Latest / True Tales of The Secret Service / Ep. 14 - Wah Lee and the FLower of Heaven

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Ep. 14 - Wah Lee and the FLower of Heaven · True Tales of The Secret Service

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Chapter fourteen, wa Lee and the Flower of Heaven. Yes, there's quite
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a story attached to that, remarked Bill Quinn one evening, as the conversation
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first lagged and then drifted away into silence. We were seated in his den
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at the time, the library which he had ornamated with the relics of a
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score or more of cases in which the various governmental detective services had distinguished themselves.
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And I came to with a start what I exclaimed, story in what
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in that hatchet, the one on the wall there that you were speculating about.
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It didn't take a psychological sleuth to follow your eyes and read the look
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of speculation in them. That's a trick that a sparrow cop could pull.
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Well. Then suppose you pay the penalty for your wisdom and spin the yarn,
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I retorted, nonetheless, glad of the opportunity to hear the facts behind
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the sinister red stain which appeared in the blade of the Chinese weapon, for
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I knew that Quinn could give them to me if he wished. Frankly,
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I don't know the full history of the hatchet. Came the answer from the
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other side of the fireplace. Possibly it goes back to the Ming dynasty,
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whenever that was, or possibly it was purchased from a mail order house in
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Chicago. Chop Suey isn't the only Chinese article made in this country, you
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know, But my interest in it commenced with the night when Ezra Marx.
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However, let's start at the beginning. Marx continued. The former operative was,
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as you probably recall, one of the best men ever connected with the
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Custom Service. It was he who solved the biggest diamond smuggling case on record,
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and he was also responsible for the discovery of the manner in which thirty
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thousand yards of very valuable silk was being run into the country every year without
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visiting the Custom Office. That's a piece of the silk up there over the
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picture of Missus Armitage. It wasn't many months before the affair of the Dillingham
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diamonds that official Washington in general, and the offices of the Custom Service in
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particular, grew quite excited over the fact that a lot of opium was finding
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its way into California. Of course, there's always a fair amount of hop
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on the market, provided you know where to look for it, and the
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government has about as much chance of keeping it out altogether as it has of
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breaking up the trade of moonshine whiskey. The mountaineer is going to have his
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liquor and the chink is going to have his dope, no matter what you
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do. But it's up to the Internal Revenue Bureau and the Custom Service to
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see that neither one arrives in wholesale quantities. And that was just what was
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happening on the coast. In fact, it was coming in so fast that
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the price was dropping every day, and the California authorities fairly burned up the
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wires cross continent with their howls for help. At that time, Marx Ezra
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by name and e z by nickname, was comparatively a new member of the
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force. He had rendered valuable service in Boston, however, and the Chief
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sent for him and put the whole thing in his hands. Get out to
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San Diego as quickly as you know how, snapped the Chief, tossing over
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a sheaf of yellow telegraph slips. There's all the information we have, and
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apparently you won't get much more out there unless you dig it up for yourself.
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All they seem to know is that the stuff is coming in by the
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carload and is being peddled in all the hop joints at a lower price than
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ever before. It's up to you to get the details. Any help you
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need will be supplied from the San Francisco office. But my advice is to
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play a lone hand. You're likely to get further than if you have a
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gang with you all the time. That's my idea, Chief drawled Ezra,
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who hailed from Vermont and had all the New Englander's affection for single handed effort,
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not because he had the least objection to sharing the glory, but simply
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because he considered it the most efficient way to work. I'll get right out
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there and see how the land lays. Needn't bother to report until you discover
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something worthwhile, added the chief, I'll know that you're on the job,
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and the farther you keep away from headquarters, the less suspicion you're likely to
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arouse. This was the reason that, beyond the fact that they knew that
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an operative named Marks had been sent from Washington to look into the opium matter,
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the government agents on the coast were completely in the dark as to the
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way in which the affair was being handled. In fact, the Chief himself
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was pretty well worried when two months slipped by without a word from Ezra.
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But the big raw boned Yankee was having troubles of his own. Likewise,
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he took his instructions very seriously and didn't see the least reason for informing Washington
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of the very patent fact that he had gotten nowhere and found out nothing.
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They know where they can reach me. He argued to himself one night about
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the time that the Chief began to wonder if his men were floating around the
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bay with a piece of Chinese rope about his neck. Unless I get a
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wire, they won't hear anything until I have at least a line on this
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gang. Then, on going over the evidence which he had collected during the
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weeks that he had been in San Diego, he found that there was extremely
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little of it. Discreet questioning had developed the fact which he already knew that
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opium was plentiful all along the coast, and that presumably it was supplied from
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a point in the south of the state. But all his efforts to locate
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the source of the drug brought him up against a blank wall. In order
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to conduct his investigations with a minimum of suspicion. Marx had elected to enter
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San Diego in the guise of a derelict, a character which he had played
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to such perfection that two weeks after he arrived he found himself in court on
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the charge of vagrancy. Only the fact that the presiding magistrate did not believe
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in sentencing first offenders saved him from ten days in the workhouse, an opportunity
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which he was rather sorry to miss, because he figured that he might pick
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up some valuable leads from the opium attics among his fellow prisoners. The only
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new point which he had developed during his stay in the underworld was that some
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one named Sprague, presumably an American, was the brains of the Opium ring
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and had perfected the entire plan. But who Sprague was or where he might
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be found were matters which were kept in very watchful secrecy. I give it
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up, muttered the operative, shrugging his arms into a threadbare coat and shambling
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out of the disreputable rooming house which passed for home work. Doesn't seem to
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get me anywhere. Guess I'll have to trust to luck, and he wandered
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out for his nightly stroll. Through the Chinese quarter, hoping against hope that
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something would happen. It did in bunches. Possibly it was luck. Possible
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it was fate, which after all, is only another name for luck,
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that brought him into an especially unsavory portion of the city shortly after midnight.
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He had wandered along for three hours or more, with no objective in view,
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save occasional visits to dive, where he was known, when he heard
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something which caused him to whirl and automatically reach for his hip pocket. It
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was the cry of a woman, shrill and clear, the cry of a
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woman in mortal danger. It had only sounded once, but there was a
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peculiar muffled quality at the end of the note, suggestive of a hand or
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a gag having been placed over the woman's mouth. Then silence, so still
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as to be almost oppressive. Puzzled, Mark stood stock still and waited.
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So far as he could remember, that was the first time he had heard
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anything of the kind in Chinatown. He knew that there were women there,
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but they were kept well in the background and apparently were content with their lot.
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The woman who had screamed, however, was in danger of her life
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behind one of those flimsy walls. Some drama was being enacted in defiance of
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the law. Something was being done which meant danger of the most deadly kind
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to him who dared to interfere. For a full minute, Marx weighed the
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importance of his official mission against his sense of humanity. Should he take a
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chance on losing his prey merely to try to save a woman's life. Should
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he attempt to find the house from which the scream had come and forced the
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door? Should? But the question was solved for him in a manner even
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more startling than the cry in the night. While he was still debating,
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the door of a house directly in front of him opened wide, and a
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blinding glare of light spread fanwise into the street. Across this there shot the
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figure of what Marks at first took to be a man, a figure attired
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in a long, heavily embroidered jacket and silken trousers. As it neared him,
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however, the operative sense that it was a woman, and an instant
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later he knew that it was the woman whose stifled scream had halted him Only
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a moment before. Straight toward Marx, she came, and close behind her,
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their faces set in a look of deadly implacable rage, raced two large
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chinamen. Probably realizing that she stood no chance of escape in the open street,
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the woman darted behind Marx and prepared to dodge her pursuers. As she
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did so, the operative her panting appeal save me, for the sake of
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the God, save me. That was all that was necessary. Ez were
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sensed in an instant the fact that he had become embroiled in what bade fair
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to be a tragedy, and braced himself for action. He knew that he
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had no chance for holding off both men, particularly as he did not care
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to precipitate gun play, but there was the hope that he might divert them
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until the girl escaped. As the first of the two men leaped toward him,
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Marx swung straight for his jaw, but his assailant ducked with what was
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almost professional rapidity, and the blow was only a glancing one. Before the
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operative had time to get set, the other man was upon him, and
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in utter silence, save for their labored breathing and dull thuds as blows went
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home, they fought their way back to the far side of the street.
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As he retreated, Marx became conscious that, instead of making her escape,
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the girl was still behind him. The reason for this became apparent when the
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larger of the chinaman suddenly raised his arm, and the light from the open
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doorway glinted on the blade of a murderous, short handled axe, the favorite
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weapon of Tong warfare, straight for his head. The blade descended, but
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the girl's arm, thrust out of the darkness behind him, diverted the blow,
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and the hatchet fairly whistled as it passed within an inch of his body.
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Realizing that his only hope of safety lay in reaching the opposite side of
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the sidewalk, where he would be able to fight with his back against the
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wall, Marx resumed his retreat, his arms moving like flails, his fists
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crashing home blows that lost much of their power by reason of the heavily padded
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jackets of his opponents. Finally, after seconds that seemed like hours, one
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of his blows found the jaw of the man nearest him, and Mars wheeled
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to set himself for the onrush of the other, the man with the hatchet,
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But just at that moment his foot struck the uneven curbing and threw him
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off his balance. He was conscious of an arc of light as the blade
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sang through the air. He heard a high, half muffled cry from the
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girl beside him, and he remembered trying to throw himself out of the way
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of the hatchet. Then there was a stinging, smarting pain in the sight
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of his head and in his left shoulder, followed by the blackness of oblivion.
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From nowhere, apparently a long distance off, there came a voice which
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brought back at least a part of the operative's last failing consciousness, a voice
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which called a name vaguely familiar to him, Sprague. Sprague. Sprague,
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muttered Marx, trying to collect himself. Who is Sprague? Then, as
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he put it, later, he went off. How much time elapsed before
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he came to he was unable to say, but subsequent developments indicated that it
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was at least a day and a night. He hadn't the slightest idea what
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had occurred. Meanwhile, he only knew that he seemed to drift back to
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consciousness and to realization that his head was splitting, as if it would burst
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Mechanically. He stretched his legs and tried to rise, only to find that
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what appeared to be a wooden wall closed him in on all sides, leaving
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an opening only directly above him. For an appreciable time, he lay still
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to collect his thoughts. He recalled the fight in the open street, the
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intervention of the girl, the fall over the curb, and then there was
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something that he couldn't remember, something vital that had occurred just after he had
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tried to dodge the hatchet blade. Yes, he murmured as memory returned.
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It was someone calling for Sprague. Sprague. Hush, came a whispered command
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out of the darkness which surrounded him, and a hand, soft and very
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evidently feminine, covered his mouth. You must not mention that name here.
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It means the death, instant and terrible. They are discussing your fate in
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there now. But if they had thought that you knew wah Lee, your
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life would not be worth a yen. Wah Lee. Who is he,
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marks, replied, his voice pitched in an undertone. I don't remember anywa
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Lee, and who are you? Who I am does not matter, came
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out of the darkness. But while Lee, he is the master of life
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and death, the high Priest of the Flower of heaven. Had it not
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been for him, you would have been dead before this. But I thought
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that he desired your life, so he did and does. But they have
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to plan the way in which it is to be taken and the disposition which
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is to be made of your body. That was what gave me my opportunity
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for binding up your wound and watching for you to wake. In spite of
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himself, Marx could not repress a slight shudder. So they were saving him
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for the sacrifice. Eh. They were going to keep him here until their
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arrangements were complete and then make away with them. Were they moving cautiously so
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as to avoid attracting attention. The operative slipped his right hand toward his hip
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pocket, only to find that his automatic was missing it. As he settled
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back with a half moan, he felt something cold slipped into the box beside
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him, and the girl's voice whispered, your revolver. I secured it when
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they brought you in here. I thought you might need it later, But
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be very careful. They must not suspect that you have wakened. I will,
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promised Mars. But who are you? Why should you take such an
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interest in me? You tried to save me from something that is worse than
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death, replied the girl. You failed, but it was not your fault.
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Could I do less than to help you? But what was it?
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You feared? Marriage? Marriage to the man I loathe above all others,
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the man who is responsible for the opium that is drugging my people, the
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man who is known as wah Lee, but who is really an American.
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Here she hesitated for a moment and then hissed Sprague. Sprague Marks echoed,
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sitting bolt upright, But the girl had gone swallowed up somewhere in the impenetrable
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darkness which filled the room. His brain cleared by the realization that he had
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blundered into the heart of the opium runner's den, it took Ezra only a
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few seconds to formulate a plan of action. The first thing, of course,
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was to get away, but how could that be accomplished when he did
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not even know where he was or anything about the house. The girl had
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said something about the fact that they were considering his fate. Who were they
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and where were they? Obviously the only way to find out was to do
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a little scouting on his own account. So slowly and carefully he raised himself
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clear of the box like arrangements in which he had been placed, and tried
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to figure out his surroundings. His hand groping over the side came into almost
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instant contact with the floor, and he found it a simple matter to step
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out into what appeared to be a cleared space in the center of a comparatively
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large room. Then, curious as to the place where he had been concealed,
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he felt the box from one end to the other. The sides were
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about two feet high and slightly sloping, with an angle near the head.
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In fact, both ends of the affair were narrower than the portion which had
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been occupied by his shoulders. Piled up at either end of this box were
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others of the same shape and size. What could their purpose be? Why
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the odd shape? Suddenly the solution of the mystery flashed across the operative's mind.
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Coffins, coffins which appeared to be piled up on all sides of the
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storeroom. Was this the warehouse for a Chinese undertaker? Or was it?
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One coffin over which he nearly tripped gave him the answer. It was partly
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filled with cans, unlabeled and quite heavy containers, which Marx felt certain were
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packed full of opium and smuggled in some manner inside the coffins. Just as
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he arrived at this conclusion, Marx's eye was caught by a tiny streak of
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light filtering through the wall on the opposite side of the room. Making his
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way carefully toward this, he found that the crack presented a fairly complete view
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of an adjoining apartment in which three Chinese, evidently of high degree, were
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sorting money and entering accounts in large books. As he looked, a fourth
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figure entered the room, a man who caused him to catch his breath and
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flatten himself against the wall, for he recognized the larger of the two Chinamen
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who had attacked him the night before, or whenever it was. This was
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the man to whom the girl had alluded as Wah Lee, High Priest of
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the Flower of Heaven, which was merely another way of saying that he had
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charge of the opium shipments. As he entered, the others rose and remained
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standing until he had seated himself. Then one of them commenced to speak in
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rapid, undistinguishable Chinese. Before he had time to pronounce more than a few
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words. However, Wa Lee interrupted him with a command couched in English to
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cut that out. You know I don't understand that gibberish well enough to follow
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you. Beg pardon, replied the other. I always forget you are so
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like one of us that even in private, I find it hard to remember.
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Wa Lee said nothing, but, slipping off his silken jacket, settled
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back at his ease. A moment later, Marx was amazed to see him
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remove his mandarin's cap, and with it came a wig of coal black hair.
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For the first time, the government agent realized what the girl had meant
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when she intimated that Wa Lee and Sprague were one and the same, an
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American who was masquerading his Chinese in order to further his smuggling plans. Word
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has just arrived, continued the man who had first spoken. That the boat
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will be off Point Banda tonight. That will allow us to pick up the
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coffins before daybreak and bury them until such time as the American hounds are off
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their guard. Yes, grunted Sprague. And let's hope that soon we must
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have fifty thousand dollars worth of the stuff cashed on the other side of the
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border, and orders are coming in faster than we can fill them. I
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think it would be best to run this cargo right in. We can stage
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a funeral if necessary, and avoid suspicion in that way. Wait a minute,
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I've got a hunch. What about the bum we carried in here last
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night, the one that tried to help Anita in her getaway? Anita,
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Yes, my girl, I can't remember that rigamarole. You people call her
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Anita's her name from now on. He is in the next room, unconscious.
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Two of the men dumped him in one of the empty coffins and let
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him stay there. Good, chuckled Sprague. We'll just let him remain,
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run him across the border and bring his body back in a big hearse.
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The coffin and the body will be real, but there'll be enough cans of
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dope packed in and around him and in the carriages of the mourners to make
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us all rich. It's the chance of a lifetime for a big play,
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because no one will ever suspect us or even inquire into his identity. Behind
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the thin wall which separated him from the next room, marks stiffened, and
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his fingers wound themselves even more tightly around the butt of his automatic. It
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is not given to many men to hear their death sentence pronounced in a manner
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as dramatic and cold blooded, as were the word words which came from the
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outer apartment. By listening intently, Ezra learned that the coup would be sprung
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sometime within the next few hours, the conspirator's feeling that it would not be
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safe to delay, as the opium shipment was due before dawn. Moving silently
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and aided somewhat by the fact that his eyes had become a little accustomed to
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the inky blackness, Marx made his way back to the place where he had
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awakened. He knew that that was where they would expect to find him,
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and he also knew that this was the one place to avoid, so he
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located the door, and, finding it bolted from the outside, placed himself
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where he would be at least partly sheltered when the party entered. After what
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seemed to be an interminable time, he finally heard a sound from the hallway,
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the soft slip slip of felt shoes approaching. Then the bolt was withdrawn
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and the door opened, admitting the four men whom he had seen in the
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other room and behind them. Carrying a lantern. Came the girl, nerving
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himself for a supreme leap, Marks waited until all five visitors were inside the
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room, and then started a slip through the open doorway. But his movement
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attracted the attention of the man called Sprague, and with a cry of warning,
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he wheeled and fired before the operative could gain the safety of the hall.
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Knowing that his body, outlined against the light from outside, would make
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an ideal target, Ezra dropped to the floor and swung his automatic into action.
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As he did so, the girl extinguished the lantern with a single swift
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blow, leaving the room in total blackness save for the path made by the
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light in the hallway. For probably twenty seconds, there wasn't a sound.
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Then Marks caught a glimpse of a moving figure and fired, leaping to one
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side as he did so in order to avoid the fusillade directed at the flash
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of his revolver. By a cry from the other side of the room,
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he knew that his shot had gone home, and a moment later he had
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an opportunity to wing another of his assailants, again, drawing a volley of
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shots, the last shot in his clip fired with a prayer, but it
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evidently went home for only silence, punctuated by moans from the opposite side of
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the room ensued that night concluded Quinn, a big sailing vessel was met off
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Point Banda, and they found a full month supply of opium aboard of her.
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A search of lower California near the border also disclosed a burying ground with
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many of the graves packed with cans of the drug. The raid, of
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course, was a violation of Mexican neutrality, but they got away with it.
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The girl I cut in what became of her. When the police reached
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the house a few moments after Marx had fired the last shot, they found
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that Sprague was dead, with one of Ezra's bullets through his brain. The
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three chinamen were wounded, but not fatally. The girl, however, was
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huddled in a corner dead. No one ever discovered whether she stopped one of
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the bullets from Marx's revolver or whether she was killed by Sprague's men as a
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penalty for putting out the lantern. Undoubtedly that saved Zra's life, which was
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the reason that he saw that she was given a decent funeral and an adequate
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memorial erected over her grave. He also kept her jacket as a memento of
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the affair, turning the hatchet over to me for my collection. Under it
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you will find a copy of the wire he sent the Chief. Curious,
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I went over and read the yellow slip framed beneath the weapon Opium smuggled in
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coffins, American at head of ring Dead Gang, broken up, Opium seized?
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What next? Marx didn't wait long for another assignment, did he,
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I inquired, No, was the response. When you're working for Uncle Sam,
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you come to find that excitement is about the only thing that keeps your
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nerves quiet. Sometimes, as in Marks's case, it's the thrill of the
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actual combat, but more often it's the search a tangible clue, the groping
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in the dark for something you know exists but which you can't lay your hands
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on. That was the trouble with the Chainey case. End of chapter fourteen.