and never learn a thing. But Charlie—that’s another matter.”
They waited, and presently Louie Wong came shuffling down the street, a cheap little suitcase in one hand and a full paper bag in the other.
“What you got there, Louie?” Holley asked. He examined the bag. “Bananas, eh?”
“Tony like’um banana,” the old man explained. “Pleasant foah Tony.”
Eden and Holley looked at each other. “Louie,” said the editor gently, “poor Tony’s dead.”
Any one who believes the Chinese face is always expressionless should have seen Louie’s then. A look of mingled pain and anger contorted it, and he burst at once into a flood of language that needed no translator. It was profane and terrifying.
“Poor old Louie,” Holley said. “He’s reviling the street, as they say in China.”
“Do you suppose he knows?” asked Eden. “That Tony was murdered, I mean.”
“Search me,” answered Holley. “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” Still loudly vocal, Louie Wong climbed on to the back seat of the flivver, and Bob Eden took his place at the wheel. “Watch your step, boy,” advised Holley. “See you soon. Good night.”
Bob Eden started the car, and with old Louie Wong set out on the strangest ride of his life.
The moon had not yet risen; the stars, wan and far-off and unfriendly, were devoid of light. They climbed between the mountains, and that mammoth doorway led seemingly to a black and threatening inferno that Eden could sense but could not see. Down the rocky road and on
