone to Fortescue Square?"

"I suppose so. He turned up in Jermyn Street-- outside Smith's Hotel,
if you please, with a lady in a taxi."

"A lady? Miss Beale?"

"No, his sister, judging from the family likeness. His eyes grew
goggled like yours when he saw the gray car."

"Didn't you explain matters?"

"Not I. Gave him the cut direct. My Chinamen are shy birds, and I
daren't flutter them by letting them think there are too many foreign
devils mixed up in the business. My London Chinaman was the brainy
person who got the Embassy busy when Mrs. Lester's death was
announced. He saw Wong Li Fu's hand in that from the first moment.
Oddly enough, though he and a man from the Embassy followed Theydon
from Waterloo to Forbes's place on Tuesday night, and again to
Innesmore Mansions, he didn't recognize him today. Or perhaps he did.
I don't know. Talk about the impassive Red Indian! A thoroughbred
Chink would give a Pawnee chief one glass eye and a coat of paint, and
then beat him hollow at the haughty indifference game."

"My!" said Winter admiringly, "you've got your tongue loose today.
Well, here's an item which should prove useful. Whitechapel thinks we
may find a Young Manchu or two among that collection," and he threw an
official memorandum across the table.

Furneaux repocketed the skull, and was gazing moodily at the report,
when a uniformed constable announced that a boy messenger wished to
see a "detective" with regard to the typed letter delivered at Mr.
Forbes's house on Wednesday evening.

"Show him up," said the chief, and a smart-looking boy, wearing the
familiar uniform of his corps, was brought in. He glanced around
inquiringly.

"Oh, you're the gentleman who came to our Piccadilly office," he said
to Winter.

"Yes."

"Well, sir, I haven't very much to tell you, but it was I who took the
letter to Fortescue Square. I saw the sender, a foreign-looking
gentleman, he was, with funny eyes, and I think I spotted him again
this afternoon. He was coming out of a house in Charlotte Street."

"Are you sure?" demanded Winter, quickly.

"He was awful like the man who engaged me, sir, and dressed the same
way."

"Did you notice the number of the house?"

"Yes, sir. No. 412."

"Quite certain about that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy. If your information is of any service I'll take care you
are not forgotten."

The boy saluted and went out.

"We must look up No. 412," said Winter, quietly; but there was a ring
of genuine satisfaction in his voice, because the clew promised well,
and it was a complete justification of the straightforward method he
adopted in every inquiry, whereas Furneaux invariably preferred an
abstruse theory to a definite piece of evidence.

The Jersey man's face had wrinkled as a preliminary to some sarcastic
comment on what he termed the "handcuff" way of reasoning, when the
telephone bell rang. Winter answered, and at once his self-possessed
air fled. Indeed, it was a very angry man who listened, because a
subordinate was telephoning from Fortescue Square a full account of
the shooting outrage.

The Chief gave a few curt instructions as to securing the adequate
cooperation of the local police, who should take measures to render
any repetition of such daring tactics absolutely impossible.

"No one was injured, you say?" he added.

"No, sir."

"Were the ladies very much frightened?"

"They've gone back to finish luncheon, sir."

"Good. Evidently they're all of the right breed. You can tell them I
said so, if you like. Assure Mr. Forbes that every care will be taken
to protect his house in future. See that strong patrols occupy every
point from which a gun can be aimed at any window, even the attics, in
No. 11. Phone me again when you have discussed matters with the
district superintendent."

The receiver clanged back into its hook. Winter had not foreseen this
latest move. "Sheer impudence," he termed it.

"More bullets?" inquired Furneaux laconically.

"Yes. A long-range attack from across the square. Four shots lodged in
dining room."

"No one hurt, and no one arrested?"

"Not a soul."

"James," said the little man solemnly, "Wong Li Fu is making us a
laughing-stock. Are you aware that the newspapers will get on our
track now? Can't you see the headlines?-- 'Another Sidney Street.'
'Chinese Pirates Busy in London.' 'Scotland Yard Outwitted.' By this
time tomorrow the Commissioner will be suggesting that you and I ought
to think about retiring on pensions."

Winter jumped up, overturning a chair in his haste.

"Come!" he said. "If that Chinaman in Bow Street won't speak, I'll
torture him. What of the other fellow who was caught near Innesmore
Mansions?"

"He's a Jap. He knows nothing. He was hired for the job-- to put any
interfering bobby to sleep."

The chief inspector angrily bundled some papers into a drawer, and
threw away his cigar, which he had allowed to go out. Furneaux
produced an ivory skull again, and scowled at it, whereupon his
superior, snorting with annoyance, strode to the window, and affected
an interest he was far from feeling in the panorama of the Thames.

And thus they passed a harmonious quarter of an hour, which came to an
end with the appearance of an attendant to announce the arrival of
"two Chinese gentlemen to see Mr. Furneaux."

They went down in the elevator without exchanging a word. At the
entrance stood the gray car, in which the Chinamen were already
seated. Furneaux introduced the chief inspector, and they were whisked
to Bow Street. There in a cell they found Len Shi, a somewhat
sullen-looking man whose European chauffeur's livery seemed curiously
raffish and unsuitable when contrasted with the more picturesque if
sober-hued garments worn by his fellow-countrymen.

At first he maintained the sulky know-nothing role which he had
adopted successfully with the official interpreter. Furneaux, watching
the faces of prisoner and questioners, guessed that small progress was
being made, so, waiting until Len Shi was evidently quite satisfied
with himself, he suddenly thrust an ivory skull before the man's eyes.
The result was unexpected but puzzling. The man was badly scared,
beyond doubt, but he now became obstinately silent.

Winter, than whom no living actor could play up better to Furneaux's
tactics in a touch-and-go encounter of this sort, assumed a highly
tragic air.

"Handcuff that man, and bring him out!" he said to the constable in
charge of the cells.

Len Shi blanched. He estimated the legal methods of Great Britain by
those which obtained in his own land, and probably thought he was
being led forth to immediate execution.

The whole five crowded into the car, and the driver, the same English
chauffeur to whom Theydon had spoken, was told to make for 412
Charlotte Street, and pass the house slowly, but not pull up. Len Shi,
though quaking with alarm, bore himself with a certain dignified
stoicism until he found out where the car was apparently stopping.
Then he said something in a panic-stricken voice and the jute
merchant, who spoke English fluently, turned to Furneaux.

"Tell the chauffeur to return," he said. "Len Shi will now confess."

Once started, Len Shi talked volubly. The others merely put in a
question now and then, and the detectives curbed their impatience as
best they might until Len Shi was safely lodged in Bow Street again.

Then Winter led his Chinese helpers into an inner office and closed
the door.

"Well?" he said, addressing the jute merchant. The other Chinaman had
very little English and could not maintain a conversation.

But, to the chief inspector's surprise and wrath, the English-speaking
Chinaman had only a request to make.

"Give me and my friend those three ivory skulls," he said.

"Why?" he said.

"Without them we can accomplish nothing."

"Be good enough to explain yourself. Above all, tell me what Len Shi
has been jabbering about. He had plenty to say."

"He told us of the fate of our friends in China. Those things do not
concern you. What you want is to have Wong Li Fu and the others--
there are nearly twenty in all-- delivered into your hands. Very well.
Give us those ivory skulls, and bring your men to that house in
Charlotte Street, at one o'clock this night, and you will take them
without a blow being struck."

"That is our business, not yours," said Winter, gruffly decisive. "I
cannot expose you two gentlemen to any personal risk in this affair.
Kindly--"

"You do not understand," broke in the jute merchant, addressing the
burly representative of the Criminal Investigation Department as if he
were a fractious child who must be informed as to the why and
wherefore of a disagreeable duty. "What will you do? Surround the
house with policemen, break in the doors, and fight? You may, or may
not succeed. Some, plenty, of your men will certainly be killed. That
is not good. We do not wish it. Give me those skulls. I and my friend
will go there. You come at one o'clock, tap so on the door, and we
will admit you. Then you take Wong Li Fu and all the others. There
will be no fight."

The Chinaman's manner was singularly impressive as he tapped three
times on a high desk to emphasize, as it were, his instructions. The
sound, too, was curious. He did not use his knuckles, but bunched the
fingers of his right hand together, and rapped on the wood with the
long nails which are a mark of distinction in his race.

"We make things easy and certain for you," he added, more by way of
painstaking argument than because any further explanation was really
necessary. "You do not wish to fail, no? You want to be sure that Wong
Li Fu's evil deeds shall be stopped? Good. We do that-- I and my
friend. We can pass the door-keepers. Can you? No. At one o'clock we
open the door and the Young Manchus will be wholly in your power, to
do with them what you will. I promise that, and my word is always
taken in the city."

Winter turned troubled eyes on Furneaux.

"What do you say?" he muttered irresolutely.

"I think the plan is a good one, and should be adopted," was the
instant reply.

Nevertheless, Winter was perplexed. He hemmed and hawed a good deal.
Seldom did he hesitate in this fashion. As a rule, he was quick to
decide and quicker to act.

"I might entertain your scheme if I were told more about it," he said
dubiously, gazing with troubled eyes at the Chinaman's blandly
inscrutable face. "Please believe me when I say that I trust your good
faith, but I am not sure that even you understand fully the nature of
the adventure you have in mind. Wong Li Fu has already committed one
murder in London. He has attempted others, and is absolutely careless
of consequences. How can I have any guarantee that you and this other
gentleman may not be his next victims? He is a person who displays a
somewhat forced humor. We might enter the Charlotte Street house at
one o'clock and find your corpses there, with labels and ivory skulls
neatly attached."

"That will not be so," was the grave answer.

"If I agree, what time do you propose going there?"

"About midnight."

"And do you expect the police to leave the whole neighborhood severely
alone for another hour?"

"Not unless you wish it. If you so desire you can occupy both ends of
the street, and arrest every Chinaman coming away from No. 412, but
let those pass who go towards it."

"Will others go there-- friends of yours, I mean?"

" Oh, yes. We will overpower the Young Manchus by taking them unaware.
We will act quietly, but there will be no mistake. It is you who will
err if you do not accept our help."

Then Winter yielded, though not with a good grace. The implied
suggestion that the London police could not handle a set of Mongolian
ruffians was utterly distasteful, yet he admitted, though unwillingly,
that he did not want to sacrifice some of his best men in rushing the
place.

"All right," he said. "Hand over the skulls, Furneaux! It is quite
agreed," he went on, addressing the Chinaman again, "that I have full
liberty of action in so far as preliminary arrangements are concerned?
I see your point that Wong Li Fu must not be forewarned, and shall
take care that my men are hidden. I have your positive assurance, too,
that you are not exposing your own life in any way?"

"To the best of my belief I shall be as safe in Charlotte Street as I
am here," said the jute merchant, smiling for the first time during
the interview.

"One! Two! Three!" said Furneaux, counting the skulls into the
Chinaman's outstretched hand.

For some reason, the action, no less than the words, jarred on Winter.

"I do wish you wouldn't be so d----d theatrical!" he growled.

Furneaux said nothing. He accompanied the chief inspector when the
latter escorted the two Chinamen to their car, and whistled softly
between his teeth while Winter and he were walking to Scotland Yard.
The big man glowered at him once or twice, but passed no comment. When
they reached the Embankment, Winter took Furneaux to his room, but
left him instantly. He was absent a long time. When he came in again
he was cheerfully placid.

Walking toward their favorite restaurant in Soho, they met a newsboy
running with an edition of an evening newspaper damp from the press.
The boy was shouting, "'Orrible crime in the West End; Chinese
outrage!" Furneaux bought a paper. It contained a lively account of
the attack on Mr. Forbes's house and described the mansion as an armed
fortress. Scores of police were parading the neighborhood and
examining every passing motor car lest it held Chinese bandits. The
arrest of Len Shi at St. Albans, and of a Japanese outside Innesmore
Mansions, was recalled, and an Eastbourne correspondent had sent a
fairly accurate version of the kidnaping of Mrs. Forbes.

"The pack is in full cry now, James," grinned Furneaux. "Tomorrow--"

"O, bother tomorrow! Let's eat, and talk about something else."

"What? Both? Well, now, if that isn't a bit of luck," cried a pleasant
voice close behind them, and Mr. George T. Handyside held out his two
hands.

"I was feeling kind of lonesome in the hotel, and just strolled out to
look at the shops," he rattled on. "Say, can you boys eat a line? Is
there any place in London where they know what a planked steak is?"

"Planked steak!" snorted Furneaux. "When you've tasted a porterhouse
steak grilled by a master hand you'll never mention any other variety
again. Come right along, Mr. Handyside. Tell us fairy tales about
God's own country. We're in the right mood to believe anything!"

"But what's this story of another shooting up in Fortescue Square? Is
it true?"

Then Furneaux dug him in the ribs.

"This isn't the Wild and Woolly West," he said. "This is London, sir,
poor, old, played-out London, whose beefy citizens do nothing but eat,
talk cricket or golf, and sleep. If you credit the newspapers, you'll
never get us in the right perspective."

Another newspaper boy raced past, bawling loudly.

"All a flam, is it?" said the American quizzically;

"No," said Winter, "it's the truth, and less than the truth. Let's
hunt that steak, and we'll season the dish for you."

Winter never erred when he chose a man as a friend. He liked
Handyside, and was half inclined to drop a hint in his ear as to the
night's program, for the American had seen Wong Li Fu more than once,
and might be useful for identification purposes.

CHAPTER XVII

THE SETTLEMENT

Now, Len Shi had communicated one vital fact to his compatriots which
they had carefully concealed from the detectives. The opening campaign
against Forbes had practically ended that day. Thenceforth, for a
week, the Young Manchus meant to separate, revert to Chinese costume,
live in Chinese boardinghouses in the East End, and thus utterly
mislead and bamboozle the police, who, in their hunt for the
miscreants, would be searching for Chinamen in European dress and
living in European style.

Winter was in two minds whether or not to inform the inmates of No. 11
as to the contemplated raid on the Charlotte Street rendezvous.
Ultimately, he decided to say nothing definite that evening. It was
better that the threatened people and their guards should not relax
their vigilance. "The best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft
a-gley," and if, perchance, the jute merchant's plan, whatever it
might be, miscarried, and some of the desperadoes escaped, they would
be stirred to instant reprisals.

But there was no semblance of doubt or hesitation about the measures
taken by the police. That night, from eleven o'clock onward, not even
a prowling cat entered Charlotte Street without being seen by sharp
eyes. Nearly opposite No. 412 was a large warehouse, with a back
entrance a long way in the rear, and approached from another street.

At midnight three Chinamen appeared, turned into Charlotte Street from
the south and shuffled on noiseless feet straight to No. 414. They
knocked, and after some delay were admitted. A minute later three
others came from the north, knocked on the door of No. 410 and
disappeared, the delay, seemingly caused by a parley with some one
within, being longer in this instance.

Afterward squads of Chinamen, exactly 25, all told, came from north
and south in practically equal numbers and entered those two houses,
but never a man entered, or passed, or came out of No. 412. These more
numerous arrivals met with no hesitation on the part of the two
doorkeepers. They entered without let or hindrance.

After that there was what is known in theatrical circles as a "stage
wait." Charlotte Street, save for its loafers and an occasional
belated resident of some dwelling other than those under observation,
lapsed into its normal and utterly dismal gloom.

From 12:30 onwards, Winter, stationed on the south side, looked at his
watch many times. A little man, mingling with the disreputable rascals
on the north side, was similarly fidgety.

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