A DOG’S TOO RED PAW
At the Central Police Station consternation reigned beneath a determined attempt to preserve official calm as well as efficient administration. From the fierce-bearded Sikh patrolmen collecting equipment in the courtyard to the harassed junior police commissioners in the offices, all mourned Sir Joseph and realized that his firm and guiding hand would be sorely missed if Shanghai underwent a trial by riot and siege. How well the backers of the Mongol general had planned each step!
It was characteristic of Kilgour and North that when they met once more they merely exchanged restrained comments on the latest tragedy, though both of them admired and held in deep respect the assassinated Chief of the Shanghai Municipal Police.
“He died in harness, and it’s all in the game,” was North’s grave conclusion. “Very likely there’ll be others of us joining him before long.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Well, Bruce, did you find out anything about Junot and Green way?”
“Junot’s a mystery—a total blank. As a last resort I asked the French police, and they said they’d never heard of him. Although the beggars were polite as always, their manner definitely said ‘not interested.’ But, on the other hand, Greenway looks like a promising lead. Here’s what we’ve got on the blighter.”
North lit a cigarette and through its smoke regarded his friend’s drawn face as he picked up a filing card and began to read.
“Simeon Karr Greenway. Aged 47. Shipping agent. Office 1223 Bund. Residence 133 Canton Road.”
“Hum, it’s conveniently handy to the Concession. Notice that?”
“Yes. Here’s his record:
“June 77, 1930 charged with and found guilty of an attempt to smuggle opium into the Port. Fined ten thousand American dollars and costs. December 3, 1931, charged with defrauding the provincial customs of fifty thousand dollars Mex. Charges quashed at request of Provincial Governor.
“Altogether this Greenway sounds like an unsavory bird,” said Kilgour.
“What’s his nationality?”
“Australian, I’m sorry to say,” Kilgour replied as he put down the filing card. “I called his office a few minutes ago and talked to the head clerk there. He said Greenway had phoned early this morning to say he wasn’t feeling well and would stay at home today.”
“Sounds as if he’s uneasy, doesn’t it?”
“It does. I don’t suppose he’d be fool enough to keep anything incriminating at his office, but, anyhow, I’ve sent a pair of inspectors over to take a look at his correspondence.”
“Doubt if they’ll find anything,” was North’s brusque comment. “Not if Greenway’s what he seems—an associate of Michael Smith. You wouldn’t catch that lad taking chances. Come along, Bruce, I’ve an idea that the sooner we get to 133 Canton Road the better. Hope our friend hasn’t lit out for the tall timber. And, by the way—you’ve got your gun? I’ve an idea Greenway may prove difficult.”
They selected rickshaws belonging to the reputable Happy Remembrance Company from the swarm which immediately crowded about, shrieking, “Numba wan rickshaw wanchee?”
The Intelligence Captain had barely taken his place than the rickshaw coolie dashed madly oft in front of a huge dray hauled by perhaps fifteen sweating coolies and then barely missed a speeding auto before settling down to a steady trot.
Long since hardened to the vagaries of the genus coolie, North settled back to carefully study the vivid and unique panorama of Honan Road. Among those milling throngs might be lurking one of Smith’s satellites—no more chances for Hugh North!
Glossy American cars threaded their way among clanging street cars piloted by Swedish motormen; and motorcycles dashed along the broad Bund with a reckless disregard of possible murder or mayhem. Beggars plastered with chewed paper swayed weakly back and forth whining their eternal pleas—“Fa tsai lao-yeh, fa tsai lao-yeh!”—at the sedan chair of some rich Chinese who shrieked shrill orders to his gaily liveried bearers when they halted at the command of a crimson-turbaned Sikh. How tall those sad-eyed exiles from a lovelier, sunnier land looked in their blue uniforms and bright brass buttons.
Out on the Whangpoo tugs and steamers hooted incessantly, and black feathers of smoke from the stacks of those too few gray battleships crawled skywards as if to cast a warning pall over the threatened city.
North’s gaunt human steed trotted on past the rear of the famous Shanghai Club where Sir Joseph had met his death, and the Hong Kong bank, on past imposing European stores. Finally the Honan Road narrowed into a thoroughfare where the sidewalks grew smaller and more crowded, and not far ahead the barriers and blue uniforms of steel-helmeted poilus marked the limits of the French Concession.
When Kilgour, who was in the lead, held up his hand, North called a sharp, “Chan-choh! Stop!” and gripped the seat arms, for the rickshaw coolie, without the least warning, let the shafts of his conveyance drop to earth with a suddenness that would have pitched an unexpectant person into the street.
“Make stop, Marster!” he proclaimed quite unnecessarily as he bowed again with ribby sides heaving wildly.
“There it is, Number 133. A bit shabby, what?” Kilgour pointed to a battered stone doorway which opened into the inevitable reception court. After paying off their coolies the two brushed past a pair of ferocious stone Fo dogs standing guard at the entrance and gazed about an inner court from which several staircases led upwards.
North’s all-seeing eyes darted back and forth noting every corner of the court before he entered. He had no intention of becoming another of Smith’s “object lessons.”
A yellowed card printed with both English and Chinese letters proclaimed that Mr. Simeon K. Greenway lived in the first apartment to the right. At the foot of the stairs a short-sighted old Chinese groom blinked curiously at them an instant and then went on with his task of cleaning a pair of English saddles which had evidently had hard usage.
“Misser Greenway tsai chia?”
The Chinese got to his feet, ducked a little bow, and said, “My no see him go ’way.”
“Is he alone?” North queried pleasantly.
“No savvy. Soldier man go in, come out.”
North shot Kilgour a swift glance. “Him gone long?”
The old man waved hands creamy with saddle soap. “Him gone mebbe hour—mebbe no so long.”
“Sounds like Steel,” Kilgour commented as they set foot to the worn stone stair.
“Might be—well, we’ll soon find out. My God, but the flies are thick around here. No wonder the Chinks curl up and die by the thousands every hot spell.” North’s heart beat a quicker tempo when he rapped on a screen door against the surface of which swarms of green and bluebottle flies were hurling themselves with eager persistence. There came no answer except the yapping of a dog in some room well back in the rather gloomy interior. Doubt and misgiving assailed the bronzed figure in gray flannel, and he became more wary than ever.
“Shall we go in?” inquired Kilgour in an undertone.
“Yes.” His mouth drawing into a tight and colorless line North tested the screen door which proved to be unlatched. Treading carefully, the two entered the grateful cool within and were still peering about when a fuzzy chow puppy bounded in, its tail wig-wagging a frantic message of welcome.
“Someone’s glad to see us anyhow,” Kilgour remarked and stooped to stroke the orange-colored head.
Reassured, the dog sat up and held out a paw. Kilgour stiffened, and North, who had been gazing down a corridor opening beyond a jade and bamboo curtain, turned, and his eyes widened.
The chow’s extended paw was wet and stained a deeper red than the fur of his leg.