CHAPTER IX. THE CHINESE AUCTION
EVENING had arrived, bringing a light drizzle from the Pacific. But neither rain nor fog could dampen the brilliance of San Francisco’s Chinatown. Dave Kelroy and Colin Eldreth were cognizant of that fact as they strode along Grant Avenue.
“An out-of-the-way place,” Colin was remarking. “That’s the only thing I don’t like about it. There will be a crowd there, however, so I don’t think that we will have to worry.”
“About Zack Ruggey?”
Colin nodded; then spoke to change the subject.
“By the way,” he asked, “what did you do with those big brass keys? The ones that Ku Luan gave you? Did you leave them in the bureau as I suggested?”
Dave nodded.
“All right,” said Colin, breezily. They had turned a corner from the avenue. “No use in lugging all that metal around with you. Besides, you won’t need the keys until after we land the teakwood box with the silver dragon.”
The pair passed a line of quaint shops. Every house in this row had a store on its ground floor, the living quarters being on upper stories and in the basements. Dave Kelroy, as he glanced through shop windows, was reminded of Shanghai.
“Here is the bazaar,” remarked Colin, as they turned into another street. “Look at the auction signs hanging from the windows.”
DAVE paused to run his eyes upward. He read the auction announcements while Colin watched him.
Dave had said nothing about his ability to read Chinese; and Colin was quite interested in the proficiency that his new friend displayed.
The bazaar consisted of a single large room, well crowded with prospective buyers. There was a platform at the far wall; at either side were gaping doorways, fronted by screens. Dave smiled and pointed to the screens.
“The old superstition,” he said, in an undertone. “The screens do not prevent men from passing them, for men can walk around them. But they baffle devils, so the belief goes, for Chinese demons always dash in a straight line. When they strike the screens, they think they can’t get through.”
“A funny idea, isn’t it?” chuckled Colin. “I have seen screens in the Chinese joss houses; but most of them are pictured. These are plain.”
Both men turned their attention to the platform, which was stacked high with boxes containing goods that had belonged to Ku Luan.
While they watched, a Chinese auctioneer appeared from behind the screen at the right. Another Celestial followed him. Dave nudged Colin.
“That’s Tsing Chan,” he whispered. “I don’t want him to recognize me.”
“Move over into the crowd,” urged Colin. “I can stay here on the outskirts.”
Dave shifted into a mingled gathering of Americans and Orientals. He edged behind a post and kept a careful eye toward the platform. Satisfied with his position, he at last eased his watchfulness and took a look at those about him.
The Chinese were of mixed classes, a rather indiscriminate throng. The Americans were even less respectable in appearance; in fact, Dave noted two or three slouchers who could well have been pals of Zack Ruggey’s thugs. Moreover, a foreign element was present. Dave saw several who looked like Mexicans.
The auction was beginning. Dave’s attention returned to the platform. The first objects that were going up for sale were the teakwood boxes, the ones that Dave was sure he had seen in Ku Luan’s iron chest.
Though he did not realize it, Dave Kelroy had become a figure of sudden notice. One of the watching rowdies had shuffled toward him. The fellow had apparently recognized Dave’s face, for when he moved back, he made a sign to some others.
Colin, glancing idly toward Dave, was lighting a cigarette at the time; but his gaze was not in the direction of the spotter, hence he had seen nothing to indicate that Dave had been recognized.
From the platform, Tsing Chan was blinking beside the auctioneer, who had started a spiel in Chinese.
Tsing Chan had spied Dave also; moreover, he had noted the rowdy’s action. Yet Tsing Chan retained his blandness, apparently unconcerned with the crowd that stood before the platform.
A STRANGER had entered the bazaar. He was an American, tall and well dressed. His face was a hawklike visage, one that would have commanded attention but for its owner’s quiet air.
He, too, had spied Dave Kelroy. He had noted the rowdy who was passing the word of recognition. In leisurely fashion, the hawkish personage strolled close to the clustered group of thuggish hoodlums until he was rubbing elbows with them. Dave Kelroy was fully a dozen feet away.
The hawk-faced arrival gave a signal. Two other men caught it as they entered the bazaar. These were the same who had fought so well last night: Harry Vincent and Miles Crofton, agents of The Shadow.
They saw the direction of the eyes that peered from the hawklike countenance. They edged over past Dave Kelroy.
The auctioneer was holding a teakwood box, one with a plain cover. He had opened it to display a silkish tapestry, woven in many colors, upon which were symbols set in squares.
Bids were given. They were raised. The auctioneer haggled and shook his head. Higher bids resulted.
The box and its contents were sold. A second box came on the block, another with a plain cover. It contained a tapestry similar to the first and was auctioned off at almost the same price.
A third box. Dave Kelroy leaned forward from the post. His eyes were alert. This box had a silver dragon upon the cover. The auctioneer was opening it; his fingers were already plucking forth the tapestry when Tsing Chan intervened.
Placid until that moment, the crafty steward had spied Dave Kelroy’s motion. Springing toward the auctioneer, Tsing Chan seized the teakwood box and slammed its lid. He began to babble in Chinese.
Dave caught his words. The box was not for sale. The auctioneer was jabbering in return. His claim was that Tsing Chan had no choice. The box must be sold. Colin had turned slightly, apparently seeking to catch Dave’s eye and to deliver a signal.
The thugs were muttering among themselves. They began to move toward Dave Kelroy, just at the moment when the auctioneer thrust Tsing Chan back and shouted, in English, that the box was for sale.
A CALL came from the hawk-faced stranger. Eyes upon the platform, he raised his voice above the chatter of the crowd. His very tone commanded instant attention; the words that he delivered brought stares of complete amazement.
“I bid for the box,” announced the keen-eyed personage, his face as steady as a mask. “I demand that you hear my bid.”
“A bid!” shouted the auctioneer. “What is your offer?”
“One hundred thousand dollars!”
Deep gasps from the throng. Approaching crooks stopped short, turning away from Dave Kelroy. Their eyes were upon this amazing stranger who had offered such a huge price for an item worth no more than fifty dollars. One thug growled to the others. They had been mistaken; this must be their man.
With one bound, they sprang upon the tall stranger, flashing revolvers into view. At the same moment, a trio of Mexicans drew knives and started for the platform.
Men of crime had sprung into action, their purpose twofold. They wanted to eliminate the person who sought the box, while their helpers snatched the prized object from the hands of the auctioneer.
One man — wounded in last night’s affray — had correctly picked Dave Kelroy as the quarry they sought.
But the action of the hawk-faced stranger had made the whole group change their direction of attack.
Quick though the crooks were, their intended victim was swifter. As he swung to action against the hard-faced crew, this lone warrior delivered a fierce and taunting laugh from his thin, masklike lips. That mocking challenge told the murderous attackers that their guess had been a wrong one.