Читать книгу The Bradys and the Opium Dens; or Trapping the Crooks of Chinatown - Francis Worcester Doughty - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Old King Brady left the hotel.

On the street he hailed a cab.

“Drive me to No. — Fourteenth street,” he commanded. The cabby whipped up his horse.

Down Broadway dashed the hansom and turned into Fourteenth street.

Before the entrance of one of the large dry-goods stores Old King Brady alighted.

He glanced about warily, and as he did so a well-built man with a blonde beard made him a scarcely perceptible signal.

The old detective walked around the corner into Sixth avenue.

Two blocks below the man with the blonde beard overtook him.

“Well, partner, what is up?” he asked as he came alongside.

“There is hot work ahead for us, Harry Brady,” said the old detective.

Young King Brady, for he it was, gave a start.

“Do you mean it?” he exclaimed. “Something a little more exciting than tracking shoplifters?”

“Indeed yes.”

“What is it?”

“You have read in the newspapers of the mysterious disappearance of Jonathan Small from Bushville?”

“One of the country bumpkins who always give the police so much trouble righting their wrongs?”

“No, a man of standing and wealth, who, I fear, has been led astray.”

Young King Brady looked surprised.

“By what method?”

“Read that.”

Old King Brady handed him the letter. Harry read it slowly.

“A decoy!” he said.

“Well, yes, in one sense.”

“What does it all mean?”

“Don’t you see?”

“No; I don’t understand that reference to delirious delight. Oh, I see!”

The young detective caught the inspiration in an instant. He looked straight in the old detective’s eyes and spoke one word:

“Opium!”

Old King Brady nodded.

“There you are,” he said.

The two detectives were silent for a time. Then Young King Brady said:

“It is a good time to take a trip through those opium dens.”

“It is in our way to do so now,” said Old King Brady.

“Then we are to go to work on this case?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. I am ready.”

“There is one difficulty. We are absolutely without a clew beyond this letter.”

“The letter establishes much.”

“Yes, but not the identity of the sender.”

Old King Brady studied the epistle. Then he said:

“Deduction is in order now. Let us begin at the bottom.”

“Yes,” agreed Harry.

“In the first place, Mr. Jonathan Small of Bushville comes down to New York.”

“Yes.”

“He goes to the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

“Just so.”

“While at that hostelry we will assume that he falls in with some new acquaintance.”

“Exactly.”

“Of course it is possible that he met the acquaintance outside the hotel, or he may have known him long, and he may have come to New York for the purpose of seeing him.”

“Just so,” agreed Harry.

“In any event, there is a friend or acquaintance in the case. We will assume that the acquaintance is an opium fiend.”

“Yes.”

“Now he has made an appointment with Mr. Small at an opium den. This letter proves that. They are to meet there.”

“That looks plausible.”

“It shows that Mr. Small has had experience with opium before. The tone of the letter also shows that he was going 4 to keep the appointment for the purpose of hitting the pipe.”

“Which is very plain.”

“Now we have two questions to settle: Who was the acquaintance and where is the den?”

“Just so.”

“It may be one of dozens in the part of New York known as Chinatown.”

“It can hardly be elsewhere.”

“No. Now we have these reasonable conclusions. Now, I have one more assumption.”

Young King Brady had made a note of all this.

He looked up inquiringly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The writer of this note is a foreigner. The chirography shows the German school. Yet he may be French, or even Italian. He is certainly a foreigner.”

“In that event,” said Harry, “he will be easier to trace.”

“Yes,” said Old King Brady, reflectively. “Let us go back to the hotel.”

Harry was surprised.

“What for?” he asked.

“I will tell you when we get there.”

Back to the Fifth Avenue Hotel went the two detectives. Once more Old King Brady asked the clerk for the register.

He carefully scanned the list of arrivals of that day.

He then looked over those of the day before.

This resulted in a discovery. On the page of the register he found a name which attracted his attention.

Thus it read:

“COUNT PAOLO BARETTI,

“Milan, Italy.”

“Ah!” said the old detective in a low tone. “He is an Italian.”

Harry looked surprised.

“How are you so sure of him?” he asked.

“Why not? He is the only foreigner entered on this register within the space of time Small was here.”

Then he caught the ear of the clerk.

“Do you recall the appearance of the man who signed this name?” asked Old King Brady.

“Indeed, yes,” agreed the clerk. “Count Baretti. Tall and dark, with a long mustache and pointed whiskers.”

“Did he appear to be a man of means?”

“Well, perhaps so. Yet I recall a certain shabbiness in his dress.”

“He is not here now?”

“No; as you see, he went away on the twenty-fifth. He was only here two days.”

“Can you tell me if in that time he was at all in the company of Mr. Small of Bushville?”

“Small!” repeated the clerk. “Ah! now I recall. The country merchant and the Italian count were much together. Yes, I saw them several times in each other’s society.”

“You don’t know where Count Baretti went?”

“No,” replied the clerk. “He brought no trunk, only a steamer case.”

The detectives walked out of the hotel well satisfied.

Step by step they saw the case unfolding before them.

The haze was lifting very rapidly and very effectually.

But the question now was, where had Small gone?

Where was the opium den into which he had been lured, and where the detectives now expected to find him?

The Bradys could see only one plan, and this was to at once pay a visit to the dens of Chinatown.

In some one of them they might find the man they sought.

He might be even now under the influence of the powerful drug, and perhaps personally unwilling to leave the den.

It did not take the detectives long to act.

They instantly boarded a down-town car for Chinatown. They alighted in the lower Bowery and made their way to Pell street.

They had shrewdly donned a clever disguise which it was hard to penetrate. They were good examples of countrymen looking for a good time.

They walked into Mott street and paused before the door of a laundry. On the door was emblazoned the name:

“CHINN LING.

“Chinese Laundry.”

Old King Brady opened the door and walked in.

Harry followed. The two detectives were instantly the keen objects of scrutiny on the part of a couple of Mongolians who were ejecting spray from their mouths upon the linen they were ironing.

“Ah! muchee wellycome, Melican man,” said one of them with a smile. “Washee shirtee allee samee?”

“Naw!” said Old King Brady in a suggestive way. “We don’t want no shirt washed. We want to hit the pipe.”

Chinn Ling came nearer and fixed his slant eyes on the detective.

He shook his head slowly.

“No hittee pipe here,” he said. “Mebbe pleeceman come, lockee up. Slee?”

“Aw, come off!” said Harry. “What do ye take us fer? Don’t you see we’re onto our job?”

Chinn Ling looked critically at the two visitors.

Then he spoke in Chinese to his companions. The result was speedy.

“Allee light,” he said. “Melican man allee light. Come dlis way.”

The detectives followed the Celestials through an inner door. Here stairs led down into darkness.

Chinn Ling made a queer vocal signal. It was answered from below.

Then light flashed up the stairway.

The detectives saw a wicket door below and a yellow face at the wicket.

They descended and the door opened. Sickening fumes came to their nostrils from beyond.

They passed into a little corridor.

Here they purchased pipes and little jars of opium off the Chinese keeper.

Then they made their way to an inner room, low-ceiled and hung with Chinese tapestry.

There were bunks against the sides of the den, and in these lay men and women in a beastly state of stupor.

Some were dreaming in that delirium which sooner or later must end in death.

Others were just about beginning, and one or two were reviving from the intoxicating trance induced by the drug.

The detectives carefully noted the faces of all in the den.

They saw none, however, answering the description of those they sought.

They pretended to indulge in the opium to a slight extent.

But as soon as they dared they made an exit from the place and reached the open air.

“Whew!” exclaimed Harry. “This will be the death of us before we can get through. Only think of the experiences before us.”

“I can see no other way,” said Old King Brady, “unless—ha! do you see that man across the street?”

Both detectives stared at a dark man with pointed mustache and goatee who had just come out of a Chinese house.

“It is Baretti!” said Old King Brady.