The Blonde in Lower Six

I sighed and got my feet in under me. The time was at hand. It was possible that Bob Garret, whose eyes never left me, correctly interpreted my preparation for flight — for to stay and fight that crowd was madness. He jerked suddenly upright; perhaps gave a prearranged signal.

The three gunmen got into action first, one of them drew an ugly automatic. The other two had blackjacks. Over at the other table Bob Garret was hurriedly thrusting his pudgy hand beneath his coat. One of the plug-uglies grasped a chair.

It was Bob Garret that I watched. He alone knew how much I knew, how much he had told me. He would see to it that I never left the room alive. No sudden turn of fortune’s wheel could divert his mind from the main issue. I knew too much for him to allow me to live. He was too far away to enable me to come to close quarters before he could get his gun into action, yet near enough to be sure of his not missing.

Then suddenly, without a sound, came darkness, total darkness which seemed almost tangible in its velvety thickness.

“This way,” came a soft voice; and I sprang from the table, seeking the way I had determined upon.

I avoided both the front and the back entrances. I knew of a secret passageway which led out of one of the windows, on to a roof, to a hidden door, down a corridor and out through an adjoining store into one end of an alley.

A man got between me and my goal. I felt the quick intake of breath as a hand raised back, sensed rather than saw the poised knife, lurched forward with all my weight back of my fist, and hit a glancing blow on the man’s cheek. I could feel him reel sideways and backward under the blow.

From somewhere below came the shrill scream of a police whistle, and the cool night air struck my face as I leaned out of the window, rested my feet on the concealed support which had been cleated to the sheer side of the house, dropped to a roof below, ran along a little runway, through a door, down a narrow passageway and into a dark corridor.

I opened a door which led into the storeroom through which I had planned my exit, and, in the dim light, noticed a human form standing very erect at one side of the passageway. The events of the past few minutes had made me prone to act first and question afterward, and I braced my shoulder for a quick punch.

“Soo Hoo Duck wishes you good fortune in your quest,” came from the half darkness in the Cantonese dialect. “Water which has been dammed and then breaks through the obstruction carries all before it — but it must rush with great speed.”

So he knew then — this wily old Chink, knew that Yee Dooey Wah had been Ed Jenkins, knew that I had a mastery of the Cantonese dialect, and, apparently, knew something of the mission upon which I was embarking... also he had known that I was familiar with the secret passageway and surmised that I would be departing by that route.

Perhaps he was a friend, as he said. Perhaps he was a wily enemy, masking behind his apparent friendship a desire to place me in the hands of my enemies. At any rate I was not going to stop and argue the matter with him, any more than I was going to waste time returning his offers of good will. I swept past him like a limited train sweeping past a hobo.

“The alley exit is open and unwatched,” I heard him say as I dashed through the back of the store and into another corridor.

I had expected there would be a hue and cry behind me in the store, that the Chinese would raise a commotion, put the police on my track, give the gunmen a chance to learn which way I had taken in making my escape; but they looked at me with beady-eyed impassivity, and went on with their unhurried tasks. Perhaps they had been instructed to expect me, to keep silent as I went through the store. Perhaps I was walking out of one trap and into another.

I had no chance to change my plans. It was the alley exit or the street, and to have emerged upon the lighted street would have been to offer myself as a gratuitous target for the men of the underworld, as a certain captive to the police. And the end would have been the same in either event. I was supposed to either join forces with the underworld on a fifty-fifty split with the police, or to become a corpse. There was no room in their plans for anything different. If I didn’t join them they intended to blackmail Helen Chadwick, and they knew that they would never be safe in doing so as long as I was alive.

I hit the darkness of the alley, thought for a moment it was deserted, and then saw that a roadster was parked directly across from the door through which I had emerged.

Another door opened. I heard the soft sibilants of a Chinaman’s voice dropped to a cautious whisper:

“Takee car; send um back some day.”

I sprinted through the gloom, vaulted into the seat, groped for the ignition switch, and found the keys in the lock.