“I know what!” she exclaimed. “You and I’ll change costumes. We can get in one of the necking corners and make the change. If you’re in danger you can slip out in my costume and they can arrest me in yours. They won’t hold me long.”
Poor kid. She didn’t know that all three costumes were marked by death! I think Kemper did. He flashed me one of those silent glances of swift interrogation and read the answer in my eyes.
And, at that moment, there was a swirl of figures about the entrance. A woman screamed — a thin, shrill scream. A long, ungainly figure, forehead streaked with blood, arms and legs working with awkward angularity, pressed through the crowd, working his way toward the dais where Paul Boardman sat.
Abe Grue had arrived with his warning.
I stiffened with apprehension. In the swirling crowd I was caught in as close a trap as I had ever experienced. Boardman would doubtless raise an immediate alarm. I had but one consolation. I had arrived in time to warn Helen and Loring Kemper. They would be saved from death. The commotion that would follow, the posting of police guards about the building, the alarm that would go up if I should escape, or the excitement that would be caused by my death, would lessen the menace of those yellow shadows who crouched without.
I started away from them, trying to move casually so Helen would not appreciate the danger. Kemper could be trusted to take care of her. If new costumes were a possibility he would get them.
“Whatever happens, don’t leave the place in those costumes,” I said, trying to make my voice sound casual, and started to elbow my way through the packed mass of humanity.
Immediately I sensed the futility of such a course. People were wedged tightly into a small space. I could work my way slowly through the crowd, but rapid progress was out of the question.
And then a new voice came to my ears.
“Big Boy!” came the soft, liquid tone, “come back!”
I turned swiftly.
A girl attired in glittering Chinese robes, a package under her arm, stood at the side of the red poppy.
Ngat T’oy had followed me!
There was a conventional mask over her face, but her dark eyes glittered with excitement. That was why she had left me with no word of thanks. She and her father realized there remained swift work to be done.
I heaved a sigh of relief and turned, following my little group into one of the dark, palm-protected alcoves.
Ngat T’oy worked with unhurried swiftness, a swiftness that was a marvel of efficiency. The package, ripped open, disclosed three coats of flowing, Chinese silk, coats that were embroidered in writhing dragons, gaudy butterflies, spreading flowers. Each one of the coats was a work of art, and each one was virtually priceless, the genuine handiwork of a race which has never been excelled with the needle. Here were no cheap, machine-made garments for sale to curio dealers. These were genuine, priceless silks.
The whole thing took less than ten seconds. In part the silks slipped on over our other costumes. It needed but a few swift adjustments, a fitting of Chinese box hats, tasselled on the top, glistening with fine silk — and we were out, back in the crowd, a crowd that was already milling with excitement.
And then an excited voice spoke close beside us:
“The clown. He was here a moment ago. They’re looking for him. Where did he go?”
Word had spread. Trusted officers, grim of face, their hands held stiffly at their hips, were circulating through the throng, seeking to locate the clown who had been seen but a minute before. They wanted to get him without a general alarm, and they preferred him dead to alive.
We made our way to the exit.
Paul Boardman, acting the part of a professional politician, pretending to know us with that ready semblance of friendship which is the stock in trade of all politicians, waved his hand affably.
“Have a good time?” he asked, but his hungry eyes were watching the group of officers who were searching purposefully. He did not even notice that we failed to answer his question.
And so we went out into the night, past the yellow shadows who were crouching, waiting; out of the clutches of the searching officers, making good our escape by a matter of split seconds.
Ngat T’oy had a car waiting at the entrance, a high-powered creation of swift speed. The motor was running and a young China lad, his eyes looking straight ahead, crouched over the wheel.
There were tears glistening in Helen Chadwick’s eyes as I helped her in, but Ngat T’oy’s face was as expressionless as a full moon.
“You will come to the house of my father...” she started to say, and I knew she meant business. The Chinese are a race of square shooters. Gratitude with them overshadows all other emotions. Felon that I was, I knew Soo Hoo Duck would shelter me regardless of the risk to himself or to her whom he loved more than himself, his daughter.
My eye caught the eye of a taxi driver, and I was impolite enough to slam the door of the glittering closed car on the middle of Ngat T’oy’s sentence. Hang it, they must understand! I was a criminal, wanted by the police, and I brought danger to my friends.
I sprinted for the cab and jumped inside.
“Away from here. Drive like the devil,” I snapped at the driver.
He was a youngster with youth’s desire for adventure and youth’s disregard of consequences. He slammed the gears in, snapped back his foot, and the car lurched forward.
At the same time Ngat T’oy’s car purred smoothly away. She had realized the truth of what I said, and yet I knew, and she knew that I knew, that her father’s house would always be sanctuary for me, regardless of what it might cost them.
From behind, there came the faint sound of a police whistle. I glanced apprehensively at the cab driver. His attention was concentrated on the job of taking a corner on two wheels and he had not heard it. Bracing myself, I looked back. The hall was debouching police who ran with drawn revolvers to the curb.
They had discovered my escape.
And then the lurch of the car threw me against the cushions. There followed a series of jolts as the machine gathered momentum.
“Where to, boss?” yelled the driver without looking back, his hands wrestling with the steering wheel.
“Anywhere,” I called back, and felt a tug at my heartstrings as I yelled the word.
Once more I was out in the world — alone, a menace to my friends.
I snapped my teeth together.
Very well, I’d show my enemies that I was a menace to them. Mansfield and Boardman would pay for this night’s work; but, in the meantime...
I settled back in the cab cushions, my thoughts leaping ahead, while the driver obeyed instructions, piloting the lurching cab to his conception of anywhere.