E. Hoffmann Price's Two-Fisted Detectives

by E. Hoffmann Price

  He recognized Foo Sam with an almost imperceptible nod; but completely ignored Buddy Slesson, Torchy Cullinane and Mike Novak, as one should ignore the servants of one’s guest.

  “Hop Ching is very happy that you honor his insignificant house, Mr. Grant,” he said, hurdling the R’s perfectly and effortlessly. “Be seated, gentlemen.”

  His small, slender hand, lengthened by gold-shielded three-inch fingernails, indicated chairs. Hop Ching then struck a gong near his desk, murmured a few words to the servant who appeared in response to the summons, and resumed, “Mr. Grant, much as I appreciate your valiant efforts in behalf of my countryman and tong brother, Foo Yong, I fear that you undertake impossible task. Outbreak of bloodthirsty lawlessness on part of On Leon Tong has demoralized Hep Sings.”

  He paused, placed his gold-shielded finger-tips into the position prescribed by the rites, and awaited Grant’s reply.

  “That’s why we’re here, Mr. Hop. To lend you some assistance. We value Foo Yong quite as much as do his tong brothers—perhaps more so. And if we have to tear Chinatown to pieces by hand, we’re going to rescue him. The Murray mob can do it, if you will let us profit by your wisdom and experience.”

  Hop Ching smiled.

  “Most commendable. But Chinese warfare is utterly different from gang warfare. I do not doubt your valor; but you could not get past outer defenses. And Foo Yong, I assure you, is well under cover.”

  “I realize that,” was Grant’s grave retort. “But our only difficulty lies in our ignorance of the enemy’s identity, his headquarters, his defenses. With your assistance, we can drive through—just as Foo Sam, working with my bomb specialist, Mike Novak here, blasted a hole through the wall of the Chicago On Leon headquarters and rescued a Hep Sing man. I am afraid, Mr. Hop, that you underestimate us.”

  But before Hop Ching could ponder twice before replying, his grandson entered the room.

  “Honorable grandfather,” he respectfully asked, “may I intrude my ignorance into learned discussion.”

  The old man nodded.

  “I have just heard, though I do not know how accurately, that Foo Yong is imprisoned in rear of drug store in San Jose.”

  “Mr. Hop,” said Grant, “I’m going to follow that rumor. Will you furnish us with a guide?” Then he added, “If I am not mistaken, Confucius said, ‘The ambition of the arrogant is boundless; but the proud man falls, and the claim of the arrogant is empty.’ And that, I believe, is going to apply to the On Leon.”

  Hop Ching smiled.

  “Where did my worthy guest learn words of Kung-Fu-Tsze?”

  “While I was at Yale, preparing for the real estate business.”

  Hop Ching showed signs of warming up.

  “It may be, Mr. Grant, that what you say about ambition of arrogant is quite right. And moreover, it is written, ‘As hardest steel is most brittle, so likewise it is easiest to destroy that which is most solidly established.’ Yes, I will give you guide. But remember, Mr. Grant—He who feigns to pat tiger’s head, so as to cut tier’s whiskers, may fall into his jaws.’”

  “Dern Chink wisee-cracks,” interpolated Buddy Slesson, “is de berries, but any tiger dat gets his jaws around Jim Grant is going ter have damn tough chaw-in’.”

  “Your worthy servant may be right, Mr. Grant,” smiled Hop Ching. Then, to his grandson, “Wang, you will go to San Jose with our friends.”

  Hop Ching’s grandson, Hop Wang, led his allies to a garage that opened into Sixth Street, where he took the wheel of a black sedan.

  “It might be well,” he suggested, indicating another car, “if your men followed in that light car, just to be sure that if one machine is disabled, we’ll have another in reserve.”

  Buddy Slesson took the light eight. Torchy Cullinane and Mike Novak joined him. Hop Wang, with Grant and Foo Sam aboard, swung the Packard over to Eighth Street and headed for San Leandro Boulevard, finally emerging on the San Jose highway. The young Chinaman drove as though the devil were at his heels; and some thirty-five minutes later the Packard was roaring down the avenue of cottonwoods to the town which, lying at the fork of a Y that branched to Oakland and San Francisco, caught all the southbound traffic from both cities.

  Hop Wang swung right. Five blocks west he pulled up to wait for the other car. When Slesson and his companions joined them, Hop Wang briefly outlined his plan, concluding, “This drug store is not regular tong rendezvous, but in same building is home of so-called Mayor of Chinatown, who is On Leon man. Next to drug store is place where they play pak kop piu—Chinese lottery, a game patronized by many Americans. As pretended customers, Mr. Grant, you and your men can get as far as back room. You will then wait and act accordingly to situation that develops, when I start things in drug store.”

  CHAPTER V

  The Raid on the Chinks

  The council of war ended, the raiders’ caravan with headlights snapped off advanced another block, then divided. The two Chinamen slipped to the paving, to advance on foot Slesson changed to the Packard; and Grant, taking the wheel, continued to Jackson, and swung right to Sixth. Torchy, acting according to the plan, had cut into the dirt lane that followed the siding of the California Packing Plant, thus approaching San Jose’s Chinatown from the rear. His job was to stand by with the light eight, cover the retreat with machine gun fire if necessary, and to restrain Mike Novak from prematurely blasting the entire Chinese colony off the map with his crate of bombs.

  Grant, idling up Sixth, watched Hop Wang’s slender figure and Foo Sam’s stout figure alternately blotted out by shadows and thrown into relief by flares of light from the stores and pool rooms that lined the street. When he saw the scholar’s grandson turn into an alley marked Clay, he pulled up.

  “Let’s go, Buddy,” he said, sliding from the wheel.

  “The two Chinks are ducking into the drug store. We’re going into the grocery—”

  “Grocery? Nerts!—De Chink said he was goin’ to a lottery jernt—”

  “Listen, Buddy,” explained Grant, “the California authorities are very, very strict about lotteries. They compel the Chinks to put on a front. Thus, you find lottery joints in the backroom of groceries, dry-goods stores, ladies’ wear shops, or almost anything.”

  They entered the narrow, dingy store. The proprietor shuffled out from the darkness of a corner.

  “You wantee glocely?” he asked.

  “Whatcha got dat can be et?” countered Buddy Slesson, turning up his nose at the dried fish, candied pork, sugared cocoanut, and tiny dried sea-horses.

  “Just in case you don’t know it, Buddy,” Grant interpolated, “those little horses are tourist souvenirs, not food.”

  “Dlied mushloom—lichee nut—” sang the grocer, in reply to Slesson’s Question.

  “Give me,” said Grant, “two cans of green apricots in syrup.”

  “Give aplicot. Can do.—Got velly good bamboo splout, too.”

  “All right, I’ll take a couple,” decided Grant “And put ’em up in two bags.” He handed Slesson one of the bags, then cast an inquiring eye toward the greasy curtain, from behind which came sing-song voices, and the hair-raising whine of moon fiddle.

  “Fer cripe’s sakes, are dey torturin’ some guy?” Buddy’s reach for his gun was cheeked by Grant’s grasp at his wrist.

  “No, you damn idiot, that’s Chinese music!” Then, to the proprietor, “How about spotting some lottery tickets?”

  “No savee tickee.”

  Grant sighed, for he knew that when a Chinaman doesn’t savvy, you are in for an indefinite delay.

  But just then the curtain parted and two young Americans of high school age emerged, each with a fistful of square pieces of tissue paper, covered with Chinese characters in green and printed at the head in English lettering, KWONG TAI—DAY TIME.

  “All right, John,” grinned Grant. “I guess tho
se are laundry slips, eh? How about it—got Lum Ky or Boston Company?”

  “All light—you go in,” conceded the proprietor. Grant’s mention of two lottery companies showed that he knew something about pak kop piu, and if Grant were a plainclothes man, his having seen the two customer’s emerging with tickets in plain sight was evidence enough to pinch the joint, so why argue?

  Followed by Slesson, Grant entered the back room. He picked up several blank tickets, plucked a bamboo-handled brush from a pot of ink, and began his play.

  A poker game was in progress in one corner. A bald-headed Chinaman was dealing. Loafers, white and Chinese, lounged on benches. A pleasant-faced Chinese woman, in black silk jacket and trousers, thrust her sleek head into the smoke-thickened air of the room and spoke, sing-song, to the lottery clerk, then ducked again into the back-of-the-back room. Everything in Chinatown seemed to be back of something else.

  “You sabby fo’ way, king tickee?” questioned the clerk, as Grant drew a ring around the “king” spot, then “caged” groups of three spots and a single group of six.

  As Grant nodded, the Chinese woman reappeared. His sing-song this time was brief. Not a yellow face in the gambling room changed, but Grant suddenly sensed that things were stirring, somewhere in that huddle of ugly brick buildings. He nudged Slesson and caught his eye as he jabbed three-cornered spots onto a blank ticket he saw that Slesson also had sensed the sudden tension.

  “They’re wise,” said Slesson’s lips, moving soundlessly.

  Grant nodded, shrugged, and half turned. His elbow rested on the counter; his long body seemed utterly relaxed. A dozen pairs of beady eyes, a dozen expressionless masks, faced him through the wispy smoke. Hell was ready to burst, yet the Chinese went on with their clattering sing-song, as chips clicked and cards slip-slapped on the table.

  Then it happened. From somewhere in the upper part of the house came a yell, a crash, and a high-pitched scream. The lottery clerk reached a yellow hand toward the light switch. Grant’s arm extended like a lightning flash, and a can of green apricots hit the clerk squarely in the stomach. He doubled up, groaning, before he could flick the switch.

  Chairs scraped and Chinese voices rose, shrill and angry.

  Grant’s automatic pistol flashed into his hand, covering the room with an evil eye. Slesson too was swinging his hardware from right to left and back again.

  “Don’t shoot unless you have to,” Grant ordered. “I’m going upstairs.” He strode toward the rear room.

  “Duck!” yelled Slesson, but Grant had done it already, as one of the Chinese hurled a knife which whistled past his head. Slesson slammed a can of bamboo sprouts with his right, and it struck the knife-tosser’s head with the impact of a brick.

  Grant went on. Behind him rose Slesson’s curses, the smashing of a chair, the tinkle of glassware a spattering on the floor. Grant gathered his hundred and ninety pounds of gridiron brawn and hurled himself through the door. The back room was empty, but from the stairs came the screeching and howling and crashing of a Mongolian riot.

  A shot crackled. Grant felt the stinging trace of the bullet across one shoulder. He whirled and nailed the gunner with his last can of preserves. The man dropped, and his thirty-two automatic skated across the floor. Its light report would not have carried outside, but the roar of a forty-five would shake Chinatown, bringing the police. Nevertheless, with his heavy gun in hand, Grant charged up the stairs. Hop Wang must be up there on the trail of Foo Yong, and he needed help!

  Slesson caught up with Grant as they rounded the first landing. A fusillade of bullets and crockery followed them from below. The two Americans dropped, thrust the muzzles of their guns around the landing post, and hosed the lower hallway with lead. The lights down there winked out.

  “Come on, Buddy,” growled Grant. “Hop Wang’s up here!”

  They rocked up the next flight. A door crashed open, flooding their advance with a blaze of light. The room beyond was a battlefield, Hop Wang, backed into a corner, shifted a smoking automatic, jerked out its last shot, then hurled the empty weapon into the pack. Foo Sam was nowhere in sight. Grant swung into the room, gun blazing.

  Smack-smack-smack! The thunder of his forty-five shook the room. Slesson was at his side. Highbinders, howling with their injuries, or out completely, dropped to the floor. Slesson yelled, clutching at his gun arm, then dodged another flying blade. Hop Wang snatched up the carved leg of a smashed chair and charged the tangle of enemy tong men on the floor, bashing furiously at every exposed head.

  Foo Sam emerged from the adjoining room, a bloody curved sword waving from his wrist like a tongue of red fire. Grant’s foot lashed out, booting an On Leon in the stomach and putting him out of commission. Then he drew his second gun, the deadly midget machine gun.

  But there was no present need of it. The clamor had stilled. The four victors glared happily at each other, their eyes lit up with the lust of battle.

  A narrow door across the room slid open, and a middle-aged Chinaman in luxurious silks came halfway in. Then his expression changed from smirking satisfaction to one of almost paralyzed dismay. But he had no time to withdraw. Grant and Slesson both had their guns on him.

  “One move, rajah,” said Grant slowly, “and you’ll join your ancestors. We’re going through this place like water through a funnel.—Aw, hell, you tell him in Chinese, Wang.”

  Hop Wang translated. The “rajah”—Wang called him Ah Fook—bowed submissively. “You look-see,” he said in English, addressing Grant, spreading his hands. “No likee mo’e fight, no likee bobbery!”

  “You tell him,” said Grant, “that six machine guns and a man with bombs are outside. Any more bobbery, they come in!”

  Hop Wang put this into Chinese, then Grant asked:

  “Did you find any trace of Foo Yong?”

  Hop Wang shook his head, then replied, “I am quite sure, though, that there is a prisoner in this house. So many highbinders here proves it, beyond doubt.”

  “We’ll find out,” said Grant Several highbinders were coming back to life, and Grant booted them the rest of the way. “Get up on your feet!” he, snapped at them, Hop Wang assisting. “Buddy, you herd these highbinders along—we can’t leave them here!”

  Hop Wang’s voice rose in shrill protest. “Better we leave them,” he cried. “Let me cut off heads!”

  “More better,” agreed Foo Sam, brandishing his curved blade, “Much more better, cut-em off heads, Missy Grant.”

  “Not yet.” Grant chuckled in spite of their celestial gravity. “We save ’em,” he went on, “catch ’em plenty more On Leon, then have big dinner—bake em plenty, all same turkey.”

  Even the two Hop Sings grinned then, and Slesson stepped into the picture, his machine gun trained on the little troop of cowed, glassy-eyed Leons.

  Ah Fook stepped to the door through which he had entered. Now that there could be no further advantage in misunderstanding English, he remembered that he could speak it readily.

  “I have no prisoner,” he said. “But see for yourself.” He gestured to indicate that the room into which he led them was empty. It was the Chinese version of a flop-house. A dozen bunks, ranged in four tiers on three sides of the room, reached from the floor almost to the ceiling. Ah Fook’s gestures said plainly, “I told you so.” Then he stooped, lifted a trapdoor, and exposed a narrow stairway.

  “The rajah,” Grant thought, “has become too obliging.”

  A faint threshing and creaking from a corner of the flophouse confirmed his suspicion. The patrons of such sleeping quarters generally occupied it in two shifts, day and night, so that it would do double duty. Its emptiness might indicate a diminution of San Jose laboring Chinese population, or a sudden increase of prosperity—.

  Grant turned toward the odd, furtive sound. He holstered his automatic, and seized the standard of the four-decked bunk. He felt a vibrat
ion. He jerked. The entire section of four bunks swung out into the room. Slesson, intrigued by the sudden move, turned to watch; and for one split second relaxed his vigilance. Hop Wang’s warning yell came just too late.

  The supposedly subdued and disarmed high-binders closed in. Ah Fook made a flying dive for the trap door. The other entrance slammed shut, and bolts slid into place. And filtering in through a small barred window, came the crackling sputter of uncounted fire crackers: a ruse to deflect a possible police raid by drowning the noise of battle with the pretended sound of a Chinese festival on Clay Alley.

  CHAPTER VI

  The Heavenly Jewel

  All in an instant: and Grant whirled to join in the skirmish which had bowled Slesson off balance and knocked the pistol from his hand. He was kicking and roaring in the midst of a tangle of knives and hatchets. A porcelain cuspidor caught Grant squarely between the shoulders, throwing his opening shot wild of its mark.

  A highbinder, kicked bodily from the fray by Slesson’s flailing boots, sent Grant crashing against a tier of bunks; and before he could jerk his automatic into line, he was bowled over by a trio of Chinks emerging from the trap door.

  He tore a slat from the bunk against which he had crashed. He ducked a knife, shattered the slat across a silken skullcap, and ploughed in, headlong. Curved blades raked and seared his ribs, as with hammering fists he bored home, by sheer wrathful ferocity and agile footwork rushing the newcomers into a corner.

  They piled into a heap.

  Sock! Sock! His fists changed the map of China. He bounded back, snatched an armed wrist, lashed out with his boot, and sent a Chink catapulting across the room. Then he whirled to dive into the cursing, howling tangle that was striving to reduce Slesson to mincemeat. He tripped headlong, and was enveloped by the hangers-on who were yelling for a chance at Slesson.

  He kicked clear, wrenched aside in time to dodge a descending blade, snatched an automatic from the floor, and blasted lead into a Chink with knife upraised above him. That emptied the weapon, but Grant piled on, smashing right and left with the muzzle. Slesson emerged from the heap; and they whirled to demolish the group who had surrounded Hop Wang and Poo Sam, both of whom were plying knife and feet.