Poor Richard's Printshop

ACTING on the advice of one of the correspondents to our READER’S VERDICT column, we have secured a story which is piled with action from start to finish. Yet the author has by no means strayed from the limitations of science. Recently an invention was marketed in Germany, whereby citizens could protect themselves from hold-up men by an electrical contrivance which produced a paralyzing current of electricity when the thug approached his victim. Bullet-proof suits, too, were used in various stages of the world war; in fact, there is not a page of this thrilling story which is beyond logic and reason.

The Electrical Man

By Neil R. Jones

Into the secrets of San Francisco's Chinatown this story takes you, through underground passages and secret gambling dens.

This is the first complete "action story" published in this magazine, and the editor will be very pleased to receive comments from its readers. We believe that the fast moving plot will hold you enthralled from start to finish.

CHAPTER I
The "World Wide Ring"

"SOMETHING must be done, Moody, and at once!" exclaimed the chief of police.

Sure thing," answered Moody, "The whole country is being supplied by this dope ring’s activities."

James Moody, secret service man, and Chief of Police Kinney of San Francisco were quartered together at police headquarters in conference. Moody had just arrived from Washington.

"We have a clue," continued the Chief, "which leads us directly to Chinatown, and there we come up against a blank wall. Two of our ablest men, Hall and Morgan, have pursued the case and both came up missing. Two days ago, Hall’s body was found nailed up in a box, lying on one of the city dumps. The box bore Chinese characters on its outside, but could not be traced, though we quizzed every dump-cart driver in the city. None of them had brought the box to the dump, and as far as we could find, it might as well have popped up out of the ground during the night. The box was similar to hundreds of other Chinese packing boxes to be found throughout Chinatown."

"I supposed he was knifed," suggested Moody.

"No, the inquest proved that he was killed by some virulent poison, administered through two small pin pricks on his wrist."

"And Morgan?" queried the secret service man.

"No trace of Morgan has been found, and we can only make a guess as to his fate."

"Which probably wasn't a pleasant one either," ruminated Moody gravely.

Both men lapsed into silence, the police chief nervously tapping the desk with his fingers while the government official chewed on the butt of a cigar. Moody finally broke the silence.

"Then you think that the Chinks are responsible for this dope-running business?"

"I think," stated the Chief, "that this is merely one of the divisions of an organized world-wide dope ring in which there are others as well as the Chinese. The case is too much for the local police and detective force, audit is necessary for the federal government to lend their aid. We’re up against an exceedingly clever crowd; every move we make is blocked. We get just so far and no farther, and I the trail leads always to Chinatown. We’ve arrested addicts and peddlers, gave them the third degree, sending the peddlers up for prison terms, but for the life of me, Moody, we cannot get a one of them to turn state’s evidence. Why? Because none of them know who their employers are. What confronts us is an elaborate system of secrecy."

"San Francispo is being used as the distribution point—for the entire country, and it’s flowing into San Francisco like water. The baffling and most discouraging fact is, we have not yet nailed one case of it in transit. We have found it in the city several times, but never on the way in. I have almost come to believe that they make it here."

"Have any suspicions?" asked the Secret Service man.

"None whatever. It’s all done so cleverly that the:-e’s not a shred of suspicion or evidence to point at any one."

"Kinney, this is an extraordinary case you put t up to me, and requires the services of an extrao1'd1nary man. Did you ever hear.of Miller Rand?"

Moody leaned forward in his chair, a glint in his eyes, his hands gripping the arms of his chair as he put forth this question.

"I can’t say as I have," re?ected the Chief, "but wait—wasn’t he the one who cleared up the counterfeiters in New York?"

"Correct!" answered the Secret Service man, a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. "Let me tell you something about him. At fifteen, that boy was left an orphan, to be adopted by a wealthy uncle who put him through co1lege. Shortly after his college days, his uncle died, leaving his wealth to the boy. Possessed of such funds, and an instinctive love of radio, he equipped himself with an extensive laboratory and went into the fascinating occupation of experimenting on a large scale with the hobby of his high school and college days—radio,"

"He, among many others, shares the distinction of having made the radio, through gradual perfection, what it is today. He also became interested in criminology and has aided the police many times on smaller cases which proved to be puzzling. About a year ago when the government was after a counterfeiting gang in New York, his greatest accomplishment came. Though we had our suspicions as to who the main counterfeiters were, we couldn't get proof, or find out where the plant was located until Rand went to work on the case. He managed to install a miniature radio-broadcastlng set in the house of the suspect in such a manner that every word uttered in that house was caught by the delicate sending set and broadcast to his laboratory. Not only that, but he had a dictaphone there to record every word that came in over the radio. It wasn’t no time, hardly, before the suspect and his pals got together in a secret room of the house and spilled the whole works in one of their conferences. I was one of the government Secret Service men at Rand’s laboratory who listened in. Kinney, Miller Rand is the main we need for the job, and I'll get him!"

* * * *

The Unkillable Man

"WE are now ready for more actual and convincing tests, Jenkins."

"Any time you say the word to fire, sir," answered Jenkins.

Miller Rand, a young man of about thirty years, stood at one end of his laboratory with a mask before his face, while at the other end stood his assistant Jenkins, much older than he, formerly the serving man of Rand's late uncle.

"Fire!" commanded Rand.

Jenkins slowly raised a black automatic of high caliber and took careful aim at Rand's body. The gun roared four or five times while the radio expert stood and smiled as the bullets struck him. Jenkins lowered the automatic and gazed dubiously and with evident relief to see his employer still intact.

"Most unnatural, sir," spoke Jenkins. "Really, it makes me very nervous."

Jenkins lent emphasis to his words by wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Those were body shots, Jenkins: aim at my arms, legs and other parts of me. I want this test to be thorough."

The servant did as he was told, though rather reluctantly, and again the powerful automatic roared several times, while the only visible evidence revealing the fact that Rand had been hit was the movements of his clohtes were the bullets struck him. Once, when Jenkins struck his outstreched hand, the impact of the bullet whirled him around so that he stumbled and fell.

AT this juncture, two men dashed into the room. One shoved a gun at Jenkins wiht the terse command to "stick 'em up," and dropping his own gun to the floor with a clatter, the frightened servant man, who had been taken by surprise, "stuck 'em up" enthusiastically. The other man rushed to aid the apparently stricken Rand. The newcomer reached down to lift the criminologist to his feet, but the moment his hands touched Rand he gave one piercing yell and fell over backward to the floor, while Rand, unassisted, jumped quickly to his feet.

"Jenkins! Some water, quick!" snapped Rand as he bent over the body of his prostrate visitor.

He who had held the servant at the point of a pistol stood and gazed dumbly with mouth agape, deprived ot speech and action by the rapid succes sion of events, too complex in their situation for him to grasp all at once. Jenkins returned quickly with the water, and Rand dashed some of this into the face of the unconscious man who sat up revived, looking dazedly around the room.

"Well, Moody," laughed the radio expert and criminologist, "this is a queer of greeting old friends. Suppose you get off the floor and sit down in a chair."

"Say!" yelled the Secret Service man excitedly: "What happened to me, anyway? Where's the live wire I touched? What's going on here?" Who—"

"One question at a time, old chap, take it easy," remonstrated Rand to the excited government official. "I'll try to explain everything." Moody drew a handkerchief fromhis pocket and wiped the water from his face sat and listened to Rand’s explanation ofthe strange events to which he had been a witness and a participant.

The Bullet-Proof Vest

"YOU and Brown canae in just as Jenkins and I were testing out my latest invention, elu cidated Rand. "We—"

"But what's the idea of all the shooting? I thought sure we’d broken in upon an assassination fracas," deplored Moody.

"I’m sorry, Moody, that you and Brown weren’t able to carry through a rescue and nab the miscreant on the job," laughed the criminologist, "but it was all drama and part of the experiment. If those bullets had struck me, I’d be past rescuing."

A light broke in upon Moody’s mind.

"You’ve got a bullet-proof vest on?" he asked.

"Better than that," returned Rand, "for all of my clothes are bullet-proof, even my shoes, gloves, and mask. You will notice that my suit-coat, while conforming to the present style in other ways, has a rather high collar. You will also notice (and here the criminologist picked up from a nearby a table a curved mask) that my face is completely covered. You see, Moody, with the exceptions of my face and the back of my neck, I am entirely protected from bullets. I am now making a bullet-proof cap which I can pull over my face, so I can avoid attracting attention in the street or as I move amongst criminals."

"That’s a practical idea," interjected Moody, who in his absorption over Rand’s disclosure, had forgotten all about his recent disaster when he had attempted to lift Rand off the floor.

"I have quite an array of this clothing of different types made to fit me," continued the criminologist. "But that isn’t the only feature concerning this clothing, Moody, as you have already found out for yourself. It is electrified, carrying a voltage high enough to kill a man outright. I can control it so that it will merely stun a person momentarily, or produce a bad shock. To prevent my receiving a shock, the lining of all my clothes are made of a light durable material which effectually insulates me from the fine pliable and jointed wires which are woven through the cloth at frequent intervals, covering my entire clothing from head to foot with a network of live wires."

A Miniature Radio Set

"BUT where do you get your current and how do you control it?" queried the Secret Service man. "I don’t see as you’re carrying any storage batteries."

"Moody, I don’t want you or Brown to whisper a word of this to anyone!" admonished Rand warningly. "I’ve worked on this for a long time, and when it is perfected to the utmost, I am going to turn it over to the government. A huge dynamo I have installed in the basement supplies my suit with its current by radio!"

Rand opened his coat to disclose on his vest a harrow pocket entirely enclosed in an aluminum guard case.

"In here is the miniature radio set, not so remarkable when you come to consider the fact that small workable sets have been enclosed in a watch case. When I wish to control the current, I have only to reabh inside my coat and manipulate the amplifier, and I can receive at my desire any amount of current that I wish. It will function properly within a three-hundred mile radius of the broadcaster. There rs one condition regarding my electric suit, however, which renders the wearing of it dangerous. While wearing jt, I must take care that it doesn’t become wet, for water destroys the insulation, and acts as a conductor. If I should get wet, say in a rainstorm, and the current was at a very high voltage, T would be electrocuted."

The two Secret Service men sat dumbfounded in surprise and admiration as they listened to the explanation concerning the functioning of this product derived from the cool, calculating mind of the scientist-detective.

"Jenkins and I were proving the suit’s invulnerable qualities towards bullets when you came in," said Rand, "and we were just about to give it the second test to prove its effectiveness against a massed attack or a hand-to-hand combat when you saved us the trouble, or rather, saved Jenkins the trouble. You came in rather quickly, and didn’t give me a chance to lower the current."

"Oh, that’s alright," interposed Moody, "I guess I’m not hurt any, and perhaps it was worth the shock to know I was the first one to give it the works."

They all jotoed in alaugh followmg this remark -except Jenkins who was doubtful as to the honors attached to being the tot one to test out the suit's electrical qualities, There was one thing that Jenkins was sure of; that Moody was his friend for life. Jenkins never forgot a favor.

"Rand, you haven't done any detective work since last year in New York, when we tracked down that counterfeiting gang, have you?" queried Moody, getting down to the business that had brought him to the laboratory. "How would you like to take a case for the government? You are just the man we need for a job out on the Pacific coast."

As the Secret Service man unfolded the story of the mysterious dope ring to the radio expert and criminologist, he noticed a peculiar gleam of interest in the latter's eyes, all of which assured Moody that Miller Rand would take the case.

CHAPTER II
Sin Kiang

SIN Kiang was a wealthy Chinese merchant who realized a flourishing business in San Francisco's Chinatown. He was both respected and revered by his yellow brethren who looked up to him as a man of influence and great wisdom. His establishment was based on the department store plan, for he possessed a curio shop, a restaurant and a clothing store. For these, and Sundry other reasons, Sin Kiang was a very self satisfied man.

Beneath the innocent appearing curio shop, lay a carefully concealed gambling joint, where one might also "hit the pipe" if he wished. Though the police were fully aware of the hypocritical nature of the curio shop, they left it unmolested because of its peaceful character, and also because it served as a magnet to attract the underworld denizens of Chinatown. Many a promising clue had the detective force picked up in the underground gambling den of Sin Kiang. Apparently, thls was Sin's only weakness which led him from the narrow path of righteousness.

Sin could usually be found in the back of his curio shop seated on a satin-covered bench, bliss fully smoking h1s long plpe among the relics of old Cathay Which constituted his stock-in-trade. A visitor amid the Oriental surroundings of the curio shop seemed transported back to the mysterious country of ancient origin. The air of the semigloomy curio shop bore the odor of sandalwood and suggested faintly other elusive, Oriental and fumes. In a sequestered nook of this unique bit the Orient, Sin blissfully smoked his pipe and dreamed on, an innocent look on his bland, yellow countenance from which drooped two lank, black mouatachios.

If the curio shop's atmosphere expresssed the subtle mysterious beauty and and grandeur of the East, the gambling den beneath was a veritable "Mr. Hyde" in contrast. The air of the place hung thick with tobacco smoke, slightly tinged with the pungent aroma of opium. The center of the room contained a table surmounted by a roulette wheel which rotated like a gigantic top as the little ivory ball, guided by the fickle hand of Fortune, danced merrily from pocket to pocket in the opposite direction taken by the spinning wheel. Its clicking tune played a song of hope and promise into the ears of the motley array of humanity crowded around the layout. The dregs of civilization, interspersed by a scattering of adventurers amd curiosity seekers, gazed as one man, their eyes fastened on the hypnotic influence of the cavorting ball, whose spell would only be broken when it rested permanently in one of the thirty-eight pockets ranged at the wheel's inner rim, deciding all bets and clearing the table for new wagers. A sallow, sleepy-eyed Celestial attended the wheel, remaining seadted at one end of the table while he skillfully manipulated chips and money with a long rake.

In other parts of the establishment, card players lounged at various tables scattered in a haphazard manner throughout the room. At the farther end, stood a bar against which a few Chinamen and other rough-looking individuals lounged, either drinking or else leaning back with elbows cocked upon the bar's edge, gazing abstractly through the smoky atmosphere which produced ringed halos around the eletric lights. Among these assembled in the place, were two sea-faring men, a negro two or three smartly-dressed adventurers, several Italians who gabbled among themselves in their native tongue, a large number of Chinese and four or five disreputable-looking hoboes.

Out of the latter, a dirty-looking vagrant, sat alone at a table in one corner of the room. One elbow rested on the table, the hand cupping a vacantfaced covered by a wild outgrowth of stubbled beard. The other arm drooped limply over the table's edge. A battered hat rested askew his head while his clothes suggested that the laundrymen had gone on strike. A curious item concerning this particular driftwood on the current of life was the fact that he wore tight-fitting gloves. The two sea-faring men, seated at a table in another part of the room, whispered together, casting frequent, speculative glances at the drunk and besotted-looking individual seated alone at the table.

"BLIME! If I ain't shanghaied wuss blokes th'n that 'un," spoke one of the sailers in low tones to the other, "The Yellow Dolphin be 'ard put fer 'ands on the return voyage, an' the Cap says if there bean't enough fer hire, we're to shanghai 'em and er gets ten shillin' per man, Hensley."

"’Ard up fer ands is right, Spratt," the other, "when we 'aves ter bring in such miserable landlubbers as that ’un, but ten shillin’ is ten shillin’ and orders be orders, Lord 'elp me!"

"'E ought not ter be such a ’ard case to handle," soliloquized the first sailor hopefully. "We’ll wait and foller ’im out."

"Blast me, matey," retorted the other, "'e don’t need the two of us to ’andle a rum case o’ the likes o’ ’im. I got me bloomin’ eyes on a likely lookin’ bloke in the eatin’ ’ouse up yoner. You stays ’ere and bring this bloke to our good ship, which be waitin’ in the bay, while I gets my man upstairs."

Spratt ordered some drink brought to his table, while he kept a careful eye on the decrepit vagrant who sat alone. The other sailor had in the meantime traversed a narrow winding passage and up a flight of stairs into the restaurant of Sin Kiang, located two doors from his curio shop. The sailor waited patiently until a half hour’s time was up, apparently taking no notice of the down and out vagrant who finally arose to leave, stumbling along with a wobbly, faltering step that suggested a liquor-befogged brain. The hard-faced sailor with one hand carelessly shoved into a coat pocket also arose, and slowly followed his quarry into the passage which led to the restaurant.

Once within the darkened passage, the gob, with stealthy strides, quickly overtook the unsuspecting hobo. His hand emerged from his pocket, firmly clasping something which he raised to bring down upon the vagrant’s head. As his arm swiftly descended, the vagrant whirled with amazing alacrity so that the: object, though missing his head, struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder. The surprised sailor now came to grips with the hobo who seemed to have undergone a rapid transformation. Spratt was a powerful man but the fact appeared to weigh little in his favor as he attempted to subdue his opponent. Suddenly the sailor went spinning to the floor as the hobo, with a deft twist of his combatant’s wrist, made that worthy release his hold and remain for a moment off balance. As the gob, bewildered by this sudden activity and surprising agility of the weak, drunken vagrant, arose to his feet, the trampish-looking person thrust his hand inside his coat, presumably for a weapon of some kind. He apparently could not find it for his gloved hand came out of his coat empty. The sailor, now on his feet once more, made a lunge for the hobo, who with clenched fist gave him a brisk rap on the chin. Without a word, and as if he had been shot, the sailor recoiled from the light blow and sank unconscious to the floor.

The tramp proceeded to change his appearance slightly. His hat, which had been knocked off and trampled in the struggle, he let lie, pulling a cap trom a coat pocket and jamming it on his head, He hastily discarded his coat and left it by the side of the sailor along with a handkerchief with which he had industriously wiped his entire face. Walking with leisurely step, he traversed the length of the corridor to climb the flight of steps and give three, short, smart raps on the door, which presently opened. Attired in a slightly soiled sport sweater, he walked out through the restaurant and into the streets of Chinatown.

The Subterranean Den

IN the meantime, the sailor's companion, who had previously ascended to the restaurant, began to get impatient for the appearance of his shipmate and the shanghaied hobo. A man in a sport sweater and cap came up through the passage but he was the only one the sailor saw emerge from the subterranean gambling den. The gob finally arose and started down the stairs and passageway to investigate, stumbling over his companion who was slowly and uncertainly getting to his feet.

"Lor’ lumme, matey!" ejaculated the seaman, recognizing his companion, "Be this any way to gather ’ands fer the Yellow Dolphin? 'Ere you he a fillin’ up wi' grog, and lettin’ ten shillin' walk away from yuh!"

"T’ll wi’ yer ten shillin’, I say," grumbled Spratt, "if yuh were so keen fer ten shillin’, w’y didn’t yuh stop ’im yerself ? ’E must ’ave passed yuh up in the eatin' room or else Vs back in the joint agin. Anyways, a case packin’ a wallop like ’e give me is worth more’n a m easily ten shillin’. It were just as if a bolt o’ lightnin’ struck me."

Spratt never knew how close his comparison came to the exact truth.

Up on the streets of Chinatown, Miller Rand wondered if his disguise had been penetrated by the agents of the dope ring, and whether or not the two sailors were emissaries sent to dispose of him, even as Hall and Morgan had met their fate.

* * * * * *

"Sterling," spoke Chief of Police Kinney, with gravity in his voice, "you know the penalty for dope peddling! You’ve been caught with the goods, and furthermore you have pleaded guilty. You claim that aside from one person you do not know who your superiors are. If you will turn state's evidence, I’ll see that you go free. Tell us all that you know concerning this man with whom you were doing business."

The Chief, Miller Rand and two other detectives were putting the man, an arrested dope peddler, through the third degree. He had been taken into custody that very morning, and after fifteen minutes of concentrated grilling, Sterling had made this single confession, when he had been made to realize that it would be to his own advantage.

"He called himself Smith, sir," elicited Sterling, "though I'm sure that it wasn’t his name for he was a foreigner, speaking English with a slight accent. I’d venture to say he was a European, but of what nationality I do not know. He was dark complexioned with a short, black moustache. When I did business with him, we always met in some moving picture house that he would prescribe beforehand where, sitting next to one another in the dark, he could easily transfer the packages of dope to me without fear of observation. That's abnout all I know concerning him, sit, except that he was always on hand wherever he said he would be."

The CHief contined to quiz him on different point until all information, which was not a great deal, had been elicited. Finally he said:

"Sterling, if you'll keep a close mouth on you, acting just as if nothing had happened, I'll let you out on parole. You'd going to be given a chance to help us."

Turning to Miller Rand, the CHief also addressed him:

"Rand, you'll be on hand to shadow this man that Sperling speaks of the next time he meets him."

Rand Follows

THE detective sat a few seats behind Sterling and his companion, a short, thick-set dark visaged man in one of San Francisco's moving picture houses. After having apparently seen the drama through, the vendor of dope left Sterling and emerged from the establishment, followed by the detective. Rand found it very easy to follow his quarry who appeared very unconcerned for a criminal, not once performing any act which might throw a sleuth off the track, for such men engaged in nefarious proceedings such as the occupation of the alleged Smith, are always suspecting a trap, and a guilty conscience suggests to them the possibilities that they may be followed. But this dope runner appeared very well satisfied with the fact that he was entirely unsuspected, casting not one furtive glance to side or to the rear.

To a criminologist like Rand, this was a queer case for him to understand, until rounding a corner five or six blocks from the motion picture house, the man's apparent gullibility became plain. A shot rang out behind the detective and a bullet thudded into his back. Turning quickly, the criminologist drew his own pistol and fired at the figure which left the shelter of a tree a short distance up the street to slink off into the dakrness of the night. As the detective's gun roared, the retreating man sank to the pavement, even as Rand would have done had he not been protected by his bullet-proof clothes. Pistol in hand, he approached the fallen figure of his assassin. As he bent over the man, another shot rang out, thie time the bullet missing the detective completely. One guess was sufficient for the criminologist to realize that the last shot had been fired by the man he had just been shadowing, and he realixed that in a clever attempt to do away with him he, the shadower, had been shadowed. But by whom? Turning, the man face up, Rand gazed into the ashen-hued face of Sterling, whose countenance was already mantled with the gray veil of death.

Later, on hearing Rand relate his experiences, the Chief gave out the following theory:

"He was offered a small fortune to kill you, Rand. He knew that if he played his hand with the dope ring, he would be amply rewarded, whereas, if he came over to our side, he would merely be pardoned, and stand the chances of being killed by some agent of the dope ring for his treachery."

Disguised

DURING the following two weeks, Miller Rand haunted the divesof Chinatown in various disguises. A great aid to his patience was the fact that the case was of an intersting nature, placing him in such a position that he experienced few dull moments. His Oriental surroundings fascinated him and he was never tired of watching the various yellow faces which flitted by him.

As Rand, disguised as a typical gangster, lounged against a brick building late one afternoon, he was startled by a familiar face which passed him, the face for which he had been searching for weeks. The face, however, had been slightlyaltered since he had seen it the last time, for it was devoid of the black moustache whieh had adorned it on the previous occasion of their meetine. What few slight changes there were did not deceive the keen-eyed detective who instantly recognized the man he had shadowed from the theatre two weeks before. Rand was amused to notice that on this day he did not appear so nonchalant and casual as the time when he had purposely allowed the detective to follow him. The dope vendor seemed in a hurry, though he stopped now and then to gaze in a shop window evidently interested in some article, though in reality he was taking a careful look but of the corner of his eyes to assure his uneasy mind that he was not being followed. SMith, which we shall call him (knowing no other name) had been extremely cautious since he and Sterling had met with disaster in the attempt to dispose of Rand, the third man to take the case, as they had done away with Morgan and Hall.

Smith had apparently reached his destination, for he rapidly ascended a flight of steps to enter the three-story warehouse and place of business of Minn Wong, whose shingle advertised the fact that he was engaged in the trade of tea importation. THe detective congratulated himself on the face that he was coincidence had placed him at that vantage point instead of at some point where it would have been necessary to have followed Smith, running the risk of being discovered by the suspicious dope runner. Rand continued to assume his lounging attitude as he closely watched the entrance into which Smith had disappeared. In a short time, his patience was rewarded by the reappearance of Smith who in company with another man, evidently a foreigner also, walked back down the street in the direction from which he had come. The detective slipped into a doorway and remained unobserved as the two walked past, neither of them casting a glance at the tough who lounged just inside the entrance of a tobacco store. Rand did not attempt to follow them until they had passed up the street and turned the corner, and then he walked leisurely to the corner, where he watched their reflection in a show window on the opposite sidee of the street. He noted with satisfaction that they turned into the restaurant which led into the gambling den of Sin Kiang.

Ten minutes later, a rough-looking personage entered the hidden Chinese den, and lounged into a seat at a table not far removed from the one where sat two dark visaged men engaged earnestly in low conversation. Rand bruskly ordered a drink from the almond-eyed Celestial who came to serve his wants and tried to catch the words of the two men, expecting them to be in some foreign language, many of which were well known to him. Imagine his surprise when, catching occasional snatches of their conversation as one or the other of them raised their voices, he ascertained their talk to be in Chinese of which he knew not a Word. He felt thoroughly disgusted, but listened nevertheless. From time to time, the criminologist noticed that a certain series of syllables were repeated. These words were made noticeable to Rand by a peculiar inflection of the voice when the words were spoken. The detective repeated the Chinese syllables over and over to himself as he had heard them, hoping to remember them, for they seemed laden with portent.

With seemingly careless forearm, the detective sent his glass of liquor clattering to the floor, the glass smashing into fragments. Every eye in the room was focused in his direction, including the eyes of the two gentlemen who had been discoursing together in Chinese. Out of an upper pocket in Rand’s coat came an indistinct, muffled click, as from a ragged tear in the detective’s coat, the lens of a tiny, fiat camera recorded the permanent impressions of the two dark countenances turned towards him in temporary alarm at the crashing of the liquor mug to the floor.

CHAPTER III
Ming Wong

THAT evening, Rand, attired in street clothes, set out to investigate the warehouse of Ming Wong, importer of tea. Stopping at a Chinese laundry, the proprietor being a familiar acquaintance of his, the detective drew a slip of Paper rom his pocket which was inscribed with Phonetics.

"I'd like to have you tell me what this means in Chinese, Ching."

The detective carefully voiced each syllable on he paper in its proper order. For a moment, the aundryman appeared puzzled and nonplussed, until after Rand, in his crude enunciation of Chinese had repeated the series of syllables for about the tenth time, and then a light of understanding broke upon the Chinaman’s countenance as he repeated something in his native jargon which bore a distant resemblance to what the detective had been saying.

"Him say ‘longitude a hundled twenty-eightee and latitude thlutty-seb’m’," elucidated the yellow man.

"Longitude, one hundred twenty-eight and latitude, thirty-seven," repeated the detective reflectively.

Pressing a bill into the hands of his interpreter and registering his thanks, Rand stroke off into the night towards the vicinity which held the warehouse of Ming Wong.

The warehouse was located on one of Chinatown’s dark cross-streets, its three stories of dark, blank windows frowning menacingly down upon the detective who lurked amid the shadows, avoiding the open spots which were faintly illuminated by the ghostly radiance of a gibbous moon, hanging just above the horizon. Rand glanced up and down the street which was entirely devoid of humanity at this lonely hour of midnight. With silent tread, the criminologist stole up the steps to the entrance and applied various keys until after several unsuccessful trials, the lock slid aside and the detective gently shoved the door inward. Entering the dark interior of the tea house, he softly closed the door and relocked it.

Standing in the gloom, Rand hesitated while he gained his bearings. He listened for sounds of a watchman, but he heard none, only a thick darkness heavy with silence lay about him, oppressive with grim, evil forebodings. The detective reached into a side pocket and drew forth a small flashlight which threw a dull, red glare against the Stygian background. He found that he was in a low-ceiled entrance corridor from which led three doors. Over one was inscribed the word "OFFICE" above which were Chinese characters, the equivalent of the English word, the detective believed. The other two doors led to the cellar and the ground floor of the warehouse. The criminologist decided to enter the office first of all and see what he could find that might lead to a solution of the dope runner’s interest in the place. Rand had a feeling that he was at last on the right road to the unraveling of San Francisco’s dope mystery, which hi aTreafy claimed the lives of two clever sleuths baffled completely the local authorities, and claimed the attention of the United States Secret Service which was determined to eradicate the dope menace Opening the office door, which he found unlocked, Rand entered, and played his light over the interior of the room, the subdued, red glare disclosing a large wall safe, a desk, chairs, office files and other equipment to be found in a modern office.

The Sale Cracker

HE turned his attention to the large wall safe, twirling the combination with practiced fingers as with ear thrust against the massive steel front, he listened attentively for the tell-tale click of the falling tumblers. He took from his racket a small earphone, an invention of his own and listened at the safe, now turning the dial more slowly. A satisfied gleam appeared in his eyes as his hand came off from the dial and gave a slight tug at the handle. The door swung around disclosing to the detective the interior. So engrossed was he in opening the cafe, the detective did not hear a faint rolling noise made by a panel in the wall as it slid aside. A dark form sneaked out of the aperture and slipped silently across the room with arm upraised, gradually approaching the detective who was unaware of the creeping danger. Nearer and nearer crept the figure towards the unsuspecting man who had just crowned his efforts a success. The assassin, with the stealth of a cat, now stood directly behind the victim, the fitful reflection of the flashlight falling upon long, naked upraised arm that clutched a shining dagger. A fiendish expression of cruel anticipation lay upon the Mongolian features set in a hideous grimace. With a sharp, low cry of triumph, the arm descended viciously, and the gleaming dagger sought a resting place between the detective’s ribs.

A rasping clash sounded as the knife struck Rand in the back and dropped from the shuddering form of the electrocuted Chinaman, whose cruel face, caught and frozen in its gleam of triumph by the electric current, tottered and fell. The eyes glazed, the body stiffened, and another son of Buddha was gathered to his fathers. Rand had taken no chances on entereing the warehouse, and had turned on the deadly current to its maximum capacity.

On hearing the low cry of the Selectial, the startled detective turned quickly, just as the knife grated against the impentrable, fine mesh metal work of his bullet-proof clothing. Aside from the rough tear on the surface of his wasitcost, and a number of severed electrical wires, the detective was not the worse for the ordeal. The surprised criminologist rapidly took in the situation as he gazed upon the stiffened corpse of the Chinaman and the keen-edged dagger which lay on the floor. Picking up the knife, he shuddered, imagining in his mind, what would have happened to him had it not been for his electrified, bullet-proof clothing. The daggaer was long, thin and narrow, with broad metal hilt, wodden handle and an ugly-looking blade. HIs hand must have been in contact with the metal hilt when struck, the detective deduced, as the wooden handle would not have acted as a conductor of the electric current.

Rand flashed his searchlight around the room until it alighted on the opening in the wall where the panel had slid back and allowed the Chinaman entrance. The detective decided to investigate this first, so leaving the dead body of the Celestial where it had fallen, he stepped into the opening to find himself in a narrow passageway at the foot of a stairway. WIth silent tread, he slowly ascended the steps which led up between the partition, soopn coming to the top of the stairway ehich ended blankly against a boarded-ceiling. The detective flashed his light around in search of another panel or concealed passageway but there were no indiciations of any. He climbed a step higher, and in doing so he felt the stair give slightly beneath his feet. GLancing upward, he saw a section of the ceiling in the narrow passageway raise slowly above him on its own volition, disclosing to his eyes an opening into a fair-sized room. As the amazred detective entered the secret room which he percieved had neither doors nor windows, the trap in the floor swung slowly and silently back into place.

The Secret Chamber

HIS searchlight revealed a lounge and a pipe in one corner of the room. The detective smelled of the pipe’s bowl which gave off the aroma of burnt opium. An easy chair occupied the center of the room directly under a shaded light. Rand pulled the light cord and the hidden chamber was suffused with a soft, green glow. What interested him particularly were two objects in the room, one of which, on examining it, Rand found to be a wooden leg with a hollow interior. Leaning it back into the corner where he found it, the criminologist now turned his attention to the other object which had piqued his interest, a black teak wood chest.

Unlocking the black hd, the detective raised it and peered inside. A hairy, black ball unfolded itself from a dark corner of the chest and raced like lightning up the arm of Rand, stopping ate the elbow where it gave a few spasmodic convulsions and fell to the floor! It all occurred in a split part of a second. (A big, black tarantula lay dead on the floor, once again, Rand's electrified clothing had saved him from a hideous death!) He gazed spellbound at the poisonous spider whose bite is a quick painful death, and his mind recalled the vivid account recited to him by Moody concerning the death of Hall whose body had been found in a Chinese packing-box on the city dump, two small pin pricks in his wrist. The criminologist crushed the hairy body of the huge, malignant insect beneath his heel as a shudder of revulsion ran through him at the memory of Hall’s fate. Had Hall met his doom in this very room, or were there others of this dread spider in Chinatown? Rand wondered.

He cautiously looked into the chest once more and saw a few inches below the first cover, another sealed chest. On top of this lay the remains of a mouse with which the captive tarantula had been fed. Rand hesitated to open the second chest, not knowing what manner of danger he might meet with, but steeling himself to the task at hand, he jerked the lid open and sprang back. His caution was unnecessary, however. A low whistle escaped him as he gazed at the contents of the inner chest. Arranged neatly inside, lay case after case of dope! Opium, morphine, heroin, cocaine and other drugs comprised the illicit contents, enough to kill off the population of a small village. After taking stock of the entire cache, he slowly closed down both lids, leaving the contents as he had found them, for there was other work to be accomplished that night, and he must get back to the safe once more.

A grim smile played over his countenance as a thought suddenly struck him. Lifting the trapdoor in the floor, the detective descended the stairs to where he had left the dead Celestial in the office. Throwing the cadaver over his shoulder, he returned once more to the secret room where he deposited his clammy burden before the teakwood chest. He dropped the lifeless body across the chest, the top of which he unlatched and threw back. With the keen point of his late assassin's knife, he made two small incisions, barely larger than pin pricks, on the Celestial’s wrist, and placed the dagger in the sash which the Chinaman wore, after which he pounded the clenched fist of the corpse into the mangled remains of the giant spider which lay on the floor before the chest. Consummating his grisly task, he snapped off the light, turned on his own flashlight, and returned to the office, closing behind him the panel entrance of the hidden corridor.

The interior of the safe, the detective discovered, comprised a group of small drawers. Hoping to find more evidence of some kind, the criminologist opened them in turn, surveying their contents which he found quite harmless. One particular drawer appeared stuck, and Rand pulled with all his might but could not budge it. Shoving towards one side in an attempt to loosen the stubborn drawer, the whole back of the safe suddenly swung around, leaving a gaping hole behind it. The detective wondered if the entire warehouse was honeycombed with secret passageways.

Up the Ladder

"I’LL see where this leads to," remarked Rand to no one in particular, as he carefully pped into the alcove behind the safe.

A round hole, large enough for a man to crawl through, was cut in the floor, a rickety, wooden ladder emerging from out of it. Rand descended this, taking for granted that it led to the cellar below. In this, however, he was mistaken for the passage did not end at the cellar level. The flashlight disclosed smooth, circular walls which descended far beneath out of range of the searchlight’s rays. A short distance below the entrance, the rickety ladder came to an end at a small landing. From here down, the wooden ladder was supplanted by an iron one which was set into the walls of the pit. The pit’s bottom rested far beneath the ground level, for the rays of the flashlight failed to strike the bottom, the iron ladder appearing to continue indefinitely into the blackness below. Should he continue or go back? What unforeseen dangers lurked in the black void beneath him? Suppose his flashlight died out leaving him to strive blindly amid the utter darkness?

The detective hesitated, but only for a moment, as he resolutely continued his descent. He estimated, by counting the iron rungs as he descended, that he was now approximately eighty feet below the earth’s surface. Stopping to shine his light downward, he caught sight of its faint reflection a short distance of some fifteen or twenty feet below him. At last he stepped on the damp, musty bottom of the gloomy pit where he flashed his light around until it lit on a cave-like opening. Entering the confines of the underground tunnel, he set out to follow it to its termination, wherever that might be. The long tunnel, which was on a straightway course, led on a gentle incline gradually upward. It -was lined with rough boards which, torn off here and there, revealed the sidewalls of earth. Rand followed this for a considerable ways not daring to estimate the distance he had covered, for in such a place underground the sense, of distance is very deceiving.

Presently the tunnel emerged into broader proportions, the floor and walls of which were built of stone work. Ahead of him Rand saw the tunnel converge into a small doorway which he crossed. Without warning, one of the stone flags tilted quickly under his feet, and before he could leap to safety, he was precipitated into a dark gulf beneath. He couldn’t have fallen far because with a light jar he landed upon something soft. Above him, a grating sound announced that his mode of entrance was closed. The carefully balanced stone had swung back in place. His flashlight, still lit, had landed undamaged a short distance from him. By its light, the detective saw that the soft material which had broken his fall, and had also saved the flashlight, was straw.

He arose on one knee and reached for the light, but his outstretched hand was frozen into immobility by a hollow cough which issued from out of the dark. His hair stood on end as a creaking sound arose, followed by a shuffling movement. Though a brave man, the harrowing experiences and his gloomy surroundings had shaken the nerve of the criminologist whose heart beat a faster pace as he detected the breathing of an animal approaching him from the darkness with shuffling gait. Rand realized one satisfaction. If the dreaded terror which stalked the dark touched him, it would die instantly.

Brooker Morgan

RETRIEVING the flashlight from where it had fallen, the detective flashed it on this new menace which threatened. With a gasp of suiprise, Rand stared at the apparition standing disclosed in the glare of the light. A filthy, ragged, halfnaked man with long, straggling hair and wild, unkempt beard stood with hands over his eyes to protect them from the blinding glare.

"For God’s sake! Who are you and what are you doing here?" ejaculated Rand.

"I am Brooker Morgan of the San Francisco detective bureau," calmly announced the ragged, dirty figure. "Who am I addressing? Are you a friend?"

"Morgan!" exploded Rand. "Then you re not dead!"

The criminologist was too astounded by the discovery to say more.

"I’m as much alive as you," answered Morgan simply, "and who are you?" "Miller Rand of the United Stetes Secret Service, Morgan, and here on the same business which brought you. No! Don't touch me, if you value your life!" replied the criminoiogist as he drew quiekly hack from the proffered hand which Morgan extended to him.

Rand reached inside his coat, snapped back the little rod which turned off his tiny, aluminumencased radio set, and clasped the grimy hand of the missing detective who had been taken for dead.

"You’ve been given up as dead for over a month, Morgan. How did you get here?"

"I’ll try and make a long story short. After I had worked for a few days on the case, I traced a clue to the Green Dragon, the worst dive in Chinatown, or perhaps in all San Francisco. Rand, I discovered two of the influential operators of this dope ring, and I followed them to the Green Dragon. I thought my disguise perfect, but the cunning fiends must have suspected me, for a short time after I entered, someone rapped me over the head. I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but when I came to I was in this fithy dungeon behind those bars, virtually a caged animal. Here I’ve been for God only knows how long—you say a month—I don’t know, for the light of day never penetrates this dirty hole which must be under some basement Here I’ve been a prisoner in this damp, dark dungeon in solitary confinement except for the company of the fierce, hungry rats which I occasionally have to fight off, and the silent-tongued Chinaman who brings me my meals."

"It’s a wonder they haven’t put you out of the wat," suggested Rand, and he went on to tell how Hall had met his fate. He also told Morgan of his own experiences concerning the case.

Morgan expressed great surprise and wonder as Rand recounted to him the tales of how his electrified bullet-proof clothing had saved him from death three times already. Morgan expressed a desire to see a demonstration of the radio expert’s invention so Rand, turning on his tiny radio set, and adjusting the amplifier slightly, rested his gloved hand on the wrist of his companion. Morgan immediately jumped back, involuntarily jerking his wrist away from the detective’s grasp with a short exclamation as he felt the effects of the electric current.

Rats

"HERE, try it on one of the rats; they won't run from you," suggested Morgan, vigorously rubbing his wrist.

Turning the current on to its full power, Rand approached and held a gloved finger before a bold, curious rodent who had come out of a dark hole seeing the flashlight's rays. His shoe-button eyes blinked rapidly for a moment, dazed by the light and then, seeing the detective's finger held temptingly under his nose he made a vicious snap and seized it. With a visible shudder, the huge rat stiffened, and as the detective removed his finger from between the rodent's teeth, the bared fangs remained open. The animal stood, dead, a life-like image, just as he had been when Rand electrocuted him.

"What good is that going to do now that we are both prisoners?" queried Morgan with crestfallen attitude.

"Whwn will your jailor be around to this cell again?"

"He should be here soon, for I am very hungry. Time doesn’t mean much fown in thie black hole."

"Has he the keys with him?"

"Yes."

"Do as I say and we’ll be out of here in short order. When he comes do not act as if there was anyone here except yourself."

Rand snapped off his light and the two waited. They must have waited for nearly an hour, and Rand was becoming impatient, when a door clanged somewhere beyond the cell, and a taciturn, ugly looking celestial appeared with a light and some food. Setting his light in front of the iron door he gazed curiously between the bars to see what the captive might be doing. Apparently he was sitting on a pile of rags in the corner, and this appeared to satisfy the Chinaman, for he inserted a plate of food through an interstice between two columns of iron bars. As he set the plate down inside, a gloved hand stole softly out of the darkness at one side of the door and seized his wrist. The Chinese jailor never knew what happened to him. He shuddered and grew paralyzed; his face set in stupid surprise. Another gloved hand appeared from between the bars and the the jailor's body was jerked against the door as the other hand deftly searched his clothes, bringing forth a ring of keys, after which the hand gave a violent shove, sending Chinaman out into the passage, well away from the doorway. The hand inserted one of the keys into the lock which clicked and allowed the door to be swung open. All this had occurred within a minute’s time, following the moment at which the Chinaman had thrust the victuals through the door.

"Come on, Morgan, the way is clear."

Rand turned off his radio set, and Morgan, who had been caged in the dark dungeon for over a month, came quickly out of the dismal place which had become so hateful to him.

"Did you kill him?" he asked.

"I don’t know," replied Rand. "I didn’t have the amplifier turned to the limit, but at that, he sure got one awful shock; Toss him inside and shut the door."

This the escaned captive heartily did, and the two detectives walked up the corridor together, a strange contrasting sight. One was clean shaven and respectable looking; the other was dirty, with long, tangled hair, a rough beard, and ragged clothes.

Lost

"DO you know where we are, Morgan?" the criminologist asked, as they ascended a stone stairway.

"I'm not positive, but I believe we are somewhere beneath the Green Dragon."

"That’s two blocks from the warehouse, where i entered the tunnel, and on another street," stated Rand.

As they reached the top of the stairs and flashed the light about them, they found themselves in a room built of stonework. Something about it struck Rand as familiar, as he noticed the two doorways, one at each end of the room.

"Here’s where I made my sudden entrance into your dungeon," remarked Rand as he pointed to broad flagstone set just inside the doorway. "I know where this door leads to; where the other one goes I do not know, but doubtless it is dangerous to find out under the present circumstances, Step across this stone, don’t place your foot on it, Morgan, or you’ll be back keeping company with your jailor."

Once across the treacherous place, Rand turned and lightly depressed the rock with his foot, examining it closely.

"Just as I thought," he observed to Morgan, it is evenly balanced on a thick iron rod which runs through its center, and is set in the stonework on either side of it. The bottom side is bevelled.

The two rapidly pursued their way through the tunnel, which gradually slanted down until it reach ed the bottom of the pit beneath the warehouse. Reaching this, the two climbed the long ladder of iron rungs set in the wall of the dark pit. As they gained the top, Morgan remarked:

"I wonder why they ever dug so deep before they started that tunnel?"

"Because they folloived a stratum of easier digging, but at that it must have taken them a long time, for the tunnel is a good two hundred yards in length."

From the room behind the safe, they entered into the safe itself out of which they stepped into the warehouse office. Rand closed both doors and locked the safe. As they ventured out of the warehouse, they perceived that the gray mantle of dawn suffused the sky, the old moon gradually sinking in the west, giving up its reign of the night to the sun, whose dazzling orbwrould soon appear above the eastern horizon in a blaze of glory, dimming the light of the morning star set like a scintillating diamond high in the gray-blue sky.

Rand was glad that they had quitted the place before business operations were begun for the day. The two turned a corner to another street where the criminologist walked up to a lone taxicab at the curb, and shook the sleepy driver who must have thought he was having a nightmare as he opened his eyes and gazed at the dishevelled appearance of Morgan. The driver rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stepped on the gas, and at the direction of Rand, drove them to the police station.

Morgan Turns Up

THE two entered the station, remaining there for the time it took Morgan to clean up, shave and put on some different clothes. While Morgan made himself presentable, the criminologist went to a rack of books and removed a large atlas, the leaves of which he turned idly until he stopped at a map of the Pacific coast of California. Taking a pencil, he made a small, black dot at the intersection where one hundred twenty-eight degrees west longitude crossed thirty-seven degrees north latitude. Rand estimated this point to be somewhere around 250 miles out to sea.

"Well, where to?"

The detective turned at sound of the voice to see Morgan smiling at him. He surveyed him from head to toe, taking in the fact that the San Francisco detective was comparatively young, younger than Rand himself. The long-lost detective appeared a new man, greatly in contrast to the rough, shaggy, unkempt creature which Rand had found in the dungeon of Chinatown. Except for the gray, sallow complexion of his face, he appeared none the worse as a result of his confinement.

"Where do we go now?" repeated Morgan.

"We’re going to make a check-up on my broadcasting outfit," explained Rand.

The two entered a car in front of the station and Rand gave orders to the driver. The car stopped before a large factory and the criminologist made a motion for Morgan to get out, promptly following him. Amid the clamor of pulsating machinery, the two advanced to an elevator which bore them to the roof of the six-story building and into a smaller superstructure of two or three rooms. Rand led his companion to a small door where he gave two or three light raps, at which a panel slid aside from a grilled opening and a face peered out with tentative glance. Immediately, a bolt was unshot, and the door opened to allow the entrance of the two detectives.

"Well, Jenkins, how has everything worked? Have any trouble since I was here last?"

"Everything’s been working like a top, sir. I hope as how you’ve had good, clear reception when you wanted it," replied Jenkins with a twinkle in his eye.

"I never got better reception in my life," laughed Rand. "At least, I have had no complaints yet of static."

Morgan sensed the joke and smiled also as he recalled the petrified semblance of the electrocuted rat. Another picture also flashed across his mind; that of the yellow, contorted face of his jailor set in stupid surprise amid a blackness surrounding an aura of lantern light.

"Here is the broadcasting outfit, Morgan," explained Rand, pointing to an array of intricate apparatus interspersed with dials, glowing bulbs and a complicated tangle of wire couplings. "Neither one of us would be here now, but for that.

The radio expert and criminologist went over his invention carefully, testing the different parts and tring the connections to insure its working perfectly. On adjusting and inspecting it to his satisfaction, he gave certain detailed orders to his faithful assistant, after which the two detectives left. Morgan proceeded back to the station once more to assume other duties while Rand boarded a trolley and rode to within a few blocks of Chinatown where he got off and walked the remaining distance into the yellow metropolis.

CHAPTER IV
Chinatown

ONCE within the bounds of Chinatown, he made his way to the warehouse of Ming Womg which had occupied his attentions on the prevlous evening He did not stop but sauntered casually off down the street where he halted about a block away, taking up a position within Sight of the building. Buying a paper from a newsboy, and unmindful Of the busy throngs which coursed by him, he leaned against a lamp post and surveyed the contents of his paper. As the truth of the matter was, he carefully watched every person who went in and out of the warehouse.

The morning passed away, and the noon whistles blew, Rand untiringly held his vigil, though instead of leaning against the lamp post he was now sitting on the doorstep of a second-hand clothng store across the street. He still kept a sharp eye on the entrance to the warehouse.

The detective arose with sudden interest as he saw a Chinaman leave the warehouse and start down the street. A Singular fact regarding the Celestial ia set him off from others of his race. He walked with one left stiff, the right one. The criminologist followed him, noticing that he entered a garage a short distance past the warehouse to emerge a short time later driving a truck whose sides bore the information "Ming Wong & Co. Wholesalers in Tea."

The detective hailed a taxicab, and instructed the driver to follow the delivery truck. The truck led them to the city limits and out into the countryside, gradually drawing its pursuers farther and farther away from the great city of San Francisco. The driver of the cab at the bidding of the detective kept far enough behind so that the truck driver did not become suspicious, so oftentimes the vehicle would be out of sight for several minutes, but it was always sighted again. Its driver continued towards his destination, unaware of the tenacious pursuer who shadowed him.

The mileage of the taxi registered the fact that they had dirven over sixty miles before the truck they were following finally drove to a stop at a tiny fishing village near the coast. On observation, the detective saw it was not even a village, but merely a cluster of several dwellings. The mereater number of the se makeshift houses were merely huts, but one in particular drew Rand's attention. It was a long two-story frame structure, beaing the earmarks of a tavern, dark, unpainted, a rickety looking affair, its bulk very much in contrast to the surrounding shacks. On the porch, which ran the length of the tavern, lounged five or six rough looking men in the afternoon sunlight. Rand noticed that two of these were Chinamen, and did not get a sufficient glimpse of the others to classify them. He ordered the taxi driver to continue on his way through the village. Glancing out the window at the car passed the tavern, Rand saw the stiff-legged Chinese driver of the delivery truck unload a large box of tea and carry it into the tavern. The detective and his driver continued on their wat, until rounding a turn which hid them from view of the village, he ordered the driver to stop.

"Stay here until I get back."

From the Ridge

SO saying, the detective went to the top of the ridge, around which the road had curved, and hidden by the bushes and tall grass, looked back upon the squalid array of fishing huts of which arose the black tavern. The Chinese truck driver had not yet come out of the place, so the detective watched and waited. For fully half an hour, Rand watched closely the various individuals who came and went at the tavern. He noticed that there were quite a number of people in the fishing village, some of whom appeared to be fishreman and others who were not.

FInally the driver of the truck left the tavern and started back in the direction from which he had come. Band sat upon the hill and watched the truck out of sight, a tiny speck on a far off ribbon of road. Descending to the foot of the ridge and bidding his driver to retrace their course of the afternoon he enjoined him to drive swiftly so as to overtake the truck before it reached the city limits. This was done, and when the city was reached Rand paid the driver generously for his work, ordering him at the same time to drive alongside of the delivery truck of the tea company. Rand nimbly transferred himself from the running board of the taxi to that of the truck which he had been following, flashing his badge in the face of the astounded Chinaman whose almond eyes widened, and whose yellow countenance turned yellower.

"Drive to the police station before I have to draw a gun and make you!"

"Me no dooee nothling!" protested the frightened Chinaman, visibly alarmed. "Me workee; drivee tluck, sellee tea!"

"Do as I tell you!" snapped Rand.

The Celestial did it.

WHen they reached the station, Rand ordered the truck driver inside. He obeyed nimbly in spite of his stiff leg. The criminologist conducted him into the office of the Chief who gazed up from his desk in surprise at Rand and his yellow escort. The Celestial, on seeing the Chief, began again to protest and expostulate on his innocence.

"Me no crookee! Drive tluck, sellee tea, workee long Ming Wong!"

"A guilty conscience needs no accuser," quoted Rand. "Nobody's said you have done anything yet, have they?"

"What have you here, Rand?" asked the Chief curiously.

"I’ll show you, Chief," answered the detective, turning to the cowering Celestial.

"Sit down there," he ordered, "and take off your wooden leg!"

The Chinese truck driver appeared stunned at the words, and sank into the chair with the hopeless look of a trapped animal who knows no escape. Rand impatiently removed the Celestial’s shoe and rolled up his trouser leg to disclose an artificial leg, not wooden but made of aluminum. The detective removed it and unscrewed a cap at its top, turning the limb bottom side up.

The contents of the hollow, aluminum leg rolled out upon the floor before the surprised and wondering eyes of the Chief who echoed one word with vehemence:

"Dope!"

Dope

"YES," observed Rand, "enough doses there to kill every man on your force! Here is one step which is taken to bring the dope into San Francisco, but how it gets inside the country is still to be found out."

The detective turned to-the Chinaman whose surprise and fright had diminished, and on whose countenance rested a sullen, taciturn expression of guilt.

"Where did this stuff come from? Quick! Speak up!"

The one-legged Chinaman did not reply, but obstinately refused to answer any and all questions, though he was persuaded upon and threatened. Once more they had come up against the system of secrecy which made a peddler or emissary of the dope ring prefer a prison term than to be freed and face the wrathful vengeance of partners in crime.

"Lock him up!" ordered the Chief to an officer Who was present.

Rand now related to the Chief the events of the last twenty-four hours in which he told of finding the hollow artificial leg in the secret room of the warehouse of Ming Wong, and how this clue, with the evidence of the chest of dope, had aided him jn bringing the one-legged Chinaman to justice, e also related to the police official the facts conerning Morgan's confinement and his release, and also gave a vivid description of the tavern in the fishing village where the Celestial had obviously obtained his leg full of narcotics.

"I don’t believe my visit to the secret room in the warehouse of Ming Wong is suspected, because I made things appear as if the Chinaman had been bitten to death by the tarantula while he was lifting the lid of the chest. We may take it for granted that Morgan’s jailor has not yet been found, for Morgan states that no one except the jailor ever visited the underground chambers where his cell was located. But if Ming Wong misses his truck driver very long his suspicions will be aroused, and that may queer the whole deal for us. We’ve got to act quick while the opportunity presents itself, and begin closing in upon them. At the present, we’ll pass up the chance to raid Ming Wong’s place, because there is nothing to gain except the chest of dope, and we can get that later. We’ll also pass up the Green Dragon, the place where Morgan was trapped, though I should like to go in and bring out Smith and his friend if they are there. Say, by the way, Chief, I have a picture of them I wish to have you develop. Let every officer and plain clothes man on the force get a look at it; they are to be arrested on sight. Morgan is out looking for them now."

With the latter statement, Rand withdrew from his pocket the tiny camera which held the snapshot of the two culprits whom he had so artfully photographed in the gambling den of Sin Kiang.

"We must conduct a series of rapid moves, now that the stage has been prepared and the time is ripe," continued the criminologist, "and the first one comes off tonight—at the tavern in the fishing village. That’s the receiving station for the dope which is flooding the country, and it’s the strong414 hold of the enemy, if I'm not mistaken. We’ve got to hit there and hit hard!"

"Good!" retorted the Chief on hearing the account of the detective. "Everything will be set for tonight, then!"

Against Odds

IT was a rather tired detective who flung himself on the bed and snatched a few hours’ sleep in preparation for the strenuous activities of the coming evening.

The Chief was true to his word, for realizing the desperate characters they were to encounter that evening, and not knowing but what they might be faced by overwhelming odds, the raiding party was complete to the last detail. On entering headquarters that evening Rand found from thirty to forty experienced and determined men, all armed to the teeth. Some were city detectives, while others were state officials and government men, but all were tried and true. The criminologist, representative of the United States Secret Service, made the following observation to the police official:

"We can have government troops at our disposal if we need them, but I guess we can handle the dope ring with what men there are here."

Seven high-powered cars were soon on their way to the lonely, little, fishing village sixty miles away. As soon as they were within a half a mile of their destination, the clever sleuth ordered them to stop, for to drive any nearer would be to forewarn the smugglers of their presence. Quietly they approached the dilapidated cluster of huts, nearing the huge tavern to hear the loud voices of men within as they quarreled, joked and caroused.

"Keep your men here, Chief, while I go and see what we've got to buck up agains," ordered Rand. "If I give the signal, come running and ready for action."

As the Chief posted his men at strategic points about the vicinity, the criminologist cautiously made his way towards the black shape of the tavern which frowned down upon him ominously. THough none of the smaller shacks appeared to be inhabited at the present, the tavern was lighted up, and from it, Rand heard many voices. Making his way around to the rear of the structure, where the darkened windows gave promise of a safe entry into the stronghold of the enemy, the detective sought a window which he might raise.

The windows on the ground floor he found heavily barred, but gazing at the second story windows, his ghagrin turned to hopeas he saw that not only were they without bars, but one window was raised a few inches as if to allow the entrance of fresh air. FOr a moment, he was perplexed as to how he should reach the upper story window until his eyes alighted upon a low, one-story shanty which adjoined the main part of the tavern. It was but the work of a few seconds for him to mount the roof of this shanty and from there ascend to the flat roof of the main structure. Advancing on tip toe, lest his footfalls be heard below, he walked across the roof’s edge until he found himself directly over the partially opened window.

Grasping the edge of the roof, Miller Rand, the athlete of college days, gently lowered his body until it hung dangling two stories above the ground supported by two strong arms. Swinging his body inward, the detective caught the sash of the opened window with his foot. Drawing himself up towards the edge of the roof so that his chin rested upon it, he drew the window half of the way up with the toes of his shoes; then raising his foot and catching it on the top sash, he shoved the top window down so that the two window top sashes were now together in the middle, with an open space above and below them. Resting both feet on the window ledge, he reached forth with one hand and clutched the top of the two sashes, drawing himself towards the window. Within the next ten seconds, he was safely inside the room, having accomplished the entire procedure noiselessly.

In the Dark

THE dull, red glare of his flashlight played about the interior of the room in quest of an exit. He found that he was in a bedroom with two doors leading from it. One led to a clothes-press while the other led Rand knew not where. It was this latter door which he decided to inves tigate first. Opening it slowly, Rand peered from the darkness of the room into the darkness with out. Snapping on his flashlight, the detective played it upon the room outside the bedroom. It proved to be a hall, a long, narrow hall whose sides were lined with doors. Under several of the doors, leading towards the front of the tavern, he saw bars of light.

With the secure feeling that no bullet or knife could reach him, and that he was immune to bodily force, he stepped outside into the hall, closing the door softly behind him. From where he stoof, the muffled voices he had heard while in the bedroom became clear, coming apparently from a stairway at the end of the hall, where a soft glow of light emanated from the taproom below.

Stepping carefully down the hall, Rand made his way towards the open staircase, straining his ears he migbt better hear the words of those below. Suddenly a broad shaft of light shown across the hall in a dazzling brilliance. A door had opened and a man had come out. Emerging from a glare light into the darkness of the hall, the newcomer failed to see a shadowy form slip behind the door he had opened out upon the hall. The detective breathed a sigh of relief as the man closed the door and descended the stairs. Though he could easily have overpowered the man, he did not wish to risk immediate discovery until he had found out more.

Taking a position at the top of the staircase, and listening to the multitude of voices which arose from the room below, the detective tried to catch the gist of the conversation. It vexed him to note that the principal and most earnest discussion going on was being spoken in Chinese, a language he did not understand. He satisfied himself, however, with listening to the occasional remarks made in English, or in broken English. Moving over in a dark corner at the top of the stairway, he found that he could survey part of the room below without showing himself. From his vantage point, Rand looked down upon the scene below, a broad room running the length of the tavern. A greasy, ill-kept soda fountain and bar stood at one end of the room, while chairs and tables were scattered throughout the place—for the most part occupied by rough-looking individuals who were playing at cards and drinking. The detective scanned the faces clustered at the bar and around the tables. Fully twenty were in sight besides those he could not see. Many pf them came and went, but Rand was confident that none would go very far away, considering the cordon of men he had surrounding the place. All appeared to be desperate chaacters and unprincipled cut-throats, many of them having a price already on their heads. The detective noticed that some were Chinese, that nationality being represented more than any other. He could not see those who were so earnestly talking in the Oriental jargon for the staircase shut them off from his view. One remark made by a hardfaced individual to a Chinaman excited his curiosity, anc* he made a note of it in his mind for future reference.

"Say, Yung Lo, you haven’t took the load of gasoline t’ Moon Island yet, have yuh? Better get a wiggle °n» for we start off tomorrow afternoon," admonished the hard-faced person.

The Yellow Man Helps

"ME goee soon as it get light," replied the yellow man.

The detective wondered where Moon Island was. He had never heard of it. And what did they need to take gasoline there for, anyway: did they have a speed boat.

Rand felt that the Chief and his mpn would soon become anxious^ over his extended absence, and then too, if the job was finished that night, immediate action would be necessary for it was well past midnight- There was no longer any need of concealing himself. It did not take him long to debate the question as to what he would do. Reaching inside his coat, he adjusted his amplifier, which had been registering a high enough voltage to surprise anyone who might lay hands on him, to a voltage sufficient to knock out an ordinary individual without killing or doing him a permanent injury. He also drew his hat well down over his head and put np his collar, so that above the top-of the collar his eyes peered out from a narrow slit.

With casual stride, he walked downstairs and into the midst of the smugglers. If a dozen of the glasses along the bar had suddenly exploded in the tavern, the grim occupants would have been no more surprised than they were on seeing the muffled form of the man who walked down the stairs among them.

A burly negro, just preparing to quaff a tumbler of ale, stopped with the glass half way to his lips, his" dilating eyes staring at the apparition which came slowly down the stairs and into the tap room. A dealer at a card table became suddenly transfixed into an image of a man holding a card between thumb and index finger, frozen in the very act of tossing the card to another player, as he viewed with alarm the unfamiliar figure of Rand. The bartender, pouring out a drink, did not notice that the glass was running over on to the floor, his undivided attention being concentrated on the menacing approach of the detective. All those present in the tap room were stricken with surprise into temporary inaction by the very boldness of this unknown invader who dared to enter unheralded the stronghold of their lawless clique. If their surprise rendered them speechless and inactive, it was but for a brief moment. A score of pistols and knives were gripped securely by hands which were accustomed to their contact as a short dark man with moustache interrogated him menacingly :

"Who are you and what are you doing here? Who let you in?"

Rand instantly recognized the speaker as the associate of Smith. When he had last seen the two, they were together in the subterranean dive of Sin Kiang’s. At the elbow of the dark-faced man sat Smith himself, while across the table were two Chinamen, evidently of the better class, for they were well dressed. It was these four whom he had heard talking among themselves in Chinese as he had listened on the stairway above. The detective knew that beneath tables and through folds of clothing enough guns were being pointed at him to make of him a fair representative of a Swiss cheese, but his confidence in the bullet-proof clothing he had invented was unbounded, so he made the reply:

"I have come to arrest you and Smith for selling dope, and everyone else in the vicinity of this tavern as suspicious characters and possible menaces to the welfare of society at large."

CHAPTER V
Attack

THE smile on the detective’s lips and the excited twinkle of anticipation in his eyes could not be seen beeause of the upturned collar and the pulled-down cap. The words were the signal for several revolvers which had been carefully trained on the detective to roar suddenly. In turn, these pistol shots were the signal for a man outside the tavern to issue quick orders, which acted as a signal for several squads of men to advanceupon the tavern while other stayed behind to prevent the escape of the inmates. Knowing fully well what was about to happen, Rand had, by his frank statement, started the ball rolling.

An evil-looking Chinaman with a white ghastly scar across his yellow face from forehead to chin cursed his aim for having missed the detective, not taking into consideration that the shots of the others had also failed to take result. A tall gunman, lately of Chicago, eyed the standing form of the detective incredulously after he, personally, had put two shots into the detective's anatomy, and at such short range too. The gunman, wise as to the ways of the Chicago underworld with its clever schemes to thwart snipers, suddenly yelled:

"T'row yer gats at his head or legs! The damned dick's wearin’ a bullet-proof vest!"

Rand fell to the floor under the steady fire of revolvers as nearly every denizen of the taproom took pot shots at him. A roar of triumph rang out as the detective fell, not because her was pierced with bullets, but because the concentrated fire of lead spattering against him had literally knocked him over by sheer force. To the amazement of the smuggling gang, he arose to his feet quickly in the face of smoking pistols, his voice ringing out sharply:

"Anybody else want to try their luck?"

Evidently his words were taken at face value for the litte figure of a Chinaman leaped at him with gleaming knife while the negro who had failed to quaff his ale, swung a great, heavy stick at the detective's head. Ignoring the Chinese who wielded the dagger Rand turned his attention to the huge negro, for he had not yet found a scientific means of counteracting the crushing effects of a heavy club. Siezing hte upraised arm of the black, he wtisted the club from his graps, but the twist was unnecessary for his frame shaking as with palsy, the big negro sank to the floor senseless just as Rand felt the steel blade of the knife grind against the steel meshwork in the lining of his coat. The memory of a similar attempt on his life flashed across his mind, probably recalled by the same clashing sound the other knife had made against his bullet-proof clothes. The detective wheeled to find that the Chinaman was likewise done for at the present.

Because of the intense excitement which prevailed within the tavern, no one had noticed that the door was being battered in, and that through the windows poured a crowd of armed men. As the rest of the gang closed in upon the criminologist, a shrieking Celestial called attention to the newcomers, and Rand was forgotten for the moment. Pistols backed once more, this time to meet yielding flesh through which they tore instead of flattening against the invincible clothing of the electrical man. Someone turned out the lights, and the brilliant pistol flashes were the only illumination which now intermittently punctuated the Stygian darkness of the taproom, and these soon became less, finally not at all, for friend knew not friend from foe.

"Flash on the lamps out there!" commanded the Chief.

Powerful beams directed through the windows by those outside played about the interior of the taproom. They were high-power electric lamps used especially for police raids.

On Guard

WHEN the Chief and his men had entered, Rand had leaped up the stairway to be out of the mixed fray that would follow, for he feared that his electrical contact might do more harm to the raiding party than to the enemy. Now as he looked down into the room revealed in the glare of the bright lamps, he saw only the men of the glare of the party searching around bewildered, for everyone of the smugglers had disappeared.

"Post a guard around the entire vicinity, and search every one of the shacks!" advised Rand from the top of the stairway. "There are secret oassages leading from this tavern.!"

The Chief quickly dispatched the greater share of his men outside to carry out Rand's suggestion keeping four or five to search inside of the tavern thoroughly. The elctric man, none the worse for the recent fight, folloed the Chief and his men outdoors.

"They did that trick slick," commended Rand. "They even got the Chinaman and negro I put out of business out of sight."

"They seem to be well organized," replied the Chief.

The men now rummaged the interior of the dozen or so shacks scattered around in the vicinity of the tavern. Nothing noteworthy occurred until they appraoched the outskirts of the cluster of buildings which comprised the fishing village. This particular shanty was built on a little hill, hardly a hill at that, rather a knoll of perfect contour, steps leading from this knoll of earth down to the level of the surrounding ground. As several of the raiding party started up the steps, shots blazed suddenly from the dark blot of the shanty silhouetted against the sky. The raiders ducked and were forced to retreat from the snipers within the huts who followed them with rifle fire.

"Chief!" shouted Rand. "Did you see where those last two shots came from? They didn't fire from the shack! Several of those shots came from the hill itself! It's their fortress! I'll bet anything that the inside of that hill is hollowed out with loopholes in the side out of which to fire."

"By Jove, you're right, Rand! ANd that's where every one of the dirty devils are not Do you suppose we can penetrate it with our machine gun?"

"I don’t imagine so, for if they are clever enough to provide for such an emergency like this, they certainly wouldn’t forget to line the inside with concrete or some other substance which would resist ordinary bullets."

"We’ll tear ’em loose with bombs, then!" exclaimed the Chief desperately. "We can keep them holed up here until a man gets back to town after some explosives!"

Time Is Precious

"No! That won’t do!" advised Rand. "Time is too precious. They’re stalling off for some reason or other and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had some secret way of getting to the seashore. This can’t be more than a quarter of a mile to the Pacific."

"It’s foolish to send my men up against that fort, Rand. They’d be shot down at no gain whatever. Listen, now!"

To their ears came the steady Tattle of machine gun fire amid the solitary shots of individual rifles and revolvers. They not only came from the smugglers’ fort but from the other shacks as well. The raiding party was being surrounded by the fixe of the dope runners.

"They’re not trying to stall us off after all," exclaimed the detective, "they’re trying to wipe us out!"

Under the mantle of darkness most of the firing was ineffectual, but at that, before he could remove his men to cover, the Chief lost two of them.

"Bring up our artillery," ordered Kinney. "We’ll riddle those other shacks even if we can’t break through the hill. They must have underground passages leading in all directions or they couldn’t get in and out of those huts so fast without being-seen."

The raiding party soon had its own machine gun working and this discouraged the fire from the other huts so that now, the only shots came from the hill on which the lone shack stood.

"Give me two or three tear bombs, watch the tavern and the huts, and I’ll go in there and bring them out," stated Rand.

"Do you think you can make it, Rand?"

"Sure, why not?"

"But are you so sure that your clothing can stand machine gun fire? As a deputy of the United States government, and Chief of Police of San Francisco, I tell you to go ahead and do as you please, but as man to man, Rand, I advise against taking too many chances."

"If my bullet-proof clothing has not yet passed the merits of resisting machine gun fire, then here is the chance to give it the teBt!" answered the detective.

Chief of Police Kinney, shook his head dubiously as Rand made preparations to enter the beehive of the enemy, swarming with menaces of death on every hand. He felt a grave premonition which made his mind uneasy regarding Rand’s plan to enter the fortress alone under the withering fire of the smugglers.

The criminologist adjusted his tiny radio amplifier until it was again tuning in on the voltage which had rendered helpless the Chinaman and negro within the tavern. He also drew his-high collar together securely at the neck and buckled it. A long strap went under his chin and fastened to both sides of the low pulled cap so that it could not be lost off his head. He was now ready for the supreme test, a man invulnerable to the more common methods of attack, daring the consequences of further experiment.

The Electrical Man

"Better keep your back to the line of fire," advised the Chief as a last warning.

The electrical man now left the protecting ground behind which they had taken refuge and were continuing the firing against the smugglers. He ran swiftly across the open space towards the shack on the hill, and as he ran, he heard the noise of the firearms increase, and felt the lead and steel-jacketed slugs patter against his body. He distinguished only the crack of revolvers and repeating rifles, so he wondered why it was that the machine gun's deadly fusillade of bullets was not turned upon him. Gaining the foot of the hill, Rand advanced to the steps and ran up them.

He was only half way up when what he had been expecting came. With an angry buzzing, the machine gun roared down upon him from the shanty above, its barrel spitting red bursts of flame against the dark background of a window frame. Uttering a cry of alarm, Rand fell headlong off the steps and rolled to the bottom of the low hill where he lay quite still.

"By God! They’ve got him!" wailed the Chief to his men as they saw the motionless figure huddled at the foot of the steps into which the machine gun still pumped a hail of lead.

* * * *

Chief Kinney, who had taken a warm liking to the young detectivescientist felt crestfallen as he realized that Rand, like Hall, had eventually died at the hands of the desperate band of opium smugglers who defied the law, matched wits with the keenest of their detectives, and had at their disposal a large financial backing from some mysterious source. Not only had he lost a good friend, but a valuable man, one who had penetrated a blank mystery, walked boldly among the opium runners, had defied almost certain death several times and who had rescued one of his fellow detectives out of a stinking dungeon beneath Chinatown. All the information which had been received concerning the actions of this lawless organization, and all successful activities conducted against it, the government owed to this one man whose body the Chief now saw laying riddled at the foot of the hill.

A rifle bullet whirring past his ear made the Chief duck quickly to safety where he returned the fire viciously. The rattle of machine gun fire was now turned toward the ridge behind which Kinney and the majority of his men were stationed. Their own machine gun had jammed, and was for the moment being repaired.

"Look!" yelled a man suddenly in the Chief’s ear. "He’s moving!"

The Chief looked to where his companion pointed. Could he believe his eyes? Was the impossible occurring? Was a miracle being performed? These were the questions which surged to his mind as he gazed at the recently inert figure at the foot of the' shack, beneath which the dope runners were making their defiant stand. The electrical man was slowly moving a hand to his head which he rubbed slightly, after which he arose on his elbow and surveyed the scene about him while he collected his scattered wits. He then raised himself to his feet, and seizing a black object from his coat pocket, he hurled it into the window from whence the spitting machine gun poured its metal pellets into the ridge of ground which protected the raiding party. Running around to the other side of the knoll, he ascended it until he was up against the rear wall of the hut.

Tear Bombs

When the machine gun fire had been directed against him while he was ascending the steps, Rand had been quickly knocked from off his feet by the impact of the bullets, losing his balance and falling to the bottom of the steps against which his head struck during the fall, rendering him unconscious. Upon returning to consciousness, regardless of the machine gun fire which had failed to pierce his bullet-proof clothing, he had cast a tear bomb into the building. He now forced his way through a rear window and into the shanty. From a front room, he heard the muttered cursing of the machine gun operator and his helpers as they fought against the acrid fumes of the tear bomb which had burst in their midst. Rand grimmed as he smelled the slight odor which drifted under the door.

The dark room in which he found himself was evidently tenantless at the present though from a very near source he could hear the excited voices of the smugglers and he also heard the reports of their firearms. The machine gun fire had ceased. The detective turned on his flash lamp whose rays were no longer dimmed by the dull red glass, the glass face being shot out by one of the bullets of the dope smugglers. Below him, he saw an open trap door down through which a ladder descended, The detective went down the ladder to find himself in a narrow cellar way, damp and musty. The corridor broadened out into a large-sized room dimly-lit, interior of the hillside on which the shack stood.

Rand could see at least fifteen men, some of them busy firing through loopholes in the wall while others loaded their guns, as he stood in the dark at the foot of the ladder. The inside of the room bore the appearance of an arsenal for firearms of all descriptions lined the walls while case upon case of ammunition stood piled in one corner. A voice challenged him as he stood there taking in the scene before him.

"Is that you, Pete? What hapeped to the gun? Run out of pills?"

The electrical man decided on the course he intended to take so he rushed into the room suddenly and leveled his pistol at the crowd, speaking the terse command:

"Everyone stop firing and line up! You're under arrest!"

The Fight

THE detective had no idea that he would be heeded at all, his command being a mere flourish, a formality. Reather, he expected what happened, what he hoped would happen. They all made a concentrated rush for him. He could have shot at least two of them if he had wished before the rest were upon him, but he did not do so. He braced himself against the onrush.

The effects of the rush was like that of the mowing machine which encounters an army of grass blades. Rand offered no resistance to the pack of angry smugglers who bore down upon him in such overwhelming numbers to meet the numbing, pulsating current of the electrical man. Like a tidal wave they bore down upon him as upon a lone tree by the seashore, and like a tidal wave they subsided. Some screamed in sudden fright and pain, powerless to remove their hands from the detective's body until their consciousness reeled and their palsied limbs buckled beneath them as they fell senseless to the floor. Others bereft even of articulation as the paralyzing current throbbed through them. On all their faces was a mingled appearance betokening surprise, pain and sudden horror. Rand stepped over the inert bodies and shoved from him those who still clung unable to release their hold. The detective placed a gloved hand upon several of those who had not yet obtained the chance to come in contact with him, being upon the outskirts of the mob.

The Gas Fumes

A terror-stricken Chinaman, seeing the bodies of his comrades falling like stalks of corn before a gale, gave a frantic shriek and shoved upon a portion of the floor which opened and let him through into a passage down which he scrambled, muttering incantations to Buddha against all devils, the electrical man in particular. The detective, with a laugh, turned and tossed a tear bomb after him, after which he ran quickly up the ladder.

At the top of the ladder, in the back room of the shack, he found the machine gunner and his two assistants wiping their streaming eyes with handkerchiefs as the fumes of the tear bomb Rand had cast into the front room assailed them. The electrical man was upon them even before they were aware of his presence, and dispatched them without any preliminaries. He then climbed out of the hack window he had previously entered and gained the roof. From this elevated position, he hailed the Chief and his men who came swarming to the fortress of the smugglers and handcuffed them before they gained consciousness. Then followed a thorough search of the shacks, tavern, and as many of the secret tunnels as could be found, so that it was very few of the dope runners who escaped. The bullet-riddled corpses of seven were found among those who were still under the effects of their electric shock and those who were hunted down.

"I want to talk with you two."

Rand selected a Chinaman and a disreputable-looking white man with a hard face from the herded assemblage of handcuffed prisoners ringed about by the government officials.

"You two were discussing a certain place called Moon Island just before I walked in upon you'at the tavern," spoke Rand, eyeing the two with a menacing stare. "Where is this place, and what’s the game?"

Both of them sulked and refused to answer the detective’s question. Under the circumstances, his patience was short so he addressed them with the cryptic remark:

"All right, if you’re not in a speaking humor, I'll put you into such a mood."

The detective reached inside his coat, at the same time grasping with his other hand the neck of the hard-faced individual. A look of surprise and consternation broke upon the face of the smuggler. as he felt the weak electric current surge through him. Rand had started at a low voltage, and was gradually sliding his amplifier over to increase the volume. The puzzled look upon the face of the thug broke into terror and frozen pain as the detective with a sudden jerk of the amplifier within the aluminum pocket of his vest, increased the voltage.

"Ow! Leggo me, damn yuh!"

The smuggler twisted himself from the racking, paralyzing pain which gripped his throat, breaking out into a series of vituperous exclamations as as he raised his manacled hands to ward off the detective's approach.

"Will you tell me what I asked of you?" demanded Rand.

The hard-faced dope runner was on the point of applying further vulgarity to his tongue in defiant refusal to give the required information but thought better of it on seeing the hand of the electrical man once more reach for his bare neck.

CHAPTER VI

"DON'T grab me like that again!" begged the terror-stricken gangster, his eyes bulging at the gloved hand which had paused half way towards his neck, hanging undecided as to whether or not it would be well to once more seize him in its paralyzing embrace. "Moon Island is a heap of rocks stickin’ out of the water fourteen miles southwest of here. There’s a motor boat down at the beach we’ve hid an’ I’ll take yuh to it, pard, if yuh go easy wif me."

The detective hurried down to the beach where the broad Pacific rolled, and sure enough, back from the water in a little boathouse hidden beneath the protecting foliage of the bushes the dope runner revealed to him the craft. Rand now tried to elicit more information from the man concerning the island, and what it had to do with the smugglers, but he had once more relaxed into taciturn silence, aud pretended ignorance of anything about the island except its location. The sleuth had an idea that this was the place where the largest quantities of the dope were hidden until smuggled into the country, but he did not press the question upon the uncommunicative dope runner, for a search of the place would reveal the fact, and if a search failed, why Rand could again obtain the informnation in the usual manner. At the present, he was eager to get to Moon Island.

Rand, Chief Kinney, three of his men and the hard-faced smuggler who gave his name as Brant, set the nose of the motor launch for Moon Island sped away over the dark waters, one of the powerful flash lamps of the raiding party in the prow of the craft, its penetrating beams sweeping the dark waters about them. For half an hour, the craft cut the water in a southwest direction, its light revealing nothing until the detective, questioning Brant closely again, sought to find out if the man had been deceiving them.

"I tell yuh, I been out here afore, but not in the dark. Ought t’ have waited til’ mornin’, like I said. Can’t find a little island like that in the dark."

"We’ve come fourteen miles or better already," stated the detective, and he shut off the motor to let the boat drift aimlessly on the waves. "It will be dawn in about an hour, so we’d better wait until daylight, and then we can see the island."

As Hand had predicted, the first greying in the east supplanted the darkness about an hour later, gradually becoming lighter until the straining eyes of the group caught sight of the gray, hazy outlines of an island which appeared on the horizon to the south of them.

"We missed it by a good four miles!" ejaculated Kinney. "It’s a good thing that there is no fog this morning."

In a few minutes, they approached the little island, for the most part rocky, though one side of it bore foliage. They moored the launch in a lagoon which appeared to have been constructed by man for just such a purpose.

"Look!" spoke up one of the men. "There comes somebody down the hill!"

"That guy is Nova, he——"

Brant cut off abruptly the sentence he had started.

"Get the drop on him, he’ll discover we’re not friends when he’s come a little closer," directed the Ghief, and sure enough, the man halted suddenly, puzzled, for the boat was familiar, not so its occupants.

One of the men leaped from the boat and covered the doubtful islander ?with a rifle while the detective bade him approach, thus settling unquestionably the indecision of the man who threw up his hands and came forward. The keen eyes of Hand saw that the man was a foreigner, and also noticed that his overalls were blackened with grease and oil, as if the man did regular duty as a mechanic. He did not miss the flash of recognition in the eyes of the man as he saw Brant, nor his look of concern on seeing the armed party which accompanied the handcuffed man.

"One of you watch this man while the rest of us search the island," directed Rand.

The searching party found that the island which was not over a half a mile square contained to all appearances merely a hut which was partitioned off, one part containing living quarters while the other section was found to be a workshop, replete with various tools, a strong odor of gasoline prevailing around the place.

The detective glanced at the prisoner with narrowed gaze.

"What is this workshop for? What do you do here?"

"I repair motorboats," rejoined the foreigner, simply, though his nervous twitching fingers belied the calm surface of his face, too calm in fact, thought Rand, for a man who had been suddenly put under arrest.

"Hey, Rand! Come here a minute!" bellowed one of the men who had accompanied them in the boat. "Look what we’ve found!"

The criminologist quickly turned his steps toward the far end of the island from whence the summons had come. One of the searchers stood on a knoll and pointed down into the foliage which lined the water’s edge. The detective looked in the direction the man pointed, and as his eyes fell upon the subject at which his companion motioned, his mouth fell open in sheer surprise. Below them, resting upon a channel of water leading to the ocean concealed in all directions by the leafy, green foliage, lay a huge seaplane!

Rand's thoughts were now in a turmoil and many of his previous calculations had been blown to the winds by this new discovery. He had thought that this island was the receiving point for the dope which was dropped off by boat and then relayed to the fishing village by the motor boat." From the fishing village, he had figured that the wooden-legged, Chinese truck driver had brought the narcotics to the secret storeroom in the warehouse of Ming Wong and to other points which acted as distribution points for the dope in wholesale quantities to various other sections of the country. But evidently this was not the last link in the clever relaywhich the insidious drugs underwent, the gray seaplane testifying to the fact. But where did the seaplane obtain the dope? Surely not by a trans-Pacific flight, logically from a boat which it met at a prearranged place in the ocean. But where? Rand considered the entire situation, and the more he thought about it the more he felt that he had an inkling which would clear up the question as to where the seaplane met the steamer, but first he would cross-question the man on the island who in all probability was the pilot as well as the mechanic.

The Seaplane

"What is your name?" demanded Rand.

"Emil Nova."

"You operate the seaplane?"

The latter question was more in the form of an accusation than a query.

The man was silent in regard to the question and also to the ensuing questions the detective asked concerning the case.

The electrical man finally decided that it would be necessary to employ the same forceful tactics in obtaining information from this man as he had from Brant. He suddenly pointed a finger at the man and spoke accusingly:

"See here, Nova, you are employed by tho drug ring to bring dope by seaplane from some boat out in the ocean to this island! You meet this boat at one hundred twenty-eight degrees longitude and thirty-seven degrees latitude!"

In the eyes of the man before him, Rand saw that hig words had struck home, and that he had stated the facts exactly, but he was going to be sure of it before he proceeded any farther.

"When are you going to meet this boat?" queried the detective, firing questions rapidly. "Who employs you? Come! Speak up, or I’ll loosen your tongue so you’ll be only too glad to talk!"

The dark countenance of the pilot, set in amazement at the previous words of the detective, now settled again into a taciturn expression which was so characteristic of the members of the dope ring when caught. He remained silent lest his words condemn himself. The electrical man reached inside his coat and turned on the current, after which he seized Nova in a tight grasp from which the man wriggled frantically to escape the electric shock which suddenly leaped through his system. He scarcely knew what it was at first, and backed rapidly away from Rand, just as Brant had done.

"Will you talk now?"

The man was silent, though in his eyes lurked a dread of Rand who J>ad increased the current and once more grasped the flinching man who now crumpled up under the effects of the electricity, and fell to the ground, his helpless frame collapsing in a heap, his senses reeling and his body numb.

"Who are your leaders?" snapped Rand as he once more reached for Nova who was recovering during the brief respite allowed him by the detective.

"Don’t!" he shrieked. "Let me go! I’ll tell!"

The detective withdrew a few paces as the dope runner continued hurriedly, fearftul that he would again be seized within the electrical man’s embrace.

Who Is Menck?

"Menck and Leroux are the only ones I take orders from. I don’t know how you found out but you’ve got the right location where I meet them. They——"

"Who are Menck and Leroux?" interrupted Rand.

He then listened to a description of Smith and his dark-faced friend. So Smith’s real name was Leroux? He had been, killed last night in the fight at the fishing village. Menck had disappeared mysteriously during the fight, his face missing among the dead as well as the prisoners they had taken.

"If they get me after what I’ve told you," shuddered Nova, "they’ll kill me, especially those sneaking Chinese, damn ’em!"

"When are you going to meet the steamer?" asked Rand.

"Four o'clock this afternoon in the usual place, the one you mentioned, but you’ll not find——"

Nova clutched quickly at his breast just as a staccato report rang out. The detective turned to where two of his men were struggling with Brant, who, even though he was handcuffed, had managed, through the relaxed attentions of his captors during' the grilling of Nova, to shoot the traitor with a pistol suddenly snatched from one of the men guarding him. Before he could use it on anyone else, he was disarmed but the deed had been done, and at such close range it did not take expert marksmanship to put a bullet through Nova’s heart, even though handcuffed. Brant’s philosophy was to the effect that one should never tell what one was actually not forced to tell. Brant could have told Rand all that Nova had just explained but pretended ignorance, merely telling theleast amount of informtion he felt would suffice. Nova had no tact, being a thorough coward at heart and Brant found no resets m putting the bullet through him.

At Four P. M.

"Four o’clock this afternoon " spoke Rand to Chief Kinney after the excitement of the shooting had quieted down. "But what could he have meant when he was about to say ‘we wouldn’t find’ something, just as Brant shot him?"

"I can’t imagine," answered the Chief, "unless he meant to contradict his own statement, and that isn’t probable. How did you guess the exact location where he was to meet the boat, Rand?"

‘I didn’t exactly guess, Chief, I put forth a suggestion of which I was not sure."

The criminologist explained how he had heard the frequent series of words uttered repeatedly in the Chinese dialect by Menck and Leroux in the gambling den of Sin Kiang, and how a laundryman had interpreted the syllables for him.

"Here’s my plan," stated the detective. "You and two of your men go back to town with the prisoner. Don’t go back to the fishing village, but take a direct route by motorboat to the Golden Gate, as it will be quicker. When you get there, bring back a man who can pilot a seaplane, and send a revenue cutter to the meeting place. Tell them to time their speed so as to arrive in the vicinity at five o’clock, that is, Kinney, the place where we expect to find the dope ship waiting. I’ll wait here on Moon Island with Redmond until you get back, but hurry, man, for here's our big chance!"

The two who were left on Moon Island searched it thoroughly, but they found nothing else which would throw any further light on the case. Rand felt, however, that there was little to be found out which would help them further, for they were about to close in upon the dope runners who had long defied the Federal authorities as well as city and state police.

It was around ten o’clock when on the horizon Rand descried a boat which came from the direction of the mainland, rapidly bearing down upon the island. As it approached nearer, he saw that it was the revenue cutter for which he had sent. A boat was lowered from the vessel and propelled into the little bay. From the boat sprang several men who advanced up the slope to where Rand and his companion sat in wait for them. Something about the manner of one of the men who came toward him struck Rand as familiar, and as he approached nearer with Chief Kinney and several others recognition burst upon him.

"Moody!" exclaimed the detective and radio expert.

"No other, Rand," answered the Secret Service man with a laugh. "How’s the human battery after the fight last night? I hear you were pretty well shot up."

"I’m none the worse for that, except I’ve got a bump on myself as a result of it," retorted Rand, as with cautious fingers he pointed to a swol-' len portion of his forehead which had struck the Stairs on the preceding evening.

"You’ve sure given that bunch the works," praised Moody. "Didn’t I tell you, Kinney, he was the man we needed? I’ve picked up part of the story from Morgan and the rest from Kinney here. The government is deeply obligated to you, Rand."

"Better save the bouquets, Moody, for we haven't finished yet. We’ve still got a big job on our hands this afternoon," replied Rand.

"That won’t make a great deal of difference, even if we don’t get this boatload of dope runners. We’ve already got the main crowd, including the leaders, that is the leaders who operate in the United States, for this drug ring is an international concern. If we make a strike this afternoon, most of those we’ll gather in will be foreigners, but by international law we can place these individuals into custody and send them to their respective countries where they will be dealt with by their own governments who will he only too glad to get them. A drag net is being thrown out over Chinatown this morning, and every suspicious person, as well as some on whom we already have evidence are being hailed into court for investigation, By tonight, the jails will be pretty well crowded. The principal places on which the raiding parties are concentrating are the Green Dragon and Sin Kiang’s place. The warehouse of Ming Wong’s is also going to be ransacked, including the secret room you discovered. Say, but that was a neat trick you performed in covering up your tracks after killing the spider, but Morgan’s getting away may have made them suspicious."

The Seaplane

THE detective listened to the Tumblings of Moody as he unfolded his ideas and plans concerning the case.

-"We’d better get going," broke in Chief Kinney. "The Coast Guard cutter will take a lot longer in getting to the scene of action than the seaplane. It's a good two hundred and fifty miles out to sea, if you’ve got the figures correct. We brought plenty of gas to fuel your tanks as well as a pilot who we picked up at the airport."

Kinney introduced to Rand a tall, pleasant-faced man of about his own age.

It was but a short time in which it took the seaplane’s gas tanks to be filled, after which it soared off and above the rolling ocean, headed for the rendezvous of the dope smugglers, an open stretch of water, no different than that which might be found on any other section of the Pacific’s broad expanse, except that it was designated on maps as thirty-seven degrees north latitude and one hundred twenty-eight degrees west longitude. Behind, came the slower moving Coast Guard cutter, which gradually dwindled to a gray speck behind them, to be lost to sight below the horizon.

The seaplane roared on at a high speed, so that it was not long before they reached the vicinity of the trysting place, scouring the broad waters below them for a sign of the dope ship.

"We’re too early!" shrieked the detective in the pilot’s ear, striving to make himself heard above the roar of the motor. "We’d better settle down on the water and wait!"

The pontoons of the huge mechanical bird were soon being lapped by the waves as they rested upon the water, lying in wait for the smugglers. It would be a long time, thought Rand, before the Coast Guard cutter would arrive. His plan was to keep the steamer in sight, and lead the revenue cutter to it when it came. During the early afternoon, the detective kept consulting his watch, while his gaze swept the horizon from time to time, his eyes in search for the steamer. As it neared the time of appointment, the criminologist became more impatient than ever, finally enjoining the pilot to cruise around in the vicinity. Once more they rose into the air, the detective and his three men anxiously scanning the water below. All that they saw, however, was the vacant, watery vista of the lonely Pacific stretching off in all directions to meet the sky.

Could it be possible that the rest of the dope smugglers had been tipped off at the last moment? The detective wondered as his searching glance failed to see the lawless craft in sight. Once more he withdrew his watch and looked at its dial. It was twenty minutes past four, twenty minutes past the time appointed, and the boat carrying the dope wasn't even in sight. By some mysterious means, they had been warned, or else Nova had been lying. But that didn’t seem logical, for why, in that case, had Brant shot him?

CHAPTER VI
The Final Move

The electrical man was racking his brams for answers to these numerous questions when one of his men suddenly shouted in amazement, and pointed down at the ocean. Rand and the others followed the direction of his pointing arm. At first the detective saw nothing, but gradually, as his gaze became concentrated on a particular spot beneath, he saw the oblong shape of something which lay upon the water. He actually gasped in surprise at what he saw! On the surface of the ocean lay a submarine! The devilish thoroughness and ingenuity of these dope runners, thought Rand, no wonder they had not been able to see the vessel’s approach.

The seaplane circled above as the detective, confronted by this new problem, found it necessary to reorganize his plans once more. The Coast Guard cutter, he knew, would not be able to capture this prowler of the depths, for it would submerge like a frightened rabbit into its burrow on seeing the approach of the fox. They recognized the seaplane, however, and would allow it to approach in order to transport their supply of narcotics for relay to Moon Island. Rand had recently figured that he would have no active part in bringing about the arrest of these dope-running privateers, merely keeping tabs on them until the revenue cutter came and put the vessel and its crew into custody, but the submarine presented new problems which could not be solved by old plans, so he decided on a bold stroke, a most dangerous piece of work, in fact.

"Bring up alongside them," he ordered the pilot.

On rainy days and nights, Rand had found that to use his electrical clothing was to endanger himself to the possibilities of electrocution. The lining of his clothes completely insulated him against the suit’s deadly qualities, except when saturated by water. He had once proved the fact by test, while his current was on at a low voltage. Had the smugglers at the fishing village merely turned a hose of water upon him instead of the machine gun fire, the detective would have been no more.

"I’m going to try and capture that submarine the same way I did their fortress at the fishing village," explained the detective to his men. "Be ready to assist me after I’ve cleared the way."

The seaplane skimmed alongside of the submarine just as the conning tower opened and two men stepped out and hailed them. The two means of extraordinary travel, one a ship of the skies, and the other an undersea craft, drifted together, one wing of the seaplane overhanging the slim cigar-shaped prow of the submarine. Rand pulled up his collar and walked out upon the wing of the plane, jumping nimbly down upon the broad hull of the undersea boat which sloped gently towards the water.

The two men who had just come out of the conning tower evidently saw that Rand must be some new member of the drug ring for he was unfamiliar to them. In fact, their guilty minds were suspicious, on seeing a stranger. They directed a rapid fire of questions at him to which Rand answered:

"Authorized by the United States, the League of Nations, and every civilized country on the globe, I wish to make search through your craft for dope. If none is found, you will be able to go your way unmolested."

Rand Makes a Statement

The faces of the two paled as Rand made this startling statement. The detective was' prepared for what came, having adjusted the amplifier of his tiny radio set while making the necessary declaration, which permitted any government official of any country the right to search a vessel on the high seas for dope. ThiB legislation in international law had come about within the last two years, in the late fall of 1931 to be exact. One of the men drew a pistol and fired at him. As Rand leaped forward and seized one of them to prevent their entering and closing the submarine, the other sprang back towards the conning towfer, firing his gun at the detective as he retreated. Having overcome the first dope runner, Rand now turned his attention to the second one. Gun fire' no longer fascinated the electrical man as it had at first; it bored him. He had.encountered plenty of it at the fishing village and nothing short of machine gun fire would startle him now.

Dropping the limp figure to the deck, the detective now approached the other, wresting the spitting revolver from his grasp and casting it into the ocean. Panic-stricken and bewildered by a man who would not stay shot after several forty-five slugs had been cast into his body, the smuggler retreated. He nimbly eluded the electrical man as if a sixth sense suddenly warned him that to close with the detective would mean immediate disaster, and leaped over the rail towards the prow of the boat. Rand sprang after him, at the same time calling to his waiting companions on the wing of the plane that it was now time for them to make their entrance upon the scene. The .electrical man reached his quarry just as the other three detectives sprang upon the submarine and down the hatch, bowling over several of the surprised crew who were coming up to investigate the pistol shots and strange noises above.

The entire proceedings took less than a minute in which to transpire, being performed with lightning rapidity, as the detective had anticipated in his plans he had made just before the seaplane had finally settled upon the water. The dope runner who had eluded Rand now stood on the sloping edge of the submarine with his hack to the water, a cornered rat, for he could find no escape. The electrical man feared the water, for if he fell into it with his prisoner who was now standing upon the sloping edge of the slippery deck, the water would magnify the current, destroy the insulation, short circuit the receiving set, and electrocute the both of them. The detective snapped off his tiny aluminum encased radio set and advanced upon the desperate smuggler, outlawed by every nation in the world, following the new international dope act which put the illicit carrying of narcotics upon the high seas on the same standard as piracy.

They struggled together, slipped, slid, and then were over the side and into the water. Rand realized that his miniature radio set which had, with the bullet-proof clothing, cheated death repeatedly during the time he had undertaken to clear out the San Francisco division of the international dope ring, was ruined. It would require a great deal of work in his laboratory to perfect another one. The dope runner attempted to throttle the detective, but the clasp was nimbly broken and the detective came up under the water behind his back and held him like a vise in the crosschest carry until two of the other detectives dragged the bedraggled pair aboard. The submarine and its crew had been taken, and the roundup was now complete.

An hour or so later, the coast guard eutter appeared and took the prisoners aboard. The submarine was towed behind.

Rand, Moody and Chief Kinney stood together on the deck of the Coast Guard cutter as it headed back towards the Golden Gate.

"Say, this is sure one on me!" exclaimed the Secret Service man as he gazed pop-eyed at the submarine which surged behind them at the end of a hawser. "No wonder nobody could find the dope runners bringing in the goods!"

"Hall and Morgan were on the right track," answered Rand. "I’ve often wondered where it was Hall met his death. The marks on his wrist were those of a tarantula bite, but I duplicated those same marks on a dead Chinaman with equal success."

Rand could not help but repress a shudder, as hardened as he had become to the scenes of crime, assassination and death, as he recalled the frightful, hairy monster which had raced from the chest to spread venomous death upon the first person it encountered.

He probably found the same room that you did, suggested Chief Kinney with a melancholy air.

Morgan sure is your friend for life," interjected Moody "I talked with him right after I arrived in San Francisco. I got there just in time to board the revenue cutter for Moon Island."

The detective yawned. The events of the last forty-eight hours had been the most rapid, tiring and harrowing experiences he had ever been through "I left the dope in the submarine just as we found it," explained Moody, "so that the evidence against the drug ring will be more convincing."

"It couldn’t be any more convincing," exclaimed Kinney, "every one of the gang are up for good long terms in prison."

"What are you going to do now, Rand?" queried Moody. "The government has a fine position open for you in the Secret Service if you want it."

"The laboratory calls me, Moody, but if I can help the government again some time, I’ll be glad to lend my aid. At the present, I can see where my electrical apparatus needs some perfections and improvements. If you want to know what I’m going to do right now, why I’m going below to change these wet clothes, and get one good, long sleep."

The End