"You oughtn't to be in a dive like this!" he growled.
"Cut it," snapped Julia. "The idea of insulting Charlie Yung over there, calling his place a dive!" She gestured at the dark individual behind the bar, who seemed an indeterminate mixture of races, more Mexican and Chinese. "Anyway," she went on, smiling archly at the G-man. "I like the place better since you came in."
Mary flushed with evident annoyance, and changed the subject with, "And by the way, what are you doing here yourself?"
"I make my reports to headquarters," Scott grunted. "All I want to do is see you two safely out of here."
"Well, we can't leave now," said Mary decidedly.
"You can’t? What does that mean?"
"Uh—nothing."
"Oh, tell him," said Julia. "He's on the up and up, even if he is a dick. A dick might come in handy." Again she flashed her brilliant black eyes coquettishly to his. "How about it—Walter?"
"Stick to business," he growled.
"I'll tell you," said Mary suddenly, with a sharp glance at Julia. "And if you don't back us up in this, I don't ever want to see you again. I'm not sure I want to anyway, or something."
"Well, go ahead."
"It's about Foo Yong, or rather about his sister," she began.
"Who is Foo Yong?"
"Joe Murray's butler."
"Joe Murray, the gangster?"
JULIA cut in with, "You can't ever forget that, can you, copper? Joe Murray is in the legitimate special police business, and you know it!"
"Once a gangster, always a gangster!" sneered Scott.
"Oh, yeah? Well, once a G-man, always a dumbbell."
"Please!" interjected Mary Smith, her blue eyes wide with concern. "If you're going to help us, Walter, let's cut out the personalities and get down to cases. Foo Yong has a favorite sister, Foo Lien, and he wanted to bring her over here."
Again the flaming Julia sassily intruded, saying, "I don't suppose you could understand that, Walter, being as you're a G-man. Family love doesn't mean anything to you, does it?"
Scott reddened. "I've got a sister," he said briefly.
"Well," Mary continued, "it's against the law to bring in a Chinese girl, even if she's the sister of a Chinese-American citizen, so Foo Yong did the only thing he could do—tried to get her in illegally. He had her in touch with one of those picture-bride marriage bureaus, that smuggles in Chinks at a thousand dollars a head. So Foo Yong sent her the thousand dollars, and she started out from Hong-kong.
She was supposed to be landed near Coronado last night, but she didn't show up."
"My God!" exclaimed Scott. "You say she was supposed to be landed near Coronado last night?" He shook his head. "Mary, I'm afraid she's at the bottom of the Pacific!"
"What?"
Scott explained. "But I had no idea it was girls they had aboard or I might even have let them get away with it this one time. Even a G-man has a heart."
Mary blinked the tears out of her blue eyes. "Poor Foo Yong," she murmured. "Walter, I never wanted anything in my life so much as to see these smugglers punished. I want to help."
"It's not a woman's business. You and Julia are going back to San Diego.''
THE hell we are!" observed Julia nonchalantly. I can see Buddy any time, but I don't often get a chance at a nice, handsome G-man."
"How'd Buddy happen to let you come down here?" asked Scott.
"Let me? I just came. He doesn't even know I'm here. All he knows is I went to San Diego with Mary."
"You smart G-Men!" blazed Mary suddenly. "If Jim Grant were alive, he would have figured out a way to get Foo Lien in safely, or something. But all that you could do was fix it so they killed her. Why did you have to pick last night for a raid anyway?"
"Because I got a tip." Suddenly Scott frowned, wondering about that anonymous note. Had it anything to do with poor Foo Lien? She was Foo Yong's sister, Foo Yong was Murray's handy man, and the Murray mob had often crossed swords with Slim Hammond. Well, it might be that Slim Hammond had a finger in it.
Julia interrupted his thoughts. "Look!" she hissed, indicating a man who had just passed their table. "Know him?"
Scott looked. "No," he said.
"You wouldn't. They never hung anything on him, but he used to live"—her voice dropped—"on Long Island!"
"The Man from Long Island—?"
"Sh! No, but he was close to him. What would he be doing here?"
"When there's crooked work going on and you see a crook around, it doesn't take a G-man to figure out what he's doing there," said Scott sarcastically.
JULIA rose. "Watch me," she murmured, "if you want to see an expert pick-up. I'll get some information out of him. Just wait here."
She was gone, and Scott was forced to admit that she had not exaggerated her ability. It took no more than one glance from her luminous eyes and a provocative flirt of her skirt to change the direction of the man's progress. There was a moment of inaudible conversation, and then the two moved toward the door of one of La Casa de Libertad's private rooms. Julia gave Scott and Mary a slow wink as the door closed.
"I hope she's all right," said Scott.
"She can take care of herself," replied Mary. "She carries a rod strapped to one knee."
BUT a half-hour passed without her return. Scott ordered his second pulque, and consumed it. In the corner a brown Mexican began to play a guitar, and men began to come into the cantina. Suddenly a grimy peon stopped at their table, and spoke in Spanish to Mary, who looked blankly at him.
He changed to English. "You dance with me, si?"
Scott crashed his fist into the grinning brown face. The Mexican reeled backwards.
"No," snapped Scott. "Vamose, hombre, Pronto!"
The other grinned wickedly. "She dance with Juan. No?"
"No is right!" snapped Scott. He doubled his fist, and crashed it into the grinning brown face. The man reeled backwards, sending bottles and glasses tumbling from the next table; recovered, and snatched a knife from his shirt.
Instantly there was turmoil. Scott thrust Mary behind him, and backward toward the door. A bottle struck his shoulder, and a knife passed his ear so swiftly that it sung like a bullet. As a dusky peon whirled another bottle above his head, Scott fired from his hip and smashed the bottle into splinters. A man lunged at him from the side, and he kicked viciously at the fellow's middle, doubling him on the floor. A spinning beer-mug caught him on the side of his head, and he staggered for a moment, felt Mary's soft body behind him, and struggled erect. The door was near now. They backed through it into the street.
After them came the howling, angered mob.
Mickey Finn
QUICK!" Shrieked Mary, tugging at his arm, "This way!"
He permitted her to guide him, keeping his body between her and the advancing mob of peons and breeds, holding them off with the threat of his automatic. As a warning, he fired again, breaking the wrist of a man who held a stone upraised to throw. The man's howl of agony sounded above the bellow of the crowd.
"Here," said Mary, pulling his arm, and he bumped suddenly and unexpectedly into the side of an automobile, whose motor he could feel quivering and vibrating. He backed in through the door of the car, and as the car purred into action, fired one last shot at an up flung hand holding a knife, saw the thumb of that hand vanish, and then settled back into the seat as the car sped along the rutted red clay road that wound between the mountains and the sea toward Agua Caliente.
It was a long and powerful sedan, evidently bullet-proof. In the front seat were Foo Yong in Chinese pajamas, driving, and Joe Murray, the thick-set gray-haired ex-leader of the Grandi Gang of Chicago.
"Noice shootin', dick!" said the big Irishman, grinning appreciatively.
"Humph! We learn to shoot in Texas," grunted Scott. "Lucky you came when you did. That is, unless this is a ride you're taking me on."
"Wheh Missy Slesson?" asked Foo Yong.
"Julia! Good Lord, I forgot about her! I'll have to go back."
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"She can take care of herself," said Mary sharply. "How do you expect to get into that place now?"
"I'll get in, all right. A stranger attracts attention in these little Mex towns, but a Chinese stranger would attract less attention than another. Foo Yong, you and I are changing clothes!"
"Velly good."
THEY stopped beside an arroyo, and Scott and Foo Yong retired to effect the exchange. While changing, the G-man informed the Chinaman of the probable fate of his sister, and though the impassive yellow face gave no sign, Scott could see that deep grief and bitter hate glistened behind the slant Oriental eyes.
"Listen to me, Foo Yong," he said. "You see that Mary is taken safely to the hotel in San Diego, and then you can do whatever you please about this. I'm after this gang of murderers, whoever they are; and if you want to be in on it, you come back to Ensenada, with or without Joe Murray, either in the Coast Guard cruiser, or by car."
"Can do," said Foo Yong stolidly.
"And the next time you want to bring a sister in, get her entered as a college student, and then let her drop out of sight after she gets in."
"You tellee me how blake law, Missy G-man?" exclaimed Foo Yong in surprise.
SCOTT colored. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a moment. Then he nodded. "One feels differently about a law, when it affects one personally," he said. "That's probably a line from Confucius, though I made it up myself."
Having donned the silken trousers and jacket of the Chink, Scott next busied himself with his pocket make-up kit, rubbing yellow tan stain on hands and face. When, twenty minutes later, a black-haired Chinaman walked mincingly down Ensenada's chief business street, no one cast so much as a glance at him.
With an abrupt motion Julia swept up her skirt and snatched a revolver from a holster just above her knee.
HE DID not approach the front entrance of the Casa de Libertad, for Chinese do not enter cantinas as customers.
Instead he circled the building, finding himself at last in the midst of the group of adobe structures that seemed to be associated with it. He located a window that seemed to be in the corner of the building to which Julia and her companion had retired, a narrow, grimy, dusty pane, below which a scorpion crawled in idle search of food. Scott brushed the great insect aside, and peeped gingerly through. Squinting through the dusty glass, he saw a man, seated at a table with his back to the window. Julia sat facing him. Scott was struck by something queer in her expression; as much as he could discern of it. She was apparently staring vaguely into space, and then she suddenly swayed. With an abrupt motion she swept up her skirt, and he glimpsed her long, slim, graceful legs as she snatched at the small jeweled revolver holster just above her knee. The man rose suddenly, and Julia, with an apparent effort, struggled to her feet, leveled the weapon, and then—pitched headlong across the table, slid limply into her chair, and lay with her head on her out flung arms.
SCOTT had his weapon out, held against the glass, but he did not fire, for it had occurred to him that a shot would only bring a howling mob of peons down on him, and his chance of rescuing Julia would be better without such distractions. He peered through the pane again, and now saw that the fellow had lifted Julia, who was doubtless drugged, and was carrying her, not toward the door to the bar room, but toward a corner to Scott's left, a part of the chamber invisible from the window.
After a moment, Scott pried carefully at the casement. The window was unfastened, and swung creakingly in on hinges, but it was extremely narrow. He wriggled his way in head-first, landed lightly on his hands, and sprang to his feet. Only one door was visible, that to the bar room, but—the chamber was empty!
Scott stared perplexedly around, then stiffened as the door squeaked open. Instantly dropping his automatic into the capacious sleeve of his borrowed blouse, Scott picked up a wicker tray, and began piling the glasses upon it, as though he belonged there.
"Ling-hi!" said the newcomer, whom Scott recognized as the Mexican-Chink proprietor, Charlie Yung. "Ling-hi, you rat!" As Scott made no answer, he glanced sharply at him, and burst suddenly into a flood of Chinese!
Scott continued to say nothing. "One of those Cantonese dogs, eh?" said Yung. "Can't understand honest Hang-chow. Who the hell are you? You substituting for Ling-hi?"
"Yes, Missy Yung," said Scott.
"Well, you tell Ling-hi next tune he gets hopped up, he's through here, savvy? I'm sick of him sending his lousy friends around to hold his job for him. Now, clear off that table and get out." He turned, then paused. "Where'd Bakoff take the broad? Down the hole?"
"No savvy," said Scott briefly.
“WELL, I got to see him." Yung stepped over to the corner, bent and lifted a square section of the floor, revealing a flight of steps going down into darkness. He vanished.
Scott waited until the sounds of his footsteps had died away, and then followed. Below was a dark passage leading apparently toward one of the outer buildings. He felt his way carefully along.
Voices sounded. He made out a thin line of light under what seemed to be a door. He crept near and listened.
Yung was saying, "Hammond's upstairs. He wants to buy twenty girls for his string of houses in Frisco. He says they gotta be younger and prettier this time."
"Okay wid me," said Bakoff. "Tell him here's a white one he can have in about half an hour, after I get through wid her. He ought to cough up anyway a grand for her. Pretty, ain't she?"
"Damn pretty. Who is she?"
"Sister o' Pug Dorni. She didn't know I recognized her, so she come tryin' ter dig some info out o' me, so I had ter slip her de works."
"Think Hammond would run the chance of taking her?"
"Sure. Pug'd never know what happened to her. Youse bring Slim here after he's looked over de Chink cuties."
"Right. But I don't see what fun you can get out a dame that's passed out."
"She ain't gonna stay passed out," returned Bakoff with a significant laugh. "All she needs is a little stimulant, an' I'm gonna supply it. Watch."
There was the sound of tearing cloth. "One for the dress," chuckled Bakoff. - There was a snap. "And two for the brassiere," he went on. "And three for——
HE GOT no further. Scott opened the door, and walked mincingly in, his hands folded within his wide sleeves, one clutching his concealed automatic. He saw Bakoff bending above the form of Julia, who lay on a tattered leather couch, her torn dress on the floor beside her, her body bare to the waist, and her breasts pink in the dim lamplight. The man, with one hand on her silk-sheathed legs, had the other crooked into the elastic band that bound her teddy about her slim body. Without taking his hands off Julia, Bakoff turned his head, and stood scowling and motionless at Scott's entrance.
"Now what the hell!" ejaculated Yung.
"Missy Hammond up stair," announced Scott, "He want you come plonto."
Scott saw Bakoff bending over the form of Julia, who lay on a battered couch.
"He does, eh? Well, maybe I better see what—" As Yung turned, Scott swung from his knees, his fist crashed into the unsuspecting jaw with a thud. The mongrel's eyes went dull, and he dropped. Scott caught Bakoff's arm as he snatched for his rod, cut off his surprised bellow for help with a hasty blow to his thick throat, and then felled him with a terrific right to his paunchy middle.
SCOTT stared about him at the three unconscious figures. The room had but one door. He could hardly carry the almost nude Julia back up the stairway and out the window, for the attention she was sure to attract would certainly bring the crowd from Yung's cantina down on them. So he took the only alternative; he shouldered the unconscious girl, clasped his arm tightly about her soft, rounded limbs, and strode into the dark corridor toward unknown danger.
Slim Hammond a Hero?
SCOTT, in his Chinese disguise, bore his limp burden gingerly along the unlighted passage. It seemed a long way before any sound other than his own slippered footsteps came to his ears, but at last he heard voices again. Feminine voices, this time,
and they came apparently from another of the underground rooms. He located the door, and carefully tried it. It was unlocked, and he peered cautiously in.
A group of about two dozen girls met his eyes—Chinese girls, in all stages of dress and undress. They were sitting about, chattering in incomprehensible sing-song. Since the room was at the extreme end of the passage, Scott again took the only course open to him—he opened the door wider and walked in.
A chorus of shrieks greeted him, and the unclothed members of the party huddled back, hiding themselves with whatever garments were at hand, or simply shrieking behind the others. A flood of Chinese syllables were flung at him as he walked deliberately to a couch, motioned the occupants away, and deposited Julia on it.
"Now," he said, facing them. "Do any of you yellow babies savvy English?"
THERE was an abrupt silence. At last a slim, sloe-eyed girl who had been struggling into a pair of silken trousers came timidly out from her corner. "Speakee mission English," she said, and then added accusingly, "You no China boy!"
Scott remembered his costume with a start. "Uh—no," he said. "I'm here to help you, but first you have to help me. Help white lady, savvy?" He indicated Julia, who was beginning to stir. "Want clothes, savvy?"
The Chinese girl savvied. She let go a burst of syllables, and from bundles and bags the others produced exquisitely woven and embroidered silk shirtwaists and trousers. They gathered around Julia, and one held a glass of water to her lips while they slipped on the garments. Scott turned back to the sloe-eyed girl.
"Who are you?" he asked. "And what are you doing here?"
"My called in English, Light of—how you say Kung-fu-tze?—Oh, Confucius. My name Light of Confucius. We came here because China boy in Amelica like pictures. We blides."
The Lost Master - The Collected Works Page 7