10-Story Detective, March 1941 — page 64: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

62———__————_——_————-10-STORY DETECTIVE there was a click, and the heavy door started to swing open. The room within was only dimly lighted by a single low lamp that stood near the door. In the middle of the room was a long table. There were chairs around this table, but none was occupied ex- cept the one at the head, facing the door. In this chair sat a very fat motionless Chinaman. Gil stepped into the room, and the door closed mechanically, leaving the skinny servant on the outside. Gil noted that the fat man was manipu- lating a row of buttons on the table. These, doubtless, controlled the door —also, perhaps, various other gad- gets in the room. Gil walked up to the end of the table opposite, the fat man, and said: “Hello, Charlie. How did you know T was coming?” The fat man spoke impassivly. His countenance, which was almost entirely in shade, hardly seemed to move, except for his lips. His Eng- lish was as good as Gil’s, with the exception of a slight lisp. “This poor offspring of a snail,” he said, “is overwhelmed with humili- ation that he cannot rise to fittingly greet the eminent Mister Fenton. But the disabilities of old age weigh heavily upon me. I—” “Can it, Charlie,” Gil interrupt- ed him, unceremoniously. “I know you’re a fraud, so why waste all the words on me? How did you know I was coming?” Charlie Mee did not move. His voice took on an edge of sharpness. “You are the same old Gil Fenton —always getting to the point. What difference does it make how I knew? You are here. You have something to say?” Gil nodded. He put both hands on the table, leaned forward. “I have, Charlie. And this is it. You’re the head of the Kune Tong. I know it, because I learned it once when I did you a service. I was well paid for that service, and we are quits. I ask nothing for that. But I have come to offer you something.” Charlie Mee said nothing, did not move. He waited in silence, the epitome of the patient Oriental. Gil went on after a moment: “Today, one of your brotherhood broke into the home of Stephen Wayne, the jade collector. He stabbed Wayne’s secretary to death, and at- tempted to steal a jade figure of Kung Fu-tsu. Wayne surprised him, and when this member of your tong at- tempted to attack, Wayne shot him in the head.” Still the fat man maintained si- lence. Only his eyes were now glit- tering dangerously. Gil continued: “‘Wayne was justi- fied in shooting your tong member. But he’s afraid the tong may be out for blood—so he’s engaged me to keep his skin whole. I have taken his money, therefore it follows that I must fight his enemies. I should be very sorry if you felt that you had to avenge this member of yours who killed Wayne’s secretary.” Gil stopped. He had made his po- sition clear. For a long time Charlie Mee gazed at him impassively down the length of the bare table. Gil wondered what devious thoughts were going through that Oriental mind. Finally Charlie Mee stirred and spoke. “The laws of the tong forbid me to speak freely to one of an alien race, Mister Fenton. But I am sorry that you have taken this man Wayne’s money. For it is written that Wayne must die—and you must fail in your task. Let me give you a warning— return this money and wash your hands of it. There is safety for you in that course. Otherwise, much as I regret to say it, death waits for you, as well as for him.” “You don’t understand,” said Gil. “Wayne is willing to pay a cash in- demnity to satisfy the tong. You can practically name your own price.” Charlie Mee answered him, speak- ing very slowly: “There is no in- Eomichboo (E@)