The Oriental’s steely eyes were fastened unwaveringly upon the pendant, whose history for half a century had been transcribed in suffering and death. Misfortune had followed this unique assemblage of perfect stones: death and insanity; the breaking of friendships; the treachery of children toward parents; the murder of lover by lover. And now the mysterious Chinaman seemed to have fallen under the spell of the gems, for he was taking in every detail of their perfection.
For a moment the assault upon the door had ceased, but now it was continued. Heavy blows fell, and the walls of the subterranean apartment shook.
“It will not take your friends long to discover that they cannot reach us by that route,” commented Ah Wing tranquilly, turning at last from his inspection of the Resurrection Pendant. “The door has a middle sheeting of boiler iron. It is bullet proof.”
He reseated himself, motioning for Colonel Knight to do the same. Absently he watched the white man close the jewel case, wrap it carefully in brown paper, and return it to his ulster pocket.
“And now,” continued the Chinaman, “I will ask you to tell me about these men. You say there are five of them? Please describe them to me, one at a time. Tell me all that you can remember as to physical and mental characteristics—I want every detail you can give me.”
Colonel Knight sat down heavily. It was obvious that the assault upon the door was shaking his nerves so that he could hardly command his voice. His eyes were the eyes of some hunted thing, which sees itself at the end of a blind alley.
With an evident effort, he tore his glance from the quivering panels and fastened it on his companion.
“Yes,” he said hollowly, “there are five of these men, and they have been chosen from the elite of the criminal world. I myself selected them and trained them. Each has his special ability. I will begin with the man whom I considered the brainiest of them all—the one who was almost my equal in planning and executing a really big robbery. His name is Monte Jerome.”
Suddenly the blows on the door ceased; and the room was so still, after the ferocious assault, that it seemed to press on the ear drums of the speaker. He winced and for a moment was silent. Then, resolutely he continued:
“Monte is thirty-five years old. He is less than five feet six, but is broad shouldered and powerful. He grew up in the alleys of a large city. He fought his way to the leadership of gang after gang, and at the time I picked him up was looking for new worlds to conquer. I chose him because of four qualities: his physical strength; his native cunning; his lack of sentiment—or, as it is usually called, ‘mercy’—and his absolute freedom from superstition. Monte believes in neither God, man, nor the devil. He was my right-hand man—and it is to his merciless pursuit that I owe my condition!”
Ah Wing had drawn a note-book from his pocket and was jotting down data. He glanced placidly toward the door, which was again shaking under a rain of heavy blows.
“Pray continue!” said he.
Something of the Chinaman’s imperturbability was beginning to influence the white man. He went on with greater assurance:
“Next to Monte Jerome in total ability, I always placed the man we called ‘Doc.’ I never knew his real name. That was not important, as he went under many aliases. Doc was my means of approach to the wealthy men and women—and particularly the latter—upon whom I specialized. He is a university man, and has lived among people of wealth and refinement much of his life.
“He has brains, but lacks the quality of ruthlessness so important in really successful commercial crime. He is utterly selfish, I believe, but certain necessary factors in his profession are revolting to him—and he has never made the effort to put down this weakness. Physically he is prepossessing: an inch or two over six feet in height, blue eyes, light brown hair, splendid carriage; and possessed of the manners of a Chesterfield.”
A thin, faint voice came through the door, upon which the tattoo had momentarily ceased:
“We’ve got you, Count! Open that door, or we’ll gouge your eyes out when we break in!”
Ah Wing waved his hand affably toward the source of this ominous promise.
“And our friend out there?” said he. “Is he one of those whom you have described?”
“I was just coming to him,” replied Colonel Knight, raising a shaking hand to his forehead and mopping off the beaded perspiration. “That is ‘Billy the Strangler,’ and I think the ‘Kid’ is with him. Those were my Apaches—my gun men—my killers. They are much alike. Both have cunning of a low order; and persistence—they are like bloodhounds, once they are put on the trail.
“They have been Monte’s most useful tools in his pursuit of me. But both are superstitious, and their native bloodthirstiness has grown on them till they are little better than homicidal maniacs. The Strangler is tall and slim, with high cheek bones and lean arms which seem to be threaded with steel wires. The Kid is of medium height, with grey eyes and sandy hair.”
The assault on the door had again been discontinued. Suddenly there came from directly overhead a sound of splintering boards, accompanied by a rain of dust and bits of plaster. Knight sprang up and retreated, snarling, toward a corner of the empty room.
“Ah, I have been waiting to see if your old comrades would think of that,” he commented. “It gives us a line on their resourcefulness.”
Colonel Knight regarded him with drawn lips, which exposed his yellow teeth.
“For God’s sake, what are we to do?” he cried. “Are you armed? You sit there like a statue—”
“Pray continue your very interesting description,” suggested Ah Wing. “There remains one of your band whom you have not described. I must know about him—and then I will deal with this other matter!”
For an instant the thief glared into the face of the man seated across from him. What he read there steadied him a little, although the crash of splintering boards from above told him that the men he had such good reason to fear were meeting with less resistance in this direction than they had encountered in their assault upon the door.
“There remains but one,” he said hoarsely. “That is Louie Martin, my gem expert. Martin is one of the best judges of diamonds and pearls in the world. He is an expert in recutting and remounting stolen jewelry. And he has a wide acquaintance among the crooked dealers of this country and Europe—”
An extensive area of plaster broke away suddenly and crashed down, tumbling about the heads and shoulders of the two occupants of the room. At the same instant the end of a heavy gas-pipe crashed through the laths, and the voices of the men on the floor above were raised in a shout of ferocious triumph.
Ah Wing stood up deliberately and looked toward the ceiling. He seemed to be measuring the progress of the men opposed to him. Then, without hurrying he crossed the room toward a dimly lighted corner, where he stooped and opened a small door in the wall. This door was built in segments, like that of a safe; and was hinged with metal plates of enormous strength.
Colonel Knight, who cowered directly behind the Chinaman, felt a breath of cool, moist air, smelling strongly of earthy decay, blowing up from this diminutive doorway.
“Kindly precede me, Colonel,” commanded Ah Wing. “Watch your step—the going is rather precipitous!”
Knight stooped and made his way through the opening. He found himself on a stairway which went steeply down into utter darkness.
A cloud of white dust filtered up into the light of the electric bulb; and, as Ah Wing stood watching, a lithe human figure landed with a crash on top of the heap of plaster and splintered boards and laths.
In the same instant the Chinaman passed silently through the small doorway, and his companion heard him slipping the bolts into place.
The darkness which had suddenly clutched them was so intense that it seemed to have physical substance. A squeaking sound from above brought Knight’s face swiftly up. Something cold and reptilian flapped into his eyes and, with another _squeak_, was gone.
“Only a bat!” said Ah Wing softly. “Rest your hand on my shoulder and feel your way a step at a time. I will turn on my flashlight!”
A conical beam of light drilled through the darkness below them, and Ah Wing’s companion saw that they were descending a narrow flight of stone steps that seemed to terminate in a panel of utter blackness. The walls on each side were damp; and pallid fungi had taken the place of the mildew of the cellars above.
“For God’s sake, where are we?” the white man demanded through chattering teeth. “This looks like the shaft of a mine!”
“This is part of the underground system which made Chinatown famous, before the disaster of 1906,” replied the Oriental. “Few white men have ever been down here—particularly of late years!”
He paused. They had reached a narrow landing, from which passages branched in half a dozen directions. Another descending stairway yawned ahead.
“If I were to leave you here,” smiled Ah Wing, “you would never find your way out! You could not go back the way you have come, for there are acute-angled branches which would confuse you. Most of them end in masses of rubbish, easily dislodged by the unwary! But with me you are safe!”