“This house where you think the strangers are living—know anything about it?”
“No, sir. But maybe you could go through there to the house of Chang Li Ching on other street—Spofford Alley.”
“So? And who is this Chang Li Ching?”
“I don’t know, sir. But he is there. Nobody sees him, but all Chinaboys say he is great man.”
“So? And his house is in Spofford Alley?”
“Yes, sir, a house with red door and red steps. You find it easy, but better not fool with Chang Li Ching.”
I didn’t know whether that was advice or just a general remark.
“A big gun, huh?” I probed.
But my Filipino didn’t really know anything about this Chang Li Ching. He was basing his opinion of the Chinese’s greatness on the attitude of his fellow countrymen when they mentioned him.
“Learn anything about the two Chinese men?” I asked after I had fixed this point.
“No, sir, but I will—you bet!”
I praised him for what he had done, told him to try it again that night, and went back to my rooms to wait for Dummy Uhl, who had promised to come there at ten-thirty. It was not quite ten when I got there, so I used some of my spare time to call up the office. The Old Man said Dick Foley—our shadow ace—was idle, so I borrowed him. Then I fixed my gun and sat down to wait for my stool-pigeon.
He rang the bell at eleven o’clock. He came in frowning tremendously.