Clane smiled affably. Freed of Stevens’s gripping fingers, he started down the corridor, pausing only long enough to say, “Once a sucker, always a sucker. Think it over, Fred.”
“You go see Marker,” Stevens repeated doggedly, stepped back into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Clane walked swiftly down the corridor, down the stairs and out into the foggy evening. He walked briskly to the boulevard, waved to a cruising cab, drove back to the corner across from the lodging-house and said to the cab driver, “Go over there against the curb and wait. Turn your lights off, but keep your motor running. Keep watching me. When I raise my right hand, swing round and pick me up. I’ll have a following job for you, and I want to be sure I have a cab ready.”
“Okay, buddy,” the driver told him, folding the two one-dollar bills Terry handed him, “I’ll be on the job.”
Terry went back to the corner and waited for the space of three cigarettes, at the end of which time he was rewarded by seeing the door of the lodging-house disgorge two figures. His head still clamped by the leather-padded brace, the emaciated form of Bill Shield hobbled along with such adept use of crutches and legs that Fred Stevens, who was walking with the light, quick stride of a trained athlete, was hard-put to keep up.
They had crossed the road, and Terry was about to signal his cab, when some whimsy of fate caused Stevens to turn his eyes towards the waiting taxi. He said something to the man at his side, placed fingers to his lips, and whistled. When the cab driver ignored the signal, Stevens ran lightly across the road and down the side street. Clane stepped apprehensively back into the shadows. He heard the mutter of low-voiced conversation between Stevens and the cab driver, then Stevens ran back across the road to confer with Shield in low, excited tones. Suddenly they both turned and retraced their steps to the lodging-house, the pound of Shield’s crutches bearing witness to the haste of their retreat.
When the door of the house had closed behind them, Terry crossed over to the cab driver.
“What happened?” he asked.
“The guy wanted to hire me, and I told him I couldn’t take him no place because I was engaged. He wanted to know what sort of a stall that was, and what had I been hired for, sitting here with my motor running, and I told him that was my business and not his. So then he asked me if the guy I was working for was a young, well-knit chap, dressed in a grey suit... In fact, he went on and described you to a T.”
“What did you tell him?” Terry asked.
“I told him Naw, that I was working for an old dame with glasses, but I don’t think it did no good. He looked at me like he wanted to bust me, and then he beat it back across the street and he and the crippled guy hobbled back to that lodging-house.”
“I know,” Terry said, “I was just watching them.” He opened the door, climbed into the car and gave the driver the address of his apartment house.
“You don’t want me to do that shadowing job?” the driver asked.
Terry shook his head. The merest whimsy of fate had served to alarm his quarry, sending them back into hiding, from which they would emerge only after adequate reconnaissance.
Terry had, however, sowed the seeds of discontent among the conspirators, seeds which he knew would sooner or later sprout in the soil of mutual suspicion, to bear fruit in the shape of action. It remained to be seen whether he could manage to capitalize upon such action, in the brief time which was at his disposal.
“No,” he told the cab driver, “we’ll forget the shadowing.”
7
Terry Clane noticed with satisfaction that the light delivery van was no longer parked at the curb in front of his apartment. He found Sou Ha waiting for him in the lobby.
“Been here long?” he asked cautiously.
“Not too long. Why?”
“There were some detectives watching the place,” he said solicitously.
Her laugh was light-hearted. “Oh,” she said, “you mean the van which was parked at the curb? I waited across the street until it drove away.”
“How did you know they were detectives?” he asked.
“I didn’t, but I saw the paneled delivery van with no signs painted on the sides, and the licence plates weren’t those of a dealer, so I thought it would be best to wait. You see, Oh First Born, I come of a cautious race.”
And she laughed again.
“Yat T’oy back?” he asked.
“No one answered my ring. Where did he go?”
“A man stepped from the delivery van and took Yat T’oy with him.”
She said, “He’ll soon be back.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Getting information from Yat T’oy is like trying to squeeze water from a dry sponge,” she said.
Terry entered the elevator with her, took her to his apartment, opened the door, switched on the lights and realized almost at once that the place had been thoroughly ransacked. Not that they had been crude about it, but there were little things which Terry saw at once — the stone lions of Peiping had been shifted in their positions on the mantel; the huge bronze incense burner showing the three sacred Chinese symbols had been turned so that the dragon faced to the north.
Terry gave Sou Ha no sign of what he had seen, but indicated a seat for her and said, “Which will you be — Chinese or American?”
She raised delicately arched eyebrows.
“In other words,” he said, “shall I bring you melon seeds and tea, or Scotch and soda?”
“I’ll be Chinese,” she told him, “and since the Little One is not here I’ll make the tea.”
Together, they entered the kitchenette. Clane produced a package of Loong Soo Cha, the “Dragon-Tongue” tea of China. Gravely, he removed the cover, disclosing individually rolled unbroken tea leaves tied with silken thread into cigar-shaped bundles.
Terry placed water on the stove, and with the sharp blade of his knife cut the silken cords which held one of the packages together. Sou Ha carefully selected the number of leaves she wished to use. Clane filled two small saucers with dried melon seeds. He fitted Chinese cups into the holes of circular-shaped saucers. When the tea had been made, they returned to the living-room.
Sou Ha nibbled at the melon seeds with the skill of a canary. In between nibbles, she sipped at the clear, golden fluid. She said nothing.
Terry Clane matched her silence. He had, after a fashion, learned the Chinese language, but no white man can ever quite master the art of eating dried melon seeds, which must be held edgewise between thumb and forefinger, and cracked by a gentle pressure of the teeth. When the edges have been sprung just far enough apart, the tip of the tongue delicately extracts the meat. The slightest moisture upon the fingertips causes the dried seed to become as elusive as a wet eel. Too much or too little pressure upon the edges is likewise fatal.
Sou Ha watched him with appraising eyes.
“Excellent!” she said, finally breaking the silence.
Clane bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment, sipped his tea.
“You’ve not asked me why I came,” she reminded him.
He answered her in Cantonese, saying, “One does not question the reason for the rising sun, but is content to bask in the warmth of its rays.”
Abruptly, she pushed away the saucer of melon seeds, crossed her knees and said, “Let’s forget the Chinese stuff. It’s too tedious. I should have had a highball and been American.”
“It isn’t too late,” he remarked.
“No. The tea has been refreshing. But let’s quit beating around the bush.”
“Have we been beating around the bush?”
“You know we have.”