THE MANEUVER HAD been so smoothly executed that a casual onlooker would have been unaware that he was witnessing anything unusual. Yet the casket was gone, along with its bearers.
They could only have gone into the hill, where the coolies were so busily digging. What that might mean was an interesting speculation.
Seemingly it was a forbidden topic. A man darted suddenly from the shadows of the tunnel, rushing at him, clutching a long-bladed knife. Apparently Montana’s interest had been observed.
Even without the knife, he was big enough to be formidable. Though dressed as a coolie, it was apparent that he was no ordinary laborer, any more than the procession had been an ordinary burial party. Something was going on, carefully disguised.
He came fast, a scowl distorting his face. The surprise of his rush almost was successful. The striking blade ripped Montana’s sleeve; then he grabbed in turn, his other hand closing on the knife wrist and twisting.
The struggle was nightmarish, with the crowd applauding the orator less than a block away. The funeral procession had turned a corner and was out of sight, leaving the street temporarily deserted.
Montana had a confused mixture of what might be misinformation in regard to tong wars and hatchet men. Their job was to kill on order, making no more ado over the chore than over wringing the neck of a chicken. This could hardly be a tong affair, but he was probably dealing with a professional killer. Long muscles rippled beneath his fingers, and a straining arm twisted savagely, trying to bring the point of the knife to bear. A look of surprise crossed the face so close to his own.
Montana allowed his effort to relax, as though he could do no more. Triumph flared in the reddened eyes which blazed at his; then agony replaced it as he gave a sudden twist and had the knife. But the bullet head drove at his chest, aiming upward. If it had reached his chin, it would have knocked him out.
A heavy ache flooded through his chest, but pain could be a stimulant. He drove with the knife handle, a clout alongside the skull. Such treatment was a sure cure for insomnia. The big man was asleep on his feet.
The effect would soon wear off. Pocketing the knife, Montana moved back and lost himself in the crowd, now dispersing as the celebration ended. Many among the crowd were heading for the bank, attracted by more than the locomotive which stood as tangible proof of the railroad’s, progress. Already it was a booming business, and the time to get a share was now, with stock prices skyrocketing in a frenzy of investment fever. Money was being planked down, stock certificates sometimes changing hands two or three times in the course of an hour.
This was the supper hour, and every eating place was crowded. There were long lines but no seats. If he took his turn, he’d be too late for the show at the opera house.
Finally he found a place which was not so busy, then hesitated. It was a Chinese restaurant, so he must have crossed back into the Chinatown section. A couple of men were just vacating a table. One was O’Leary. He hailed Montana genially.
“This has been quite a day, in the annals of railroading and of the town,” he observed. “And this little eating place is a find, especially today. I give you joy of a full stomach.”
As he was turning away, another man came to take the other vacant place. O’Leary nodded a greeting, then swung back.
“I wonder if you gentlemen know each other?” he asked. “If not, then you should. Abbott, shake hands with Mr. Desmond. Jay is a vice-president of the Prairie and Pacific, while Montana, Jay, is a troubleshooter for the Border and Western. You two should find much to talk about.”
Desmond seemed bluff and hearty, but he regarded Montana with a twisted smile.
“So you’re with the B & W,” he observed. “That’s fine, for I’ve been trying all afternoon to talk to someone from your outfit who is responsible. So I’ll ask you. Why are you fellows breaking the word that Mike McNamara gave me, that we’d both fight hard to be the first to build into Duarf, but would play it square as we came?”
“If Mike made you such a promise, it’s good. When he gives his word, he means it.”
“So I had always believed.” Desmond scowled at the plate of food set before him, as though it were at fault. “But a promise is one thing, and a double-cross is another.”
“Those are strong words, Mr. Desmond.”
“I can use stronger if necessary, and I don’t stop with words. We’re building a stretch of grade from the west, and as you probably know, we’ve been moving fast; too fast for the liking of some people, apparently. For somebody is hiring our coolies away from us. Most of them walked off the job today, giving no reason. They’re quitting just when we’re in a position to give you fellows a run for your money! Now I ask you, who would hire them away from us but the B & W?”
Montana’s counter question caught him by surprise. “Mr. O’Leary said you were a vice-president of the Prairie and Pacific. You’re an old hand at railroading then, I take it?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I’m a rancher, and I was happy with my outfit, west from here, until I got railroad fever. I can handle men, can get work out of a crew. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m not trying to dodge it. I came in from the East today, where our crews are at work. There wasn’t a coolie around—except for a few strays who had lynched a man under a trestle.”
“Lynched a man?”
“Who was dressed as a coolie, but under his shirt his skin was white.”
Desmond laid down his knife and fork.
“What are you trying to tell me, Abbott?”
“I wish I knew,” Montana confessed. “I agree with you that there’s skullduggery going on. But I repeat what you know already. Mike McNamara is no liar.”
Desmond attacked his supper as though it were an enemy.
“Somebody got them to quit, just when the move could hurt us worst,” he repeated stubbornly. “Now this town’s swarming with them. I still want to know the answer.”
“So do I,” Montana agreed. “But it’s not the B & W.”
“Who else could profit by such a trick?”
“Find the answer to that, and I reckon we’ll have the guilty party,” Montana said wryly. “Which is what I intend to do.”
Desmond ate thoughtfully, then smiled.
“Damned if I don’t believe you,” he confessed. “But how does any of this make sense?”
Montana’s answer came slowly.
“I’m inclined to the belief that we are dealing with someone as smart as a digging prairie dog, which throws dirt in the eyes of a coyote. Only it may be another coyote, while we are the gophers.”
A line had formed in front of the opera house, and Montana bought a ticket with a sense of expectancy. All this was like a tangle of string, not easy to sort out.
And a crew of Chinese, as new to all this as I am, could be mighty handy, he reflected. They wouldn’t have any notion what was going on, or how they were being used, and not understanding the language is about as good as being deaf and dumb.
The play was interesting, the players competent. Most of the sound effects came from fireworks, set off in sudden loud bursts. Much of it was crude, but it suited the spectators. Despite its title and Oriental trappings, Montana doubted that ancient China had ever seen or heard such a play. It was being produced with some definite purpose in mind.
And it’s not entertainment, Montana decided. Whatever’s going on, this is a part of it.
He watched closely when the Mandarin made his appearance, and there was no doubt but that he was the man who had been under the trestle. Not only that; he had been the driver of the buggy—
Here was showmanship of a sort which the audience did not suspect. Both Lotus Flower and the Mandarin were Oriental, Chinese; yet both were white, as Occidental and probably as American as himself—
In the play or out, Lotus Flower was a creature of beauty. Caught in a spell of enchantment, she awakened finally like Sleeping Beauty, sitting up to gaze about. Her glance met Montana’s, and her eyes widened in recognition. This was followed as swiftly by other emotions—appeal, terror. How much was real and how much acting he could not tell, for the climax brought not only a transformation but dissolution. How that was accomplished Montana could only guess, thought it was probably due to a combination of veils and the thickening smoke of incense. Despair overwhelmed her as she sank back. A fresh crash of fireworks shook the building. The horrified prince fell upon his sword, and it was over.
Artistically the show had been a success. The spectators, stunned and overwhelmed, were slow to return to a world of reality. Taking advantage of the confusion, Montana made his way toward the dressing rooms. It was the American custom to seek out the star after a play.
He reached the door, to find his way barred by a smiling but inscrutable Chinese, a man as big as the Mandarin—or the warrior who had tried to knife him that afternoon.
“So solly,” the doorman said, his voice a singsong. “Missy no see anyone. So solly.”
Montana turned back. Other guards would be within call, and a headlong course would get him nowhere. Yet he had to find and have a talk with this girl. Why should a white woman be so disguised, one of such a band of players? If it was only that—But there had been appeal as well as terror in her eyes each time he had seen her. Also, there had been some connection, when that man had choked his life away beneath the trestle—
Preoccupied, he had taken a wrong turn. The audience, hack in a normal world, was streaming through the lobby, animatedly discussing the show, but he had strayed into a dimly lit corridor.
“Rather a good bit of entertainment, eh? And somewhat different, with the Oriental touch—”
O’Leary was beside him, elegant and affable. One moment the hallway had been empty; the next moment he was there.
“Interesting, and a good job,” Montana conceded. “Better showmanship than one would expect under such conditions.”
“All the world’s a stage,” O’Leary quoted. “You know, Abbott, I rather envy those players. There are times when I feel that I might make an actor myself.”
“My guess is that you’d be good at it.”
“Thanks.” O’Leary sounded gratified. “Sometimes we need a bit of make-believe, to relieve the humdrum of the everyday, eh?” They had come to the end of the hallway, where a door opened on to the street. Montana had a feeling that he’d been led to the exit, after blundering to where he wasn’t wanted. “I’ll see you again,” O’Leary added, and closed the door upon him.
Montana stood in deeper shadow. Apparently he’d been close to making some sort of discovery—but what was O’Leary’s concern with this, or with these players?
I’m as meddlesome as an old woman—which is my job, he decided, and ducked back through the doorway.
The opera house had grown silent as well as dark, and the hall stretched lonesomely. His eyes accustomed to the gloom, Montana confirmed his earlier estimate. There were no doors anywhere along the corridor and no windows.
Since the hall was in the recesses of the theatre, there was nothing unusual or especially remarkable about that—except that O’Leary had appeared beside him as magically as any appearance in the play itself.
“Something is being built—but whether it’s a railroad or something else is the question,” he added under his breath, and studied the high wainscoting on either side, running his fingers lightly over it. Should he be discovered, he would be in a difficult spot, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up.
He was on the point of giving up when he found what he was after—a slight roughness under his fingers. As he tested and pressed, something gave, and a door slid soundlessly open.
Beyond it was heavy gloom, a slightly musty odor. The opera house, like all the buildings in the town, was too new for the smells to be heavy. To explore here might be risky, but he was curious about the place. Also, he was increasingly certain, the lady called Lotus Flower was in need of help.
The door closed silently behind him, and he was in almost total darkness.