Detective Mooney, distant not more than two hundred feet, rushed back to the corner at the sound of the first shot—just in time to catch a side glimpse of Mock Hen as he raced across Pell Street and disappeared into the cellar of the Great Shanghai Tea Company. The Italian woman was filling the air with her outcries, but the detective did not pause in his hurtling pursuit. He was too late, however. The cellar door withstood all his efforts to break it open.
Bull Neck Burke, the wrestler, who tied Zabisko once on the stage of the old Grand Opera House in 1913, had been promenading with Mollie Malone, of the Champagne Girls and Gay Burlesquers Company. Both heard the fusillade and saw Mock—a streak of flying blue—pass within a few feet of them.
"God!" ejaculated Mollie. "Sure as shootin', that's Mock Hen—and he's murdered somebody!"
"It's Mock all right!" agreed Bull Neck. "That puts us in as witnesses or strike me!" And he looked at his watch—four one.
"Here, Burke, put your shoulder to this!" shouted Mooney from the cellar steps. "Now then!"
The two of them threw their combined weight against it, the lock flew open and they fell forward into the darkness. Three doors leading in different directions met the glare of Mooney's match. But the fugitive had a start of at least four minutes, which was three and a half more than he required.
Mock Hen took the left-hand of the three doors and crept along a passage opening into an empty opium parlor back of the Hip Leong clubroom.
Diving beneath one of the bunks he inserted his body between the lower planking at the back and the cellar wall, wormed his way some twelve feet, raised a trap and emerged into a tunnel by means of which and others he eventually reached the end of the block and the rooms of his friend Hong Sue.
Here he changed from the Oriental costume according to Chinese etiquette necessary to the homicide, into a nobby suit of American clothes, put on a false mustache, and walked boldly down Park Row, while just behind him Doyers and Pell Streets swarmed with bluecoats and excited citizenry.
Hudson House, the social settlement presided over by Miss Fanny and affected for business reasons by Mock Hen, was a mile and a half away. But Mock took his time. Twenty-five full minutes elapsed before he leisurely climbed the steps and slipped into the big reading room. There was no one there and Mock deftly turned back the hand of the automatic clock over the platform to three-fifty-five. Then he began to whistle. Presently Miss Fanny entered from the rear room, her face lighting with pleasure at the sight of her pet convert.
"Good afternoon, Mock Hen! You are early to-day."
Mock took her hand and stroked it affectionately.
"I go Fulton Mark' buy li'l' terrapin. Stop in on way to see dear Miss Fan'."
They stood thus for a moment, and while they did so the clock struck four.
"I go now!" said Mock suddenly. "Four o'clock already."
"It's early," answered Miss Fanny. "Won't you stay a little while?"
"I go now," he repeated with resolution. "Good-by li'l' teacher!"
She watched until his lithe figure passed through the door, and presently returned to the back room. Mock waited outside until she had disappeared.
Then he changed back the clock.
"We've got you, you blarsted heathen!" cried Mooney hoarsely as he and two others from the Central Office threw themselves upon Mock Hen on the landing outside the door of his flat. "Look out, Murtha. Pipe that thing under his arm!"
"It's a bloody turtle!" gasped Murtha, shuddering "What's the matter, boys?" inquired Mock. "Leggo my arm, can't yer? What'd yer want, anyway?"
"We want you, you yellow skunk!" retorted Mooney. "Open that door! Lively now!"
"Sure!" answered Mock amiably. "Come on in! What's bitin' yer?"
He unlocked the door and threw it open.
"Take a chair," he invited them. "Have a cigar? You there, Emma?"
Emma Pratt, clad in a wrapper and lying on the big double brass bedstead in the rear room, raised herself on one elbow.
"Yep!" she called through the passage. "Got the bird?"
Mock looked at Murtha, who was carrying the terrapin.
"Sure!" he called back. "Sit down, boys. What'd yer want? Can't yer tell a feller?"
"We want you for croaking Quong Lee!" snapped Mooney. "Where have you been?"
"Fulton Market—and Hudson House. I left here quarter of four. I haven't seen Quong Lee. Where was he killed?"
Mooney laughed sardonically.
"That'll do for you, Mock! Your alibi ain't worth a damn this time. I saw you myself."
"You saw someone else," Mock assured him politely. "I haven't been in Chinatown."
"Say, what yer doin' wit' my Chink?" demanded Emma, appearing in the doorway. "He was sittin' here wit' me all the afternoon, until about just before four I sent him over to Fulton Market to buy a bird. Who's been croaked, eh?"
"Aw, cut it out, Emma!" replied Mooney. "That old stuff won't go here. Your Chink's goin' to the chair. Murtha, look through the place while we put Mock in the wagon. Hell!" he added under his breath. "Won't this make Peckham sick!"
Mr. Ephraim Tutt just finished his morning mail when he was informed that Mr. Wong Get desired an interview. Though the old lawyer did not formally represent the Hip Leong Tong he was frequently retained by its individual members, who held him in high esteem, for they had always found him loyal to their interests and as much a stickler for honor as themselves. Moreover, between him and Wong Get there existed a curious sympathy as if in some previous state of existence Wong Get might have been Mr. Tutt, and Mr. Tutt Wong Get. Perhaps, however, it was merely because both were rather weary, sad and worldly wise.
Wong Get did not come alone. He was accompanied by two other Hip Leongs, the three forming the law committee appointed to retain the best available counsel to defend Mock Hen. In his expansive frock coat and bowler hat Wong might easily have excited mirth had it not been for the extreme dignity of his demeanor. They were there, he stated, to request Mr. Tutt to protect the interests of Mock Hen, and they were prepared to pay a cash retainer and sign a written contract binding themselves to a balance—so much if Mock should be convicted; so much if acquitted; so much if he should die in the course of the trial without having been either convicted or acquitted. It was, said Wong Get gently, a matter of grave importance and they would be glad to give Mr. Tutt time to think it over and decide upon his terms. Suppose, then, that they should return at noon? With this understanding, accordingly, they departed.
"There's no point in skinning a Chink just because he is a Chink," said the junior Tutt when his partner had explained the situation to him. "But it isn't the highest-class practise and they ought to pay well."
"What do you call well?" inquired Mr. Tutt.
"Oh, a thousand dollars down, a couple more if he's convicted, and