The Zayat Kiss

In honor of the announcement that a new Fu Manchu novel will be published later this year.
"The Zayat Kiss" by Sax Rohmer



"A GENTLEMAN TO SEE YOU, DOCTOR." From across the common a clock sounded the half hour. "Ten-thirty !" I said. "A late visitor. Show him up, if you please." I pushed my writing aside and tilted the lamp shade as footsteps sounded on the landing. The next moment I had jumped to my feet, for a tall, lean man, with his square-cut, clean-shaven face sun baked to the hue of coffee, entered and extended both hands with a cry: "Good old Petrie! Didn't expect me, I'll swear!" It was Nayland Smith, whom I had thought to be in Burma! "Smith," I said, and gripped his hands hard, "this is a delightful surprise! Whatever—however—" "Excuse me, Petrie!" he broke in. "Don't put it down to the sun!" And he put out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. I was too surprised to speak. "No doubt you will think me mad," he continued, and dimly I could see him at the window, peering out into the road, but before you are many hours older you will know that I have good reason to be cautious. Ah, nothing suspicious! Perhaps I am first this time." And stepping back to the writing table, he relighted the lamp. "Mysterious enough for you?" he laughed, and glanced at my unfinished MS. "A story, eh? From which I gather that the district is beastly healthy—what, Petrie? Well, I can put some material in your way that, if sheer uncanny mystery is a marketable commodity, ought to make you independent of influenza and broken legs and shattered nerves and all the rest." I surveyed him doubtfully, but there was nothing in his appearance to justify me in supposing him to suffer from delusions. His eyes were too bright, certainly, and a hardness now had crept over his face. I got out the whisky and siphon, saying: "You have taken your leave early?" "I am not on leave," he replied, and slowly filled his pipe. "I am on duty." "On duty!" I exclaimed. "What, are you moved to London, or something?" "I have got a roving commission, Petrie, and it doesn't rest with me where I am to-day, nor where I shall be to-morrow." There was something ominous in the words, and putting down my glass, I faced round and looked him squarely in the eyes. "Out with it!" I said. "What is it all about?" Smith suddenly stood up and stripped off his coat. Rolling back his left shirt sleeve he revealed a wicked-looking wound in the fleshy part of the forearm. It was quite healed, but curiously striated for an inch or so around. "Ever seen one like it?" he asked. "Not exactly," I confessed. "It appears to have been deeply cauterized." "Right! Very deeply! A barb steeped in the venom of a hamadryad went in there!" A shudder I could not repress ran through me at mention of that most deadly of all the reptiles of the East. "There's only one treatment," he continued, rolling his sleeve down again, "and that's with a sharp knife, a match, and a broken cartridge. I lay on my back raving for three days afterward in a forest that stank with malaria, but I should have been lying there now if I had hesitated. Here's the point. It was not an accident!" "What do you mean?" "I mean that it was a deliberate attempt on my life, and I am hard upon the tracks of the man who extracted that venom—patiently, drop by drop—from the poison glands of the snake, who prepared the arrow, and who caused it to be shot at me." "What fiend is this?" "A fiend who, unless my calculations are at fault, is now in London, and who regularly wars with pleasant weapons of that kind. Petrie, I have traveled from Burma not in the interest of the British Government merely, but in the interests of the entire white race, and I honestly believe—though I pray I may be wrong—that its survival depends largely upon the success of my mission." To say that I was perplexed conveys no idea of the mental chaos created by these extraordinary statements, for into my humdrum suburban life Nayland Smith had brought fantasy of the wildest. I did not know what to think, what to believe. "I am wasting precious time!" he rapped decisively, and, draining his glass, he stood up. "I came straight to you because you are the only man I dare to trust. Except the big chief at headquarters, you are the only person in England, I hope, who knows that Nayland Smith has quitted Burma. I must have some one with me, Petrie, all the time—it's imperative! Can you put me up here, and spare a few days to the strangest business, I promise you, that ever was recorded in fact or fiction?" I agreed readily enough, for, unfortunately, my professional dudes were not onerous. "Good man!" he cried, wringing my hand in his impetuous way. "We start now." "What, to-night?" "To-night! I had thought of turning in, I must admit. I have not dared to sleep for forty-eight hours, except in fifteen-minute stretches. But there is one move that must be made to-night and immediately. I must warn Sir Crichton Davey." "Sir Crichton Davey—of the India—" "Petrie, he is a doomed man! Unless he follows my instructions without question, without hesitation—before Heaven, nothing can save him! I do not know when the blow will fall, how it will fall, nor from whence, but I know that my first duty is to warn him. Let us walk down to the corner of the common and get a taxi." * "What's this?" muttered my friend hoarsely. Constables were moving on a little crowd of carious idlers who pressed about the steps of Sir Crichton Davy's house and sought to peer in at the open door. Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb, Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out, and I followed closely at his heels. "What has happened?" he demanded breathlessly of a constable. The latter glanced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice and bearing commanded respect. "Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir." Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and clutched my shoulder convulsively. Beneath the heavy tan his face had blanched, and his eyes were set in a stare of horror. "My God!" he whispered. "Just too late!" * With clenched fists he turned and, pressing through the group of loungers, bounded up the steps. In the hall a man who unmistakably was a Scotland Yard official stood talking to a footman. Other members of the household were moving about, more or less aimlessly, and the chilly hand of, King Fear had touched one and all, for, as they came and went, they glanced ever over their shoulders, as if each shadow cloaked a menace, and listened, as it seemed, for some sound which they dreaded to hear. Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card, upon glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something in a low voice, and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a respectful manner. A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we followed the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor lined with pictures and busts, and into a large library. A group of people were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve of Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a couch. Another door communicated with a small study, and through the opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet. The uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the bizarre figure crawling, beetlelike, across the inner room, and the grim hub, around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene that etched itself indelibly on my mind. As we entered. Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully. "Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the immediate cause of death," he said. "Sir Crichton was addicted to cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with cocaine poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the facts—if," he added, "we ever arrive at them. A most mysterious case!" Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton's body. The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking jacket. He had been of spare but hardy build, with thin, aquiline features, which now were oddly puffy, as were his clenched hands. I pushed back his sleeve and saw the marks of the hypodermic syringe upon his left arm. Quite mechanically I turned my attention to the right arm. It was unscarred, but on the back of the hand was a faint red mark, not unlike the imprint of painted lips. I examined it closely, and even tried to rub it off, but it evidently was caused by some morbid process of local inflammation if it were not a birthmark. Turning to a pale young man whom I had understood to be Sir Crichton's private secretary, I drew his attention to this mark and inquired if it were constitutional. "It is not, sir," answered Dr. Cleeve, overhearing my question. "I have already made that inquiry. Does it suggest anything to your mind? I must confess that it afforded me no assistance." "Nothing," I replied. "It is most curious." "Excuse me, Mr. Burboyne," said Smith, now turning to the secretary, "but Inspector Weymouth will tell you that I act with authority. I understand that Sir Crichton was—seized with illness in his study?" "Yes, at half-past ten. I was working here in the library and he inside, as was our custom." "The communicating door was kept closed?" "Yes, always. It was open for a minute or less about ten-twenty-five, when a message came for Sir Crichton. I took it in to him, and he then seemed in his usual health." "What was the message?" "I could not say. It was brought by a district messenger, and he placed it beside him on the table. It is there now, no doubt." "And at half-past ten?" "Sir Crichton suddenly burst open the door and threw himself, with a scream, into the library. I ran to him, but he waved me back. His eyes were glaring horribly. I had just reached his side when he fell, writhing, upon the floor. He seemed past speech, but as I raised him and laid him upon the couch he gasped something that sounded like 'The red hand!' Before I could get to the bell or telephone he was dead!" Mr. Burboyne's voice shook as he spoke the words, and Smith seemed to find this evidence confusing. "You do not think he referred to the mark on his hand?" "I think not. From the direction of his last glance I feel sure he referred to something in the study." "What did you do?" "Having summoned the servants, I ran into the study. But there was nothing unusual to be seen. The windows were closed and fastened. He worked with closed windows in the hottest weather. There is no other door, for the study occupies the end of a narrow wing, so that no one could possibly have gained access to it while I was in the library unseen by me. Had some one concealed himself in the study earlier in the evening—and I am convinced that it offers no hiding place—he could only have come out again by passing through here." Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his left ear, as was his habit when meditating. "You had been at work here in this way for some time?" "Yes. Sir Crichton was preparing an important book." "Had anything unusual occurred prior to this evening?" "Yes," said Mr. Burboyne with evident perplexity, "though I attached no importance to it at the time. Three nights ago Sir Crichton came out to me and appeared very nervous; but at times his nerves—you know? Well, on this occasion he asked me to search the study. He had an idea that something was concealed there." "Something or some one?" "'Something' was the word he used. I searched, but fruitlessly, and he seemed quite satisfied and returned to his work." "Thank you, Mr. Burboyne. My friend and I would like a few minutes private investigation in the study."(End Chapter 1) Sir Crichton Davey's study was a small one, and a glance sufficed to show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding place. It was heavily carpeted, and overfull of Burmese and Chinese ornaments and curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood several framed photographs which showed this to be the sanctum of a wealthy bachelor who was no misogynist. A map of the Indian Empire occupied the larger part of one wall. The grate was empty, for the weather was extremely warm, and a green-shaded lamp on the littered writing table afforded the only light. The air was stale, for both windows were closed and fastened. Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay beside the blotting pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open it, but my friend did so. It contained a blank sheet of paper! "Smell!" he directed, handing the letter to me. I raised it to my nostrils. It was scented with some pungent perfume. "What is it?" I asked. "It is a rather rare essential oil," was the reply, "which I have met with before, though never in Europe. I begin to understand, Petrie." He tilted the lamp shade and made a close examination of the scraps of paper, matches, and other debris that lay in the grate and on the hearth. I took up a copper vase from the mantelpiece, and was examining it curiously when he turned, a strange expression on his face. "Put that back, old man," he said quietly. Much surprised, I did as he directed. "Don't touch anything in the room. It may be dangerous." Something in the tone of his voice chilled me, and I hastily replaced the vase and stood by the door of the study, watching him search methodically every inch of the room—behind the books, in all the ornaments, in table drawers, in cupboards, on shelves. "That will do," he said at last. "There is nothing here and I have no time to search further." We returned to the library. "Inspector Weymouth," said my friend, "I have a particular reason for asking that Sir Crichton's body be removed from this room at once and the library locked. Let no one be admitted on any pretense whatever until you hear from me." It spoke volumes for the mysterious credentials borne by my friend that the man from Scotland Yard accepted his orders without demur, and, after a brief chat with Mr. Burboyne, Smith passed briskly downstairs. In the hall a man who looked like a groom out of livery was waiting. "Are you Wills?" asked Smith. "Yes, sir." "It was you who heard a cry of some kind at the rear of the house about the time of Sir Crichton's death?" "Yes, sir. I was locking the garage door, and, happening to look up at the window of Sir Crichton's study, I saw him jump out of his chair. Where he used to sit at his writing, sir, you could see his shadow on the blind. Next minute I heard a call out in the lane." "What kind of call?" The man whom the uncanny happening clearly had frightened seemed puzzled for a suitable description. "A sort of wail, sir," he said at last. "I never heard anything like it before and don't want to again." "Like this?" inquired Smith, and he littered a low, wailing cry, impossible to describe. "The same, sir, I think," Wills said, "but much louder." "That will do," said Smith, and I thought I detected a note of triumph in his voice. "But stay! Take us through to the back of the house." The man bowed and led the way, so that shortly we found ourselves in a small, paved courtyard. It was a perfect summer's night, and the deep blue vault above was jeweled with myriads of starry points. "Up yonder are the study windows, sir. Over that wall on your left is the back lane from which the cry came, and beyond is Regent's Park." "Are the study windows visible from there?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Who occupies the adjoining house?" "Major General Platt-Houston, sir, but the family is out of town." "Those iron stairs are a means of communication between the domestic offices and the servants' quarters, I take it?" "Yes, sir." "Then send some one to make my business known to the Major General's housekeeper; I want to examine those stairs." Singular though my friend's proceedings appeared to me, I had ceased to wonder at anything. Since Nayland Smith's arrival at my rooms I seemed to have been moving through the fitful phases of a nightmare. My friend's account of how he came by the wound in his arm; the scene on our arrival at the house of Sir Crichton Davey; the secretary's story of the dying man's cry. "The red hand!"; the hidden perils of the study; the wail in the lane—all were fitter incidents of delirium than of sane reality. So, when a white-faced butler made us known to a nervous old lady who proved to be the housekeeper of the next-door residence, I was not surprised at Smith's saying: "Lounge up and down outside, Petrie. Everyone has cleared off now. It is getting late. Keep your eyes open and be on your guard. I thought I had the start, but he is here before me, and, what is worse, he probably knows by now that I am here, too." With which he entered the house and left me out in the square, with leisure to think, to try to understand. The crowd which usually haunts the scene of a sensational crime had been cleared away, and it had been circulated that Sir Crichton had died from natural causes. The intense heat having driven most of the residents out of town, practically I had the square to myself, and I gave myself up to a brief consideration of the mystery in which I so suddenly had found myself involved. By what agency had Sir Crichton met his death? Did Nayland Smith know? I rather suspected that he did. What was the hidden significance of die perfumed envelope? Who was that mysterious personage whom Smith so evidently dreaded, who had attempted his life, who presumably had murdered Sir Crichton? Sir Crichton Davey, during the time that he had held office in India and during his long term of service at home, had earned the good will of all, British and native alike. Who was his secret enemy? Something touched me lightly on the shoulder. I turned, with my heart fluttering like a child's. This night's work had imposed a severe strain even upon my callous nerves. A girl wrapped in a hooded opera cloak stood at my elbow, and, as she glanced up at me, I thought that I never had seen a face so seductively lovely nor of so unusual a type. With the skin of a perfect blonde, she had eyes and lashes as black as a Creole's, which, together with her full red lips, told me that this beautiful stranger, whose touch had so startled me, was not a child of our northern shores. "Forgive me," she said, speaking with an odd, pretty accent, and laying a slim hand with jeweled fingers confidingly upon my arm, "if I startled you. But—is it true that Sir Crichton Davey has been murdered?" I looked into her big, questioning eyes, a harsh suspicion laboring in my mind, but could read nothing in their mysterious depths—only I wondered anew at my questioner's beauty. The grotesque idea momentarily possessed me that, were the bloom of her. red lips due to art and not to nature, their kiss would leave—though not indelibly—just such a mark as I had seen upon the dead man's hand. But I dismissed the fantastic notion as bred of the night's horrors, and worthy only of a medieval legend. No doubt she was some friend or acquaintance of Sir Crichton's who lived close by. "I cannot say that he has been murdered," I replied, acting upon the latter supposition and seeking to tell her what she asked as gently as possible. "But he is—" "Dead?" I nodded. She closed her eyes and uttered a low, moaning sound, swaying dizzily. Thinking she was about to swoon, I threw my arm round her shoulders to support her, but she smiled sadly and pushed me gently away. "I am quite well, thank you," she said. "You are certain? Let me walk with you until you feel quite sure of yourself." She shook her head, flashed a rapid glance at me with her beautiful eyes, and looked away in a sort of sorrowful embarrassment, for which I was entirely at a loss to account. Suddenly she resumed: "I cannot let my name be mentioned in this dreadful matter, but—1 think I have some information—for the police. Will you give this to—whomever you think proper?" She handed me a sealed envelope, again met my eyes with one of her dazzling glances, and hurried away. She had gone no more than ten or twelve yards, and I still was standing bewildered, watching her graceful, retreating figure, when she turned abruptly and came back. Without looking directly at me, but alternately glancing toward a distant corner of the square and toward the house of Major General Platt-Houston, she made the following extraordinary request: "If you would do me a very great service, for which I always would be grateful"—she glanced at me with passionate intentness—"when you have given my message to the proper person, leave him and do not go near him any more to-night!" Before I could find words to reply she gathered up her cloak and ran. Before I could determine whether or not to follow her (for her words had aroused anew all my worst suspicions she had disappeared! I heard the whirr of a restarted motor at no great distance, and in the instant that Nayland Smith came running down the steps I knew that I had nodded at my post. "Smith!" I cried as he joined me, "tell me what we must do!" And rapidly I acquainted him with the incident. My friend looked very grave; then a grim smile crept round his lips. "She was a big card to play," he said; "but he did not know that I held one to beat it." "What! You know this girl? Who is she?" "She is one of the finest weapons in the enemy's armory, Petrie. But a woman is a two-edged sword, and treacherous. To our great good fortune, she has formed a sudden predilection, characteristically Oriental, for yourself. Oh, you may smile, but it is evident. She was employed to get this letter placed in my hands. Give it to me." I did so. "She has succeeded. Smell." He held the envelope under my nose, and, with a sudden sense of nausea, I recognized the strange perfume. "You know what this presaged in Sir Crichton's case? Can you doubt any longer? She did not want you to share my fate, Petrie." "Smith," I said unsteadily, "I have followed your lead blindly in this horrible business and have not pressed for an explanation, but I must insist before I go one step farther upon knowing what it all means." "Just a few steps farther," he rejoined. "As far as a cab. We are hardly safe here. Oh, you need not fear shot or knives. The man whose servants are watching us now scorns to employ such clumsy tell-tale weapons." * "Pull up the window on your side, Petrie, and look oat behind. Good! We've started." The cab moved off with a metallic jerk, and I turned and looked back through the little window in the rear. "Some one has got into another cab. It is following ours, I think." Nayland Smith lay back and laughed unmirthfully. "Petrie," he said, "if I escape alive from this business I shall know that I bear a charmed life." I made no reply as he pulled out the dilapidated pouch and filled his pipe. "You have asked me to explain matters," he continued, "and I will do so to the best of my ability. You no doubt wonder why a servant of the British Government, lately stationed in Burma, suddenly appears in London in the character of a detective. I am here, Petrie—and I bear credentials from the very highest sources—because, quite by accident, I came upon a clue. Following it up in the ordinary course of routine, I obtained evidence of the existence and malignant activity of a certain man. At the present stage of the case I should not be justified in terming him the emissary of an Eastern power, but I may say that representations are shortly to be made to that power's ambassador in London." He paused and glanced back toward the pursuing cab. "There is little to fear until we arrive home," he said calmly. "Afterward there is much. To continue; This man, whether a fanatic or a duly appointed agent, is, unquestionably, the most malign and formidable personality existing in the known world to-day. He is a linguist who speaks with almost equal facility in any of the civilized languages and in most of the barbaric. He is an adept in all the arts and sciences which a great university could teach him. He also is an adept in certain obscure arts and sciences which no university of to-day can teach. He has the brains of any three men of genius. Petrie, he is a mental giant." "You amaze me!" I said. "As to his mission among men. Why did M. Jules Fumeaux fall dead in a Paris opera house? Because of heart failure? No! Because his last speech had shown that he held the key to the secret of Tongking. What became of the Grand Duke Stanislaus? Elopement? Suicide? Nothing of the kind. He alone was fully alive to Russia's growing peril. He alone knew the truth about Mongolia. Why was Sir Crichton Davey murdered? Because had the work he was engaged upon ever seen the light, it would have shown him to be die only living Englishman who understood the importance of the Tibetan frontiers. Is there a man who would arouse the West to a sense of the awakening of the East, that the millions only await their leader? He will die. And this is only one phase of the devilish campaign. The others I can merely surmise." "But, Smith, this is almost incredible! What perverted genius controls this awful secret movement?" "Imagine a person, tall, lean, and feline, high shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long, magnetic eyes of the true cat green. Invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giant intellect, with all the resources of science past and present. Imagine that awful being and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the yellow peril incarnate in one man."(End Chapter 2) I sank into an armchair in my rooms and gulped down a strong peg of brandy. "We have been followed here," I said. "Why did you make no attempt to throw the pursuers off the track, to have them intercepted?" Smith laughed. "Useless, in the first place. Wherever we went he would find us. And of what use to arrest his creatures? We could prove nothing against them. Further, it is evident that an attempt is to be made upon my life to-night—and by the same means that proved so successful in the case of poor Sir Crichton." His square jaw grew truculently prominent, and he leaped stormily to his feet, shaking his clenched fists toward the window. "The villain!" he cried. "The fiendishly clever villain! I suspected that Sir Crichton was next, and I was right. But I came too late, Petrie! That hits me hard, old man. To think that I knew and yet failed to save him!" He resumed his seat, smoking hard. "Fu-Manchu has made the blunder common to all men of unusual genius," he said. "He has underrated his adversary. He has not given me credit for perceiving the meaning of the scented messages. He has thrown away one powerful weapon—to get such a message into my hands—and he thinks that, once safe within doors, I shall sleep, unsuspecting, and die as Sir Crichton died. But without the indiscretion of your charming friend I should have known what to expect when I received her 'information,' which, by the way, consists of a blank sheet of paper." "Smith," I broke in, "who is she?" "She is either Fu-Manchu's daughter, his wife, or his slave. I am inclined to believe the latter, for she has no will but his will, except"—with a quizzical glance—"in a certain instance." "How can you jest with some awful thing—Heaven knows what—hanging over your head? What is the meaning of these perfumed envelopes? How did Sir Crichton die?" "He died of the Zayat Kiss. Ask me what that is and I reply 'I do not know.' The zayats are the Burmese caravansaries, or rest houses. Along a certain route—upon which I set eyes for the first and only time upon Dr. Fu-Manchu—travelers who use them sometimes die as Sir Crichton died, with nothing to show the cause of death but a little mark upon the neck, face, or limb, which has earned in those parts the title of the 'Zayat Kiss.' The rest houses along that route are shunned now. I have my theory, and I hope to prove it to-night if I live. This was my principal reason for not enlightening Dr. Cleeve. Even walls have ears where Fu-Manchu is concerned. I wanted an opportunity to study the Zayat Kiss in operation, and I shall have one." "But the scented envelopes?" "In the swampy forests of the district I have referred to a rare species of orchid, almost green and with a peculiar scent, is sometimes met with. I recognized the heavy perfume at once. I take it that the thing which kills the travelers is attracted by this orchid. You will notice that the perfume clings to whatever it touches. I doubt if it can be washed off in the ordinary way. After at least one unsuccessful attempt to kill Sir Crichton—you recall that he thought there was something concealed in his study on a previous occasion?—Fu-Manchu hit upon the perfumed envelopes. He may have a supply of these green orchids in his possession—possibly to feed the creature." "What creature? How could any creature have got into Sir Crichton's room to-night?" "You no doubt observed that I examined the grate of the study. I found a fair quantity of fallen soot. I at once assumed, since it appeared to be the only means of entrance, that something had been dropped down; and I took it for granted that the thing, whatever it was, must still be concealed either in the study or in the library. But when I had obtained the evidence of the groom. Wills, I perceived that the cry from the lane or from the park was a signal. I noted that the movements of anyone seated at the study table were visible, in shadow, on the blind, and that the study occupied the corner of a two-storied wing and, therefore, had a short chimney. What did the signal mean? That Sir Crichton had leaped up from his chair and either had received the Zayat Kiss or had seen the thing which some one on the roof had lowered down the straight chimney. It was the signal to withdraw that deadly thing. By means of the iron stairway at the rear of Major General Platt-Houston's I quite easily gained access to the roof above Sir Crichton's study—and I found this." Out from his pocket Nayland Smith drew a tangled piece of silk, mixed up with which were a brass ring and a number of unusually large-sized split shot, nipped on in the manner usual on a fishing line. "My theory proven," he resumed. "Not anticipating a search on the roof, they had been careless. This was to weight the line and to prevent the creature's clinging to the walls of the chimney. Directly it had dropped in the grate, however, by means of this ring I assume that the weighted line was withdrawn, and the thing was only held by a slender thread, which sufficed, though, to draw it back again when it had done its work. It might have got tangled, of coarse, but they reckoned on its making straight up the carved leg of the writing table for the prepared envelope. From there to the hand of Sir Crichton—which, from having touched the envelope, would also be scented with the perfume—was a certain move." "My God! How horrible!" I exclaimed, and glanced apprehensively into the dusky shadows of the room. "What is your theory respecting this creature—what shape, what color?" "It is something that moves rapidly and silently. I have observed that the rear of this house is ivy covered right up to and above your bedroom. Let us make ostentatious preparations to retire, and I think we may rely upon Fu-Manchu's servants to attempt my removal, at any rate—if not yours." "But, my dear fellow, it is a climb of thirty-five feet at the very least!" "You remember the cry in the back lane? It suggested something to me, and I tested my idea—successfully. It was the cry of a dacoit. Oh, dacoity, though quiescent, is by no means extinct. Fu-Manchu has dacoits in his train, and probably it is one who operates the Zayat Kiss, since it was a dacoit who watched the window of the study this evening. To such a man an ivy-covered wall is a grand staircase." * The clock across the common struck two. Having removed all traces of the scent of the orchid from our hands with a solution of ammonia. Smith and I had followed the program laid down. It was an easy matter to reach the rear of the house, by simply climbing a fence, and we did not doubt that, seeing the light go out in the front, our unseen watcher would proceed to the back. The room was a large one, and we had made up my camp bed at one end, stuffing odds and ends under the clothes to lend the appearance of a sleeper, which device we also had adopted in the case of the larger bed. The perfumed envelope lay upon a little coffee table in the center of the floor, and Smith, with an electric pocket lamp, a revolver, and a brassy beside him, sat on cushions in the shadow of the wardrobe. I occupied a post between the windows. The distant clock struck a quarter-past two. A slight breeze stirred the ivy. * Something rose, inch by inch, above the sill of the westerly window. I could see only its shadow, but a sharp, sibilant breath from Smith told me that he, from his post, could see the cause of the shadow. Every nerve in my body seemed to be strung tensely. I was icily cold, expectant, and prepared for whatever horror was upon us. The shadow became stationary. The dacoit was studying the interior of the room. Then it suddenly lengthened, and, craning my neck to the left, I saw a lithe, black-clad form, surmounted by a yellow face, sketchy in the moonlight, pressed against the window panes! One thin, brown hand appeared over the edge of the lowered sash, which it grasped, and then another. The man made absolutely no sound whatever. The second hand disappeared—and reappeared. It held a small square box. There was a very faint click. The dacoit swung himself below the window with the agility of an ape as, with a dull, sickening thud, something dropped upon the carpet! "Stand still, for your life!" came Smith's voice, high pitched. A beam of white light leaped out across the room and played fully upon the coffee table in the center. Prepared as I was for something horrible, I know that I paled at sight of the thing that was running round the edge of the envelope. It was an insect, full six inches long, and of a vivid, venomous red color! It had something of the appearance of a great ant, with its long, quivering antennae and its febrile, horrible vitality; but it was proportionately longer of body and smaller of head, and had numberless rapidly moving legs. In short, it was a giant centipede, apparently of the Scolopendra group, but of a form quite new to me. These things I realized in one breathless instant; in the next—Smith had dashed the thing's poisonous life out with one straight, true blow of the golf club! I leaped to the window and threw it widely open, feeling a silk thread brush my hand as I did so. A black shape was dropping with incredible agility from branch to branch of the ivy, and without once offering a mark for a revolver shot, it merged into the shadows beneath, the trees of the garden. As I turned and switched on the light Nayland Smith dropped limply into a chair, leaning his head upon his hands. Even that grim courage had been tried sorely. "Never mind the dacoit, Petrie," he said. "Nemesis will know where to find him. We know now what causes the mark of the Zayat Kiss. Therefore science is richer for our first brush with the enemy, and the enemy is poorer-—unless he has any more unclassified centipedes. I understand now something that has been puzzling me since I heard of it—Sir Crichton's stifled cry. When we remember that he was almost past speech, it is reasonable to suppose that his cry was not "The red hand!' but 'The red ant!' Petrie, to think that I failed by less than an hour to save him from such an end!"(End Chapter 3)
The body of a lascar, dressed in the manner usual on the P.& 0. boats, was recovered from the Thames off Tilbury by the river police at 6 a.m. this morning. It is supposed that the man met with an accident in leaving his ship.
Nayland Smith passed me the evening paper and pointed to the above paragraph. "For 'lascar' read 'dacoit,'" he said. "Our last night's visitor, fortunately for us, failed to follow his instructions. Also, he lost the centipede and left a clue behind him. Dr. Fu-Manchu does not overlook such lapses."

What Ball Players do After Dark

This time its:"What Ball Players do After Dark"By Christopher Tompkins
EVERY once in a while one of those goofy
sports reporters comes up to me and asks
me what ball players do after the game. It’s
none of their business, and it’s none of yours,
either. But I’m here to tell you what happened to
me and three other players in Chinatown one night.
I’m Mike Carnochan, third baseman of the big
league Aldermen, and Jack McCloskey, Andy
Neighbors and Ned Gabbler are my baseball
buddies. First, though, I want to tell you about
Lucile Hogan, the girl I wanted to sign up with me
in the old Matrimonial League. She kept stalling
me along.
“I—I might, Mike,” she would confess kind of
dubiously when I pressed her for an answer. “But I
guess I’ve got my share of Irish romance. I’d want
the man I married to be somebody, do something to
make him love me. He would have to be a hero.”
“Easy, kid,” I came right back at her, my face as
bright as soap and inspiration could make it. “Did
you hear about the time in the last World’s Series
when I bunted with the bases full and caught their
infield flat-footed?”
“Baseball’s just play.” She sort of clasped her
hands and looked up at a crack in the ceiling of the
Hogan flat. “I mean something big, something
serious. You’d have to face death with a smile of
contempt on your lips, drag me from a burning
building, catch me falling from an airplane. It
would be grand, Mike!”
That sort of slowed up the best third sacker in
the league, but I wouldn’t let her see it and turned it
into a joke.
“I’ll bet, Lucile, that if you ever are in peril, I’ll
be in St. Louis, playing a doubleheader!”
I know now that I ought to have grabbed her
roughly to my manly breast in a big caveman
scene—the romantic type of female is crazy about
that sort of stuff—but I was scared she would slap
my face. She was very sweet, and sorry about the
whole business, and I fell for her line like a sap.
UNLUCKY in love—the same in baseball, I
found. The Aldermen were having their
troubles getting started. They say the breaks always
follow a champion, but we were discovering that

bromide was pretty hard to swallow without
making a face. The champs did about everything
wrong. They could make four hits in an inning and
still not score a run. Perhaps it was dumb baseball.
Anyway, it began to get under our hide. Our
manager became as sore as a catching thumb.
“Scatter, boys,” he instructed, “and when you’ve
found this jinx, beat it to death with your clubs. I
want its pelt.” Lew Brady was Irish the same as me
and believed in the banshees that sit in the
bleachers. Only with the Aldermen it was a crosseyed
Chinaman.
That evening I called on Ah Fung for my
week’s wash, and we got to fanning about baseball,
the Chink in his pidgin English and me in my pure
American slang. Being kindred souls we got along
pretty well. Then, suddenly, I noticed he wasn’t
looking at me directly. He was cross-eyed. And
when he confessed that he was an Aldermen rooter
and came out to our home games without a miss, I
knew I’d run the hoodoo to earth.
Next day at the batting nets I told the boys about
my discovery. I’d already told the club secretary
and Manager Lew Brady, and the Chink had been
stopped at the turnstiles.
“Who ever heard of a Chinese fan anyway?” I
demanded. “He’s the cause of all our drives going
straight at the fielders. If you’ve noticed, we don’t
have such bad luck when we’re on the road. That’s
because Ah Fung sees just our home games. But
he’s never going to see another, not if I have to
stand at the gate and hack off his head as he tries to
enter the park!”
“How did you happen to get the lowdown on
him, anyway, Mike?” inquired Gabbler flippantly.
“I didn’t know you belonged to any of those
tongs.”
The club secretary reported that when Ah Fung
showed up with his Melican dollar and was denied
admission, he set up an awful jabber. But that
afternoon the score was 9 to 3 in our favor, and
everything we hit fell safe. I had the right dope all
right.
It was the next afternoon, when McCloskey
came up to me in the dressing room, grinning like
somebody had slit him from ear to ear with a
butcher knife.
“Seen the afternoon editions, Mike?” he
whispered mysteriously.
“Full of second guessing by the scribes, I
suppose,” says I, the cynic.
“Mike,” he went rambling, “you don’t
understand Chink nature like I do. Or you wouldn’t
joke about this. Do you happen to know that a mob
of indignant fans paid a flying visit to Ah Fung last
night and wrecked his laundry.”
“What was the idea, Jack?” I asked foolishly,
because I knew all the time.
“One of those smart feature writers got hold of
your story about Ah Fung being our cross-eyed
jinx. The crazy fans—and you know they’re dips in
this hick village—blamed him for our losing streak
and just decided to beat him up, run him out of
business. The papers were kidding, of course. But
you can’t kid an Aldermen rooter and get away
with it.”
WHAT does Ah Fung say; want the club to
pay for the damage?”
“Not exactly. He’s taken an oath on the tomb of
his ancestors to bury a hatchet in your skull. Of
course you shouldn’t be held responsible for the
actions of a gang of hoodlums. But he’s taken the
oath and won’t forget it for a million years. Chinks
are like elephants. By that time you’ll be dead
anyway, Mike,” optimistically.
I didn’t scare much, and that evening I took a
stroll into Chinatown—I was brought up in the
nearby neighborhood and so was Lucile—to look
over the wreck. The plate glass window had been
boarded up where it was broken. Half the door
hung loose on its hinges. Inside a light flickered
palely. I guess customers’ collars and shirts had
been ripped to ribbons.
On the corner I passed a loitering group of
Chinks, their hands hidden in their baggy silk
sleeves to the elbow. Their little eyes stared at me
obliquely as I passed, and I thought I saw hate in
their inscrutable depths.
“Where’s Ah Fung,” I boldly questioned,
thinking I might do something for the poor devil.
“Allee samee payee for damlage.” Nobody
answered.
I didn’t care particularly about being
tomahawked, and before I left the quarter I set a
spy upon my enemy. This was Poppy Sam, a
gangling snifer who had been our rubber before he
took to the snow diet. I slipped a bill into his
twitching, clutching fingers that were continually
fumbling at his mouth.
“That’s for watching Ah Fung,” I said. “If any
Chink secret society aims to prong me in my sleep
with a jeweled dagger, I’d like to know about it
beforehand so I’ll stay awake.”
Poppy knew better than to be seen there fanning
with me, and he disappeared like a shadow. About
as fast as my Christian legs would propel me I got
out of Chinatown. The place gave me the creeps. I
would hear the rustle of silk behind me, but when I
whirled around there would be nobody in sight but
a bobbing storekeeper who wanted me to look at
his jade.
Who should I stumble across but Lucile Hogan,
out for an airing. It gave me a twinge to meet that
doll.
“You’ve been avoiding me lately, Mike,” she
accused me openly. “What have I done that you
won’t notice your old friends any more?”
“I’m happier if I don’t see you,” I retorted, still
sore at that hero worship nonsense that was keeping
us from happiness.
“And you want me to pin a medal on you for
heroism for stopping this once?” she mocked
without batting an eye. But I guess skirts like being
cruel like that.
GOT pretty stiff action for my dollar the very
next day at the ball game. Poppy Sam was back
of our dugout, signaling he wanted to see me. I
beckoned him down to an empty field box between
innings. Poppy wiped those jerky fingers weakly
across his mouth.
“Boss,” he jerked forth from slack lips, “they
got her.”
“Who got who, Sam? Steady!”
“Ah Fung’s tong have your girl, Lucile Hogan,”
he said. “Fung saw you keeping company with her
last night, the same as I seen you. The old serpent’s
striking at you through the jane, Mike.”
“Where—where is she now, Sam?” I demanded,
a bit thick in my speech.
Poppy Sam grew sullen.
“Quit pinching my arm, can’t you?” he whined,
tugging to break my convulsive grip. “Leave me
tell it in my own way. I was spying around
Nicholson Street when she went past, flushed like,
and smiling to herself. I seen her turn in at the
Mandarin restaurant for rice cakes. I hid in a
doorway until she come out. Below me I heard a
door squeak open at the foot of some steps leading
down. In Chinee town, boss, most everything leads
down.”
“Yes, yes!” I cried sharply, clammy with icy
dread. “But never mind that now, Sam. Lucile—
what happened to Lucile? Where is she, man?”
“Mike, I swear I seen a long yellow arm reach
clear up to the sidewalk,” Poppy Sam resumed,
gulping and shivering convulsively for lack of his
dope. “The skinny arm held a little Chink baby. It
dropped it at the head of the stairs—the decoy. The
baby’s cry would reach Lucile Hogan’s heart like.
She would stoop down to comfort it—and—and—
Mike, I done my best to warn her off by signs. But
she was too busy picking up the little stool pigeon
and mothering it.
“The next minute I covered my eyes with my
hands. Ah Fung’s tong had her.”
The crowd was up and roaring at the winning
three-base hit from Sid Nesbit’s bat, but all I could
bear was Poppy Sam’s sibilant voice, whispering in
my ear. “I heard her scream once. But when I
looked she was gone. Ah Gawd!”
Poppy Sam jerked the rest of it out, while I tried
not to crack up myself.
“Soon as I quieted I came right out here, boss,
to see what you wanted to do. I could take you to
the very place where she was kidnapped. I marked
the railing with chalk so I’d know it again.”
I told him to wait for me after the game in a taxi
at the players’ entrance, where I would meet him
with some friends.
Those last innings were a nightmare. Feverishly
I ran down McCloskey, Neighbors and Gabbler,
and I was so incoherent it must have taken me half
an hour to spill the story. There was no time for a
shower, and I dressed with the dirt on me.
“We could call in the police department,” I
chattered in conclusion. “But the bulls wouldn’t let
me rough-house Mr. Ah Fung right. They would
want to rubber hose him themselves. And he’s my
meat, boys.”
They agreed with me, and before we left we
armed ourselves with some sawed-off old bats, a
handy, silent weapon that we hid under our
raincoats, the day being showery. Poppy Sam was
flattened up against the fence, and we hustled him
into our taxi. Not much was said on the ride
downtown. I was busy thinking of Lucile, and my
buddies were thinking of their sisters.
AT Nicholson Street we foamed out of the cab.
The railing where the trap had been sprung
was in plain sight under Sam’s shakingly pointing
finger. The whole Chinese population of the city

seemed to be pattering noiselessly past on their felt
soles. I was for rushing the joint and taking a
potshot at every shaved skull. I didn’t even think it
would be funny to pull off pigtails.
“Let’s go!” said the equally impatient Gabbler.
Ned couldn’t even wait for a base on balls on the
ball field.
But Poppy Sam was brimming with secret
knowledge that made frontal attack inadvisable.
“That ain’t the way to beat a Chink, boss,” Sam
said. “This door leads to Foy Yang’s hop house.
But it’s just his getaway in case the cops batter
down his doors. The entrance is on the next street.
If you go prancing in the wrong door, Ah Fung and
his mob will fade like joss smoke. All you’ll find
will be empty rooms, recently occupied, and—
maybe a torn bit of your girl’s dress.”
McCloskey and Neighbors each grabbed me by
an arm. I fought like a bull, but in the end I listened
to reason, and we went deploying around into
Benedict Street. No good in tipping our signals.
Poppy’s plan was to pose as a party of sightseers he
was guiding.
“But what about Ah Fung?” I objected. “He’ll
recognize us, me anyway.”
Poppy Sam explained that Foy Yang’s outer
room was just fixed up for gullible visitors. A few
props lay around in messy bunks, faking opium
stupor. Nobody would bother us. We would have to
fight our way behind a red curtain if we wanted to
reach Lucile. Besides Ah Fung wouldn’t have any
objection to our entering his web. He would object
to letting us out
Tonight I was going behind that red curtain, and
all China’s billions couldn’t stop my tearing it from
its fastenings. I’m built close to the carpet and I
kept out of sight behind the others, just in case we
stumbled upon Ah Fung snooping around. Foy
Yang had rigged up his show place with tables and
tall paper screens.
Yang himself came meekly forward. Poppy Sam
winked, pointed to us, sucked in his cheeks and
rolled his eyes dreamily. The Chink proprietor
bobbed and beamed, nodding until the little button
danced.
“Melican ball players,” he startled us by saying
brightly, and was hugely pleased with himself.
It was too late to quit now. Foy Yang left as
noiselessly as a cat and just about as trustworthy. It
was Poppy who led us through a maze of cleverly
placed screens, and the next minute we were
among the smokers. On a richly lacquered low
table a lamp burned sluggishly with a sickening
smell. The rest of the room was sordid, with its
sprawling, property figures.
A stunted girl, no bigger than a wax doll,
offered me a pipe.
“No smokee,” I said shortly, staring around until
I spotted the red curtain. “Whach um.”
POPPY SAM was watching me furtively. At the
first blow I realized he would scuttle for
safety. The soft, tiny pills had made a quaking
coward of him. The sweet smell was oozing into
my own brain, and I was all for quick action. The
red curtain was across the room, really dividing one
big room in half. As I looked, it swayed as if
brushed by unseen bodies. I thought I heard a groan
that ended in a faraway, gurgling sob of sound. The
curtain was motionless.
I knew my Aldermen, good blokes on a ball
field and good at a rough and tumble against any
odds. I remembered things about them—Ned
Gabbler thrashing six cops in Chicago and yanking
the helmet of the seventh down over his ears,
McCloskey going joyously into the stands after a
gang who were riding him when he knew they were
desperate gunmen, Neighbors battling his way to
our dressing room through an angry team, waiting
with bats.
Impetuously I started forward, my fingernails
biting savagely into the bat handle under my coat. I
heard my volunteers forming in my rear, solidly.
But before I had advanced a step, there was Foy
Yang coming right up out of the floor and blocking
progress.
“No go there, if you please,” he lisped, all
smirking apology. “Plivate office.”
I made a grab for his pigtail and nearly hauled it
out by the roots. The mask was off when he
screeched an imprecation and made a pass at me
with a glittering knife he flashed from his sleeve.
The patter of feet sounded; yellow, jaundiced faces
closed in evilly from all sides. More long slender
dirks gleamed evilly in the flare from the lanterns
and hatchets, too. Those quiet sleepers in the bunks
rose like the dead on Judgment Day.
“Aldermen this way!” I bellowed, wading into
the thick of that ghostly, rustling swarm. “Down
with that curtain, fellers! Let’s get a look at what’s
behind it!”
My bully boys came wading, good old Ned

Gabbler joyously in the van, eager to crack skulls
now that the kill was within sight. The whole
flimsy curtain came fluttering down on top of us at
the first jerk, winding treacherously around our
arms, so that we couldn’t swing our short and
deadly weapons. The yellow hirelings of Foy Yang
darted in to finish the white invaders with knife and
hatchet.
Yet somehow I tore free, and let the nearest
skull have it—crack. It sounded like ice, frozen too
tight, splitting wide-open. I hit again, and this time
it was like a ripe watermelon under my bat. I saw a
Chink go for McCloskey, his hatchet hand
swinging like one of the side-wheelers in our
league. My bat, red and sticky, broke his knuckles.
Other bats were sounding. I guess we all hit
1.000 for the next few minutes. We fought through
the doorway from which we had torn the red
curtain, Every light went out suddenly.
“Lucile!” I yelled into the dark beyond. “It’s
Mike—friends.”
HE attack had faded away into the
underground warrens of Chinatown.
McCloskey, Neighbors and Gabbler clustered
around me, listening. But all any of us heard was
the echo of my voice. We knew too well we
weren’t alone. Whispers, gutturals—then a white
girl’s piercing scream!
“Mike, Mike! They’re choking me! O—o—o—
oh! Ah!”
That strangling cry made a crazy man of me,
and I dashed forward blindly. I was flung violently
off my balance. The other Aldermen were in no
better plight. We all piled up on the floor, clawing,
swearing, bewildered. Those wily Chinks had
circled around us, winding our legs in a long sash
that was the curtain, and tripping us wholesale.
Again we had a battle on our hands. My clothes
ripped, and I realized I’d escaped a death wound by
inches. I floundered to my feet, swaying and dizzy.
“Lucile!” I muttered huskily. “I’m still here,
Lucile—on my feet!”
Something soft, silky, was flung over my head,
stifling speech, halting breathing—a Chinaman’s
lousy blouse. I clawed at it, slit it and stuck my
head out through the hole.
Off in a corner Neighbors was still making
heathen heads ring. McCloskey’s batting average
wasn’t falling off any, and Gabbler hit nothing but
triples in the clutch.
It was every man for himself now. We were
waging separate warfare in the gloom. The
cutthroats were on their own grounds and would go
to bat last. I couldn’t see a sign of Poppy Sam;
probably legging it along Nicholson Street by now,
ghosts at his elbow. Either that, or hiding in one of
the bunks. But I did him an injustice.
I lurched in the direction in which I had last
heard Lucile’s agonized cry for help, and made
pretty bad weather of it. All the while, I had to keep
telling myself I was an American, and worth
twenty of these highbinders and hatchet men, to
keep from fainting. I wouldn’t say uncle.
My lolling head thumped against a wall, and I
crept along that support gratefully. Our hosts had
evidently mislaid me temporarily in the press of
other business. Suddenly the wall wasn’t there any
more, and I fell a-sprawl into another room. It was
an inner chamber, full of burning incense, divans,
screens—old Foy Yang’s private boudoir.
And then I could have blubbered for joy. There
was something I had been missing; something
vague, something that troubled me and made me
frown to remember. And suddenly I knew what it
was—Ah Fung, the instigator of the abduction of
my girl. I remembered, because I saw him,
struggling with the girl herself.
They had dressed Lucile in a green silk kimono.
She was frightened but biting and scratching like a
she-cat.
I let go of my baseball bat and went for my
laundryman with my naked hands. He saw me
coming, and let Lucile slide to the floor, reaching
up in his sleeve in what I had come to believe was
the national gesture of China. But I gave him no
chance to get set. I was on him before he could
draw and was pounding him, battering his soft,
ugly face into a shapeless mass of yellow pulp
streaked with red.
“Mike,” Lucile was wailing on the floor, hiding
her face, “I want to go home! Take me away from
here.”
The last blow I had in my system I used to
knock Ah Fung as cold as a herring, and staggered
to her side. Together we groveled there on the floor
of that hop house, my arms so weak they could
only fumble her, but her heart fluttered close to my
ribs, and I guess we were happy. Behind us I heard
a sudden clapping of hands—Ah Fung signaling for
help, the whole place spewed up with Chinks.
T
HERE wasn’t much resistance I could offer.
My baseball bat was gone, and I was so
weakened anyway, about all I could have done with
it would have been to hold it up in front of my face,
and try and keep them carving their initials on its
hardwood. I pawed at them, muttering my defiance
and love for Lucile. But they soon had me on my
haunches. The glint of their long daggers hurt my
eyes. Mistily, I realized that Lucile Hogan had
crept close to me to die, too.
Above me towered a giant in a blue blouse who
reached down to grip me by the collar to steady me
for the blow. His knife came slashing downward,
seeming to burst at my windpipe, I closed my
eyes—and that was the last I knew for hours. I
awoke to the clanging of the gong.
I was stretched on the floor of an ambulance.
On the rear cross seat was Lucile, chatting merrily
with the interne. Beyond I saw a parade of the
Chinese army, white turbaned, being marched into
the police vans. The dragnet had made a rich haul
of yellow gangsters. I attempted to sit up.
“What—what’s happened?” I gasped. “You all
right, girl? And where’s—where’s Jack and Andy
and Ned? The last thing I knew—I—I was being
knifed by a big bloke—” But the effort was too
much. I couldn’t go on with the difficult job of
talking.
“Everybody was saved,” said Miss Hogan, fresh
as any daisy. “That blue blouse you saw belonged
to a cop, Mike. I guess you mistook his department
badge for a knife, it gleamed so in that funny light.
A precious boy named Poppy Sam gave the alarm.”
I didn’t feel much like a hero, but Lucile kept
insisting that I was—just the dearest hero in all the
world, and it’s an easy thing to believe about
yourself. We were married as soon as my head
stopped spinning, and I could get Brady to give me
a morning off from morning practice. But first
there was a little scene at the hospital.
The three of us, the interne, Lucile and I, drove
up in grand style, bell clanging. At the door the
reporters were waiting for us. Some of the papers
had sent out their sports men on the story, because
of four members of the World’s Champions being
more or less involved in the fracas. I recognized
one of the most persistent of the pests.
“Hello, Ike,” I said as I hobbled up the steps.
“I’ve got that yarn for you about what ball players
do after they leave the ball park.
“I go to Chinatown!”
I was back in the dugout in a week and back in
the game in three more days. The Aldermen had
come out of the adventure with tons of publicity,
and we played to jammed stands even on weekdays
for a while. But there was one absentee—Ah Fung,
the cross-eyed laundryman. It would be a long
while before his pigtail would grow out in the big
house.
I guess I wasn’t wrong about him originally
when I spotted him as the jinx that was losing the
pennant for us. Since he quit putting the evil eye on
us, the Aldermen have resumed their old habits of
winning ball games. It looks like another big series
split for us, and I’m going to blow my share on a
honeymoon.