IX
That stolid practicality which had made Blake a successful operativeasserted itself in the matter of his approach to the Luiz Camoes house,the house which had been pointed out to him as holding Binhart.
He circled promptly about to the front of that house, pressed a goldcoin in the hand of the half-caste Portuguese servant who opened thedoor, and asked to be shown to the room of the English tea merchant.
That servant, had he objected, would have been promptly takenpossession of by the detective, and as promptly put in a conditionwhere he could do no harm, for Blake felt that he was too near the endof his trail to be put off by any mere side issue. But the coin andthe curt explanation that the merchant must be seen at once admittedBlake to the house.
The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall whenBlake caught him by the sleeve.
"You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!"
Blake knew that the last door would be the one leading to Binhart'sroom. The moment he was alone in the hall he tiptoed to this door andpressed an ear against its panel. Then with his left hand, he slowlyturned the knob, caressing it with his fingers that it might not clickwhen the latch was released. As he had feared, it was locked.
He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of onefinger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly.
A man's voice from within, cried out, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!"But Blake, who had been examining the woodwork of the door-frame, didnot choose to wait a minute. Any such wait, he felt, would involve toomuch risk. In one minute, he knew, a fugitive could either be off andaway, or could at least prepare himself for any one intercepting thatflight. So Blake took two quick steps back, and brought his massiveshoulder against the door. It swung back, as though nothing more thana parlor match had held it shut. Blake, as he stepped into the room,dropped his right hand to his coat pocket.
Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart.
The fugitive sat in a short-legged reed chair, with a grip-sack open onhis knees. His coat and vest were off, and the light from the oil lampat his side made his linen shirt a blotch of white.
He had thrown his head up, at the sound of the opening door, and hestill sat, leaning forward in the low chair in an attitude of startledexpectancy. There was no outward and apparent change on his face ashis eyes fell on Blake's figure. He showed neither fear norbewilderment. His career had equipped him with histrionic powers thatwere exceptional. As a bank-sneak and confidence-man he had long sincelearned perfect control of his features, perfect composure even underthe most discomforting circumstances.
"Hello, Connie!" said the detective facing him. He spoke quietly, andhis attitude seemed one of unconcern. Yet a careful observer mighthave noticed that the pulse of his beefy neck was beating faster thanusual. And over that great body, under its clothing, were ripplingtremors strangely like those that shake the body of a leashed bulldogat the sight of a street cat.
"Hello, Jim!" answered Binhart, with equal composure. He had agedsince Blake had last seen him, aged incredibly. His face was thin now,with plum-colored circles under the faded eyes.
He made a move as though to lift down the valise that rested on hisknees. But Blake stopped him with a sharp movement of his right hand.
"That's all right," he said. "Don't get up!"
Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each manwas appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other.
"What do you want, Jim?" asked Binhart, almost querulously.
"I want that gun you 've got up there under your liver pad," wasBlake's impassive answer.
"Is that all?" asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun.
"Then I want you," calmly announced Blake.
A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart's gaunt face.
"You can't do it, Jim," he announced. "You can't take me away fromhere."
"But I'm going to," retorted Blake.
"How?"
"I 'm just going to take you."
He crossed the room as he spoke.
"Give me the gun," he commanded.
Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement inresponse to Blake's command.
"What's the good of getting rough-house," he complained.
"Gi' me the gun," repeated Blake.
"Jim, I hate to see you act this way," but as Binhart spoke he slowlydrew the revolver from its flapped pocket. Blake's revolver barrel wastouching the white shirt-front as the movement was made. It remainedthere until he had possession of Binhart's gun. Then he backed away,putting his own revolver back in his pocket.
"Now, get your clothes on," commanded Blake.
"What for?" temporized Binhart.
"You 're coming with me!"
"You can't do it, Jim," persisted the other. "You could n't get medown to the waterfront, in this town. They 'd get you before you weretwo hundred yards away from that door."
"I 'll risk it," announced the detective.
"And I 'd fight you myself, every move. This ain't Manhattan Borough,you know, Jim; you can't kidnap a white man. I 'd have you in ironsfor abduction the first ship we struck. And at the first port of callI 'd have the best law sharps money could get. You can't do it, Jim.It ain't law!"
"What t' hell do I care for law," was Blake's retort. "I want you andyou 're going to come with me."
"Where am I going?"
"Back to New York."
Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it.
"Jim, you 're foolish. You could n't get me back to New York alive,any more than you could take Victoria Peak to New York!"
"All right, then, I 'll take you along the other way, if I ain't goingto take you alive. I 've followed you a good many thousand miles,Connie, and a little loose talk ain't going to make me lie down at thisstage of the game."
Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two.
"Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?"
"Nothing doing!" declared Blake, folding his arms.
Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand downinto the hand-bag on his knees.
"I want to show you what you could get out of this," he said, leaningforward a little as he looked up at Blake.
When his exploring right hand was lifted again above the top of the bagBlake firmly expected to see papers of some sort between its fingers.He was astonished to see something metallic, something which glitteredbright in the light from the wall lamp. The record of this discoveryhad scarcely been carried back to his brain, when the silence of theroom seemed to explode into a white sting, a puff of noise that feltlike a whip lash curling about Blake's leg. It seemed to roll off in ashifting and drifting cloud of smoke.
It so amazed Blake that he fell back against the wall, trying tocomprehend it, to decipher the source and meaning of it all. He wasstill huddled back against the wall when a second surprise came to him.It was the discovery that Binhart had caught up a hat and a coat, andwas running away, running out through the door while his captor staredafter him.
It was only then Blake realized that his huddled position was not athing of his own volition. Some impact had thrown him against the walllike a toppled nine-pin. The truth came to him, in a sudden flash;Binhart had shot at him. There had been a second revolver hidden awayin the hand bag, and Binhart had attempted to make use of it.
A great rage against Binhart swept through him. A still greater rageat the thought that his enemy was running away brought Blake lurchingand scrambling to his feet. He was a little startled to find that ithurt him to run. But it hurt him more to think of losing Binhart.
He dove for the door, hurling his great bulk through it, tossing asidethe startled Portuguese servant who stood at the outer entrance. Heran frenziedly out into the night, knowing by the staring faces of thestreet-corner group that Binhart had ma
de the first turning and wasrunning towards the water-front. He could see the fugitive, as he cameto the corner; and like an unpenned bull he swung about and made afterhim. His one thought was to capture his man. His one obsession was tohaul down Binhart.
Then, as he ran, a small trouble insinuated itself into his mind. Hecould not understand the swishing of his right boot, at every hurryingstride. But he did not stop, for he could already smell the odorouscoolness of the waterfront and he knew he must close in on his manbefore that forest of floating sampans and native house-boats swallowedhim up.
A lightheadedness crept over him as he came panting down to the water'sedge. The faces of the coolies about him, as he bargained for asampan, seemed far away and misty. The voices, as the flat-bottomedlittle skiff was pushed off in pursuit of the boat which was hurryingBinhart out into the night, seemed remote and thin, as though comingfrom across foggy water. He was bewildered by a sense of dampness inhis right leg. He patted it with his hand, inquisitively, and found itwet.
He stooped down and felt his boot. It was full of blood. It wasoverrunning with blood. He remembered then. Binhart had shot him,after all.
He could never say whether it was this discovery, or the actual loss ofblood, that filled him with a sudden giddiness. He fell forward on hisface, on the bottom of the rocking sampan.
He must have been unconscious for some time, for when he awakened hewas dimly aware that he was being carried up the landing-ladder of asteamer. He heard English voices about him. A very youthful-lookingship's surgeon came and bent over him, cut away his trouser-leg, andwhistled.
"Why, he 's been bleeding like a stuck pig!" he heard a startled voice,very close to him, suddenly exclaim. And a few minutes later, afterbeing moved again, he opened his eyes to find himself in a berth andthe boyish-looking surgeon assuring him it was all right.
"Where's Binhart?" asked Blake.
"That's all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit," said theplacatory youth.
At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong.
After eleven days in the English hospital he was on his feet again. Hewas quite strong by that time. But for several weeks after that hisleg was painfully stiff.