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The Skipper desires to draw his readers' attention to the fact that "A CASE OF 'GRAFT'" has been written expressly for this issue of the UNION JACK.
A Wonderful Yarn of Adventure in the Opium Dens and Gambling Saloons of the Bowery, New York. Introducing Sexton Blake v. Plummer.
SEXTON BLAKE: The Great British Detective
TINKER: Blake's Plucky Young Assistant
HARRY ELDER: A Young Englishman who assists Blake and Tinker
JOHN MASTERS: A Wealthy New York Magnate
GEORGE MARSDEN PLUMMER: The Great Aristocratic Criminal
INSPECTOR JEFSON: A Scoundrelly Member of the New York Police
LUKE O. ZITMANN, alias HAN SIN: Keeper of many Opium Dens and Gambling Saloons in New York
HUGHIE MASTERS: A Young Fool with too much money. Son of John Masters
The Fan-Tan Den—A Warning—The Raid, and What Followed.
THE dirty little alley that ran out of Mellor Street, Chinatown, New York, looked as gloomy, and smelt as bad as scores of other alleys in the same quarter. Perhaps it appeared darker than it really was on account of the lights in the main street, where the dozens of Chinese lanterns, many of them weird in designs, made even the dirtiness of the gutters almost picturesque.
From one Chinese cafe came the weird wailing of native instruments and the catcall voices of the singers. From farther away came the bang of crackers, a sacred dragon wormed its way slowly along on the way to its temple, the feet of the men who supported it from inside making it look like a huge centipede.
But in the alley all was still, and only a solitary Chinese lantern that hung right at the end of it suggested that there was so much as a dwelling there. Actually, there was under the lantern the entrance to a low building that ran right back from the main street, to which it presented a blank wall. The light above the door shone upon a name written uncertainly in Roman letters: "HAN SIN."
What this Han Sin might be by profession there was nothing to show, though the retiring nature of the entrance to his dwelling made it appear that he was not a man to court publicity.
A man came quickly up the alley and paused before the door, rapping on the wood harshly with his knuckles, and cursing softly when it was not opened to him at once.
He was a tallish man, and broad of shoulder, and the clothes that he wore had once been good. Now, however, they were certainly verging upon shabbiness. It was his face, though, that would have attracted attention at that moment. It appeared to be that of an Englishman, and it was dead white and clean-shaven. The lips were thin and hard when not in motion, and the jaw was more than usually strong. But it was the eyes, down into which the light of the lantern shone, that made this man different to other men.
These eyes were not grey, or blue, or brown, but of a curious agate colour, almost animal in hue. And now that the owner of them was angry there shone from them a light that was absolutely fiendish.
At last the door was opened a few inches, and the yellow face of a Chinaman showed.
"Alles lightee, Mister Blown," he said, in shrill tones; and the man he had addressed as Mr. Brown slipped quickly in and the door was closed behind him.
The passage was dark, but the manner in which the man passed down it proved him to be familiar with the place. There was a thick smell of opium in the air, and the man coughed as the pungent fumes got down into his lungs. Then he pushed open a door at the end of the passage and stepped into the room beyond, blinking his strange-coloured eyes as the light of powerful lamps glared into them.
It was a large room, and there was little Oriental about it; in fact, it could have been mistaken at first glance for nothing but what it was—a gambling-den. Fully a score of men of all classes and kinds were there. In one corner a group played noisily at poker, in another roulette was in progress, and in the centre of the room was going on the commonest gambling game of all—fan-tan.
A dozen men clustered round this temple of gambling, for there is no easier form of play—just the betting on how many beans are left in a bowl after four have been counted round to each player.
At the head of the table, in charge of the bank, a pile of money before him, sat Han Sin himself. He was an old Chinaman, his face lined and wrinkled, spectacles with great horn rims-over his eyes, but for all the glasses there was no gambler who could remember having been able to best Han Sin.
Without a smile the old man sat there, counting out beans, receiving, paying, then all over again. Men lost, and men won, though of a certainty the bank gained all the time, but Han Sin was nothing but an old automaton with a face of dead yellow ivory.
The man who had been called Mr. Brown by the doorkeeper looked sharply at the faces of the players. There was a man who was palpably a Mexican, three tough-looking men of the Bowery type, another whose face was livid with the opium habit, and last of all, a young fellow, far different to all the others.
He was in evening-dress, and could have been no more than three-and-twenty, but already his face held signs of dissipation, and as he played his eyes and cheeks were feverish.
There were those present who knew him to be Hughie Masters, the only son of a New York magnate, who was at the time touring Europe. Who had first taken him to the gambling-den not one of his fellow-players could have said, and Han Sin, draining the man's resources night by night, looked on indifferently, and counted his beans out to the players until there were no more to play.
Room was made for the new-comer at the table, and it might have been noticed that for a moment the eyes of Han Sin seemed to be animated as they looked into the agate-coloured ones of the other. The next moment they were expressionless again. Yet in that one glance there had been something uncommonly like fear in the Chinaman's eyes.
As a matter of fact, Han Sin would have known that he had reason to fear could he have been aware of the real identity of the man who called himself Mr. Brown, for he was George Marsden Plummer, refugee from England, from whence he had been compelled to flee to escape Sexton Blake. And Plummer, ex-detective-sergeant of Scotland Yard, ex-criminal, scoundrel, yet a gentleman by birth, was not in the habit of wasting his time or money in gambling-dens.
Plummer had only reached America after a considerable period, travelling by a circuitous route, but once in the Bowery quarter of it, he no longer feared arrest. He knew America well, and that with the money he had left—a few hundreds in all—he would always find a way of escape left open for him, or a hint given to him before the police could lay hands on him. For in America there is a god called 'Graft,' and if there is a word to match it in England we do not know it.
Graft means many things, yet only one—that if there is money enough the wrongdoer need have no fear of being brought to justice. Even if he is tried—this would naturally cost more—it would be seen that the jury acquitted him.
Men are found dead in the streets, and their murderers are never discovered, and again it is graft. A factory is blown up, a train with an eminent politician on board is smashed up so that he cannot reach his destination, and it is the countless hands of graft, with the gold-lined palms, that have stretched out and done these things.
All this Plummer knew, and inside two weeks he knew more—that in the gambling-den of Han Sin many strange things took place, and so it was that he had been watching and waiting, and more or less patiently losing his money, until one little scrap of knowledge would enable him to join the Graft circle, and take a share of the bribes and the profits in general.
If the truth were known, Plummer was becoming impatient. Even in the Bowery good food may be obtained, but the ex-convict, with his love of luxury, of soft lights, and of the hundred-and-one frills to life that money can supply, longed for the fortune that would make all those things possible for him: So far Sexton Blake had always stepped in between him and the fortunes that he had planned to win, but it seemed impossible that he could do so this time.
Plummer played listlessly, wondering whether he had been wasting his time at this gambling-den, but there was one thing that made him still hopeful—Han Sin's face. There were fewer cleverer men living at making-up than Plummer, and so used was he to disguising himself that he was in the habit of looking for it in other people.
And he knew that Han Sin's parchment-coloured face was not genuine, but that it was a mask hiding the real features beneath. When Plummer had first looked at the man, he had noted the two deep marks between the eyes; the next day there had been three, and the day after that—then it was only two again, and the ex-convict knew that the face of Han Sin was not always so old and wrinkled.
The door opened swiftly, and the Chinaman who had been on guard hurried in and stepped to Han Sin's side. The latter listened to a few whispered words, and Plummer saw his eyes flash behind their glasses. Then he nodded and rose to his feet.
"Allee back soon!" he said, in a cracked voice.
"Graft!" one of the Bowery boys drawled. "Bet it's de perlice mekin' old Han Sin wise on de nex' raid. They'll sure find 'bout 'nough fer a kid's bank."
Plummer started, but quickly recovered himself. If this Bowery boy was right the chance that he had been waiting for had come, for he was certain that once he got enough knowledge to get so much as the toe of his boot inside the ring he would not leave until he had bled it for the fortune he was after.
The players at the table appeared not to be in the least disturbed, save one, and he was Hughie Masters. He turned up his-coat-collar as if he did not wish to be recognised, and his face was away from the door as it opened.
A tall, burly man entered, a heavy overcoat covering him, and the hat that was drawn down over his face, and the handkerchief that he held to his nose as if to keep out the fumes of the opium, hid his features.
Han Sin nodded to the newcomer, who walked straight to a doorway at the back of the room, passed through, and was followed by the Chinaman.
"If that ain't Jef himself, I'll work fer a-livin'," the Bowery boy drawled. "An' thet won't mean no hundred dollar touch neither!"
"Reckon he wouldn't trouble, sonny!" his mate answered.
"All right—all right!" the first speaker said indifferently. "But I guesses I ought ter know Inspector Jefson from dem patrol coves what does the quick touches."
Plummer could not restrain a start. He knew that Inspector Jefson was one of the chiefs of police in New York, and if be was really in touch with Han Sin it might lead to great things—for Plummer.
For the time being there was quiet, then from the next room came the chink of gold.
"No paper fer Jef!" the Bowery boy chuckled. "Gold don't git tellin' tales."
Plummer's fingers went to his lips, and unconsciously he began to bite his nails, a habit with him when disturbed. He wanted to make sure whether the man with Han Sin really was Inspector Jefson, but how could it be done? He might follow him, but if he tried that game it was probable that he would not get more than a few yards.
Out in the alley there would be men ready to make sure that the graft-bought man was not followed.
The door of the inner room opened, and Han Sin and the other man came out, the latter still muffled up as much as possible. They were speaking together in low tones, and they did not notice Plummer rise and cross to the other doorway. His step was slightly unsteady, and he had all the appearance of being overcome by drink or the fumes of opium.
The big man in the coat stepped quickly forward, and It was then that Plummer lurched into his path. He wanted to see the face that the man kept so carefully hidden.
"Get out of the way!" the big man ordered, as Plummer lurched in front of him, and thrust out a hand and pushed him.
At any time Plummer would have resented the push, and his temper was not all feigned when he struck back heavily, landing on the chest. Under the force of the blow the big man reeled back, gasping for breath; and involuntarily his hand came down from his face.
Inspector Jefson! Yes, there could be no mistaking the hard, rather coarse lines of the face, the fishy grey eyes, and the scar that ran across one cheek.
"Sorry!" Plummer murmured thickly, reeling away and back to his seat at the table, for he had learnt all that he desired.
Inspector Jefson glared at the man who had struck him, remembered that his face was uncovered, and hastily thrust the handkerchief up to it again.
"Remember—to-night!" he said, in a low tone, and, with a last threatening glance at Plummer, left the room.
Could he have known who the man with the agate-coloured eyes was, his anger might have been akin to fear, and the gold that lay in his pocket would have been a burden.
Han Sin shuffled back to the fan-tan table as if nothing had happened, and if his eyes rested upon Plummer at all, it was only for a moment. Once more his yellow fingers set to work with the beans and the receiving and paying.
Hughie Masters always appeared to lose, and the haggard lines of his face grew more and more pronounced, until at last he thrust his chair back and rose. For a moment he stood still, a hand to his head; then he crossed to what appeared to be a blank wall. His fingers touched a hideous small carved mask that hung there, and a door slid open.
A gust of overpowering strength swept out into the bigger room, for in this secret chamber lay the opium-smokers. Two rows of bunks were round the room, and for the most part they were occupied, but by no means all by Chinese.
There were men who muttered savagely, fearfully, the sweat thick on their faces that looked blue-grey in the feeble light of the lamp that hung from the centre of the ceiling. There were other men who lay with smiles on their faces, for the time being in the intoxication of content. They had found their beautiful garden of poppies, and as yet they had not slipped over the abyss of despair that is the end of all such gardens.
In the centre of the room was a small table, and at it sat a Chinaman, a jar of opium before him, and rows of pipes. From time to time he would dip a species of knitting-needle into the jar, form a ball of opium on the end of it, and another Chinaman would carry the pipe to some man who had not as yet succumbed to the influence of the drug.
It was into this place that Hughie Masters went, and as Han Sin followed him with his eyes there was the ghost of a triumphant smile on his lips which Plummer did not fail to see. The ex-convict knew who the lad was, and it seemed to him likely that Han Sin had decoyed him there for a greater reason than to take his losings at fan-tan and allow himself to be ruined with opium.
Then the secret door was closed, and once more there was nothing but the gambling.
Clang!
A gong sounded in the passage, and in a moment all the gamblers save Plummer had risen to their feet and drawn back to the walls.
"Allee light, but move!" Han Sin ordered, addressing Plummer; and the latter followed the example of the others.
Somewhere in the wall Han Sin touched a button, and before the eyes of Plummer the gambling tables slid down quietly through trapdoors that had opened, and a few seconds later quite ordinary ones, with papers and writing materials upon them, had taken their place.
Han Sin smiled, and, with the air of being accustomed to such matters, the gamblers seated themselves at the tables, though Plummer remained leaning against the wall, blinking his eyes stupidly. Once the Chinaman glanced at him nervously, and a Bowery boy, catching the look, shifted a knife from his pocket sufficiently to show the haft.
Plummer saw the action too, and guessed what would happen to him if he interfered.
"Open in the name of the law!"
The voice that gave the order was gruff and authoritative, and Han Sin shuffled to the door and opened it.
Into the room walked seven men, burly of build, and undoubtedly detectives, and at their head, looking beautifully stern, was Inspector Jefson, the man who only a short time back had been closeted with Han Sin.
"Velle pleased to see you, honolable gentlemen," the Chinaman piped, with a low bow. "You hele to be members of our club? Jes fliends, allee come talkee, smoke, lead papels?"
"No!" Inspector Jefson growled. "You are suspected of keeping a gaming-house and opium-den, and we have orders to search."
Han Sin threw up his yellow hands in horror, and one of the detectives behind Inspector Jefson nudged his companion and grinned.
"Vellee tellible be suspected!" Han Sin piped. "Allee make search now!"
"Get to work!" the inspector ordered. "I will see to this room; you look for others."
Five of the detectives promptly departed in a leisurely manner that suggested how arduous their search would be but one remained behind. He was a tall, well-built fellow of about twenty-five, with something that was essentially English about him.
"I guess you can go with the rest!" the inspector said sharply. "You're new to the work, an' the boys'll be able to put you on to the game right now."
But Harry Elder, the young detective in question, did not move at once, but stood with his head raised, sniffing at the air.
"I can smell opium, sir," he said.
"Bunkum!" the inspector snapped, though the air was full of the stench of the drug.
The Secret Door—Shot in the Back—Plummer Makes a Move.
HARRY ELDER looked in blank amazement at his chief. He had only been in the New York Police a short time, and so far he had had no opportunity of learning of the corrupt nature of a part of it. He had heard of 'graft,' and of men who went in fear of their lives because they were under the ban of it, but he had not greatly believed in it.
Han Sin was watching the young man, and his eyes, behind their large glasses, were very evil. His yellow hands were hidden in the loose sleeves of his jacket, and Plummer would have sworn that the fingers at the right one gripped and ungripped on some object.
Inspector Jefson's face grew purple, and his expression was an ugly one. He had been forced to bring this recruit with him, but he had expected to be able to keep him out of the way. The other men were his tools, and they saw with his eyes—or not at all when convenient and expedient.
"Get after the rest!" the inspector snarled angrily.
"But the opium, sir?" Harry Elder protested.
"If you're right we'll find out!" Jefson snapped. He was not afraid in the least to speak before any of the men who were in the room, knowing that they dared not go against him.
Harry Elder hesitated, then, seeing that he had no choice, he followed the others.
"Nice new pup!" one of the Bowery boys murmured. "I guess he won't grow up if he ain't wise to hit the game right!"
Inspector Jefson overheard the words, and his mouth curled into a snarl.
"He wouldn't be the first who didn't get kept to grow up and bark!" he growled; and the men in the room laughed.
As for Plummer, he was quite satisfied with how matters were going. He held the secret of the gambling-den in his hands, and he felt certain that he would be able to make use of it. Perhaps, too, there were other matters in which Han Sin and the inspector were working together. The Chinaman was disguised, anyway, and Plummer had a great ambition to see beneath the disguise.
With a solemn air Inspector Jefson walked round the room, while the inmates of it grinned, and it was not long before the other detectives returned.
"All right, sir!" one of them announced.
"All right!" Inspector Jefson answered shortly. "The search was thorough?"
"You bet!"
"Vellee glad to heal it!" Han Sin piped. "Honolable gentlemen condescend rauchee take lil wine long Han Sin?"
The Chinaman was already moving towards a cupboard in the wall, and when he opened it the gold-foil of champagne-bottles came into view.
"All right!" the inspector said indifferently. "Just to shew there's no ill-feeling."
The corks popped, and the detectives started to drink like workmen, and with an appreciation of the wine that showed that it was no new thing to them.
Plummer watched them, and thirsted greedily for the liquor. Despite all his cleverness, it was the luxuries of life that appealed to him, and he would probably have made a success honestly if he had been content to wait without the luxuries until he had won his career.
There was one detective, however, who did not drink, and he was Harry Elder. Unnoticed at present by the others, he was sniffing about the room, but when he started to tap the walls Han Sin swung round towards him.
"What allee do?" he cried, and somehow the piping tone of his voice had turned harsh and threatening.
"Yes, what the blazes are you doin'?" Inspector Jefson demanded fiercely. "Come right over here an' quit that foolin'!"
Harry Elder's face expressed doubt. He knew that it might go hard with him if he opposed his chief, and already a vague knowledge of the truth had entered his brain. He could smell the opium, knew that somewhere near at hand the terrible drug was being smoked, and felt that it was his duty to search further.
"I guess you think that you're boss?" the inspector sneered.
"No, sir," the young man answered steadily; "but I can smell opium. You remember, too, Miss Masters calling at the office to-night and saying that her brother had been tracked on several nights to somewhere down here?"
"Oh, was he?" Inspector Jefson snarled. "Then I reckon I'll have a couple of the boys out to see that there ain't any followin' done, and if a clubbin' will do the spies any good—"
Perhaps through nervousness, perhaps through intent, Harry Elder's left hand had gone up and touched the hideous mask that hung on the wall. Then the door of the secret opium-den had swung open, the fumes of the drug came out in a gust, and Harry Elder turned, with a cry, to look into the clouded room with its double row of bunks.
Inspector Jefson's face had gone white, for he realised that this young Britisher was not one of his creatures. He took a quick step forward and stopped.
Han Sin was bending forward, his hands still in his sleeves, and there was murder in his eyes.
Despite the dim light it was possible to see fairly plainly into the opium-den, with its men lying helpless in their bunks, and the two Chinamen staring blankly at the young officer who stood looking in upon them.
And in a bunk to the left, where the light fell plainly upon him, his face ghastly, his fair hair ruffled, lay Hughie Masters, his right arm dangling over the edge of the bunk with an opium pipe between his fingers.
"Look!" Harry Elder cried. "There is our man!"
The young detective started to turn, but before he was half-way round a shot rang out, there was a cry of pain, and he pitched forward over the solitary step of the inner room, and lay still.
In the room there was a sudden silence, and each man looked at his neighbour to see who had fired. Not one of them held a pistol in his hand.
Plummer had seen, however. He had not failed to notice the movement of Han Sin's arms, and he had seen the puff of smoke that had come from the sleeve after the report.
Inspector Jefson's face had gone white, and he looked anxious as one of his men hurried forward, and knelt beside Harry Elder.
"Near done in," the man announced coolly, after making his examination. "What shall we do?"
The words brought the detective back to his senses.
"Clear this crew out, and go with them!" he ordered, "Wait in the alley. I'd advise you boys not to get openin' your faces wide."
The gamblers were only too ready to obey, for they knew that Inspector Jefson was quite capable of saddling any one of them with the crime if it suited him, and that the other police would swear to the tale he told. There were plenty of good police in New York, but Inspector Jefson and his associates were not of their number.
Plummer hesitated, snarling angrily as a detective laid a hand upon his shoulder, but he realised in time that there was nothing for him to do but obey. Later on—well, there was plenty of time in which to act.
Now the room was empty, save for Han Sin and Inspector Jefson, and the latter crossed to the door of the opium-den, and shut out the still evidence of the crime that had been committed.
"I guess this is an awkward business for you, Mr. Luke O. Zitman," he drawled.
"Don't—don't be a fool!" the other stammered, in pure American, nothing of the Chinaman about his voice now. "What are you going to do?"
Inspector Jefson rubbed at his chin, and there was a greedy expression in his eyes.
"Say," he said, at last, "I'm short of two thousand dollars on that house I thought of buyin'."
"Yes?" the supposed Chinaman jerked eagerly, and was sorry for his tone the moment after.
"I reckon I meant three," Jefson drawled.
The sweat was standing out on the other man's yellow face.
"It's a lot of money," he said hoarsely. "Look what you've had out of this place."
"Ay, and think what you've netted out of it!" Jefson answered doggedly. "Ain't I earned the money, too? See here, don't I keep you wise on the game, and ain't I seen that pretty well every sheebang o' this kind about here that ain't yours has been raided an' shut up? Besides, this ain't a question of gambling, it's murder."
"He—he may not be dead!" the other man stammered.
"But he's got to be, anyway," the inspector said. "Cain't you see that he'd be ready to blow the whole game on us?"
The man who called himself Han Sin raised a hand to his lips.
"What will you do if I give you the three thousand?" he asked.
Inspector Jefson was thoughtful for a few moments, then he grinned wickedly.
"Well," he drawled, "I guess I shall find that the fool didn't come with us to-night, but went on patrol down at the harbour. When he's found in the water with a bullet in him we'll reckon that it was a rough-up with toughs, an' that they slammed him."
"Yes, yes," the other agreed eagerly, "three thousand now—"
"Four," Inspector Jefson drawled.
"You said three," the other man snarled, and his hands went back into his sleeves.
"Did I?" the inspector answered coolly. "I calculate it must have been a slip of the tongue. Sure you value your liberty at four thousand?"
The supposed Chinaman's hands moved in his sleeves, but the inspector did not flinch.
"I wouldn't try it," he drawled. "You might wing me, but the boys would see as you got the electric chair for it. Now get on to the dollars quick, or I'll have trouble to get the stuff away."
Plummer had been driven out into the alley like the rest, but though they scattered in various directions he did not go far away. On the other side of the road, right opposite the entrance to the alley, was a Chinese restaurant, and the ex-convict promptly entered it, and made a pretence of eating the unsavoury messes that were served up to him. He grinned, however, as he thought how soon he would be leading a far different kind of life, for he was certain that what he had witnessed that night would stand him in good stead.
The other men who had been there had not the pluck to take advantage of their opportunities, but Plummer was no coward, and his colossal conceit made him certain that he would win, despite the reverses that he had suffered at the hands of Sexton Blake. His great enemy was in England, and likely to remain there, so he could be left safely out of the question.
From his coign of vantage Plummer watched the alley, and presently he saw the police disappear into Han Sin's house. It was not long, however, before they reappeared, and between two of them hung the limp form of a man. He could be no other than Harry Elder, and Plummer wondered at the nerve that the others had in bringing him out into the light. Very soon, however, he was to see the plan, and the daring simplicity of it.
The police came out into the light, and Plummer's eyes fell upon the figure that dangled between the two of them. But what a change had been made in him.
On his head was a battered old wide-awake instead of his own hard hat, his collar had been dragged off, leaving his tie hanging outside his waistcoat, and the neck of a champagne bottle-protruded from his side-pocket. If ever a man looked to be a dead drunk he did.
Plummer had seen the same thing in England, when he had been attached to Scotland Yard, before being disgraced and turned out of the Force to continue his career of crime that his luxurious habits had led him into. Many a sailor and other poor devil had been dragged to the river that way, to where the narrow alleys between the warehouses run down to the lapping waters of the Thames, and there had been the end of them.
Now it was that Plummer thought quickly. Of one thing he was certain. He must act at once, while the man who called himself Han Sin was still labouring under the shock of his crime.
Plummer knew that for certain there were three other Chinamen in the den, and there might be more; but that he had got to risk. His right hand went down to make sure of the heavy automatic-pistol that was in his right pocket; rose, paid his small bill, and left.
Reaching the street, Plummer turned to his left, and strolled away, for it was quite possible that the Chinese restaurant was not free from a spy in the pay of Han Sin. For a couple of hundred yards he walked, then he retraced his steps, and boldly entered the dark alley. It was done quickly, and he did not think it probable that any spy in the restaurant would recognise him for the same man.
Plummer stood before the door over which the lantern still swung, and if his heart beat a little more quickly that did not mean that he hesitated. The knuckles of his left hand rapped the signal on the door, and the fingers of his right gripped his heavy pistol by the barrel.
For a second time Plummer repeated the signal, then there was a shuffling of feet in the passage, and the door opened to show the yellow face of its guardian.
"Allee close down for night. Solly," the man piped. "No more play, no more smokee, allee—"
There was a dull sound as the butt of Plummer's pistol came down hard on the man's temple, and he slipped down into an inanimate heap. The next moment Plummer had slammed the door behind him, but he did not go at once down the passage. He wanted Han Sin to believe that the caller, whoever he might be, had gone away.
Five minutes went by, then Plummer walked softly down the passage, reached the door at the end, and flung if open.
A man was standing by the table, his back to the doorway. He apparently was in evening-dress, and on the floor beside him lay the robe that Han Sin had worn. Also, on the table lay a grey wig with a pig-tail, and as Plummer saw them he grinned, though his grin gave way to a look of blank amazement as the man swung round and faced him. But for all his amazement Plummer was ready to guard his own safety, and his pistol covered the man steadily enough.
The latter was of average height, clean-shaven, and hard-jawed in the ordinary way, though now his chin hung loosely. His hair was grey, and he looked to be a man a trifle over fifty. And his was one of the faces that Plummer kept stored in the portrait-gallery of his mind.
It had always been the business of the ex-convict to make himself familiar with the faces and doings of prominent men, both in business and society, and he had not relinquished the practice after reaching New York, for knowledge of that kind was often of use to him.
He knew, therefore, that the man before him was Luke O. Zitmann, one of New York's citizens, and rumoured to be a very wealthy man. His reputation, or what was left of it, was not of the cleanest description, and that in a place where reputations have a way of tending in that direction.
So, Luke O. Zitmann was one of the "grafters," running gambling-dens under the corrupt police, and, what was more, he was now a murderer.
"I shouldn't move if I were you, Mr. Zitmann," Plummer said coolly, the first to recover himself. "I am reckoned rather a good shot. No, you need not look towards the inner-room, for if you call for help it will be the end of both Luke O. Zitmann and Han Sin, the keepers of gambling-dens and opium houses."
"How-did you get in?" the American asked huskily, trying in vain to appear at his ease.
"You need not blame your faithful doorkeeper," Plummer answered, with a grin. "We had a slight dispute, and I—er—won."
The ex-convict drew a little nearer to the man he meant to make his victim.
"You had better give me your revolver," he said. "No, not that way. Two fingers will do, and I fancy that even you could not fire in that manner, though I admit that you have claims to being a good shot."
The revolver was dragged out gingerly, and Plummer took possession of it after motioning Zitmann back. Then he calmly dropped into a chair, and eyed the helpless man before him.
"Murder is a terrible thing," he observed, with a shake of his head.
"It's a lie! The police will swear that I didn't do it," Zitmann snarled.
"Very likely," Plummer agreed, with a shrug of his shoulders. "But we can discuss that presently. I presume that you were about to go home?"
"Yes," the American answered dully.
"Then I shall have great pleasure in accompanying you," Plummer assured him. "These surroundings are not to my taste."
"And if I refuse?" Zitmann asked threateningly.
"You will not!" the ex-convict told him, with certainty. "You see, you don't happen to be dealing with the ordinary sort of idiot who comes down here to be fleeced. I will tell you my name, and you will agree that it is quite well known, I am George Marsden Plummer!"
Zitmann started as if he were shot, then laughed harshly.
"The wanted criminal?" he said quickly.
"If you choose to put it in that crude way," Plummer agreed. "I prefer to call myself a capitalist—with other people's money. As far as that goes, I fancy that we are both in the same boat."
The American's thin lips twitched, then he bowed his head.
"Very well," he said slowly. "We will go home."
"Then please lead the way!"
Zitmann moved quickly towards the door, but not so quickly that Plummer did not follow with the barrel of his pistol sticking in the man's back. In that manner they reached the outer door, stepped across the Chinaman, who still lay stunned, and reached the alley.
Here the American turned to the right, in the opposite direction to the main street, and opened a gate in what appeared to be a boundary wall. From there an alley led into a dark street, and against the kerb stood a large motor.
"Most thoughtful," Plummer murmured, with a grin. "You really might have been expecting me. The business of running gambling-dens must be quite profitable."
Zitmann muttered something savagely, which only made the ex-convict grin the more.
"You will sit beside the driver," the American said, with forced coolness, motioning towards the chauffeur, who was a thick-set, dogged-looking fellow.
"I think not, my friend!" Plummer answered lightly. "I rather prefer the back of the car, from which I can see you!
"Tell your man to go straight to your house," he said coolly. "I know the way there, and I do not like back streets, especially if they are dark and it is late at night."
Zitmann gave the order sharply, and the car sped away.
Plummer sat back against the soft cushions, and sighed with satisfaction. Although he was only just embarking upon his enterprise, and that against a pretty bad scoundrel, the luxury of the moment gripped his senses.
"Very nice, though rather flashy!" Plummer observed as he looked about the room that Luke O. Zitmann called his study. "I am afraid that the Whistler over the fireplace Is not genuine!"
Certainly no expense had been spared upon the apartment. The carpet on the floor was an old Persian one worth many pounds a yard, and the walls were upholstered in a dead-green silk to harmonise with its faded colouring. The furniture was rather heavy and over-ornamented, but that it was good there could be no doubt.
"I should have thought that the Adams style would have appealed to you more for a workroom," the ex-convict continued coolly. "It always seems to me more restful."
"Oh, quit on it!" Zitmann snarled. "I guess that you aren't here to admire my house!"
Plummer looked at the man and smiled, in his conceit, sure that he could bring him to heel.
"Why, no!" Plummer agreed. "I was thinking that a meal would be handy—anything cold that you have about, and a bottle of champagne. I really cannot talk on an empty stomach, and the food of the Bowery is scarcely to my taste."
The American looked ugly.
"Don't fool!" he snapped.
"Don't you!" Plummer snarled back. "Shall I ring the bell, or will you?"
Luke O. Zitmann had sustained a shock, or otherwise he might not have given in so easily. As it was, he rang the bell, and ordered a meal from a surprised servant. It was quickly placed upon a table, and the moment the door had closed behind the man, Plummer placed his pistol beside the plate, motioned the American to a chair in front of him, but some distance away, and set to work.
For close upon half an hour Plummer continued his meal, and by the end of that time there was very little food left, and the bottle of champagne was empty. Zitmann had watched him with surprise and a nervousness that it had not been in his power to hide.
"That's better," the ex-convict said calmly. "Now to business! Have you a cigar?"
Zitmann took a case from his pocket, and would have stepped forward with it, but Plummer waved him back.
"You may throw it!" he added "Thanks!"
Plummer's agate-coloured eyes glinted through the blue smoke as he looked at the American who was leading so strange a double life, but it was not he who broke the silence.
"I suppose you want a bribe to keep your tongue quiet? How much?" Zitmann asked harshly.
"You are wrong, my friend," Plummer answered. "True, I shall want money for present expenses, but, as we are to be partners, you will naturally not object to advancing that."
"Partners!" the American gasped.
"Precisely!" Plummer agreed. "You have brain, my friend, and very likely you have made a lot of money, but I fancy that by my aid, and with my superior brain, we might make much more."
If Zitmann had stared at the ex-convict in amazement before, his expression now beggared description. He knew that he was in this man's power—for the present—but already he was wondering how he would get him out of his path.
"What do you intend to do?" he asked slowly.
"Carry on your present business," Plummer answered, with a yawn, "and then extend it on lines that I have not already thought out. I may even choose, just to make myself as—er—respected as you are, to run for some political position. Now I think that it is time for bed; to-morrow we can discuss everything comfortably."
The ex-convict rose to his feet, his pistol in his hand.
"By the way," he said, "I prefer a bed-room without a window, and with only one door. Perhaps, too, you can lend me some things to sleep in. I can buy an outfit to-morrow, if you have a decent tailor in New York!"
Once more it looked as if Zitmann meant to rebel, but if so, he changed his mind, and led the way to the door.
The two men passed up a broad staircase, and the American fetched sleeping garments from his own room, then went into the one next to it.
"It carries out your conditions," he said drily. "You will see that there is only one door and no window."
Plummer cast a quick glance round the room, and smiled.
"It will do," he answered.
A few seconds later Plummer was alone, and the first thing that he did was to pull a small wedge and a gimlet from his pocket. He jammed the former under the crack of the door, then bored the gimlet through it into the polished floor-boards. Without absolutely breaking the door in, it was now impossible to force it.
That accomplished, Plummer leisurely undressed, slipped into bed, and went calmly off to sleep to dream dreams of a golden future.
The Recruits—The Man Who Fainted—A Strange Story.
SEXTON BLAKE, the famous detective of Baker Street, was at Scotland Yard in the office of Sir Henry Fairfax, the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. It was quite early in the morning, but the detective's clothes were heavily splashed with mud, and his pale face suggested that he had been up all night, which, indeed, was the case.
"I am really very grateful to you, Mr. Blake," Sir Henry said. "I am afraid that my men were puzzled, but you have put them on the right track now."
"They cannot go wrong," Sexton Blake assured him. "From the first I was inclined to believe that the guilty man was the chief, and I have found the clues that will enable you to prove it. As for being grateful, you know that I am always at your service."
"Only too well," Sir Henry answered, with a dry smile, "I only wish that you were officially attached to the Yard."
Sexton Blake shrugged his shoulders, and smiled a little.
"To be candid, I do not," he said. "I am sure that officialdom would handicap me in my peculiar methods of investigation."
"Possibly," Sir Henry murmured. "Now, I must see the applicants who wish to join the Force. Care to come with me? There are quite a number this morning."
"Yes." the detective answered; "I am always interested in new men."
Sir Henry led the way into the office, where nearly a score of men were waiting to answer preliminary questions and receive forms of application. Taken all in all, they were a fine-looking lot of fellows, yet there was one Sexton Blake singled out from the rest. He was tall and well-built, but his rather good-looking face was white and pinched, the lips tinged with blue. His clothes were shabby, and were hardly of English cut.
"A clever face," the detective said inwardly. "Has travelled recently, judging from the tan under his pallor. Hair cut the American style, but I'd swear that he's a Britisher."
Sir Henry watched with interest the men who presented themselves one after another before the officer who was receiving their inquiries, but Sexton Blake looked inclined to be bored until the man who had attracted his attention took his turn. He was a matter of anything between twenty-five and thirty years of age, though the haggardness of his face for the time being made him appear quite the latter.
"Name?" the officer at the desk queried.
"Harry Elder, sir," the man answered slowly, and after slight hesitation.
"Age?"
"Twenty-seven."
The officer pushed a couple of papers towards the young man, who took them with a certain eagerness.
"You know that you will have to obtain two householders to answer for your general character?" the officer asked, evidently noticing the rather American cut of the applicant.
Harry Elder started, and his face went paler than ever. He even seemed to sway a little through weakness.
"Is that essential, sir?" he asked hoarsely.
"One of our strictest rules, my man," the officer replied. "Surely you would have no trouble in finding two householders?"
"I am afraid so, sir." Harry Elder's voice was weak and dismal. "I have only been in Britain a few days after being in America for two years, and everyone I know lives in the North of England."
The officer shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of impatience, and turned to the next applicant, Harry Elder moving slowly towards the door, his fine face holding an expression of defeat. He was a man who had tried his last chance and failed.
The man reached the doorway, then suddenly he swayed, and caught at the edge of the door for support. A couple of men dashed towards him, but they were too late to prevent him pitching headlong to the ground. Sexton Blake moved forward, too, and looked down at the broad-built man who lay with closed eyes, his blue lips drawn a little way back from his teeth.
"Fainted from want," he said, in a low tone, and drew from his pocket a sovereign, and slipped it into the hand of a constable who was trying to revive the man.
"Give him that when he comes to," the famous detective whispered, and turned to the Commissioner.
"I must be going, Sir Henry," he said. "I have had a very trying time of late, and I am not sure that I shall not take a complete rest before starting work again."
The Commissioner smiled, and his fingers pulled at his short-clipped, grey moustache.
"I wonder how many times I have heard you say that, my friend," he remarked; "then there has been a case a little out of the ordinary, a case which I admit may have baffled us here, and you are on the warpath again."
Sexton Blake shrugged his shoulders, and his face looked intensely weary.
"It is my temperament," he answered. "I have dedicated my life to the detection of crime and criminals—that is all."
With heavy steps, the detective left Scotland Yard and entered a taxi-cab. Then it was that the full weariness that possessed him gripped him, and took charge of him, body and mind, so that when Baker Street was reached, the chauffeur had to rouse him.
"Must have had a pretty thick night," the man muttered as the detective went wearily into the house; "it ain't all pie being Sexton Blake."
The detective went straight through to his consulting-room, which was empty, for Tinker had been away for a couple of days, and was not due back until the afternoon.
Sexton Blake picked up the pile of letters that lay on the table, then dropped into an armchair, and commenced to open them, though his heavy eyelids drooped with fatigue. The first letter he threw aside, the second shared the same fate, and as he read the third his head slipped forward, his arm dropped down, and sleep claimed him.
It was afternoon, but Sexton Blake still slept in his armchair, utterly overcome by fatigue. Tinker had come in an hour since, and found his master there, and since then he had sat quietly in the room, jealously guarding his slumber. So far, there had been no interruption, but now that four o'clock had been reached, there was to be a cessation of peace.
There was a ring at the front door, and Tinker went cautiously out and opened it. He did not know the tall man who stood on the steps; but it was Harry Elder, the young fellow who had fainted while applying for membership of the Metropolitan Police.
"Is Mr. Blake in?" the man inquired eagerly.
"Yes; but he can't see anyone," Tinker answered, with assurance. "He's about dead-beat, and he's asleep now."
Harry Elder looked disappointed, and despite the strength of his face, its expression was one almost of pleading.
"May I wait?" he asked. "It is really of the greatest importance—to me."
Tinker looked doubtful. He liked the appearance of the man before him, but he had no intention of allowing his master to be disturbed.
"I don't know," he answered. "Mr. Blake may not undertake another case until—"
There was the sound of a door opening, and Tinker turned to see Sexton Blake emerge from the consulting-room, evidently roused by the sound of the voices in the hall.
"That's done it!!" Tinker said angrily, and added, addressing his master: "I was trying to keep you from being disturbed, sir."
"That is all right, my lad," Sexton Blake answered quietly, as he came forward. "Mr. Elder and myself have met before."
Harry Elder's face coloured as he stepped forward.
"I am sorry to trouble you, sir," he said; "but if I can have a few words with you—"
"By all means," the famous detective interrupted before the man could finish. "Come in. I will call you if I want you, Tinker."
The latter looked highly disappointed, for he was not fond of being left out of even the smallest of his master's actions; but he did not know that his exclusion was pure kindness on the part of Sexton Blake. The latter guessed that the visitor had come to thank him, and he did not wish to embarrass him more than necessary.
"Sit down," he said, as he closed the door behind Harry Elder.
"I've come to thank you for your kindness, sir," the latter broke out quickly. "I made a fool of myself down at the Yard. Things have been a bit rough with me of late, and there are still times when the bullet in my—"
The man stopped abruptly, but Sexton Blake's face betrayed no unusual interest. For all that, however, his words proved that he had not failed to take notice.
"So you have been shot recently?" he murmured.
"Yes sir," Harry Elder answered slowly; "but that's all over now. I've come to thank you for the sovereign, and—and to ask if you can do me another favour."
Sexton Blake nodded, and his half-closed eyes scanned the man before him, picking out the strength of the limbs, and the determination of the clean-shaven face.
"Well," he queried, "what is it?"
"You know that I want to join the Force, sir," Harry Elder answered quickly; "but I cannot give the householders' references. I have only recently come from abroad, and though my experience there—"
Again the man hesitated, and Sexton Blake rose to his feet, took a cigar from the box on the table, and lit it carefully. As he reseated himself his eyes, the lids no longer drooping over them, met those of the other man, and held them.
"Suppose you tell me everything," he said meaningly. "I fancy that you were about to say that you have had experience in detective work. Good. I can guess that it was in America. Why did you leave there?"
Harry Elder's strong hands moved nervously, then one of them went up unconsciously to his shoulder, where the bullet wound was.
"Because I should be a dead man if I hadn't, sir," he answered.
"And why?"
"Graft," Harry Elder said between his teeth.
A shade of interest crossed Sexton Blake's face. During the course of his career more than one case of graft had come to his notice, and he had been instrumental in breaking up two gangs in America. That the corrupt business still held sway he had no doubt, though he had heard of no important instances of it of late.
"You had better tell me everything," he advised once more. "I can assure you that nothing you say will go farther than myself."
Harry Elder hesitated, but it was not for long. Sexton Blake's reputation for absolute integrity was known to him, and surely that was enough. He had come to the detective as a desperate hope, prompted to do so by the kind action that had been done him, so why should he not speak, as he had nothing to be ashamed of?
"Very well, sir," he said slowly. "It will no doubt be a common enough story-to you."
"No story is common when it includes a bullet wound and graft," Sexton Blake murmured.
Then, Harry Elder told his tale, of how he had gone to the States, and knocked about for some time in various capacities, but without getting even to the fringe of the fortune that he had gone there to make. His money had dwindled, and in the end he had been advised to join the police. Well, they had taken him readily enough, and for a time he had been on ordinary patrol duty. He had soon been promoted to detective, and it was then that the evil fiend graft had stretched out its hands and gripped him. He told of his visit to Han Sin's den, knowing nothing of the character of Inspector Jefson and the men who were with him, and of the shot that had laid him low.
"There's not much more to tell you, sir," he said, in conclusion. "I must have been thrown into the harbour to drown, but, somehow, I clung to a launch that was making for the shore, and in the darkness got on to land without being noticed. After that, I did not know what to do. I thought of going to the authorities and telling them the truth, but how was I to know who was to be trusted? Besides, I was ill and weak from the wound.
"I hardly knew why, but I tried to keep an eye on Han Sin's den, unless it was that I had a notion to try and save Hughie Masters. I had been spoken to by his sister when she came to the police for help."
"A pretty girl?" Sexton Blake put in drily.
"The most beautiful I have ever seen," Harry Elder answered, then the colour flooded up into his face.
"I watched the den," he went on quickly. "I thought that perhaps it might be useful to know its frequenters again, but there is only one I should be sure of remembering."
"Why?" Sexton Blake asked, without great interest.
"His eyes, sir," Harry Elder answered. "I have seen many strange ones in my time, but never such as these. On impulse I followed the man, and I saw him lunch with Luke O. Zitmann, the millionaire, who deals in wheat—"
"But the eyes?" Sexton Blake said sharply.
"They were strange, of a kind of—agate-colour."
The famous detective of Baker Street leapt to his feet, every trace of want of interest gone from him.
"You are sure of that?" he demanded. "There is no mistake, for if—" The detective took a grip upon himself, and his face grew calm. "Give me a further description of the man?"
Harry Elder obeyed, not without surprise, and at the finish, Sexton Blake was pacing up and down the room.
It was more than likely that Plummer had gone to the States after his escape, the detective knew, for there, with the money that he had obtained, he would be pretty safe from the police. Besides, it was a country of great opportunities for such a man as the master-criminal.
Then there was Luke O. Zitmann. Sexton Blake knew that the millionaire's reputation was none of the cleanest, and he was just the type of man that George Marsden Plummer would pick out for his partner or his—tool.
Always at the back of Sexton Blake's brain was the memory of Plummer and the duels that they had fought, and still he had the ambition to run the man finally to earth.
The detective stopped in his pacing, searching Harry Elder's face with his eyes, and he saw that he was to be trusted. Before he could speak, however, the door opened and Tinker entered.
"A cable for you, sir," he announced.
Sexton Blake mechanically tore the envelope open, and as he read the message that it contained, a heavy line sprang into existence between his eyes.
"All right, my lad," he said briefly, and as the door closed behind his disappointed assistant, he held the cable out to Harry Elder.
"Read it," he ordered.
The young man obeyed, and his face set grimly.
"I am not surprised, sir," he said when he had finished, for the message ran:
"My son is missing, police have failed to find him. Come at once, whatever cost.—JOHN MASTERS."
Sexton Blake read the message again, his lips very thin and compressed.
"It means that Hughie Masters is being held to ransom," Harry Elder ventured. "I wish to Heaven that I had stayed there and seen the game through. I was ill, or I do not think that I should have been such a coward."
"You may be right," Sexton Blake said in a low tone; "yet this man with the agate-coloured eyes—well, if he is the man I think he is, the scheme is probably a bigger one than that."
There was silence for a short time, while the famous detective stood frowning down at the cable, then suddenly he raised his eyes to Harry Elder's face.
"I am going to make you an offer," he said quietly. "I shall take up this case, and probably you can be of use to me in it. If you will come with me I will promise you five pounds a week, apart from your expenses, and, at the end, if we succeed in breaking up this graft gang that probably holds young Masters for purposes of its own, I promise you that my influence will see that your part of the work is recognised, and that you will be able to go back to the New York police without fear. Will you come?"
With an impulsive gesture Harry Elder held out his hand, and the other gripped it.
"Ay, I'll go with you on one condition, sir," he answered earnestly.
"And that is?"
"That I serve you without pay. I've got to wipe out my running away, and with your help I'll do it."
The hands of the two men gripped harder, and Sexton Blake knew that in the young fellow before him he had an ally he could trust.
"Very well," he said quietly, "you will sleep here to-night, and to-morrow we can make all preparations, and sail."
Without further remark the detective seated himself at his desk, filled in a cable-form, and rang for Tinker.
"Send that off at once, my lad!" he ordered. "Be quick, there is work to do!"
No cable could have been shorter, for it ran simply:
"Sailing to-morrow.—S. B."
A Daring Plan—Sexton Blake Arrives—To Work.
GEORGE MARSDEN PLUMMER strolled leisurely into the breakfast-room of Mr. Luke O. Zitmann's New York mansion. It was a luxurious apartment, as beautifully furnished as the rest of the house, and for close upon a month the master-criminal had been quite content to dwell there in the knowledge that he was safe from the police. The disguise that he wore was slight, nothing more than the alteration of the lines of his face; but to such a master of make-up it was enough to cause an entire change of appearance.
During the month Plummer had occasionally accompanied Zitmann to one or other of his gambling-dens, but so far he had suggested no scheme save that Hughie Masters should be held a prisoner. Anyway, there would be a good ransom to be earned by his release, but all the time the scheming criminal had felt sure that something much greater might be done through the agency of the foolish boy who had given way to the opium habit.
Now, as Plummer entered the breakfast-room, the scheme that he had been waiting for had entered into his brain. During the month he had been content to soak his greedy soul in all the pleasures and debauches that Luke O. Zitmann's money could provide him with, but now all that absorbed him was the daring plan that he had formed. Zitmann was already in the room, looking out gloomily at the ugly stone mansions on the other side of the street, each of which was occupied by some man much of his own breed, who had fought his way upward to wealth; in a few cases without soiling his hands in the process, but only too generally with the life-blood on them of the weaker people who had been mercilessly thrust aside.
Not that with all their want of conscience these men did not suffer for their pasts, for there was always the blackmailer haunting them, or, in other words, graft held them in its grip and they had to pay for the silence of its mouthpiece.
Zitmann swung round sharply as Plummer entered, his thin face harsh and set, an ugly look in his eyes. It was plain that he had been waiting to speak, for he did so now without a moment's hesitation.
"See here," he said sharply, "I guess it's time that we came to an understanding. You've been slinging my money about for a month, and where's the return? You've got me stuck with John Masters' fool son, and there's risk there even if we do have the old man for a big ransom."
"What have I done in return?" Plummer sneered. "Haven't I been kind enough not to give away the fact that you are Han Sin, not to mention a dozen other aliases, also that you are a-well, to put it bluntly a murderer."
Zitmann paled as he looked into Plummer's merciless eyes. In his life he had taken many risks and thought that he feared no man; but he was afraid now right enough.
"Quit on that," he said huskily. "I'm ready to buy you out at a price, and you take it from me that you won't live long to enjoy it if you try any tricks!"
But Plummer only smiled, very evilly, and shrugged his shoulders.
"You had best listen to my plan," he said calmly, but before he could say more the door opened to admit a servant, who handed a letter to his master.
"The messenger's waiting, sir," he said.
With an impatient gesture the American opened the letter, and as he read it a curse broke from him.
"Tell the messenger to go to—" he began, but stopped short, biting his lip. "Go outside and wait."
As the door closed Zitmann glared at Plummer, and held out the letter to him.
"You see," he snarled, "it's a demand from Inspector Jefson for another thousand dollars."
"Is that all?" Plummer said coolly. "You had better send it to him. When you've heard my scheme you won't reckon the thousand badly spent if it keeps young Masters out of the way for a short time."
Zitmann hesitated, then he went to a desk in a corner, drew from it a number of notes, and thrust them into an envelope. Cursing, he sealed and addressed it, and a few seconds later if was in the hands of Inspector Jefson's messenger.
"Now, what's your scheme?" Zitmann demanded angrily.
Plummer selected a cigar from his case, one of the green Laranagas that he was accustomed to smoke when in funds, and coolly lit up before answering.
"May as well sit down," he said, and the other plumped himself into a chair, dominated by the iron will of the master-criminal.
"Well?" he snapped.
"Am I right," Plummer said at once, "in thinking that John Masters deals largely in wheat at the Chicago Pit?"
"Yes," Zitmann answered in surprise. "He's one of the heaviest holders of the December options, and as the price of wheat is now low—not much over sixty cents the bushel—he stands to make a big profit, though it won't be as big as some people could make."
"Why?"
"Because he's known as honest John Masters," Zitmann answered with a sneer. "He made a pile years ago, and now he chiefly operates in the Wheat-Pit to keep the price from going too high. He's broken more than one attempted corner—curse him!"
"Then he has bitten you!" Plummer suggested, and his eyes gleamed.
"Yes," Zitmann growled.
Plummer puffed away at his cigar, and there was a smile on his lips.
"Then you can have your revenge and make a fortune for both of us," he said slowly. "With your capital you could buy wheat heavily, and when the price has been forced up in December—"
"Oh, bunkum!" Zitmann snapped. "Don't I tell you that Masters would break me? It'd be a near thing between us for money, but I guess he'd win."
"Even if he was busy being worried about his lost son, and had to go to New York just at the most important moment?"
Zitmann sat up sharply, a look of understanding in his eyes, and the colour came and went in his face. He was a gambler born, and it was only John Masters' power to beat him that had kept him from the Pit, one of the greatest centres of gambling in the world, during the past few years. Without the Master financier to guide the operations, Zitmann knew that he could win through, by commanding the options on practically all the wheat that Masters did not hold. Yes, if Honest John could be kept out of the way there was a fortune to be made and revenge to be gained.
For fully five minutes Zitmann sat in silence, his cunning face heavily lined, and Plummer watched him placidly, knowing what the end of his thinking would be.
"We'll do it!" he cried at last. "I'll give orders to my agents to start quietly buying at once, and if there's the poor December supply that is predicted, by Heaven, we'll push wheat up to two dollars!"
Plummer's eyes gleamed, and his strong teeth bit into his cigar.
"What profit should that mean?" he asked sharply.
"Something like two million dollars," Zitmann answered. "If we pull this through, I reckon the other business can go, and I'll quit and let the graft gang rip with someone else."
Plummer rose to his feet, smiling, and flicked the ash from his cigar.
"Good!" he murmured. "You might let me have a thousand dollars, I'm running short."
Something of the exultation left Zitmann's face, then he realised once more the power of the man who had so strangely forced himself into partnership.
"All right," he said, and crossed to his desk.
"And you will start operations at once? There's no time to spare."
"It's me for the phone now," Zitmann answered, with a grin. "I'll have my agents on the floor of the Pit this morning."
Honest John Masters was seated in his study, an expression of profound agitation upon his face. He was a broad man, more British-looking than American, and if his looks spoke the truth, there was every reason for the nick-name that he had borne for years. In the ordinary way his eyes held a good-natured twinkle, but now they were very grave, as they rested upon the man who stood before him. This was Inspector Jefson, who had charge of the search for the missing Hughie Masters.
"There is no more news?" John Masters asked in a low voice.
"Sorry to say, no," the inspector answered. "I know the Bowery and Chinatown, as well as any man in the detective bureau; but so far, I'm up against it this time. There ain't a clue as to where your son went, but we're keeping right on with it."
John Masters tapped nervously on the desk with a pen-holder, and anyone who knew him well, would have told you that he had aged considerably during the past few days. As a matter of fact, the lines in his face had deepened, and the grey in his hair increased during the year, for it was during that time that his only son had struck the loose-end that had now culminated in his complete disappearance.
"You do not think that we might have other assistance?" he asked hesitatingly. "Of course, I know that you are doing all in your power, but no stone must be left unturned to save the poor lad."
Inspector Jefson suppressed a start. He had already feathered his nest pretty well by being a member of a graft gang, but for all that he was not satisfied yet. He was certain that Zitmann was holding the young man for a better reason than the paying of a ransom, and he meant to have his fair share—if not more—of the profits to be obtained.
"I reckon there's no call for it, sir," he answered hastily. "Had you anyone in your mind?"
John Masters did not answer at once. An honest man himself, he knew only too well the corruption that existed in the great city, and that it was hard to know whom to trust. Actually he did not particularly like this Inspector Jefson, and so it was that he watched his face closely when he did speak.
"There's that Sexton Blake, way back in England," he said slowly.
Certainly the inspector started this time, then he frowned with an air of outraged dignity.
"I reckon that if you think a guy of an amateur can do more than we can you'd best have him," he said gruffly. "You haven't sent for him?"
John Masters was not in the habit of lying, but for all that his hand moved and covered a cablegram that had been on his desk for a week. It was Sexton Blake's promise of assistance.
"You're right," he said. "I must trust you to pull the matter through. Heaven knows I'd go to pretty nearly any price to see Hughie safe!"
"Very good, sir," Inspector Jefson answered, the smile coming back to his lips. "I'll be pushing along!"
The inspector left the room, his grin broadening as he reached the hall, but he hastily looked grave as he caught sight of a man sitting there. Not that there was anything remarkable about the appearance of the caller, who was plainly waiting to see John Masters. Actually he was a rather sleepy-eyed looking individual, who lounged forward in his chair with his shoulders hunched up, and he did not so much as glance, apparently, at the burly detective as he passed.
A servant opened the door for the latter, then turned to the other caller with that rather insolent air that is a part of the average American servant's manner.
"What name?" he drawled.
"Jackson," the other answered. "Tell Mr. Masters that it is important."
"Oh, I'll reckon on telling him that!" the servant sneered. "But say, don't get countin' on the red carpet to walk in on. The boss ain't seein' many people nowadays."
"Add, from England," the caller said; and the servant went leisurely away.
It was not without an air of surprise that the man returned and said that Mr. Masters would see Mr. Jackson—from England; and the latter rose and followed his guide to the study, halting just inside until the door had been closed behind him.
"Mr. Jackson?" John Masters said without interest.
But the caller was silent, his head bent a trifle as if listening to the footfalls of the servant dying away on the polished floor of the corridor.
"Sexton Blake, at your service!" he said at last.
"Sexton Blake!" The millionaire leapt up from his chair, the colour flooding his face. "Then why did you—"
"Quieter, if you please," the famous detective interrupted warningly. "Was that Inspector Jefson who went out?"
"Why, yes," John Masters answered, still bewildered in manner. "I—I guess I don't understand."
"Perhaps not," Sexton Blake admitted calmly. "I recognised the inspector from the portraits that had appeared in the papers since he took charge of this case. For the rest, it is sometimes as well to work incognito. If I know New York at all, there is no telling who is on your side and who against you."
"That's true," John Masters muttered hoarsely; "but you don't suggest that the police—"
"I suggest nothing," Sexton Blake interrupted, holding up his hand. "I am here to help you if it is in my power."
John Masters sank back into his chair, and there was something about the face of the detective, keen enough now, that seemed to reassure him.
"Please tell me everything," Sexton Blake prompted. "I wish to get to work at once."
"Yes; there must be no delay," John Masters agreed huskily. "I cannot sleep or work thinking of the poor lad, and in a short time I must go to Chicago."
"Why?" Sexton Blake asked, for there was nothing that he allowed to escape him if possible. Often he had picked up valuable clues out of the most unlikely facts.
"To the wheat-pits," John Masters answered. "Every year I try to keep the food of the poor—not only of this country, but of others—down to a normal price. I was poor once, Mr. Blake, and I have not forgotten what starvation meant when a gang of scoundrels forced up the price of wheat to such a point that none but the rich could buy. I swore then, and I have kept my word, that if the power was ever mine, I would fight against such combines and their corners."
"And you must go yourself?"
"Yes," John Masters assured him. "In these days there is no one I dare trust to do the work for me, and I have to be in constant touch. But this is all beside the question." The old man held out his hands with an imploring gesture. "Be candid with me, Mr. Blake," he pleaded. "What chance do you think there is of finding my boy alive?"
"Every one!" the detective answered, without hesitation. "Though I am surprised that as yet you have not been approached for a ransom."
"I would willingly pay it!" the old man cried. "Anyone who has him knows that!"
"Then there is some bigger scheme on foot," Sexton Blake murmured, and as he spoke the face of Plummer, with the agate-coloured eyes, was clear in his brain.
"What can there be?" John Masters asked despairingly. "I believe that poor Hughie is dead. He has stayed away before when—when he has hit the pipe, but never so long as this!"
Sexton Blake's face hardened a little.
"You ought to have had him watched," he said.
"I know—I know!" the old man moaned. "But I have been away on the wheat business, to Liverpool and the other great centres. When I left I thought that he had reformed. I shall never forgive myself if any serious harm has come to him!"
Sexton Blake rose to his feet, and his shoulders squared.
"At present I think that you need have no fear for his life," he said consolingly. "Do I understand that I am to have carte blanche in this affair?"
"Absolutely!" John Masters answered readily. "Pay any bribe, do anything, to get my boy back!"
Sexton Blake smiled, but the expression was a very grim one.
"I am not in the habit of bribing criminals," he said curtly. "Good-day!"
John Masters went with the famous detective to the Hall. It appeared to be empty even of a servant, but as they approached the door a girl came quickly down the broad staircase.
In age she would have been a little over twenty, but at present her figure was that of a girl. But her oval face, crowned by masses of dark hair, was that of a woman, her lips firm, her clear eyes steady and unwavering. She paused as she caught sight of the stranger with her father, but the latter, after a quick glance up and down the hall, beckoned her to approach.
"This is Mr. Sexton Blake, Elaine, who has come from England to find Hughie," he said.
The girl held out her hand with a quick, impulsive gesture.
"You will find him?" she asked, in a low voice.
The detective bowed over the hand, and now he could understand the manner in which Harry Elder had spoken of the girl.
"I shall do my best, Miss Masters," he answered, "and I think I shall succeed."
A few seconds later Sexton Blake had left the house, and was hurrying away to the quiet hotel at which Harry Elder and Tinker awaited him, eager to get to work; but he would have given much to have witnessed a little scene that took place almost as soon as the door of John Masters' house had closed upon him.
John Masters and Elaine walked back to the library, the girl with her hand through the old man's arm, and they were scarcely in it before the servant who had admitted Sexton Blake to the house stole from behind the heavy portiere that covered one of the doors giving upon the hall.
After a stealthy look round, the man hurried along the hall and into a passage at the end of which was the servants' staircase. Up this he went at a run, and slipped into a bed-room, which, judging by the liveries hanging there, was his own.
With the door closed behind him, he passed swiftly to a cupboard, unlocked it, and stood before a telephone that had been fixed there.
With a slightly unsteady voice the man gave a number, and his feet fidgeted as he waited for an answer. At last it came:
"That Inspector Jefson's house?" he asked, in a low tone, his eyes darting towards the door. "That is you, Jef? I'm Carron—yes—I'm speaking on our private line. The man you saw in the hall—he's Sexton Blake!"
Without another word the man hung the receiver up and stole away down the stairs, after locking the cupboard. Another creature of graft was at work, and the battle that Sexton Blake had gone into was not to be fought out in the dark by his opponents.
The Plan—The Craft of Han Sin—Fire!
"HALLO!"
Inspector Jefson's voice was snarling as he picked up the receiver of the telephone on his desk. It was a quarter of an hour back that he had received the news from Carron, one of John Masters' servants, that Sexton Blake had arrived from England to search for the missing lad. And Inspector Jefson, hardened creature of graft though he was, who believed there was nothing that money could not control, and who had a greater respect for the almighty dollar than for human life, felt strangely uneasy at the news.
Sexton Blake was no hide-bound detective working on fixed rules. Against such a man the corrupt police in Jefson's pay would have had no trouble in fighting and beating, but this other man was different. The stories of his success were legion, and once even the shadow of Sexton Blake's capturing hand had passed very close to the inspector. He had only learnt such much later, but now he remembered, and shivered mentally.
"Hallo!" he snapped again. "Yes, I'm Jefson, and I'm calling from my private house. You're Wanling, of the Palace Hotel. What the blazes do you want to disturb me for now? I guess my hands are full enough without any of your fifty cent games. What?"
The last word broke from Inspector Jefson almost in a shout, and his face went ghastly white.
"Say—say, are you dead sure?" he stammered. "There was the bullet wound, and the harbour ought to have finished it.
"Sure," the voice answered over the wires. "There's an Englishman, thin-faced, eyes always seem to be half-closed, with him, and a lad."
The inspector's hand shook so that he almost dropped the receiver, and he looked anxiously towards the door, although he was in the workroom of his own house, the door of which was heavily felted, so that no sound could escape to a listener in the passage, for even there the detective-officer knew that there might be agents of one of the rival graft gangs.
"Do they seem as if they meant to go out?" Inspector Jefson managed to inquire.
"Reckon not," the voice answered. "The Englishman has given orders for lunch. I'll get on to you right away if anythin' happens. It's a sure pretty bunco trick you've run up against, ain't it?"
But Inspector Jefson snapped the receiver back on to its stand, and sat back in his chair, the sweat standing out on his face. His harsh jaw hung loosely, and there was fear in his eyes.
Over the wires a man named Wanling, a servant at the Grand Hotel, and in the pay of the graft ring, had told him that Harry Elder was there, alive—Harry Elder, the man who knew that Hughie Masters had been in Han Sin's opium and gambling den, and who had probably guessed the reason of the strange search and the double attempt to murder him. It was a black outlook, and for the time being the inspector did not see his way out of it. If Harry Elder had been alone the matter would have been quickly settled, and on this occasion there would have been no mistake made about closing his mouth for ever. But there was Sexton Blake!
The famous detective was no ordinary man, and, apart from his skill, Jefson was only too well aware of the outcry there would be if he was put out of the way. The affair would be almost of international importance, and, despite the ring of paid spies that surrounded him, the American had fears for his safety.
Then there was another circumstance that Jefson did not like. From the papers Sexton Blake must know that he was in charge of the search for Hughie Masters, so why was it he had not come to him for information with regard to the steps that had already been taken by the Detective Bureau? Did it mean that he had no faith in them, and might even suspect the truth?
What was to be done? That was the question. And there could be no doubt that action must be taken at once. Inspector Jefson was already a wealthy man, and as he sat there he contemplated flight, but only to put the idea away from him. He knew Sexton Blake's reputation for sheer doggedness, and he had no fancy to have him on his trail.
Was it possible to remove Hughie Masters and wipe out all trace of the gambling den? Harry Elder would be sure to set Sexton Blake on to that place first, but he knew nothing of the others controlled by Luke O. Zitmann. It night bring the search to a dead-end, and the ransom, or whatever Zitmann and his partner were working for, would be within reach.
With feverish haste Jefson took up the telephone-receiver again, and gave a number to the Exchange.
"That Zitmann?" he inquired, after a pause. "Jefson speaking. You must come here at once."
"Oh, shut your face!" he snarled, as the other evidently objected. "Risk? You'll be fairly rompim' in it if you don't!"
The receiver was back on its stand, and Inspector Jefson began to pace the room with short, jerky strides. He had faith in Luke O. Zitmann for getting out of trouble, but he did not know so much about the new partner, or what his aims were. The man had been introduced to him by the name of Thorne, but he guessed that that was not correct. Little did he think, however, that the man was George Marsden Plummer, the criminal whose name was notorious throughout the world. Whether or not the knowledge would have given him a greater belief in the man's capabilities it is hard to say.
Fifteen minutes or more passed, then a bookcase at the side of the room swung back, showing that there was a doorway behind it, and Zitmann stepped quickly into the room.
"I thought I had best come in by the private way, Jef," he said, none too steadily.
"Bet you had!" the inspector snapped. "D'you know what it means to us that this Sexton Blake is on the job?"
"Clever man?" Zitmann suggested.
"Sure," the inspector growled; "but he don't know the gang that he's up against."
"Then why not—" Zitmann paused, but the gesture he made completed the sentence significantly.
"No!" Jefson answered with determination. "I don't believe that there's one of the boys would do it if they knew it was Sexton Blake. They'd be kind of scared. Besides, we'd have to wipe out Harry Elder, too!"
"What?" Zitmann almost screamed. "He's—dead!"
"Is he?" Inspector Jefson drawled. "Well, I calculate that if you like to tote along to the Grand Hotel you'll find him there with this Sexton Blake and his kid-assistant Tinker."
Zitmann passed a shaking hand over his forehead, and somehow the sight of the man's fear brought Jefson's nerve back to him, and a plan flashed into his brain.
"We'll beat the crowd!" he said quickly. "Hughie Masters is still there?"
"Yes," Zitmann answered mechanically. "It's ten to one that Blake, with Elder to prompt him, manages to search the den."
"I guess so," Jefson agreed. "Likely as not he'll go to my chief—no he won't, for he'd know that if he failed to find young Masters in the den that we'd be on to him. You bet he knows that I'm in the game; but he can't act without proof, and it'd only be Elder's word to the rest of the men who were with me that night." He laughed harshly, and was no longer pale. "My record for clearin' up gambling-dens will take a lot of shakin'."
"Then what is your plan?" Zitmann asked.
"Is it possible to shift Masters?"
"Yes," Zitmann answered after a pause. "Elder can't know of the doorway by which I leave, and even Sexton Blake won't dare to have a look round until it's dark."
"You can be easy on that," Jefson assured him. "Wanling's on the wire at the Grand, and I'll mighty soon know if Sexton Blake and his crowd shift."
"Then I can get him away," the other said. "But where to?"
"Your house," Jefson answered calmly. "You can get him into the car—I'll Have a couple of men to keep the street clear—then there's the passage into your place by way of the garage. Blake and Elder don't know that the highly respectable citizen of New York, Luke O. Zitmann, is also Han Sin."
"That's right," the millionaire said slowly; "but ain't there some way in which we can make the detectives think that young Masters is dead?"
"Sure!" Jefson answered, with a quick grin. "Listen to me."
For close upon half an hour the inspector unfolded his plan, and as he proceeded Zitmann's face cleared. Plummer's wheat scheme had gripped him hard, and he was as anxious to carry it out as was the master-criminal—for vengeance and profit.
"It's a cinch!" he said, when Jefson had concluded. "I guess I'll see that young Masters don't know where he's taken to; and when I've finished with him we can drop him on to Ferry's gang, and let them run the risk of the ransom business."
"What is your scheme?" Inspector Jefson asked sharply. "And where do I come in in it?"
"What the scheme is don't matter a cuss to you," Zitmann answered coolly; "but you're in for twenty thousand dollars at the winning-post."
"That'll do," Jefson said, for he knew that the other dared not go back on him. "I'll be clearing and fixing up young Masters."
The door of the bookcase opened, and Zitmann slipped out, leaving Inspector Jefson alone.
"Twenty thousand!" he muttered. "You're a bird, Luke, and I bet I'll clip your wings for more than that."
The Bowery presented its usual scene of low uproarioussness. In the saloons were crowds of roughs of the worst description, many of them drunk, with here and there a gang who had a jay—some young fellow of means who thought that he was seeing life—in tow. Out in the streets, dirty and narrow, with only here and there a listless policeman, who appeared to take no notice of anything, were other gangs, bent out of the saloons by a shortage of money. Probably before the night was out many of them would have found a remedy for the complaint.
It would have been hard to pick one individual out of the crowd at ten o'clock at night, yet we must do so.
On the right-hand side of the street a man dressed like a sailor walked along unevenly, swaying from side to side with more than the roll that years on the sea could have given him, and as he passed under the light of a street-lamp the reason for it might have been guessed.
The man's face was of a peculiar pallor—almost grey—and the eyes seemed to have sunk back into their sockets until they looked like dim, dark figures, out of which most of the life had gone.
"Hit the pipe," a policeman muttered as the man lurched by him, for he read plainly enough the symptoms of a man who had given way to the vice of opium-smoking.
But for all the stagger and the awful face, the man who made his way towards the Chinese quarter had his wits about him, which is not surprising, considering that he was Sexton Blake. The matter of disguise had been simple enough to him, and a fire-ladder leading down the back of his hotel had given him an easy means of exit, without being observed by probable spies in the pay of Jefson, when night had fallen.
The famous detective meant to use all his endeavours to break up the graft gang; especially if he were right in believing that Plummer was a member of it; but there was one thing that had to come first—the rescue of Hughie Masters. There was always the possibility that if the gang knew that honest detectives were on the track they would take steps to put the young man out of the way—permanently.
If Sexton Blake had known that the gang was already aware of his presence in New York, and his reason for being there, he might have changed his plans; but even the greatest of detectives cannot be infallible, and the famous one from Baker Street had yet to know to the fullest extent the ramifications of the graft gang against which he was working.
Sexton Blake reached the Chinese quarter, his steps still unsteady.
Once he stepped into a saloon and called noisily for a drink, and his eyes never left the glass behind the bar, so that he could see anyone who entered after him. It was a precaution to make sure that he had not been followed, though he did not think that it could be the case, but no one came in who roused his suspicions.
Leaving the saloon, Sexton Blake proceeded on his way, lurching drunkenly through the crowd, and narrowly escaping a fight with a tough he bumped up against. Then he was opposite the entrance to the alley in which was the den of Han Sin.
There he stopped for a moment, leaning drunkenly against the wall, and his dull eyes turned towards the Chinese restaurant opposite. On the balcony stood a broad-shouldered man, bearded, and also apparently a seaman, and with him a lad who might well have been an apprentice. There were plenty of that type to be seen in the quarter.
The man and the boy were Harry Elder and Tinker, who had left, in disguise, the hotel some time before the detective, under whose orders they were working. Both had pleaded to be allowed to go with Sexton Blake to the opium den, but he had firmly refused, knowing that the arrival of three strangers might cause comment. That he himself would be admitted he had no doubt whatever.
After a few seconds' pause the detective turned and lurched into the alley, at the end of which burned the lantern that shone down upon the name of "Han Sin." That he was taking his life in-his hands he knew well, but he meant to get his bearings of the place, possibly overhear some scrap of conversation that would help him, and that was enough to set against the risk.
Besides, there was always the chance that there might be present the man Sexton Blake believed to be Plummer.
The detective paused before the battered doorway, and if he had been in the main street, probably even he would not have noticed a small thing that happened.
The wall of the den that gave upon the street was blank, save for one little window set high up in it, and from the roadway it would have been impossible to see the yellow face that was pressed against the glass. Nor would the man who watched there have been mentally connected with a Chinaman who lounged forward to an upper window of the restaurant opposite, settled himself in a chair, and began to play dismally on a native fiddle. But as he played the yellow face disappeared from the small window of the den, and it was at that moment that Sexton Blake knocked at the door.
As the detective waited his hand went to his pocket to make sure of the pistol that was there, then he knocked again as his first summons had not been answered.
A matter of five minutes passed before the door was opened a few inches, and a yellow face with oblique eyes showed in the slit.
"What you wantee?" the man asked shrilly.
"Pipe," Sexton Blake answered, in a hoarse voice, his fingers on the jamb of the door.
"No here!" the Chinaman said, with a shake of his head. "Allee most lespectable people, makee much-fan, makee allee merchandise. Go away."
The detective had expected something of this kind, and he saw that the doorkeeper was eyeing him closely. He had no fear, however, that it would be seen that he was disguised.
"Oh, rats!" he said, with assumed anger. "You no chin me can't smoke a pipe. You let me in, or I'll bust your yellow head like a—"
Sexton Blake stopped abruptly, sniffing the air, and at the same moment the Chinaman turned his head inwards, and did the same. A puff of acrid smoke came down the passage, and with a cry of alarm the Chinaman let the door swing open.
"Fire!" he yelled shrilly, in frightened accents. "Fire! Allee alight!"
A second gust of smoke came down the passage, making the detective cough, and a great fear gripped at him. Either by intention or not the opium den was on fire, and if Hughie Masters was there his life was in the utmost danger.
Did the graft gang know, after all, of his arrival in New York with Harry Elder, and had they taken this awful means of hiding their work before it was too late?
"Fire!" the Chinaman shrieked again, running along the passage towards the street, and the cry was taken up by a score of shrill voices.
Chinamen, Bowery toughs, foreigners came pouring out of the houses, restaurants, and saloons, until the whole street was a confusion of people, hustling to the mouth of the alley, and the air was thick with their cries.
In the distance shrilled the whistle of a policeman.
But Sexton Blake thought of nothing but the fact that Hughie Masters might be in the burning building, and though the smoke swept into his face in a cloud, he moved forward.
In Danger of the Flames—A Victim—Is Hughie Masters Dead?
A GAUNT figure of a Chinaman, coughing and yelling in terror as he came, charged out from the passage of the house, and Sexton Blake snatched at his arm, and brought him to a standstill.
"Any more in there?" he demanded sternly.
The man tried to shake himself free, but the detective hung on.
"Answer!" he cried. "Or I'll take you in with me to search."
"Only one piecee man," the Chinaman stammered. "Englis fliend—"
With startling abruptness the Chinaman found himself free, for Sexton Blake had plunged recklessly into the passage, and the smoke had swallowed him up. Through the vapours there was already a gleam of light, showing that the fire had taken its grip, but that did not stop him.
The second Chinaman who had escaped was running screaming to the main street, but before he left the alley he had slammed the door of the den behind him. And the lock, though it fastened on the inside, was of a kind that anyone unfamiliar with it might find it hard to open.
Sexton Blake ploughed his way through the smoke. Harry Elder had made him familiar with the lay of the den, and he knew of the manner in which the decor of the secret room in which the opium smoking took place could be opened. It was possible that Hughie Masters was still there, kept continually under the influence of the drug, for the detective knew only too well that nothing more was needed to hold a victim of the vice safe. Ply him with the pipe, and his brain would have neither the initiative nor the desire to move his limbs. The foetid atmosphere, the dreams of horror and of ecstasy would keep him their slave as safely as the walls of Sing-Sing Prison could guard a prisoner.
The smoke was choking in its density, but for all that the detective fought his way to the main room. At the further end the wooden wall was in flames, and the heat was intense, but Sexton Blake staggered to the left, his hands groping in the darkness for the mask that was really the handle of the door to the secret room. His ears were deaf to the babble of sounds that penetrated from the street to the building, nor did he hear the furious clanging of the bell of the first fire-engine that dashed up madly, anxious to get to a quarter where, if a fire once spread, there was no telling where it would end.
Choking for breath, his head swimming, Sexton Blake felt along the wall fer the mask, and at last his fingers touched it He pushed at it, twisted it, then tried forcing it upwards, and as a door gave before him he pitched forward into the opium den. So far the smoke had not reached it to any great extent, and the fumes of the opium still hung in the air.
At any moment the detective's retreat might be cut off by the flames in the other room, but he did not even so much as think of the danger. Somehow he staggered to the bunks about the wall, and felt in them with groping hands. More than once he wanted to drop, almost suffocated by the fumes that swept in upon him, but his iron will held him up.
Round the room Sexton Blake went, but he found nothing, and as he faced round to the door it seemed even to him that his last moment bad come.
Across the doorway that was his only way of escape leapt fierce flames, and it was impossible to tell how far they spread behind. To leap through them might mean simply a plunge into a furnace and—death!
Still, there was no time for hesitation, for remaining in the opium den could only be the end, and so it was that Sexton Blake took the risk. For a moment he braced himself, trying to get a hold upon his smoke-dimmed faculties, then he had sprung through the flames into a mass of smoke, and was reeling in the direction of the passage. How he reached the end of it he never knew, but his fingers were upon the lock, and he sought to open the door and let himself out into the life-giving air.
Why did the door not open?
Scarcely able to stand Sexton Blake tore at the lock until his fingers bled, but still the door held, and behind the detective the smoke gave way to flames as death by fire drew nearer. In a few minutes at the most the flames would be upon him.
One last despairing effort the detective made to open the door, then there was a red cloud before his eyes that was not the glare of the fire, and he sunk down into a limp, crumpled, unconscious heap.
At the first sign of the alarm of fire Harry Elder and Tinker had hurried from the Chinese restaurant with the rest, filled with alarm at what might happen to Sexton Blake. At least, they had tried to leave the place, but, somehow, a wild, jostling crowd had got into their way, and for all their efforts it had taken the close upon five minutes to reach the street which was already reeking with the fumes of the burning building.
"The guv'nor!" Tinker panted, his heart in his mouth, for even during his efforts to reach the street he had been able to see that Sexton Blake had not emerged from the alley.
"He'll be all right," Harry Elder answered. But he knew that he lied. He felt certain that the detective had been led into a trap, and that the end of it would be death.
The Chinaman who had rushed out of the den and fastened the door upon Sexton Blake, came tearing out of the passage, to be instantly collared by a burly policeman, who seemed to have sprung from nowhere, and placed himself in the opening, his club clenched aggressively in his hand. Harry Elder recognised him as one of Inspector Jefson's men, and again the idea struck him that Sexton Blake had been led to his death. Somehow the news of his arrival in New York had leaked out, and the graft gang had lost no time in acting.
"Anyone in there?" the policeman demanded.
"No!" the Chinaman piped. "Allee safe. Get away!"
"Good!" the policeman grunted, and as he did so the first of the fire-engines tore down the street, reckless of the lives and limbs of the crowd, and drew up with a jerk that set the heavy vehicle skidding as if it would turn over under the clutch of the jammed-on brakes.
Harry Elder and Tinker pushed their way up to the policeman, who was keeping a clear space with his club.
"You get!" the man ordered.
"There's someone in there!" Tinker cried, pointing down the alley.
"There ain't!" the policeman snarled. "The Chin's just told me it's all clear."
"But there is," the lad protested, narrowly escaping a blow from the man's club. "I saw him go in."
"It's right?" Harry Elder cried. But when he tried to push by he received a blow that, for the moment, sent him back, his right arm numbed and helpless.
Other police were arriving now, clearing a way with their clubs, and leaving more than one man who got in the way sorry that he had not cleared out of the track quicker, for there is nothing of peaceful persuasion about the police of New York, the rougher element of it knowing full well that it will never be brought to book for its brutality.
A second engine was dashing up, and already the first was having its hose run out, but Tinker could not wait for the rescue work to begin. No more daring men than the American firemen existed, but they were not likely to risk their lives unnecessarily if they believed the burning building to be deserted.
A fireman brushed by Tinker, pushing him out of the way, and as he did so the lad snatched at the axe in his belt, and jerked it clear. The next moment he had ducked under the club of the policeman who held the entrance to the alley, flung himself at the man's knees, and brought him heavily down. Then he had leapt across the fallen man, axe in hand, and Harry Elder had followed his example.
All this had taken time, however, and a burst of flame from the roof of the building suggested that the gallant man and boy might be too late.
Harry Elder snatched the axe from Tinker, and with all his strength, his right arm recovering from the numbing effect of the blow that it had received, he attacked the door. There was a crash of wood, the tinkle of metal as the lock fell inwards, and the door was open.
A great gust of smoke swept out, but Tinker leapt by Harry Elder, ready to enter the building at any cost, for his beloved master was there. Then he was down, tripping over the body of Sexton Blake, but in a moment he was up again.
"Here!" he cried hoarsely; and Harry Elder was beside him.
Between the man and the boy the still form was lifted, but in the alley the smoke was so thick that until the end of the passage was reached it was impossible to see whether the rescued man was Sexton Blake.
The policeman who had been thrown by Tinker, stepped forward savagely, his club swinging, and aimed a blow at the boy. The next moment he was face to face with Harry Elder, who caught at his wrist, and gripped it before he could strike again.
"Quit!" he ordered. "I guess if you are a coward, you needn't strike a lad who isn't!"
With an oath, the policeman jerked himself free, but he was not destined to do any damage. One of the firemen, working a hose, had seen what was taking place, and, with apparent inadvertence, he turned his powerful jet of water full upon the policeman's back, and sent him flying. Before the latter could recover himself half a dozen hands had been stretched out to carry Sexton Blake to the opposite side of the road, where a space was cleared for him.
The drenched policeman looked about him angrily, as if he still would have liked to carry out his vengeance, but at that moment Inspector Jefson stepped to the side of him, and spoke in a low, threatening tone.
"Stop it, you fool!" he snarled. "You spoilt the game in letting that cursed kid and the man get through. You ought to be lynched by the crowd for givin' yourself away, and you bet I wouldn't stop them! Best get further down the road."
The policeman went sullenly down the road, while Tinker and Harry Elder did their best to restore Sexton Blake to consciousness. They took no heed of the fire, which was now blazing furiously, despite the efforts of half a dozen engines to keep it under. A great water-tower had been run up, two hoses working from the top of it, trying to get at the flames in that way, and a score of gallant men were swarming over neighbouring roofs in an attempt to keep the conflagration from spreading.
Altogether it was a wild scene, with the thudding engines, the roar of the flames, and the yelling and shouting of hundred of voices in a confusion of tongues.
But through it all Sexton Blake lay unconscious, despite the efforts of Harry Elder and Tinker to bring him round, and only the faint beating of his heart assured them that he still lived.
"If we could only get a doctor!" the man said, having to raise his voice to a shout to make himself heard; and Tinker looked round despairingly at the crowd. It seemed impossible that he could get through.
"I'll try it!" he answered doggedly; but as he started to move away a cry from Elder brought him back, and a great lump rose in his throat as he saw that his master had opened his eyes.
"How did I get out?" the latter asked; and Tinker had to put his ear to the detective's lips to hear.
"Managed it somehow, sir," he answered modestly. "Elder and I made a bolt for it. The police tried to stop us, saying that there was no one inside."
Sexton Blake's face set hard, and his strength seemed to come back as his companions helped him to his feet.
"How did they know that?" he inquired.
"The second Chinaman who came out said so, sir," Tinker explained.
Then the detective knew for certain that it was a trap into which he had gone, and he had been intended to perish in the opium-den. Whose work it was he could not tell, but he knew that if Plummer was really the man with the agate-coloured eyes that Harry Elder had spoken about that he could guess.
Suddenly an expression of despair crossed Sexton Blake's face, and he gripped at Tinker's arm.
"No one else has been rescued?" he asked.
"No, sir. Perhaps there was no one there."
But Sexton Blake, as he leant against the wall, thought otherwise. It was plain that the graft gang had known that he was at work, and, in that case, they would be aware that Harry Elder was with him. That would mean that all trace of the thing that they had done must be wiped out, and the mouths of all concerned shut.
The fire was to have finished him, and, as likely as not, they had hoped that Harry Elder and Tinker would suffer the same fate. If not, the graft gang had many other ways of removing them, and they would have made sure of their most powerful enemy first.
On the other hand, would they still dare to carry out their plan with regard to Hughie Masters, whatever that might be? But to Sexton Blake that held out no more than the faintest ray of hope.
By now the firemen had succeeded in isolating the burning building, and the flames did not appear to be so fierce as before. Other engines had arrived, too, in answer to a call for further help from the officer in command, and as the hours drew away there was more smoke than flame, and the crowd began to thin.
Sexton Blake remained there with his companions, however, quickly recovering from the suffocation that had threatened to be the end of him, never speaking a word, as he thought of the young man who might be lying, a charred heap, among the ruins. His companions were silent too, realising what was in his mind, and afraid that his surmise was only too correct.
It was only when the dawn was approaching that Tinker ventured to break the silence.
"We'd better be going, sir," he said. "We're still in disguise, and it'll be a job to get back into the hotel without being seen when it is light."
"Yes," Sexton Blake answered, and his voice was dull and listless—"yes, we had better go."
With dragging steps the detective walked away between his comrades, his eyes on the ground, and none of them noticed the figure of Inspector Jefson standing in the angle of a building. If they had have seen him they would have noticed the look of triumph on his face; but they passed unknowingly.
Fortunately they managed to re-enter the Grand Hotel by way of the fire-staircase without being observed, and mechanically they removed their disguises.
Harry Elder and Tinker sat after that in the private sitting-room that had been taken, but Sexton Blake remained in his own apartment, and they could hear him pacing restlessly up and down the floor.
The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece seamed to turn with terrible slowness, and at last both Harry Elder and Tinker were nodding, fatigued by the night's work.
It was at eight o'clock that a knock at the door roused them, and Tinker opened it, to find a servant there with a paper in his hand.
"Bad fire in Chinese quarter," he announced, "Thought that you might like to read about it."
Tinker thanked him and closed the door, no humour in the smile on his lips as he thought of how much they already knew of the fire. For all that, however, he unfolded the unwieldy news-sheet, the front of which appeared to be nothing but a mass of headlines and a smudged portrait that might well have been of anyone on earth.
"We've lost!" Tinker gasped; and Harry Elder hurried to his side and bent over the paper.
The headlines alone told the tragedy that had brought the cry from the boy, for they ran:
CHARRED CHINATOWN.
MILLIONAIRE'S SON A VICTIM.
MASTERS' MYSTERY ENDS IN DEATH
IDENTIFIED BY WATCH AND RING.
There was no need to read more, and Harry Elder and Tinker looked at one another before both turning towards the door of Sexton Blake's room.
"I must tell the guv'nor!" the lad said hoarsely.
"Yes," the man answered huskily; and Tinker went to the door of the bed-room and knocked, entering as he heard his master's voice.
"The paper, sir!" he said. "There's—there's news in it!"
Sexton Blake, haggard and tired-eyed, looked into the boy's face, and he read the truth without turning to the paper.
"They have found the remains?" he muttered.
"Yes, sir. They have been identified by a watch and ring."
Sexton Blake stood like a man stunned, owning to defeat; then, by an effort, he turned to the paper and read steadily. When he had finished he laid the sheet aside and picked up his hat.
"I am going out," he said; and Tinker wondered at the steadiness with which he spoke. Into his eyes, too, there seemed to have come a gleam of hope.
"What is it, sir?" the lad asked eagerly; but Sexton Blake hurried out without answering.
The Dread News—Sexton Blake Hopes—Watching.
OLD John Masters sat at his desk, his face buried in his hands, a newspaper on the floor beside him. It lay face upwards, the great, heavy headlines plain to anyone who cared to look, the smudge that was meant to be a portrait of Hughie Masters stuck solidly in the centre of it, almost as black as a mourning band.
Beside the old man knelt Elaine, her face white save where her eyes were red with tears, one arm round his bent shoulders.
"You must not think of it, dear," she sobbed. "I—I can't bring myself to think that it is for the best, even though—"
"Even though his life was being wasted," the old man groaned, "I'd have saved him somehow, Elaine—given up everything, the work in Chicago and all. He was a good lad at heart, and if I had been more with him—"
The broken voice stopped, and the man's shoulders heaved under the slender arm that was about them. So the two. remained until a knock at the door disturbed them.
A servant entered on tiptoe, as if in a place of the dead.
"Inspector Jefson is here, sir," he whispered. "He has something for you, he says."
John Masters raised his head slowly, and looked at the servant almost as if he did not understand.
"I can see no one," he answered huskily; then suddenly his manner changed, and he held his head high.
In the early days of his manhood he had had to fight hard to live, and it had been pluck and perseverance that had brought him to the position he now held. He was a fighter born and bred, who had kept a firm lip in the greatest emergencies, and he would not show the white feather now.
"Show him in!" he ordered, and his voice was quite steady.
When Inspector Jefson entered John Masters and Elaine stood side by side, a curiously dignified couple, for the girl possessed much of her father's pluck, and, whatever her own acute grief, she had no intention of leaving his side in his great sorrow.
Inspector Jefson's face was grave—in fact, almost funereal—as he advanced and halted a few paces from John Masters.
"It will be useless for me to offer my sympathy, sir," he said, in a low voice.
"Then there can be no hope of a mistake?" the old man asked quietly.
"Unfortunately, no, sir," Inspector Jefson answered, and drew from his pocket a small cardboard box. "It would have been impossible to identify the—your son except for them."
He held out the box, and John Masters took it from him and opened it. Inside lay a gold watch, a part of a chain attached to it, and all that was left of a ring.
"They were your son's, sir?" the detective queried.
John Masters looked at them steadily, his jaw hard set, and bowed his head.
"Yes," he answered in a low tone.
"Then I will be going, sir," he said. "If you will send any directions to me with regard to the—your son, I will see that they are carried out."
John Masters bowed again, his eyes on the articles in the box, and Inspector Jefson turned away. As his face was towards the door there was a smile on his lips, but it died away hastily as the servant came into the room for the second time.
"I beg your pardon, sir," the man said, "but Sexton Blake is here."
Inspector Jefson started, recovered himself, and turned back to John Masters.
"Has he been trying to track your son?" he asked coolly. "I understood that you meant to have no further help."
"I changed my mind," John Masters answered dully. "Anyway, he has failed as you have. I will not see him."
"I suggest that you do," Inspector Jefson said. "It may be well to let him see the evidence of the poor fellow's death."
John Masters hesitated, then he nodded in assent, and a few seconds later Sexton Blake entered the room. His step was strangely brisk considering the house of death that he was entering, and though his face was grave, it certainly was not that of a beaten man.
"This is Inspector Jefson," John Masters said mechanically. "He has brought me the articles by which my—my son was identified."
"So I understood at the police-office, sir," the famous detective answered, "and that is why I came here to see them."
"What for?" Inspector Jefson snapped, his anger breaking out in a sudden fear that he had for the quiet-faced man he had hoped to send to his death in the fire.
"It is useless," John Masters put in. "I know that they were worn by Hugh."
"Still, I may see them?" Sexton Blake persisted.
And the old man handed over the box.
The detective carried it to the window, took the articles from it, and drew a powerful glass out of his pocket.
"You are merely prolonging a painful scene, Mr. Blake," the inspector said harshly.
But the detective made no answer—in fact, he might not have heard him.
John Masters stood there dully, but Elaine watched Sexton Blake with a sudden anxious expression in her eyes. She had only met the famous detective once, but, with a woman's swift intuition, she had divined how entirely he was to be trusted, and she felt that he was not acting now out of idle curiosity.
"Well," Inspector Jefson drawled, and he could not keep the sneer entirely out of his voice, "can you make the initials anything but those of the dead man?"
"You mean of Hugh Masters?" Sexton Blake corrected him, without looking up, and turning his attention from the watch to the piece of chain that dangled from it.
"The same thing!" the inspector growled.
But somehow his face was not quite so assured in expression as it had been, and his hands moved restlessly.
John Masters was also looking now at the figure at the window, with its bent shoulders, and the keen face that showed up strongly in the light.
"I may as well be going," Inspector Jefson said, with an air of indifference, moving towards the doorway.
But before he could reach it the famous Baker Street detective spoke.
"Please wait! he said coolly. I fancy that I have something that will interest you!"
The eyes of the two detectives met, and it was: Inspector Jefson's that dropped abruptly and studied the pattern of the carpet.
Sexton Blake turned to John Masters and Elaine, and did not hesitate as he saw the appeal in their faces.
"You must be prepared fer a shock," he said, with quiet kindness.
"There can be none worse than I have suffered, sir," the old man answered hoarsely.
"But there can be," the detective said slowly.
"You mean," John Masters gasped—"you mean that Hughie may not be dead?"
Something very like an angry exclamation broke from Inspector Jefson, but he hastily controlled himself.
"I mean," Sexton Blake answered, "that there is no doubt that the remains found after the fire were not those of your son!"
"Then he is alive?" Elaine cried, the colour flooding up into her face.
Sexton Blake's expression grew graver than ever. He had declared open war with Inspector Jefson now, and he hoped by proving his skill to frighten the man into taking a false step. If he could do that sufficiently, the chances were that he would go straight to his confederates, and the detective had already arranged for his tracking.
"I cannot say that," he said, in a low voice: "but I can prove what I tell you, including the fact that these articles were placed with the remains after they were found."
"That's a lie!" Inspector Jefson burst out. "The remains have never been out of the hands of the police."
"That proves nothing!" Sexton Blake said drily.
And the American winced as if he had received a blow.
It was plainly only by an effort that John Masters and Elaine held themselves under control, and the detective did not keep them in suspense.
"I will explain to you why I have made this statement," he continued. "In the first place, we will take the watch, and I will tell you what I deduce from it after examination. If the inspector likes, he can confirm my discoveries afterwards."
But Inspector Jefson did not meet the clear eyes that were turned towards him, and his face was not so healthy in colour as usual.
"Yes, yes; go on!" John Masters pleaded.
"You will see that the watch is considerably damaged by fire," Sexton Blake began; "but if you could have examined it as closely as I have, you would see more. Firstly, that the twisting of the case was done with a pair of pliers—the mark of them is plainly there—and that the hands point to five o'clock. It is curious that they have not fallen off."
"That is nothing!" Jefson put in quickly. "The watch may have stopped for days. Remember its owner's habits."
"Impossible! The spring was almost fully wound!" Sexton Blake answered calmly. "Which means that someone, either at five in the morning or five in the afternoon, placed this watch in a fire, bent the case with a pair of pliers to make it look more genuine, and in so doing stopped the action of the works. I think we may take it that if this had been on the body of the dead man the hands must have stopped anywhere between ten and twelve at night, apart from the fact that in such a flare there would probably have been no trace of the watch left at all, and certainly not so much as this."
"Very pretty!" Inspector Jefson forced himself to sneer. "What else?"
"An examination of the chain shows that it was not burnt away, although the end links are damaged by fire," the detective answered. "Again pliers have been used, and a link forced open so as to remove a part of the chain."
John Masters and Elaine were breathing quickly, drinking in every word that Sexton Blake uttered, for they could follow his reasoning easily enough.
The detective was looking keenly at the American detective, but the latter's attempt to stare back boldly was not an entire success.
"So you say that these were not burnt on the body, but placed there afterwards!" he said harshly. "Is that why you are so positive that the body is not that of Hugh Masters?"
"Why, no!" Sexton Blake assured him. "I suppose that your police-surgeons have not had time to examine the remains closely yet?"
Before Inspector Jefson could answer, the detective had turned again to John Masters, and the question that he put was a curious one.
"I presume that it would be impossible to describe your son as a Chinaman?"
"This is no time for joking, sir!" the old man cried angrily. "Are you mad?"
"I think not," the detective answered coolly; "but the skull that was found is that of a man of that race. I have made considerable studies in that direction, and it is impossible that I can be mistaken."
There was silence, and it was Inspector Jefson who broke it.
"I am glad that you are so hopeful," he sneered, only in that outlet for his feelings able to hide his fear. "I have never known the detective force of New York to be beaten by a Britisher!"
"Then it will be a new experience for it!" Sexton Blake murmured. "Good-day!"
But Inspector Jefson had to preserve his official dignity, and therefore he did not go at once.
"I must tell you, sir," he said to John Masters, "that I am sorry that you have thought it necessary to call in other help, but I can assure you that my department will slacken its efforts in no way if the doctors confirm this—Mr. Blake's report."
With which the inspector stalked out of the room, and slammed the door behind him.
It was only after the American had gone that John Masters appeared to obtain full control over himself, and his broad face was alight with hope as he looked at Sexton Blake.
"You are certain of what you have said, sir?"
"Absolutely!" the detective answered. "At such a time as this I do not play with facts and fancies."
"And the chance of the boy being alive?" John Masters tried to keep his voice steady, but he was not entirely successful.
"Is a good one." Sexton Blake assured him. "If I could think of anything to be gained by his death, I should not be so confident. As it is, my work is to find the reason why he is being kept from you by the graft gang."
"What!" John Masters shouted. "What have they to do with it?"
The old man's tone was one of blank amazement, and his eyes were round with surprise.
"Everything!" Sexton Blake answered. "But there is not time to explain all now. Can you tell me in what way the absence of your son might affect your business?"
John Masters was silent for a time, then a thoughtful expression came into his eyes.
"Well, to-morrow I should have gone to Chicago to operate in wheat," he said. "Now, of course, I shall not go. I guess that there's nothing I shall do until I know the worst or best about Hugh."
The old man sighed, and picked up a letter that lay on his desk.
"I kind of hate being kept, too," he continued, "for I have just heard from my agents in Chicago that the agents of Luke O. Zitmann have been buying for a week or more. That has already driven wheat up to seventy-five cents, and unless there is someone who can under-sell them, it'll go even higher."
"Luke O. Zitmann!" Sexton Blake murmured, remembering what Harry Elder had told him about the man with the agate-coloured eyes—that he had seen him with this very millionaire.
"If you went to Chicago you could keep the price down, and prevent Zitmann making a scoop?" he asked quickly.
"Yes," John Masters answered readily. "In four days at the most from now the great demand will come for the December wheat, but if I kept selling against the other crowd the price could not go up enough to pay them."
"Then go up there," the detective said coolly. "If your son is alive, you can trust me to do the rest, and I fancy that I shall have good news for you in the course of a few days."
"I'll do it, sir," John Masters answered, for there was something about Sexton Blake that commanded obedience.
"I'll keep this Zitmann crowd from profiting by their dirty work, and I—I trust you to find my boy."
Sexton Blake sat crouched up in a chair in his sitting-room at the hotel. A litter of ash was on the floor, and his coat was grey with it. He had returned from his call upon John Masters two hours since, but Tinker and Harry Elder, both of whom had been given certain instructions, had not returned yet.
For the time being, however, the detective was content to be alone, for he had plenty with which to occupy his mind.
There were the happenings of the previous night, the friendship that existed between Luke O. Zitmann and the man Sexton Blake believed to be Plummer, and there was the fresh knowledge that it was in Zitmann's interest to keep John Masters occupied otherwise than in fighting him in Chicago. How more certainly could that be done than by keeping the old man on tenterhooks with regard to his son, or, better still, forcing him to remain from the inquest that would be held over the charred remains that had been taken from the ruins in Mellor Street?
If Inspector Jefson was mixed up with them, too, and every thing pointed to it being the case, he would have no difficulty in having the inquest on a day which would prevent John Masters operating personally in the Wheat-Pit, and Sexton Blake knew enough of the strenuous nature of the operations there to be aware that no agent would be capable of taking charge of the entire dealings, vast and only possible in the grasp of a born financier, that would be necessary to crush Zitmann.
So Sexton Blake sat huddled up in his chair, convinced now that he had got to the bottom of the mystery, and that the kidnapping of Hughie Masters had been for the purpose of keeping his father from Chicago. That meant that probably he was alive and would be released, either with or without a ransom, once Zitmann had finished his deal in wheat.
It was the kind of scheme that Plummer would have revelled in, and Sexton Blake had little doubt now but that he was the man with the agate-coloured eyes. Well, this time it looked as if he would be beaten, and even in America it would be impossible for him to escape justice if he were caught red-handed.
Sexton Blake lit a fresh cigar, and still the hours crept on without the return of Tinker or Harry Elder.
The Meeting of the Graft Gang—The Man Who Bought Chloroform.
INSPECTOR JEFSON looked distinctly frightened as he left John Masters' mansion. He had held Sexton Blake in light esteem until then, but now he knew that he had to deal with a brain-power the like of which he had never had against him. What the famous detective had said about the charred remains and the articles supposed to have been found upon them was true enough. Actually there had been no victim of the fire, and the man who had been burnt was a wretched Chinaman who had died two days before in the den of excess of opium. It had seemed a lucky chance to the criminals that his body had not been removed secretly as others had been; but Jefson cursed now that he had not taken the precaution to obtain a corpse of a white man, which would have been easy enough to anyone in his position.
Altogether Inspector Jefson was in a considerable funk as he hurried along the sidewalk, and in proof of it he threw much of his usual caution to the winds by making straight in the direction of Luke O. Zitmann's house.
The American detective had no fear that he would be followed, but even if he had have had that doubt in his mind it is not probable that he would have noticed the typical American errand-boy who walked along on the other side of the road with a basket over his arm. Also, the boy whistled rag-time tunes shrilly in a high key, which was more likely to attract attention than escape it.
Tinker, however—and the errand-boy was none other than Sexton Blake's young assistant—had long since discovered that the surest way of not attracting attention was to seemingly court it, and so he whistled his loudest as he kept his quarry in sight, following the directions that his master had given him.
Inspector Jefson went straight to Zitmann's house, and Tinker saw that he was immediately admitted. Then the lad strolled on, took up a convenient position some distance away, and squatted comfortably on his basket.
Another score of yards down the road a ragged fellow was listlessly sweeping a crossing, though the broad shoulders that showed under his rags suggested that he might have found something better to do.
He was Harry Elder, the second of Sexton Blake's assistants, and it was his duty to watch Zitmann, and follow the man with the agate-coloured eyes should he come out.
In the meantime, Inspector Jefson had entered Zitmann's study, to find that worthy with Plummer, whom he knew as Mr. Thorne, from England. The latter was seated in the most comfortable chair in the room, one of his favourite cigars between his teeth, and apparently as pleased with the world as a man very well could be. The fact is that the luxurious life that he had been leading had deadened any fear that he might have had for the success of his daring scheme, and even the knowledge that Sexton Blake was in New York had troubled him little. On other occasions he had been confident of beating his old enemy, and now he could not imagine how anything could go wrong.
"The papers did the business well," he murmured, without looking at the inspector. "It'll send our dear friend Blake back to England."
"Will it?" Inspector Jefson snarled, crossed the room, opened a cupboard in a manner that showed that he was familiar with the place, and took out a decanter and a glass.
"What the Columbus is the matter?" Zitmann cried, sitting bolt upright in his chair.
But Jefson poured himself out a stiff drink and gulped it off before he answered.
"Blake, that's all," he said huskily. "He knows everything."
Plummer leapt to his feet, his eyes blazing towards the door, as if he expected to see his arch-enemy enter there and then. His face was ghastly pale, and all his old fear had come back into his mind.
"By Heaven, I'll not be taken alive!" he said between his teeth. "And if I am, I'll swing for him!"
As for Luke O. Zitmann, he crouched back in his chair with every bit of the pluck knocked out of him, his lower jaw drooping foolishly, like that of a dead man.
"About the body," Inspector Jefson put in. "He's been down to see it, and he went straight along to old Masters and told him that it was that of a Chin."
Plummer drew a sigh of relief, and the colour came back to his face.
"Bah! Is that all?" he sneered.
"Isn't it enough?" the inspector snapped.
"Bunkum!" Plummer answered. "It would only be his word against the doctor's, and we can soon fix him."
"Then there are the watch and the ring," Inspector Jefson went on, and it was his turn to sneer. "You did the business like a new guy at the game, and he spotted the fake."
The colour flooded up into Plummer's cheeks, and his savage temper burst out. He took one quick stride towards the American, ready to avenge his outraged pride, but the man's words brought him to himself.
"I guess I'd quit on that," the inspector said, though he involuntarily took a step backwards. "We've got our own necks to think of, instead of fighting among ourselves. Do we chuck the game?"
"No!" Plummer snapped fiercely. "My hand's out for a fortune, I've got the winning cards, and we keep right on."
Zitmann fidgeted in his chair, for when fairly cornered there was little enough pluck in him.
"I—I don't know," he said hesitatingly. "Seems to me as we—we can't go on."
Plummer looked at the man, and smiled contemptuously down on him.
"Yet I say that we shall!" he persisted. "D'you think you can frighten me out of it? I guess not. I wouldn't care if I had the whole of your cursed graft gang against me besides Sexton Blake, I'd win through. It's only a few days now before we make the scoop in Chicago, and I'll bet that you've got all your other money ready so that you can make a quick flit."
"What's that to do with you?" Zitmann demanded, startled at the other's surmise, for if the truth were known he had been getting his money ready for a long time for such a contingency, so that, in case of having to do a bolt, he would be able to lie low for a time, then draw the money under the various names in which it had been deposited in a Northern State.
"Nothing," Plummer answered, and his voice was deadly in its level tone—"nothing, except that you don't throw me over. The game's got to go through, or I'll see you in Sing-Sing, Zitmann if I have to go there with you."
The man's quiet tone was more threatening than any outburst of anger, and Zitmann palpably quailed before it.
"All right—all right!" he agreed hastily. "I'm not backing out."
"How about me?" Jefson said harshly. "I tell you that Sexton Blake suspects me, and I'm not forgetting that that pup, Harry Elder, is with him. My boys might swear him down; but I ain't so sure. How do I make good?"
Plummer's brows contracted, and he held out his hand for silence.
"I've got it!" he said at last. "I reckon that you have to come to a Britisher for brains every time."
"To blew 'em out," Inspector Jefson muttered, and it was, perhaps, as well that the other did not overhear him.
"We must shift young Masters from here to-night," Plummer went on. "He can be taken down to another of Zitmann's dens."
"What good'll that do?" the latter growled.
"Just this," Plummer answered, with a grin of triumph. "So soon as we've got our wheat deal through, old Masters being busy down here looking for his lost cub, our friend the inspector will have a clue and raid the den. He will find young Masters, incidentally proving Sexton Blake a fool, collar a nice fat reward, and prove himself an able, honest officer."
"It's the real goods!" Zitmann cried enthusiastically. "But how do we move him? It was easy enough to get him here, because of the back passage to the place in Mellor Street, but the others haven't got that."
"Oh, you make me tired!" Plummer sneered. "Dope the young fool with a little chloroform, take him to a side street in the car, then lug him along like any other drunken man. He has no idea where he is?"
"You bet on that." Zitmann answered. "The room's been kept dark, and he hasn't ever seen the man who has brought him his food."
"Good! Then we'll fix—"
A servant entered with a cable, and Zitmann tore it open and glanced at it.
"From Chicago," he said coolly as the servant left. "It's in cipher, so I'd better have a look at it."
Plummer lit a fresh cigar, and even Inspector Jefson found himself with nerve enough to smoke now the new plan had been formed. It appeared to be a good one, better certainly than the scheme for bolting that had formed. That would have meant leaving behind him all hope of further profit from the graft gang.
"Have a drink?" Plummer suggested, helping himself liberally, and in that also the inspector was pleased to give in to him.
In the meantime Zitmann had produced his cipher book, and by its aid he was making out the message that he had received from his agents in Chicago. Once or twice low exclamations broke from him, and when he had finished he turned with knitted brows to the others.
"Listen to this!" he said savagely, and read out: "'Have kept Masters agent's private wire tapped. They heard to-day he was coming to-morrow. Are your plans same?'"
"That settles it," he said, tearing up the transcript, "Sexton Blake has given the old fool confidence, and we're done!"
"And I say that we're not!" Plummer answered fiercely.
"We'll carry our plan through, with one alteration. Young Masters must be taken to the opium-den to-night, the raid must be made to-night, too, and he will be injured—badly."
The criminal laughed callously, and his eyes were very evil.
"Don't you think that will keep the loving father in New York?" he asked.
Inspector Jefson whistled, and looked in honest admiration—if the word may be used in connection with him—at Plummer.
"Great sakes, you've hit it clean!" he said.
"I know," Plummer admitted calmly. "Any chloroform in the house, Zitmann?"
"No. Why should there be?"
"Well, it would have saved you a journey," Plummer answered calmly. "You'll get it easily enough, as you're well known."
Zitmann looked doubtful, then the thought of the fortune that he could make out of the Wheat Pit with John Masters out of the way dominated him.
"All right," he said.
"And say," Plummer called after him as he moved towards the door. "I'll go along and book two tickets for Chicago for to-morrow's train."
Luke O. Zitmann entered the druggist's without the slightest hesitation. He was a known man, as Plummer had said, and his order was not likely to be questioned. Besides, even if it were ever discovered that young Masters had been drugged, which would be unlikely if proper precautions were taken it would be impossible to trace it back to him.
"Say," he said coolly, "you might make me up some chloroform."
"Chloroform, sir?" the assistant in the stores repeated doubtfully. "We don't usually sell it without doctor's orders."
"Not if it's for killing a dog?" Zitmann asked. "I reckon I like to know that my old pets have died easy."
"We have a patent for that," the assistant suggested.
"You may have a dozen," Zitmann answered sharply, "but they won't do for me. If you can't give me the stuff I must go somewhere else."
That settled the assistant. Zitmann was no great customer there, but on the other hand he was reputed to be a millionaire, and anyone of that breed decidedly appealed to the young man as a self-respecting American, knowing the value of dollars in large quantities.
"In your case I'm sure that we can make an exception, sir," he said hastily.
"Five cents chewing-gum," the errand-boy who had tracked Inspector Jefson to Zitmann's house asked at the latter's elbow.
"Wait!" the assistant snapped.
But Tinker could afford to smile inwardly, for he had heard Zitmann's order, and knew that it was a clue that might prove valuable.
A little later Zitmann left the stores with his chloroform, but Tinker did not hurry to follow, and when he did leave it was to go straight back to his master's hotel, forsaking his basket in a side street.
Sexton Blake looked up eagerly as he entered, and saw that the boy had news for him, but before Tinker could speak Harry Elder came in, the ragged overcoat that had been his disguise in a bundle under his arm.
"Followed the man with the strange eyes, sir," he announced. "He went to an agent, and booked two places in the train for Chicago to-morrow."
"Good," Sexton Blake said quietly, and turned to his young assistant. "And you?"
"Jefson went straight to Zitmann's, sir," the boy answered, giving his information as concisely and directly as if he had been trained at Scotland Yard. "When he came out, after more than half an hour, he took a cab, and as I heard him give orders to drive to the police-office, I knew that it would be no good following. I hung about, and when Zitmann came out I followed him. He went down town, and into a drug-store. I slipped in to buy chewing-gum"—the boy paused to grin for a second—"and Zitmann bought chloroform. Said that it was for killing a dog."
Sexton Blake whistled softly, and patted the boy on the shoulder.
"You've done well, both of you," he said, "You'd better go and have lunch. I must think, and I would rather be alone."
As soon as the door had closed upon the man and the boy Sexton Blake lit his pipe and huddled down into his chair.
Zitmann, Inspector Jefson, and the man with the strange eyes were connected sure enough now, and it seemed to the detective that he was on the road to success. Then there was the chloroform that Zitmann had brought and the tickets for Chicago that the man Sexton Blake believed to be Plummer had purchased.
What did that mean?
Sexton Blake's eyes narrowed as he looked through the curling smoke from his pipe, and it was not long before he had come to a solution.
"They leave to-morrow, so whatever use the drug is to be put to it will be before then," he murmured. "Who is to be drugged if it is not Hugh Masters, and why should that be done if he is in a safe place?"
Again the detective pondered, and again the truth dawned upon him.
"The place is not considered safe enough now," he mused; "and he is to be moved—but where from and where to?"
Suddenly Sexton Blake rose to his feet, left the room, and went quickly downstairs to where Tinker and Harry Elder were already having the meal that in America takes the place of lunch.
Sexton Blake seated himself at the table, and there was a smile on his lips intended for anyone who might be looking.
He knew that it was quite likely that the graft gang might have a spy in the hotel, and he was taking no risks.
"Don't seem to hurry, but finish as soon as you can," he said, in a low tone. "I want you to go down and watch Zitmann's house again. If he or his friend go out they must be followed at all costs, and you must try to let me know by 'phone what has happened. If I have not heard by nightfall I will join you there."
Tinker nodded carelessly, as if the matter spoken of were of little importance, and went on eating.
"And, take your pistols with you," Sexton Blake said meaningly.
"Trouble, sir?" his young assistant queried.
"I expect so," Sexton Blake answered, and his eyes were grave, though the smile was still on his lips.
Zitmann's Compact—The Drugged Man—Warm Times.
OF the three men who had just finished dinner only Plummer had eaten with an appetite, his love of luxury dominant even at a time when a false step might mean not only failure to obtain the fortune that he had planned to win in the Wheat-Pit of Chicago, but prison itself. And prison to the criminal who had been born an aristocrat held horrors that the lower-grade criminal could not appreciate. They were used to fingers coarsened by the picking of opium or the even rougher work in the stone-quarries, but the memory of his own scarred hands, after his escape from Bleakmoor Prison, was enough even now to make the master-criminal shudder with aversion.
The other two men at the table were Inspector Jefson and Luke O. Zitmann, and it was in the dining-room of the latter's house that they were assembled: They were all in evening-dress, and it would have been hard for a casual observer to believe that they were the men who had made Hughie Masters a prisoner, and who within a few hours intended to carry out the plan that would enable them to rope in a huge fortune in the Chicago Wheat-Pit.
True, there were expressions of anxiety on the faces of Inspector Jefson and Zitmann, and they sipped with a certain nervousness at the liqueurs that a servant had poured out before leaving the room, but there was no anxiety expressed on the face of Plummer. He sat back in his chair, having finished his second liqueur, a cigar between his teeth, and a vicious little smile of triumph on his thin lips. The rose-shaded lights fell full upon him, and for the time being his strange agate-coloured eyes held a tinge of red.
The master-criminal filled his glass for the third time with the old liqueur-cognac that stood before him, and held it up to the light so that he could see through its deep golden brown.
"To the future," he said; with a laugh, "To Jefson's speedy promotion as a conscientious officer, to our friend Luke O. Zitmann for having at last found a worthy partner, and to—myself."
"Oh, quit!" Jefson snapped nervously. "The game isn't over yet, and with Blake nosing round there's no telling what may happen."
Plummer shrugged his shoulders, and finished his liqueur.
"I'm sorry that we've had to have you in it," he said coldly. "If I'd have been in the States earlier I'd have run the thing single-handed."
"I guess not," Inspector Jefson sneered.
Plummer laughed again, and this time it was with genuine amusement.
"You mean that you have the nerve to think that you could thwart any scheme of mine," he said lightly. "My dear sir, you forget who I am."
"Perhaps that's as well," the American answered meaningly. "There are some of us who don't want to be remembered too often—by the police."
Plummer flushed, but before he could say anything Zitmann interposed. The scoundrelly millionaire had not spoken for some little time, but had sat with his fingers playing with the stem of his glass or the handle of a knife. He was whiter than was his wont; and the twitching of his lips indicated his nervousness.
"See here," he said slowly; "there's one matter we've got to settle."
"Yes?" Plummer queried, without interest. He was so certain of his own powers that he had no fear of his ultimate success.
"Well?" Jefson asked.
"We're playing a tough game to-night," Zitmann explained. "I don't say that we sha'n't pull it through without a hitch, but we've got to think if we fail. You understand?"
"Yes," Inspector Jefson answered seriously; but Plummer merely nodded as he applied himself once more to the liqueur brandy. Even at that moment it was impossible for him to break away from his habits of self-indulgence.
"Well, I guess this is the point," Zitmann continued. "We've got-to make the compact that if one or more of us is captured the one or two who remain free will swear now to bring about the release of the prisoner or prisoners."
"It might be impossible," Plummer said sharply.
"Quite so," Zitmann agreed coldly. "But supposing that I was the man captured it would have to be tried."
"Why?" Plummer demanded, his brows drawing together.
Zitmann bent a little over the table towards the master-criminal opposite to him, and he could smile now.
"Because without me there would be no more money," he answered. "You forget that my fortune is banked in names, and at places, that I alone know. If I were sent to prison it would remain there until my release, and then I should keep it for myself."
Plummer's lips drew down into an ugly snarl, but it was Inspector Jefson who answered.
"I guess you're right," he said; "but I don't see how it could be worked."
"Same here," Zitmann admitted; "but you know that Otto Tayland is my attorney—he's one of us—and he'd find a way."
The millionaire rose to his feet, glanced at his watch, then raised his glass.
"We'll drink to the oath," ho said; "and, remember that I am the man who holds the money."
Plummer and Inspector Jefson rose, too, and the glasses were drained to the fresh compact.
"Now to work," Zitmann said, with a sigh of relief. "You'd best leave by the back way, Jef, Plummer and I can manage the rest. My man has orders to have the car ready in ten minutes from now."
A servant brought in the inspector's hat and coat—a man who already, through his connection with the graft magnate, was in a position to retire quite comfortably, although he acted as a servant, and a little later Jefson had left by the back door.
"Time for the cub," Zitmann remarked, no longer nervous, and he and Plummer left the room, and made their way to the first floor. From his bed-room there the millionaire fetched the bottle of chloroform that he had bought during the day and a large handkerchief, then the two men went up to the next floor, switched off the light in the passage, and in the darkness felt their way to a room at the end of it. Zitmann opened the door of it, and as he did so a faint, muffled moaning reached the ears of the two men.
In the room it was dark, too, the blinds drawn close over the windows, and there was only the faint sound of the moaning to lead Zitmann and Plummer to where Hughie Masters lay bound and gagged on a bed.
There was the sound of a cork being drawn, and a faint smell of chloroform tainted the air.
"The gag," Zitmann whispered, feeling his way to the side of the bed. "Get it clear—I'm ready!"
For a few moments there was silence, save for the heavy breathing of the men, then a wild cry for help rang out as Hughie Masters' lips were freed. A second followed, but it was muffled almost at its birth as Zitmann thrust the drug-drenched handkerchief over the young fellow's mouth and nostrils, and again there was silence except for the convulsive panting of the victim as he tried to wrench his head free.
"Right," Zitmann said at last. "I reckon he's had enough to keep him quiet for an hour or more. Give me a hand with him. I'll turn on the light."
The electric bulbs in the room flashed out, showing the slim form that lay, clothed in crumpled evening-dress, on the bed. It was Hughie Masters right enough, his face white and drawn with suffering, but with something of the greyness of the opium-smoker gone from it now that he had been without the drug for a time.
Between them Plummer and Zitmann lifted the light form and carried it out into the passage. A door on the left was opened, and Zitmann let go the feet of his burden while he pulled the bed away from the wall and lifted a trapdoor that lay beneath it. From there a ladder led downwards, and with little difficulty Masters was carried down it into the garage below, where stood a large motor-car, the engine already working softly, its driver standing by the hood.
Without a word Hughie Masters was laid on the bottom of the back of the car, and Zitmann remounted the ladder, shifted the bed in the room above back into its place, and fastened the trapdoor—so artfully constructed that it would have taken a careful examination to discover its existence—and removed the ladder.
"Ready," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow, for he was a man not used to bodily exertion.
Obviously knowing what was expected of him, the chauffeur threw open the door of the garage, mounted to his seat long enough to drive the car out, then went back and refastened the door.
With a jerk the motor swung off into the roadway and to the right, Plummer and Zitmann seated at the back, at their feet the drugged form of Hughie Masters.
A little distance from the mansion a man bent over a bicycle, which appeared to have something the matter with the chain, while another man, of the lounger type, looked on with the dull interest that men of his kind can evince in the most trivial matters.
The car swept past the cyclist, and in a moment he had straightened himself up.
"Remain round here," he said hurriedly. "Tinker is at the hotel, and I will 'phone him your instructions."
Then Sexton Blake was scorching away down the road in pursuit of the fast vanishing car, while Harry Elder, the lounger who had looked on at the imaginary repair, stared after him dejectedly. He was a plucky fellow, and it did not suit him by a long way not to be in the thick of the fight. Still, he had his orders, and he knew well enough by now that no man was more capable of giving the right ones than the famous British detective.
Luckily for Sexton Blake there was something of a block in the traffic at the end of the road, so that he was able to gain considerably on the car, and when he was within a score of yards of it he saw Zitmann stoop down as if to examine something at his feet It was then that his suspicions were confirmed, and he was positive that Hughie Masters lay in the bottom of the car.
If it had been in England Sexton Blake would have had no hesitation in getting the car stopped by the police, but here it was very different. He had no idea which of the men he could trust, and he was aware that a slip might put him out of the running. It would be simple enough for Zitmann to get him arrested for causing a scene, and that was the last thing that he wanted.
No, the only thing to do was to track the car, see what happened; then call in the aid of the absolute head of the detective bureau of New York, Colonel Maitland. Sexton Blake had met this gentleman before, and, in fact, been able to help him in more than one case, and he had no doubt but that he would receive from him all the assistance that he required.
By an effort Sexton Blake contrived to keep the car in sight, aided by the heavy traffic that hindered the progress of the otherwise fast-moving vehicle, and he was not surprised when the trail led him down into the Bowery. Presently the car swung up a turning on the right, and Sexton Blake started to follow, but only to stop abruptly and swing his machine across to the other side of the street.
The rear-light of the car showed that it had stopped a matter of fifty yards down the side-turning, which was very narrow; but before it had been there more than a few seconds the light moved on, and the detective took once more to following it.
Suddenly, however, Sexton Blake eased his pace, sat up, and rode along in a casual manner, for, to his left, not very many yards ahead, he had made out the figures of two men walking along slowly with a third dragging form supported between them. Slowly he rode past them, and though he did not appear to look in their direction, his keen eyes identified the figure of one man as Zitmann, and the other—Sexton Blake's heart beat a trifle more quickly—might well be that of Plummer. That the limp form between them was Hughie Masters the detective had no doubt whatever.
It was the same ruse that had been used in getting Harry Elder out of the opium den, and it was familiar enough to Sexton Blake.
The latter kept straight on, taking care to see that there...
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... was from the pavement down which the criminals [were dragg]ing their victim, and turned to the right. Up the road he went, then dismounted at the kerb, and returned on foot. It was almost as dark as pitch, and as he kept under the shadow of a wall he had not the slightest fear of being seen.
Nearer and nearer Sexton Blake drew to the turning in which he had last seen Zitmann, Plummer, and the limp form of Hughie Masters, and it was when he was within a score of yards of it that he caught sight of their dim forms as they turned to the left.
With every nerve tense the famous detective followed, ready if he were discovered to risk everything in a fight. At least, he felt certain that he would be able to rescue young Masters, but his ambition was greater than that. He wanted to put his hands upon Luke O. Zitmann, the leader of a graft gang, but most of all, he itched to have Plummer in his power. To Sexton Blake the safe arrest of the master-criminal was his great ambition in life.
Keeping nearly two score of yards in the rear the detective followed his quarry, expecting at any moment to see them disappear into a doorway or up some obscure alley; but they turned into another street, then into another, until Sexton Blake knew that they were making for the Chinese quarter. To that there could be only one solution, and that was that Hugh Masters was to be hidden in another of the opium dens.
Sexton Blake drew nearer as Zitmann and Plummer dragged their victim towards the main street. He could see now that the collars of their coats were well up, their hats pulled down over their eyes, and he himself was confident of not being recognised, though the make-up that he wore was slight enough.
The detective turned into the main road no more than ten yards behind the others, so that he was near enough to hear the remark that a policeman, showing some small sign of interest for once, made to Zitmann.
"What's the game?" the man queried gruffly.
"Friend of ours lit the pipe for a week," Zitmann answered readily, and Sexton Blake would have sworn that a bill passed between him and the policeman. "We've dug him out, and are taking him home right away."
"Right you are!" the policeman answered.
There was nothing remarkable in the man allowing the incident to pass without further notice, apart from the bill that he had received, for the sight was a common enough one unfortunately in the Chinese quarter, and the Bowery.
Zitmann and Plummer kept on with their victim, but as Sexton Blake expected, it was not for far. Suddenly they disappeared up an alley, and as the detective passed the entrance to it, he saw them disappear through a doorway over which hung a lantern, much the same as in the case of the den that had been known as Han Sin's.
Sexton Blake crossed to the other side of the road and lounged up and down like any other idler, and he had not long to wait. Before five minutes had passed Zitmann and his friend emerged, and hurried back the way they had come; but this time Sexton Blake made no attempt to follow. He was sure that their car was to pick them up again, and he had plenty of work before him. Already his plan of action was formed, and it seemed to him that before he was much older he would have in his hands the leaders of the graft gang, and Hughie Masters would have been restored to his father.
Within five minutes Sexton Blake had discovered a telephone at the back of a shop, where it was not likely that he to be overheard, and in a very short time he was on to Tinker.
"Hallo!" he said softly. "Go to Elder, and tell him to keep on watching the house. If either of the men leave it after they return, he is to follow, and never lose sight of him. What's that? What are you to do?"
The detective smiled a little at the eager tone of the lad's voice, Knowing the reason for it—that Tinker hated to be left out of any of his master's operations.
"Oh, you shall see the finish all right, my lad!" he said. "Join me at the chief detective bureau. I shall be with Colonel Maitland."
Colonel Maitland looked up sharply as Sexton Blake entered his offices and smiled a welcome, He was a fine-looking man lined of face, and one who could not have by the stretch of imagination been connected with the corruption that had gripped so many of the men under his charge. No man had tried harder than he to wipe it out, and though he had succeeded to some extent, the great financial powers of the body behind the graft practices had made complete success so far impossible.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Blake," he said. "I need hardly ask whether you are in New York on business."
"Exactly," the famous detective answered.
"And you have come to me for help?" Colonel Maitland suggested.
"Again you are right," Sexton Blake replied. "I want you to issue warrants for the arrest of three men, members of one of the strongest graft gangs in the country, and the kidnappers of Hughie Masters."
The colonel's eyebrows went up in surprise, although he knew that the man before him was not in the habit of speaking without the best of reasons.
"Then you have succeeded in finding the missing lad where we have failed?" he asked ruefully.
"Yes, I am afraid so," Sexton Blake answered; "but you will not be surprised when you know everything. In the first place, there are the three men to be arrested."
"Their names?" Colonel Maitland queried.
"Luke O. Zitmann—"
The chief of the detective bureau whistled softly.
"I may not be as surprised at that as you think," he remarked. "I have suspected the man for a long time, for no one seemed to know where his money came from. Who is the next?"
"The man who has been stopping with him some time," Sexton Blake answered. "I have every reason to believe that he is George Marsden Plummer. You will have heard of him."
"Heard of him?" Colonel Maitland cried. "I should think so. My word, Mr. Blake, if you have got your hands upon him at last, the whole world will owe you thanks. Who is the third man?"
"Inspector Jefson."
"What?" Colonel Maitland shouted, leaping to his feet. "In—inspector Jefson?"
"Precisely," the detective assured him coolly.
The chief of the detective bureau dropped back into his chair and stared at Sexton Blake.
"You must be wrong," he said slowly. "Why, I know that he has ferreted out another opium-den in the Chinese quarter, and is going to raid it to-night. He has always been a good officer."
It was Sexton Blake's turn to look amazed now, but that expression quickly passed, and his face set harshly.
"Listen to me," he said quickly, "for there is not a moment to be lost. I might have known that the villains would try some daring plan to throw me off the scent."
In as few words as possible, Sexton Blake described all that had happened.
"Can't you see what it means?" he concluded. "They realised that the game was up, and in this way they were going to clear themselves. Jefson would rescue Hughie Masters, and the matter would end."
Colonel Maitland rose and paced up and down the room, a line of worry between his eye; but he was not allowed to think for long.
"We must act at once," Sexton Blake insisted. "I will take all responsibility. Find out if Jefson has already left with his men."
Colonel Maitland was the chief of the detective bureau, a man used to issuing his commands; but for all that he, too, came under the influence of Sexton Blake's dominating personality. He crossed to his desk, and picked up the 'phone, and after he had asked his brief question, turned again to the detective.
"He left some short time ago," he announced,
"Very well," Sexton Blake said coolly, "we must dispense with warrants. Get men you can trust, and come straight along to the opium-den; if you do not know where it is, I do."
"But—but why not wait until Jefson returns?" Colonel Maitland stammered. "We could charge him then."
"No!" Sexton Blake answered sharply. "There is just the chance that all the foul play with regard to Hughie Masters is not over yet. Bear in mind that they might choose to find him dead, killed in the fight that will take place. It would shut his mouth for good and all. No, we must go there at once, and after that we can raid Zitmann's mansion."
Sexton Blake buttoned his coat, and took up his hat as if the matter were settled; but still Colonel Maitland hesitated, until the famous detective swung round upon him angrily.
"Am I to do everything alone?" he cried. "By Heaven, I will, if there is any further delay! Do you think that I risk my life, bring all my experience to bear upon the work to be treated like this? Isn't there graft enough in this country of yours that you aren't glad to wipe a part of it out?"
Colonel Maitland flushed and looked angry, then his face set doggedly, and he rang the bell on his table.
A policeman entered the room, and saluted.
"Tell Inspector Lowman to come here, and bring a dozen of his best men with him!" he ordered abruptly. "Also see that the two biggest cars are ready."
The man departed, and the chief of the detective bureau turned to Sexton Blake.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked drily.
"Thank you, yes," the detective answered; "and so will you be presently."
And at that moment Tinker was announced, and he hurried into the office with his face alight with eagerness.
"Am I in time, sir?" he asked.
"I hope so," his master answered gravely.
The Raid—Hughie Masters' Rescue—The Escape of Plummer.
THE den into which Hughie Masters had been taken was also in Mellor Street, and, as the reader knows, it was placed in an alley much as the one of the supposed Han Sin had been. The interior, too, was much the same, the one great room given up to gambling, while an inner one held the poor wretches who fattened the proprietor of the place by killing themselves with opium. It is not necessary to state that this one, too, was owned by Luke O. Zitmann.
Even the Chinaman who sat at the head of the fan-tan table might have been the disguised graft millionaire, though, as a matter of fact, he was a real Chinaman, who ruled there when the owner was not present in his disguise.
To-night the room was crowded with as tough-looking a lot of men who could be found in the Bowery, ruffians of all nations, yet all the same in their one passion—gambling.
For the time being the door of the inner room stood open, and it was possible to see within the lines of bunks with the victims of the poppy drug in them, the table in the centre, where a wall-faced Chinaman filled and lit pipes mechanically, the light from his little lamp making his features uglier than ever, and the other soft-footed Chinaman, who from time to time crossed restlessly to a smoker who tossed about uneasily until there was a fresh pipe between his lips.
Right at the end of the room, in the top bunk lay Hughie Masters, but there was no pipe between his teeth, for the chloroform still held him in its thrall. The manager of the den knew who he was only too well, and had even dared to object to his presence there; but the word of Zitmann was law, and so he lay insensible in the bunk, just a part of the fresh scheme that the presence of Sexton Blake in New York had entailed.
Out in the gambling-room the games went on briskly, sometimes with laughter, at others broken by curses, so that a fight seemed imminent between the roughs there; but the time was not far distant when a very great change was to come over the scene.
The Chinese manager produced a fresh bowl of beans for the fan-tan, and his lean fingers began to count them out. The men about the table started to bet furiously on their chances, and then—
There was a crash of splintering wood, a loud, authoritative voice, and every man in the gambling-den leapt to his feet.
A Chinaman, the blood streaming from a wound at the side of his head, came staggering into the room just as the manager thrust shut the door that gave upon the opium-den.
It was not the first time that the place had been raided, but under the leadership of Inspector Jefson, the affairs had been nothing but a farce. But somehow to-night the frequenters of the den knew that something was different. On previous occasions the entry had been formal, but now there was no doubt that the door had been battered in.
The hands of some of the men went to their hips or pockets, and even as the head Chinaman would have touched the spring that would have sent the gambling apparatus out of sight, Inspector Jefson stepped into the room, a score of big men behind him.
And in the hand of each man was a heavy Service revolver.
At sight of Inspector Jefson, the terror on the face of the head Chinaman cleared. Possibly, the inspector had had reasons for acting in this unusual manner, and as he was in the pay of the graft gang, all would be well.
"Allee fliendly club," the Chinaman said suavely. "No money play for—alee most lespectable."
"Drop it!" Inspector Jefson snapped. "What's that? Hands up!"
A man had made a movement to scoop some money from a table where he and a party had been playing poker, but before he could do so the barrel on the inspector's revolver was covering him.
Of a certainty this was not like other raids, and the men whose hands had gone to their pistol-pockets gripped hard with their fingers on the weapons. This was uncommonly too much like the real thing to be pleasant.
"Now, then, all of you against the wall," Inspector Jefson ordered, "The first man who moves will get a bullet through him!"
There were a score of the police, but there were more ruffians present than that, and of a sudden one of the latter, realising that this was no fake raid, made the first bid for liberty.
There was a sharp crack as the man fired through his pocket, and a policeman staggered back with the blood dripping from his right arm. Close on the heels of the first shot followed another, and the man who had fired first fell with a bullet-hole through his head.
In a moment the fight had begun in deadly earnest, A dozen shots rang out on either side, groans following them, and the gamblers tried to rush for the exit. Those who had no revolvers had pulled out knives, and there could be no doubt that the ruffians meant to sell their liberty dearly.
Men fell, police and gamblers, fighting with their hands when they had dropped their weapons, and in the midst of the confusion, Inspector Jefson slipped across to the door of the secret opium-room and swung it open. His part of the work had still to be done, and he had no qualms of conscience with regard to carrying it out.
The two Chinamen in the room were cowering back against the opposite wall, the sounds from the other room having told them what was taking place, and a few of the opium-smokers, who had not as yet fallen completely under the spell of the drug, were sitting up in their bunks and staring with dull eyes.
Inspector Jefson looked sharply about the place, heedless of the fight that was raging behind him, and his eyes quickly made out the form of Hughie Masters.
At last the young man was recovering from the effects of the chloroform with which he had been drugged, and he, too, was sitting up in his bunk, an absolutely vacant expression in his eyes.
Behind Inspector Jefson the confusion grew in volume, but he had no time to think of it.
"Would you?" he cried, and fired at one of the trembling Chinamen, as if he had detected him in the act of drawing a weapon, though the man was far too terrified to do so even if he had have been armed. The bullet grazed the man's face, drawing a line of blood across it, and the revolver swung round and covered Hughie Masters. The inspector's finger squeezed on the trigger, and the next moment the lad would have fallen back, badly injured if not dead.
The revolver went off, but the bullet merely ploughed into the ground, for Inspector Jefson's pistol-arm had been knocked down by a heavy blow from the butt of a revolver.
With a wild oath he swung round, but only to receive a crashing blow between the eyes that sent him to the floor, and when he staggered to his feet he stared dazedly at the handcuffs that were on his wrists. Then, too, he realised that the fight in the outer room had ceased, and that the police there now numbered more than the gamblers.
And before him, a grim smile on his lips, stood Sexton Blake, the man who had struck him down as he would have shot Hughie Masters.
"What does this mean?" he managed to demand, but the bluster of his voice was very feeble, and he cowered back as another figure ranged itself beside Sexton Blake.
It was Colonel Maitland, and the face of the head of the detective bureau was very stern indeed.
"It means that you are under arrest, Inspector Jefson," he said sternly.
"Arrest?" the officer gasped.
"I think so," Sexton Blake assured him coolly. "You once sneered at my methods, Jefson, but I am afraid that you will find them rather useful in the end."
The inspector glared at the famous detective, but all the pluck had been knocked out of him, and he was a beaten man.
A few minutes later Inspector Jefson, in charge of two trusted officers, was on his way to prison, and for other companions he had every one of the ruffians who had been in the gambling-den.
In the den itself remained Sexton Blake, Tinker, Colonel Maitland, and half a dozen officers, two of the latter doing their best to bring Hughie Masters back to real consciousness.
"Have I proved right?" Sexton Blake, in a low voice.
"It seems so," Colonel Maitland answered. "And the next move?"
"The house of Zitmann," the detective answered quietly. "We must go there without delay."
"Yes," Colonel Maitland said simply. "He is the prime mover in the gang."
Luke O. Zitmann was far from at his ease as he waited in his study. He knew that Plummer's plan was a good one, but for all that he could not keep fear from his mind; and now that he was alone it was stronger than ever.
A short time back Plummer had gone out, meaning to make his way to the Chinese quarter, and ascertain without delay that Inspector Jefson had carried out his instructions perfectly, and with every minute that he did not return the fears of his partner in crime became more pronounced.
Zitmann lit a cigar, but threw it away. He tried to busy himself with the papers on his desk, but turned from them almost at once, unable to concentrate his attention.
"At last," he said, with relief, as a knock sounded at the front door. He heard it opened, then the voice of his servant, and something in its tone made him pale. He turned back swiftly to his desk, and snatched open a drawer, but before he could grasp the revolver that lay within, the door had opened, and the voice of Sexton Blake cried:
"Hands up!"
Trembling in every limb Zitmann faced round, and there before him stood the detective, an automatic pistol in his hand, and beside him was Colonel Maitland. Behind he could see several burly men, who were plainly police-officers.
"I—I don't understand!" he stammered.
"You are under arrest for kidnapping Hughie Masters," Colonel Maitland answered coolly, motioning to an officer behind him. "Arrest that man!"
For a moment Zitmann looked like showing fight, but it was for no longer, and he made no resistance as the handcuffs were clicked on to his wrists.
"Good!" Sexton Blake said, with a smile. But for all that his face was grim in expression. "Now for the search. Every outlet is guarded, colonel?"
"Yes. But you will not search alone?"
"I have a fancy to do so," the famous detective answered, "It is possible that the other man and myself are—old friends."
"You won't find him," Zitmann snarled, gaining a little pluck. "He's gone!"
Sexton Blake started, for there was a ring of truth in the man's words.
"I shall search," he said doggedly.
"Search away!" Zitmann sneered.
The graft financier sat back in a chair, the handcuffs on his wrists, and his only hope was that Plummer had escaped. Not that he loved the man in particular, for he blamed him for the present predicament, but unless he got away there would be no hope of a rescue, no chance of setting to work all the powers of graft that might still buy him his liberty.
Five minutes passed, ten, a quarter of an hour; and while Zitmann grinned Colonel Maitland looked uneasy. Then Sexton Blake re-entered the room, and one glance at his face was sufficient to tell the truth.
"The man has gone!" he said simply.
"And you'll have to let me go, too, you fool!" Zitmann growled. "There is nothing against me!"
Sexton Blake shrugged his shoulders, and his face was that of a tired man.
"I think not," he answered. "It was rather careless for you to leave the chloroform bottle, not to mention sundry Chinese robes about. Oh, I fancy we have you tight, my friend."
There was a commotion in the hall, and the door opened to admit Harry Elder. He staggered in, his face deadly pale, save where there was a streak of blood down the side of it, then he dropped limply into a chair.
"I followed the man," he panted. "Went to the Chinese quarter. He saw the raid and hurried off. I followed. Must have noticed. Turned and struck me down. I—I came here as soon as I could. I'm sorry that—"
But no more words came from the man. He had fainted.
The Graft Attorney—A Strange Interview—Sexton Blake Baffled.
PLUMMER stared at the newspaper that he held before him, but for all that his eyes saw no word of the print. A week back he had escaped by the skin of his teeth the fate that had befallen Zitmann and Inspector Jefson, and the two men were now awaiting their trial. After his escape from Harry Elder he had had no difficulty in altering his appearance by the aid of the pocket make-up case that he always carried, and now, with his iron-grey hair and lined face it would have been hard to recognise Plummer, the man for whom Sexton Blake and the New York police were searching.
All that had interested Plummer in the paper was the news that once more honest John Masters had succeeded in keeping down the price of wheat, and he had cursed at the thought of the fortune that that had lost to him.
The master-criminal was seated in a fashionable restaurant, an expensive meal finished; but for once he had no enjoyment in the cigar that was between his teeth. Economy under any circumstances was not one of his virtues, if he possessed any, and at the present moment he was drawing uncomfortably near to the end of his resources.
It was only because of that he remembered the compact that he had made with Zitmann, that in the event of the latter's capture and his own escape, he should go at once to Otto Tayland, the lawyer in the pay of the graft gang, and plan with him to effect a release. It would not break Plummer's heart if both Zitmann and Jefson went to prison, save for one thing. There was the fortune that the former had hidden away under a different name, and the master-criminal hankered to have his share of it, which would be impossible unless Zitmann could be freed.
The trial, the talk of which already half filled the papers, was due to commence in three days' time, and public opinion—in America it is common practice to acclaim a man guilty before he has been tried—said that there must be a conviction. There had been fake interviews with Sexton Blake—in fact, with every man even remotely connected with the case, and in some way or another sufficient had come out to connect Zitmann with close upon a score of opium and gambling-dens that had since closed down, and most strongly with the kidnapping of Hughie Masters.
So it was that Plummer sat thinking deeply, also drinking deeply, until at last the liquor in him brought him decision, and he rose and left the restaurant, determined to call upon Otto Tayland.
The offices of the graft attorney were not far away, on the fifth floor of a skyscraper, and to all intents and purposes the business carried on there appeared to be of the most respectable description. The clerks in the outer office were typical of their kind, the safe was massive and substantial-looking, and a considerable amount of work appeared to be in progress.
Plummer gave his name as Brown, and was informed that he would be seen shortly, but it was a clear half-hour before a clerk ushered him into the private sanctum of Otto Tayland, and closed the double doors upon him.
Otto Tayland was a little man with a big head and ferrety eyes. He was dressed well, but not fashionably, and there was something about him that suggested that he was not entirely American, If the truth were known the man himself would have found it hard to say what his nationality was, for his ancestors had been something of world-wanderers.
"Mr. Brown?" the little man asked casually.
The master-criminal glanced back towards the door, and took his courage in both hands.
"No; George Marsden Plummer!" he answered, in a low voice.
The graft attorney bowed without the slightest sign of surprise.
"I am pleased to meet you, sir," he said coolly. "I have, of course, heard much of your—er—exploits. I saw our friend Zitmann this morning, and he was surprised that you had not called before."
The ghost of a smile curled the attorney's lips, and he looked keenly at the criminal.
"It is very sad for an innocent man to be in such a terrible predicament," he added. "Terrible!"
"Bah! We can drop that," Plummer snapped.
"But why?" Otto Tayland objected. "Surely you do not imagine that I should undertake the defence of a man I did not believe to be innocent?"
"As you like," Plummer said angrily. "Remember, however, the risk that I run in coming here. All I want to know is what is to be done to get Zitmann free?"
"And Jefson," Otto Tayland prompted.
"Curse Jefson!" Plummer growled, his temper rising. "It is Zitmann who has the money."
"Precisely!" the attorney agreed, and his right eyelid drooped into the merest suggestion of a wink. "Now we will come to business."
"Yes," Plummer said impatiently.
"Very well, then," Otto Tayland continued. "We must remember, first of all, that there is undoubted circumstantial evidence against the prisoners, and I fear that many juries might convict. On the other hand, it is possible to find a jury that would not do so—a body of conscientious men who a ready to give the prisoners the benefit of the doubt."
"At a price," Plummer put in, hating the idea that any money should go to anyone but himself.
"Naturally, we should feel bound to pay their expenses," the attorney answered coolly.
"Then what else is there to do?" Plummer asked sharply. "If the jury bring in a verdict of not guilty the matter is settled."
But Otto Tayland shook his head much as he might have done in reproving a child.
"You are wrong there," he said. "If the judge does not agree with the verdict, he has the power to set it aside and order a fresh trial with a new jury."
Plummer swore under his breath, realising the truth of the statement.
"The judge can be got at," he suggested.
Otto Tayland threw up his hands in horror.
"Such things have happened in small towns, my dear sir," he admitted; "but it is impossible with Judge Gasket. He is a hard man, with more justice than mercy in his composition. He is our difficulty."
Mechanically Plummer raised his right hand to his lips, and his strong teeth bit at the nail.
"If he could be got out of the way, another judge would be substituted," he said at last, "one who might be—more reasonable."
"Impossible!" Otto Tayland answered, with another shake of his head. "Suspicion would be roused at once, and we should be worse off than ever. Surely you can think of something? Remember that it is you who got Zitmann and Jefson into this mess, and a man of your brain ought to be able to find a way out of it."
Plummer smiled at the mention of his brain, all his old conceit roused. He himself was safe, and he had little fear that, if he wanted to, he would be able to get clear away, but, in that case, he would be penniless. And again he remembered that it was Sexton Blake who had robbed him of his chance of making a fortune out of the Wheat-Pit, and he longed to be revenged for that. What better way could there be than by contriving the escape of Zitmann and Jefson?
"Yes; there must be a way," he said slowly, rising to his feet. "I will go back to my hotel and think out a plan."
"I should," the graft attorney agreed as the master-criminal went towards the door, then he sank his voice, and added: "Remember that the prisoners have powerful friends outside the prison, and they might be, well—annoyed with you if you failed."
"You need not threaten!" Plummer snarled angrily.
"Threaten, my dear sir?" Otto Tayland protested. "I was merely giving you a friendly hint."
Plummer said no more, and the next minute he was in the street. He had gone to the attorney uncertain whether he should make efforts to save Zitmann from prison, but now he knew that there was no choice open to him. The powers of the graft gang were wide-reaching, and Otto Tayland's threat had been obvious. He had got to find a plan at all costs.
A shudder ran through Plummer as he stepped into the street, and his eyes looked suspiciously at the men about him. He knew that any one of them might be a member of the graft gang told off to watch him, and that if he failed to obtain the release of Zitmann and Jefson their hands would be upon him without mercy.
The master-criminal walked swiftly to the hotel at which he was stopping, and a sigh of relief escaped him as he locked the door of his private room. He was far from being a nervous man, but now he had two enemies against him—Graft and Sexton Blake—and he knew that he must fight the one to make a friend of the other.
Plummer dropped into a chair, and lit one of his favourite brand of cigars. He puffed away at it sharply, so that it burned all down one side, but he was in no mood to notice trifles of that kind.
"The jury can be squared," he muttered; "but-the judge—no."
Plummer frowned heavily, and his brain worked swiftly as he turned everything over in it. If it had not been for the money he would have been inclined to try a dash for liberty, not from Sexton Blake this time, but from the members of the graft gang. To fall into the hands of the detective would mean imprisonment, but the penalty that the gang would inflict would be death.
Yet, what could be done?
With a savage gesture Plummer threw away his cigar, and took up one of the newspapers that lay on the table. The front sheet of it was covered by details of the trial that was to take place shortly. There were portraits of everyone even remotely connected with the affair, and in the centre, holding the place of honour, was the portrait of Judge Gasket—the man Otto Tayland said could not be bribed.
For a wonder, the portraits in the paper were well printed, and Plummer was able to pick out the features of the judge who was to try Zitmann and Jefson. He saw a head rather broad across the brows, hair that was going thin on the top, and a pair of eyes and a mouth that even in a photograph spoke of an iron will.
It was right enough—Judge Gasket was not a man to be bribed.
And he was the man who stood in the way of the graft ruffians being acquitted.
Plummer gnawed his nails and glared down with his agate-coloured eyes at the harmless portrait, It represented the one stumbling-block, the wall over which the prisoners would not escape although all else had been made easy. The man could not be removed before the day—
The master-criminal caught his breath in sharply, and his eyes glittered. He crossed to where a bag lay, opened it, and drew out the make-up outfit that lay within. Then, with the printed portrait of Judge Gasket close to him, he set to work.
With the sure hands of an artist, Plummer painted away.
The thin lips of his mouth grew to be the thicker ones of Judge Gasket; his eyebrows turned up at the corners in the manner of the same worthy gentleman; the corners of his nostrils became pinched, and under his eyes quickly grew the heavy lines that in the case of Judge Gasket had been produced by many a night of study.
With quick fingers Plummer snipped away at a wig that he selected from his stock, cutting with the absolute certainty-of a man who knows his work. Then it was covering his own short hair, and he raised his head and looked into the glass.
On the table beside Plummer lay the printed portrait of Judge Gasket, and to all outward appearances, unless the portrait was a bad one, it was Judge Gasket himself who looked into the glass, an ugly grin on his lips.
Plummer picked up a cloth to start rubbing the make-up away, but suddenly he changed his mind, his grin broadening.
"Hanged if I don't!" he muttered. "No one will notice me going out, and it's worth it."
The master-criminal put on his hat again; drew on a coat, and turned up the collar. A scarf round his throat, and raised over his chin, hid much of his disguise, and he had no fear that he would be noticed if he went to the lobby of the hotel by way of the stairs instead of by the elevator.
Plummer was going to test his disguise to the uttermost, not only because of his vanity in his skill, but because the scheme that was in his brain was so daring that he dared risk making no mistake.
The lobby of the hotel was reached without effort, for the place was big, with some hundreds of guests in it, and it was not likely that any particular person would be noticed more than another, and Plummer breathed with relief when he reached the pavement, and signalled to a cab, The next moment he had given Otto Tayland's address, and was being driven off rapidly in the direction of that gentleman's offices.
"Wait," he said briefly, when the cab pulled up at its destination.
Plummer entered the building, and the elevator quickly ran him up to the fifth floor, and from there he walked briskly into the outer office of Otto Tayland.
"Mr. Tayland in?" he snapped, with the manner of a man who was accustomed to obedience, and his tone plainly proved that it was the right one to use.
Your average American is either a bully or a sycophant, and even the bully sneakingly loves the man who can out-bully him.
"Yes, sir," a clerk answered quickly.
"Tell him there is someone to see him!" Plummer ordered. "Don't give a name—tell him that he knows me."
Apparently the clerks of Mr. Otto Tayland were accustomed to curious callers, for the man hurried off without demur, and when he returned if was with the news that the graft attorney would receive his nameless visitor.
Otto Tayland looked up in his usual cool manner as Plummer entered, and if he was curious at all, his face betrayed nothing of it.
"You wished to see me?" he asked. "I presume that now we are alone I may have the pleasure of knowing your name?"
Plummer raised a hand, and the scarf was jerked away from his face. Then his hat was off, and his collar turned down.
"Judge Gasket!" the graft attorney gasped, and his face went deadly pale, though he managed to stammer out: "Why—why have I the pleasure of this call?"
Then Plummer laughed in his triumph, his conceit gratified by the completeness with which he had deceived Otto Tayland.
"A good disguise, after all!" he said, with a grin "Fancy you not recognising George Marsden Plummer!"
Otto Tayland gasped, and dabbed at his face with a handkerchief.
"It's—it's marvellous!" he said. "But why have you done it?"
The master-criminal threw himself into a chair, about as pleased with himself as a man well could be.
"Can't you guess?" he asked. "Have you forgotten that you said that the only man who could not be bribed was Judge Gasket?"
"Yes, yes!" Otto Tayland admitted, though still obviously in a fog. "But even then—"
The graft attorney stopped helplessly, his eyes wide still with amazement, and Plummer laughed again in his triumph. His was the brain that could dominate all these lesser intellects.
"Can't you guess what I mean to do?" he asked.
"No," Otto Tayland answered mechanically.
"Then I will tell you."
And as Plummer outlined his plan, dwelling on the skill with which he alone would be able to carry it out, the graft attorney sat there and fairly gasped. For many years his practice had been a strange one, and by the aid of the money behind him—the golden shadow behind the throne—he had accomplished seemingly impossible things, but never before had he listened to a scheme as daring as this.
At the end of the recital he sat with staring eyes fixed upon Plummer, and the master-criminal smiled back at him, as if the work had already been carried out.
"What do you think of it?" Plummer demanded.
"It can be done," Otto Tayland answered slowly; "but I shall be involved, and I am not willing to have that except at a big price."
Then the smile died away from Plummer's lips, and they were set in ugly fashion as his eyes glittered with menace.
"No, you won't!" he snarled. "And even if you were, remember that you have got to do it, price or not. Only to-day you threatened me with what the graft gang would do to me if I failed. Do you forget that you, too, might incur their anger?"
There was a pause while Otto Tayland sat back in his chair and breathed hard, and Plummer grinned as he saw that he had frightened the man into agreeing with his scheme.
"I will do it," the graft attorney said slowly. "It is a great risk, but it has got to be run."
"Precisely," Plummer agreed coolly, rising to his feet. "By the way, are there any little details in which my make-up can be improved? Of course; I shall see the judge on the day, but it is as well to be prepared."
The master-criminal's calm tone brought back something of Otto Tayland's self-possession, and he looked at Plummer more critically than he had done before.
"The hair should be greyer," he said. "Beyond that the disguise is perfect."
Plummer bowed, and adjusted his scarf and collar again so that a large portion of his face was hidden.
"Very good," he answered. "Remember what your part of the work is."
The Trial—The Sick Judge—Acquitted-Plummer—and the End.
THE trial of Luke O. Zitmann and Inspector Jefson was in progress, and the court, large though it was, was crowded to suffocation. It was not often that members of a graft gang were arrested, and in consequence the trial had roused enormous interest. The benches on all sides were packed, and it was to the body of the court that all eyes were turned.
In many ways the scene resembled a trial at the Old Bailey, yet there were differences. There was no array of bewigged counsel at the tables in the centre, for the men who sat there wore neither robes nor wigs, the absence of both giving the proceedings something of the aspect of a council meeting.
Then, too, there was no scarlet-robed judge, the sword of justice above him, but in his place was Judge Gasket, frock-coated, and with his low collar and black bow-tie giving him the air of a minister.
Only the two men who stood in the dock lent something of reality to the scene.
Both Luke O. Zitmann and Inspector Jefson looked pale as they stood there guarded by the police, and their hands, gripping the rail in front of them, shifted nervously. They knew that every effort had been made to get them free, but so far they did not know in what manner it was to be accomplished—if at all.
Otto Tayland had said nothing of the new scheme that Plummer had formed, for the excellent reason that it had been impossible to speak to the prisoners privately. The most that-he had been allowed to do was to discuss the defence in the presence of a warder, and, unfortunately for the attorney, Colonel Maitland had seen that the man was one who was not in the pay of the graft gang.
So it was that the prisoners waited on tenterhooks of suspense, their eyes travelling from the jury to the judge, and from the judge to a little group that sat by the counsels' desks.
The group was composed of Sexton Blake, Tinker, Harry Elder, and John Masters and his son. The last-named still showed signs of the life that he had led, yet something of the grey-death hue of the opium had left his cheeks.
It was Sexton Blake's evidence almost entirely that had been heard, and every word of it, every scrap of reasoning, had gone dead against the prisoners. There had been no vindictiveness about it, nothing but a plain recital of facts, and even those the famous detective had given with something of a bored expression, for all the time he could not help remembering that the greatest criminal of all, Plummer, had escaped him. Ever since the arrest of Zitmann and Jefson he had tried to track the master-criminal down, but only to meet with failure.
The case for the prosecution had been closed, the attorney's final damning speech made, and now Otto Tayland was making his concluding speech for the defence. In the ordinary way he was a glib enough speaker, but to-day he was palpably suffering from nervousness.
"I appeal to the jury," the graft attorney continued, while Judge Gasket sat back in his chair with a grim expression on his face that suggested that his mind was already made up. "What is the evidence against the prisoners? For years they have been known as men of the highest integrity, yet they are placed in the dock on a charge as terrible as it is unfounded. What is there against them in the way of direct proof? The witness Hugh Masters has admitted that he does not know to where he was taken from the opium den of Han Sin, the Chinaman who cannot be traced. He also admits that in the first instance he was there of his own free will, and we have only his word for it—the word of a man suffering the worst of all vices—that he was later kept a prisoner by force. As for the evidence of this Harry Elder"—the sneer in the attorney's voice was obvious—"is it not plain that it is actuated by sheer spite? No less than six police-officers have sworn that he did not go to the opium den on the night that he was shot, and we can only come to the conclusion that his injury was received in some disreputable fracas."
There were murmurs of dissent from the crowd, and the blood flooded up in Harry Elder's cheeks.
"Then there is the evidence of Sexton Blake," Otto Tayland continued. "We have all heard of him and of his reputation, but even the best of detectives can make mistakes. And what is the alleged evidence that he brings against the prisoners? The word of this Harry Elder, the story of how Mr. Zitmann was watched, and the fact that in the house of the prisoner was found part of a bottle of chloroform—which he openly admits to having bought—and some Chinese robes. Gentlemen of the jury, is it a criminal offence for a respectable citizen to buy the drug, and is there a law to prevent him purchasing Chinese garments?"
Otto Tayland threw out his arms in a gesture of contempt.
"All I can say is," he concluded, "that if the prisoners are to be convicted on such evidence, justice is dead in the land, and that I am sorry I belong to a profession that can hound innocent men to prison."
The graft attorney sat down, and Sexton Blake smiled. The defence he knew to be nothing but claptrap, and it was some slight consolation to him that the prisoners should be convicted.
It was now the turn of Judge Gasket to make his final speech, and as he reached forward his hand for the glass of water before him, it was obvious what trend his summing-up would take. His face was hard and cold, even more so than usual.
And at the back of the court a white-haired man bent forward in his chair, a strangely eager expression in his eyes as he saw the judge drink.
"Gentlemen of the jury," Judge Gasket began, "it is hardly necessary for me to go over in detail the evidence to which you have listened. Mr. Sexton Blake's work is worthy of all praise, and if your verdict proves that he has brought to justice two members of a powerful graft gang, he should have the thanks of the whole community.
"You have to judge whether it is plausible that the prisoner Zitmann bought the chloroform for the purpose of killing a dog, as at that time he did not possess such an animal, and whether it is usual for a man in his position to make a collection of Chinese robes. If the garments had been of a rare kind it might be different, but they are of the commonest description, and of no value from a collector's point of view."
Judge Gasket paused, and took another sip from the glass of water before him, and it was strange how the white-haired man at the back of the court watched the movement and smiled.
"Gentlemen of the jury," the judge went on, "it is not for me to condemn the prisoners, but I feel that I should be wrong if I—I—"
The words of Judge Gasket trailed off curiously, and every head in the court was craned forward as he pressed his hand against his heart.
"I," he whispered—"I am sure—"
Then he pitched forward across his desk, and in a moment officials of the court were rushing to his aid; while a woman among the audience shrieked.
It was at that moment that the white-haired man at the back of the court forced his way to the well of the building, and so to where Judge Gasket had been laid on the floor.
"I am a doctor," he said sharply. "Let me examine him!"
Several of the counsel had hurried forward to assist, but Otto Tayland remained in his seat, a smile on his lips that he appeared to be anxious to repress.
The white-haired man bent over Judge Gasket, feeling his heart and pulse, his manner as professional as it well could be, while the others held back.
"A slight heart attack," he announced at last. "If you will carry him into his private room I will attend to him."
As quickly as possible, Judge Gasket was carried into the room and laid upon a couch, and he still showed no signs of returning consciousness.
"Please leave me alone with him," the white-haired man said.
"And the trial?" one of the others asked.
"The judge will be quite fit to continue it in a few minutes," the supposed doctor answered. "I am certain of that, for the attack is a very slight one."
With expressions of relief on their faces the men returned to the court, and very soon the whisper had run round that the trial would be continued.
Zitmann and Jefson still fidgeted in the dock, but when they looked at Otto Tayland and saw the smile on his lips they knew that all was not hopeless with them yet, though they could not imagine what was to save them from conviction.
Five minutes passed, ten minutes, and the crowd in the court began to grow uneasy. Even Sexton Blake showed signs of impatience, for he was anxious to hear sentence passed upon the prisoners. That they should be convicted he had not the slightest doubt.
Then the door at the back of the judge's desk opened, and Judge Gasket came out. He was a little pale, and his step was slow, but on his face was the same stern expression that had been there before.
A burst of applause greeted the reappearance of the judge, and he acknowledged it with a slight inclination of his head and waited for it to die down.
"I am sorry for the interruption," he said quietly, then turned his face towards the jury.
"I was saying," he continued, "that it might seem strange that the prisoner Zitmann should hoard up these Chinese garments, but, gentlemen, it has to be remembered that we all have our little follies, and even a millionaire may have his. We must not forget that to convict the prisoners of the crime with which they have been charged is a highly responsible matter, and it is necessary that you should be absolutely convinced of their guilt if you are to do so."
Until then the members of the jury had worn a certain air of uneasiness, but now they brightened up considerably, and whispered among themselves.
"It is unnecessary for me to analyse the rest of the evidence," the judge went on. "I merely put it to you—is it conclusive? I do not say that to me that is not the case, as it is for you to judge, but again I warn you to be careful."
Sexton Blake was bending forward in his chair, staring in amazement at the speaker. A little while ago he would have sworn that the judge was summing-up against the prisoners, but that certainly was not the case now. What did it mean?
"I have no more to tell you," the judge said, "and I leave it to you to say whether there is evidence enough on which to convict the prisoners!"
The judge paused, and leant back in his chair, and a murmur of excitement filled the court. It was seen that the jurymen were whispering together without attempting to leave the box to discuss their verdict, and a dead silence fell as the foreman rose.
"I guess we've got our verdict," he drawled, "and there ain't no need to leave the box."
The judge nodded, his face devoid of emotion.
"Do you find the prisoners guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty!"
Sexton Blake half rose to his feet, fierce anger in his eyes, and on all sides rose cries of disapproval. In the dock Zitmann and Jefson were smiling broadly, and Otto Tayland positively beamed.
At last order was restored, and once more the judges spoke.
"I am quite in agreement with your verdict," he said calmly. "The prisoners are discharged without a stain upon their characters."
In a moment all was confusion. Men leapt to their feet and shouted out their indignation, excited counsel yelled at each other to make themselves heard above the din, and only Sexton Blake appeared to remain seated and cool. Yet inwardly he was fuming with rage, for he knew that in some way the graft gang had got the better of him. He could not understand the speech of Judge Gasket, for he had been assured on all sides that a more just or incorruptible judge had never sat on the bench.
And while the excitement was at its height the judge had gone quietly back into his room and the prisoners had hurried from the dock. Then the police and officials were busy clearing the court, but they had not succeeded when the climax of the drama was acted.
There was a wild shout of amazement, and a court attendant, his face white, his arms gesticulating, dashed on to the judge's bench, and waved back towards the room behind it.
Sexton Blake heard the cry as he was leaving the court with his friends, and turned to see the motion towards the room, In an instant he realised that something very much out of the ordinary was happening, and at a run he crossed the floor, brushing people out of his way, and dashed up on to the platform.
"In there—bound!" the attendant gasped.
The next moment Sexton Blake was in the judge's room, other men swarming in behind him, and a cry broke from him as he saw the thing that had caused the official's alarm.
On the floor lay Judge Gasket, bound and gagged, his eyes mutely appealing for help. Then the detective was beside him, his knife out to cut the bonds, but before he could do so he caught sight of a card pinned to the prisoner's chest. On it was written:
"With George Marsden Plummer's compliments."
White-faced, beaten, Sexton Blake knelt there helpless, the whole terrible truth dawning upon him.
He remembered the white-haired man who had called himself a doctor, he remembered the change in the manner of the speech of the supposed judge, and as he rose to his feet he staggered a little despite his nerve control. Then he recovered himself, and as the real judge was being released he dashed out into the body of the court.
"The prisoners!" he cried; and for once he had lost his self-control.
"Left in a motor-car!" a policeman informed him, and there was the suggestion of a grin on his face. "They went off like blazes when the other chap joined them."
Already the news of what had happened had spread round the court, though it was only Sexton Blake who knew everything, and old John Masters pushed his way forward and laid a hand on the detective's arm.
"What does it matter?" he asked. "I have my boy safe, and that is all that I asked of you."
But Sexton Blake passed a hand across his eyes as if he were dazed, then turned away, and walked with lagging feet out of the court, Tinker following him.
Plummer had won, and the famous detective could think of nothing else.
Sexton Blake sat moodily in his consulting-room. He had been back in England a fortnight, all efforts to trace Zitmann, Jefson, and Plummer having failed in the States. By the request of John Masters, Harry Elder had remained behind as companion to Hughie.
There had been plenty of work awaiting the famous detective, but though he had accomplished the tasks set him, it had been without his usual enthusiasm, and he had even refused more than one case that might have brought him added fame and profit.
Tinker watched his master anxiously now, knowing what the trouble was, but unable to do anything.
"What's the good of worrying, sir?" he asked. "You saved Hughie Masters, and close upon a score of gambling-dens have been closed down through you."
"I know, lad," Sexton Blake answered drearily; "but then—"
There was a loud ringing at the front door, and Tinker hurried off to answer the summons.
"I can see no one," Sexton Blake called after him.
Yet, strange to relate, the door opened, and quite a bevy of people entered the room.
There was old John Masters, Elaine, with Harry Elder beside her, and young Hughie, the latter now looking the picture of health.
"Having a trot through Europe. Mr. Blake," the old man said cheerily, "and I reckon that I just had to call in and thank you again."
Sexton Blake forced up a smile as he shook hands, and looked towards Hughie.
"Then," he queried, "he—"
"You bet on it!" John Masters interrupted. "The lad had a bad time, and it's taught him his lesson. He's off the pipe for keeps now."
"And I have to thank you, too," Elaine said, coming forward, a blush on her cheeks.
"That's right!" old John Masters chuckled. "Hanged if Harry hasn't given over looking after Hughie to be a companion to Elaine—for life! None of your lords for me. An honest man is all I want for my little girl."
And, after that, what could Sexton Blake do but offer congratulations all round? And if the memory of his defeat by Plummer still lurked in his mind, he, nevertheless, accepted the invitation to dine with old John Masters that night.
Then, perhaps, he knew that he had not met George Marsden Plummer for the last time.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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