The Bloody Talisman
Nat Pinkerton, King of Detectives (1915)
 

Balancing bandit adventure fiction on the urban market were detective stories, featuring private sleuths, such as Sherlock Holmes, Nick Carter, or Nat Pinkerton, and a variety of nefarious criminals. Though the detectives themselves were mostly imported, the authors were usually Russians capitalizing on the popularity of foreign titles and lax copyright laws. Detective serials were published in newspapers and separately, enjoying a huge readership that boomed after 1905. Russian Pinkertons did not betray the anti-union bias of their American counterpart. However, on occasion, they revealed a solidarity that many Russians felt with Euro-Americans relative to "oriental" peoples. 


Chapter I: The Consequences of a Discovery
On the evening of 20 December, 18…, a blond man with a beard, well-dressed and tall, walked along Mott Street, the main street of New York’s Chinatown.

If you are not Chinese, it takes a certain daring to walk through this quarter at such a late hour. Streets that seem completely empty conceal danger around every corner.

More than once a white man has disappeared without trace in Chinatown, and police searches almost always come up with nothing.

If the police do apprehend a suspicious son of the Middle Kingdom, then put him on trial and condemn him, it is still impossible to be sure that the true perpetrator has been punished, because most Chinamen are as similar as two drops of water.

The blond man walking through Mott Street that night obviously was not thinking of the danger threatening him in that locale. True, he had heard that it was dangerous at night, that even the police avoid these streets, but he was relying on his courage and physical strength. And truly, he was built as powerfully as Hercules, and the noble features of his face revealed valor and manliness.

He walked deep in thought, not paying attention to the heads with slanted eyes poking out of dark gateways here and there following his progress. The street was absolutely quiet, and only the sound of a passing tram could occasionally be heard from the Bowery.

The stranger stopped to light his cigar and was about to continue when a glittering object lying on the pavement suddenly struck his attention.

He bent down, picked it up and walked over to the street lantern to examine his discovery. It was a medallion of pure gold, as big as a silver thaler, with calligraphy and several engravings of Chinese dieties. The lost item had probably hung around its owner’s neck by the silk string attached its mouth.

Strangest of all, though, was that the medallion was covered in blood, which stained the blond man’s fingers.

He could not understand the meaning of his find. Perhaps this valuable ornament had been lost by some Chinaman?

"I must," thought the finder, "hand this in at the nearest police station; let the loser get it back there."

He wrapped the golden medallion thoroughly in a piece of paper, put it in his side pocket, and prepared to set off.

But then something unexpected happened. A muffled bell rang from a gate to the right and a second later a crowd of Chinamen poured out of the surrounding houses and advanced on him with daggers drawn.

Not one of the Chinamen said a word. The ominous silence was shattering.

At first the stranger was confused by the suddenness, but he quickly regained his composure. The crowd surrounded him, their daggers glistened in his eyes, but still no one had touched him.

But then a gigantic Chinaman waved a thick staff intending, apparently, to strike him, and someone’s hands seized the blond man from behind.

He nimbly tore himself free from the traitorous embrace and hit the gigantic Chinaman so hard that he turned red from pain and tumbled to the pavement.

At that moment the stranger tore the staff from his grasp and began to flail away to the left and right.

The crowd let out a roar and staggered back, which opened a passage that the blond man did not hesitate to use. He took off, still waving the staff, and leapt out of the ring of scoundrels, thinking it better to run away. With a savage yelp, the crowd chased after him.

Suddenly a piercing whistle was heard from the other end of the street, and several policemen appeared in the flickering light of the gas lanterns. The Chinese instantly scattered in all directions; the street was empty, and even the tall Chinaman had disappeared.

Eight policemen walked slowly along Mott Street, but they noticed nothing suspicious. That was how it always was; the police were used to it.

The policemen left and every one of them was glad in his heart that he had made it safely through that dangerous section of town.

After the attack, the stranger found himself in another section of town, the Bowery. He was breathing heavily, cursing the carelessness that had taken him along Mott Street at such a late hour.

He had been warned, but had only laughed, confident that he had nothing to fear from Chinamen.

Truly, he had proved a dangerous opponent in battle, and probably many Chinese had returned home with bumps on their head. However, the incident had made a strong impression on him. He could still see before him those slanted eyes, those figures breathing hatred, and still it seemed to him that dagger blades were flashing before his face. He looked at the broken staff, made of dark, polished wood, which could easily smash any skull.

The blond quickly walked through the Bowery to Third Avenue, where on the corner of Fourteenth Street his accommodations, the Central Hotel, was located.

There was nobody on the streets, except of the occasional figure of a policeman that soon disappeared into the fog. The stranger walked along the left side of Third Avenue, past basement shops with short stairways leading from the street.

Walking by one of them he heard a strange whistle and suddenly felt a string noose around his neck. But, being on guard, he did not lose his wits and instantly grasped the noose with his left hand before it could be drawn tight.

Two Chinamen with long daggers in their hands ran straight at him from the basement.

The stranger again let the staff do its business and knocked the first Chinaman askance so that he tumbled head over heels down the staircase; the second also received a good blow about his shoulders and turned to run.

The blond man sighed with relief and hastened his step. He did not even think of turning to the police for assistance, knowing that all the same it would lead to nought.

Having saved himself from danger twice, he was deathly pale, his chest was heaving, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow.

Gradually calming down, he foresaw a sleepless night ahead of him, the result of overly powerful physical and spiritual shocks. By now he felt beaten and tired, but when he lay down to sleep, he could not close his eyes.

Having lain on the bed for more than a quarter hour, he got up, checked to see if the door was locked tight, then took out two revolvers and, checking the cartridges, put them on the night stand.

He lay down again and began to wait. What exactly he was waiting for he could not say, but it seemed to him that the night’s adventures were still not over.

However, exhaustion overcame him: the stranger fell asleep. Terrible nightmares would not let him be, and he awoke around three in the morning covered in sweat.

At that moment he heard a strange rustling behind the wardrobe.

The room was not completely dark, as the weak light of the gas lanterns outside made its way through the blind and allowed him to distinguish objects in his room.

The stranger grabbed his revolver and set his gaze on the wardrobe, which suddenly made a slight jolt and slowly, without a noise, began to move forward.

Not knowing that in the wall behind the wardrobe there was a door to the next room, the blond man could not understand what this was. He clutched his head to make sure it was not a dream.

A passageway between the wall and wardrobe appeared, and through it crawled a lithe figure.

It stopped, evidently listening to something, then stole closer; sitting on the bed in the half-dark, the blond man saw a Chinese staring at him.

He crouched as if preparing to spring, and behind him a second figure appeared.

The stranger was now in complete control of himself. The moment the first scoundrel leapt at him he fired, and the Chinese collapsed right next to the bed.

A second bullet flew through the passage between the bed wardrobe and door, when the second Chinaman had vanished.

Everything fell quiet. The stranger quickly lit a candle.

The hotel was in turmoil. The shots had disturbed the guests; the owner ran up with several of his employees.

The stranger dressed and opened the door. He told them briefly what had happened and showed them the Chinaman lying on the floor, his skull pierced by a bullet.

He was a short, thickset man with a very cunning face; his right hand squeezed the thin, sharp dagger with which he intended to kill his victim.

Only now did the stranger see that behind the wardrobe there was a door into the next room. It later turned out that the Chinese had entered the hotel from the courtyard, scrambled up the fire escape to the third floor and, making their way into the empty room, easily crawled into the stranger’s room.

The second Chinaman, in all likelihood, and managed to flee by the same route.

The hotel owner quickly informed the police and, around five in the morning Inspector MacConell appeared, accompanied by a stocky man with a smooth-shaven, energetic face. This was none other than the renowned New York detective Nat Pinkerton.

He had only just detained an important criminal and was still in conversation with MacConell when the latter received a report on the happenings in the Central Hotel.

Pinkerton took an interest in the "incident" and went with the inspector. It was he who discovered the route that the Chinamen had used to infiltrate the hotel.

The stranger expressed his joy on the opportunity to shake the hand of the renowned detective, about whom he had heard so much. The blond man introduced himself. He was Karl Nefeldt, a German business man who had travelled to New York to establish trade agreements with several firms.

His efforts, however, had not been rewarded with success and he intended to return to his homeland in several days.

He described in detail how he had sat in a restaurant with some friends, admitted they had warned him about visiting Chinatown, but precisely because of that, he had decided to take a walk along Mott Street. Then he told Pinkerton of his find and described all the adventures that he had come out of safe and sound, thanks to his own cool head.

The detective calmly listened him out.

"Would you be so kind, Mr. Nefeldt," he said, "as to show me the item you found on Mott Street."

Nefeldt unwrapped the paper and handed the detective the golden medallion.

Pinkerton examined it attentively and then said slowly and deliberately: "I would advise you, Mr. Nefeldt, to leave as quickly as possible. An evil fate lead you to find it! Your life is in danger. I swear that if you stay, those yellow-faced devils will do something bad to you!"

Nefeldt looked at the detective in amazement, not understanding that he had been condemned to death simply because he had discovered the golden medallion.

"I don’t understand at all!" he muttered. "Is it my fault that I found this thing that, by the way, I was going to hand in at the police station!"

Here Inspector MacConell joined the conversation: "I must draw your attention, Mr. Nefeldt, to the fact that in all of New York you will not find another man who knows Chinese customs and ways, the superstitions and extravagant habits of the Chinese and their language as well as Mr. Pinkerton. He and his assistant Bob Ruland have many times rendered us valuable services in our battle with these yellow rascals. Believe Mr. Pinkerton and make haste to follow his advice!"

"I don’t doubt," answered Karl Nefeldt, "that Mr. P inkerton is better informed of these matters than I am, but I cannot understand why the Chinese want to kill me for finding that ornament?"

"That’s no ornament," the detective objected, "it’s a talisman, on which a Chinese bonze has scratched his mad incantations. Many Chinese wear such talismen on their chests under their clothing. I think that this talisman belonged to a wealthy and important Chinese who was murdered yesterday. Fanatical Chinese priests sometimes invent insane horrors to satisfy the bloodthirsty instincts of the crowd, and in this case they have followed a similar plan: the bloodied talisman was taken from the chest of the murdered man and tossed on the pavement with the idea of using whomever picked it up as an offering and scapegoat for the murder of their compatriot. The Chinese, it stands to reason, subordinated themselves completely to the decision of their bonze and so, when you walked down Mott Street, they were watching from the doorways and gateways to see who would pick up the gold medallion. Unfortunately, it was you. However, they did not want to kill you immediately, otherwise this whole affair would not have happened and you would have received countless stabs from their daggers. No, they only wanted to gag and carry you off to their heathen temple and sacrifice you to their gods. You’re lucky you didn’t lose your head. Otherwise, bitter experience would have convinced you how fanatical these people are!"

"But how did the Chinese find out in which room I’m staying in?" remarked Nefeldt.

"Very simple!" answered Nat Pinkerton. "They followed you closely and, when you went into the hotel, the spies only had to see what room a light went on. They attacked you, and because you shot one of them, on top of everything else you’ve brought their vengeance on you!"

"But I cannot leave right away!" exclaimed Nefeldt. "The steamer isn’t leaving for three days!"

"In that case move to a more secluded hotel and do everything to make sure you enemies do not find out! I can recommend the hotel Victoria, on 27th Street. Move there. I’ll visit you in the afternoon to find out if you were followed there too!"

Karl Nefeldt collected his baggage and left the Central Hotel by the back exit. By seven o’clock in the morning he was in a room on the eighth floor of the Victoria.

 

Chapter II: Caught All the Same
The Hotel Victoria stood in a busy area, and that had a calming effect on Nefeldt. The Chinese could not dare to come there.

He slept till noon, and soon Nat Pinkerton appeared at this doorway.

The detective was disguised as an old graybeard. Before entering the hotel he had wandered around the building, but had noticed nothing suspicious.

One might think that the Chinese still had not discovered where Nefeldt was, but Pinkerton was not at all convinced, knowing the peculiarities of the yellow people and their craftiness.

He did not hide his fears from Nefeldt and advised him not to go out all day.

Nefeldt, of course, did not like that. He felt like he was under arrest, and not being at all cowardly, he did give much significance to Pinkerton’s warnings. It was hardly possible that the Chinese could have found him in such a huge city, where there were always thousands of people on the streets. And he was now living far from Chinatown.

He went out after lunch to make a few business calls. Returning near evening, he had supper in the dining room on the second floor and then took the elevator back up to the eighth.

Back in his room he had a strange, gnawing feeling: an inexplicable fear weighed on his chest. He scolded himself for it, as he had never before known fear or horror.

Around ten o’clock he lay down in bed, and this time too he got his revolver ready to give any uninvited guest a loud greeting.

He lay awake until midnight, but then sleep overcame him and he slept soundly until two, when he suddenly awoke in a sweat. He wanted to raise himself on the bed, but his body, as if made of lead, did not respond to his efforts. A sickly-sweet odor was smothering him, and his head was spinning.

Somehow he realized that a new attempt was being made on him, but the terrible heaviness binding his limbs was stronger than he.

Nefeldt lost consciousness. He tried to get his revolver from the night stand, but could not: his hand would not move.

A red mist covered his eyes. It seemed to him he saw a yellow face distorted by a malicious grin. With a heavy moan he lost consciousness.

The two Chinamen who had stolen into the room lifted Nefeldt’s body and wrapping it in a piece of mottled cloth they had brought with them and carried it out to the corridor.

Then with silent steps they went two floors below and stopped by the door to a room in which, judging by the huge trunks, a commercial traveller with sample wares was staying.

The Chinese unlocked one of the trunks, all the while glancing over their shoulders to make sure they were not caught unawares. Their long, sharp daggers lay near them on the floor, and they would not have stopped at murder if someone had found them at their work.

Opening the trunk-lid, they removed some of the samples and stowed the wrapped up Nefeldt in such a way that he would not suffocate. Only later was he to die.

Then they carefully closed the lid and with a gloating grin looked at the trunk that held their victim.

For the time being, their task could be considered successfully completed. There was nothing more for them to do in the Hotel Victoria. Silently they slipped down the staircase. Nobody saw them. A waiter moaned in a second floor corridor, with a large wound on his head that was dripping blood, and the porter lay bound by the front entrance.

The Chinamen cautiously opened the door and look around the street. A third Chinese joined them from the porters’ room.

The corner of 27th Street and Fifth Avenue was animated even at night, and the Chinese had to wait until they could walk out of the building unnoticed. As soon as a convenient moment presented itself, they leapt out and quickly disappeared.

Only after an hour had passed did one of the hotel employees come upon the bound porter and the wounded waiter. He immediately raised the alarm.

When the porter was untied he could not say what happened.

He had been sitting in the porters’ room and dozing when suddenly someone had struck him a terrible blow from behind. He had crumpled to the floor instantly. When he returned to his senses, he was lying bound and gagged. Everything was dark, but still it seemed that some person was standing next to him. This person soon left though.

The waiter said that as he was descending the stairs someone had grabbed him from behind and threw him to the floor. He had not even seen his opponent because he had been hit on the head.

The hotel owner telephoned the police; he could not explain the puzzling incident, but then he remembered that the day before the renowned detective Nat Pinkerton had visited the hotel and had asked that to be summoned immediately if anything unusual happened.

The owner phoned the detective right away, and he quickly responded.

The detective listened to the incoherent story and asked: "Are all your guests in?"

"I couldn’t wake everyone, that would cause a big misunderstanding!"

"Alright! Go up to Room 55 on the eighth floor and see if Karl Nefeldt, a young, blond German, is in. I have reason to think that misfortune has befallen him."

"I’ll find out right away!"

The owner and several of his employees left for the eighth floor. The door to Room 55 turned out to be unlocked, and there was a stiflingly sweet odor.

The bed was empty, but one could see that the lodger had lain down on it, and on the night stand the barrels of two loaded revolvers glistened.

"Aha, a crime has been committed," exclaimed the owner excitedly. "Evidently our guest has disappeared without a trace! Not a word about this to anyone," he said to his employees, "or else we’ll incur terrible losses! I’ll inform Mr. Pinkerton right away and he, surely, will be able to explain this mystery and save that unfortunate man."

He returned to the telephone and informed the detective.

"We might have expected that," answered Pinkerton. "I’ll be there in half an hour. Mr. Nefeldt has been taken from the hotel, he is now in the power of those scoundrels and will perish if the most energetic measures are not taken immediately!"

The hotel owner became even more worried. Wringing his hands, he ran back and forth through the room: if the incident gets publicity, his hotel’s reputation would be ruined. Merciful heavens, some scoundrels broke in during the night, kidnapped a man and nobody noticed! The poor man lost his head entirely. He would never have thought that such a thing could occur in a hotel full of people!

Half an hour later Nat Pinkerton appeared together with his assistant Bob Ruland and quickly went up to the eighth floor. When they entered Room 55 and noticed the cloying odor, the detective immediately opened the window and said: "Now we know how the rascals overcame their victim! They filled the room with gas! It’s a Chinese invention that’s often used in China. Without a doubt, the Chinese following Nefeldt were here!"

Pinkerton went over to the open window and looked down.

"Strange!" he muttered, "still I don’t understand how the slant-eyed devils contrived to carry him out? They set it up cleverly!"

He went to the back of the hotel and examined the courtyard framed by tall apartment buildings; it was unthinkable that the Chinese could cross here unnoticed with their load. It was likewise improbable that they had gone out to the street, which was busy all night long. Besides, Chinatown was far from the hotel, which in all probability made transporting the prisoner very difficult.

Pinkerton thought for a while.

"I don’t understand," he muttered, "those Chinese put together a devilishly clever plan!"

He began to go over the room thoroughly, but found nothing, establishing only that the Chinamen had let the suffocating gas in through the door.

He found a pinch of white powder on the floor, which he took with him in a piece of paper, and a spot left by some acid. But he could not determine how the Chinese had left the hotel building with their victim.

Since the porter was unconscious, the scoundrels could, it’s true, have left by the front, but the detective considered that impossible.

"If they had not had such a load," he told Bob, "they could have gone out on the street and concealed themselves in an alleyway. After all, they know how to hide themselves in an instant! But they could not have walked very quickly carrying a large man. The alarm would have gone out in a moment if passersby had seen several Chinamen carrying a man at night, or even something of that size. That’s what’s complicating the story!"

The detective searched every floor, but he could find no clues. The criminals had planned everything subtly and walked barefoot through the hotel. The detective passed the trunks on the sixth floor. It did not even occur to him that Nefeldt might be in one of them.

The detective and the policeman who arrived right after him searched the hotel until morning.

Around seven o’clock Inspector MacConell appeared, and he was equally baffled. He could not imagine that the Chinese had contrived to carry their victim through the busy streets to Chinatown.

"You and I, Bob, must once again transform ourselves into slant-eyes sons of the Heavenly Kingdom!" Pinkerton finally said. "It would be base of me not to take every measure I can to free Nefeldt from the hands of his enemies. Let’s off to Chinatown!"

Bob was compelled by the danger, and since he was as fluent in Chinese as his boss, he had no reason to fear being recognized.

Nat Pinkerton was still conversing with his assistant and the inspector by the entrance when somebody in a blue shirt drove up with a hand cart. There was a savage expression on his face, and a scar stood out on his left cheek.

He politely doffed his cap and went in by the front entrance. Pinkerton looked at him and said: "Aha, an old acquaintance! How are you doing, Tom Bilsby?"

Bilsby shuddered, looked at the detective and exclaimed: "Mister Pinkerton?"

"One and the same! I’m glad you remember me."

"Our acquaintance was not very pleasant," objected Bilsby and looked gloomily at the detective.

"Whatever happened is past," replied Pinkerton. "I see that you’re now a decent man and are earning your bread by honest labor."

"That’s true, I transport freight and make enough to live."

"I’m glad," answered the detective, "I hope we won’t meet again under circumstances as unpleasant as the last time."

The porter asked the worker what he needed. Bilsby gave him a calling card and said: "I was sent for one of the trunks in front of the room of a gentleman on the sixth floor."

On the calling card was written: "Freddy Maxwell, representing the firm of Elfeston and Son, Boston." On the back was written in pencil: "Please give the bearer of the card one of trunks standing in front of my room, marked K. K. 100."

The porter went to his room, looked in a book and announced: "Mr. Maxwell, No. 22 on the sixth floor!"

Bilsby went with one of the servants to get the trunk.

Pinkerton turned to his assistant and the inspector.

"I put that Tom Bilsby in prison, and they let him out only two years ago. In his time he was one of the most dangerous robbers, and I had to chase him for quite a while. To be honest, I don’t believe he’s gone entirely straight. That Bilsby is not one to earn his daily meal by heavy labor, he doesn’t like to work at all. We’ll have to put a tail on him."

"And what should I do?" asked Bob.

"Go to our spare apartment near Chinatown for the time being. Disguise yourself as a Chinaman there, but make sure your makeup is right. I have a feeling that we have a difficult fight ahead of us. And could you, Mr. MacConell, send no fewer than fifty plain-clothes policemen to the vicinity of Mott Street for the day, and have them respond to my first whistle. As you know, on such occasions in Chinatown you need a large detail, there are so many of those yellow devils, and at any moment a hundred of those scoundrels will materialize, armed."

The inspector promised to send the detail and bid the detective farewell.

Pinkerton concealed himself in a building across the street. In several minutes, a hunchbacked old man with a thin gray beard and blue glasses emerged.

Inspector MacConell, still in conversation with the hotel owner, saw the old man but did not for a moment think it was Nat Pinkerton.

Bilsby and the servant came down the staircase with the heavy trunk. They loaded it on the hand cart.

Before leaving, Bilsby looked around cautiously. Evidently, his conversation with Pinkerton had aroused his anxiety. But when he saw there was nothing suspicious around, he set off. Soon he was hidden in the crowd, but he didn’t notice the grey old man in blue glasses following on his heels.

 

Chapter III: On Bilsby’s Trail
Tom Bilsby drove the trunk along Fifth Avenue to Canal Street, and then turned onto Mott Street, the main thoroughfare of Chinatown.

Nat Pinkerton did not fall behind. When he noticed which way Bilsby was headed, he grinned.

"Something’s up!" he muttered. "It seems that Bilsby’s errand is connected to the disappearance of Karl Nefeldt!"

The detective made it to Chinatown without attracting Bilsby’s attention. Now he began to act like a foreigner in Chinatown for the first time; he looked around with curiosity and watched the Chinese with their braids and heavy footwear in amazement. However, he did not let Bilsby out of his sight, and it did not slip his attention that when Bilsby appeared with the trunk, several passing Chinamen made secret signs to each other that were absolutely incomprehensible to the uninitiated.

Finally Tom Bilsby turned onto Pell Street and slipped into a dark, narrow alleyway.

The detective could not follow him there, as he would have unavoidably given himself away, all the more so as he knew that in Chinatown every passerby is constantly followed by a hundred eyes.

Therefore he went further down the street, turned back and began to wait until Bilsby returned with the empty handcart. Bilsby was now in a big hurry and, evidently, was glad to be done with his errand.

Nat Pinkerton followed him to the Bowery, and there approached two policemen, gave his name and showed them his badge.

"Follow that hardy fellow with the empty cart!" he ordered. "When he’s gone a bit beyond the Bowery, arrest him and take him to police headquarters to the inspector."

The policemen went on their way. Pinkerton quickly went to see MacConell at headquarters. MacConell did not recognize the old man at first and asked: "How were you let in to my office unannounced? I ordered that no one be allowed in!"

"Nobody at all?" asked the detective, changing his voice.

"Of course, how else! I’m busy with such important matters that I can’t leave them for a moment!"

"But I was let straight in when I gave my name," declared the detective.

MacConell looked up at him in surprise.

"That’s odd," he said, "with whom have I the honor of speaking?"

"It’s odd that Mr. MacConell does not recognize old friends! My name is..."

"Nat Pinkerton!" exclaimed the inspector and jumped up from his seat. "You are an amazing fellow! I’m constantly coming to that conclusion! By the way, I remember now that you left the building opposite the Hotel Victoria looking like that."

Pinkerton sat down, removed his beard and glasses, and told the inspector about everything he had seen.

"The policemen will probably soon bring the prisoner in," he added, "and I think we will find out much of interest."

In fifteen minutes the policemen delivered Bilsby.

"He put up a desperate resistance," reported one of the police, "so we had to put the handcuffs on him."

At a signal from the inspector the policemen left and Bilsby found himself face to face with the inspector and detective. He shuddered when he recognized Nat Pinkerton, since he did not expect to meet him here. But he guessed that the delivery of the trunk had led to his arrest.

"Just today I expressed the hope that we would never again meet under unpleasant circumstances," began Pinkerton, " but unfortunately I see that you’re involved in foolishness again, and I had no choice but to order you brought in."

"I haven’t done anything wrong!" responded Bilsby.

"We’ll see about that! Tell me, please, how much were you paid to move the trunk?"

"Not a hell of alot!" answered Bilsby. "The gentleman paid me one miserable dollar."

"Which gentleman?"

"The one who instructed me to take the trunk from the Hotel Victoria."

"What sort of gentleman?"

"A man of medium height, with a black beard."

"That’s a lie. It was a Chinaman who told you to."

Bilsby stepped back in amazement and glanced around in confusion.

"Not true," he said in turn, "I would never do a job for a yellow-faced scoundrel!"

"Where did you take the trunk?"

"To 60 Broadway. Wait, that’s not the right number, I don’t remember it."

"Again a lie!" objected Pinkerton, "I know for sure that you delivered the trunk to Pell Street, to a narrow alley behind No. 18."

Bilsby became even more confused. Now he understood that the detective had managed to follow him.

"You see that nothing will come of your lies! Incidentally, I’ll look for myself to find out how much you received for the your work."

The detective went up to the prisoner and began to rummage through his pockets.

"The devil take you!" swore Bilsby. "What right do you have to do that?"

He tried to resist but could not evade the agile detective, who pulled a pack of bank notes containing five hundred dollars from his pocket.

"Those are my savings!" shouted the angry Bilsby, "don’t you dare take them away from me!"

"Strange that you would carry such savings around with you," countered Pinkerton. "Admit that you received the money for delivering the trunk. And what was in it?"

"I don’t have any idea," muttered Bilsby.

"Do you admit now that you delivered the trunk to Pell Street?"

"So be it," he growled.

"And who did you deliver it to there?"

"I handed it over at the back entrance."

"To whom&endash;Chinamen?"

"I don’t know, it was dark!"

"Don’t lie," the detective shouted at him, "you’ll only make your punishment worse by lying. It seems to me you want to spend another few years behind bars."

"Hell’s bells, how can you pick on me for just doing and errand?" roared Bilsby.

"Listen to me, Tom!" said the detective, "you can keep those five hundred dollars, and I’ll try to make sure you get off light, if you’ll be open with me. If you have only a bit of reason left in you, you’ll understand the advantages."

"I don’t have any wish to turn those yellow devils against me," muttered Tom.

"Nonsense," answered Pinkerton, "you’re no coward! So tell me: who gave you Freddy Maxwell’s calling card and hired you to deliver the trunk?"

"The Chinaman Lun-Tsa-Hang!"

"Where and when?"

"This morning in a Chinese restaurant on Mott Street."

"Had you known this Chinaman before?"

"We had occasion to be together."

Nat Pinkerton also knew Lun-Tsa-Hang, and was aware that he played a role something like an ataman amongst his compatriots. He was considered a prophet and wizard, and it was undoubtedly his idea to toss the bloody talisman out to find a sacrifice for the murdered Chinese rich man Hang-Po.

"He didn’t tell you what was in the trunk?"

"No, and I wasn’t interested in finding out."

"Lun-Tsa-Hang himself received the trunk at No. 18?"

"Yes, he and two other Chinamen, who took the trunk down into a dark basement."

"This time I’ll believe you, Tom! Mr. MacConell, would you be so kind as to hold this man under arrest until I clear this matter up, and then you may release him."

The inspector agreed, and Tom Bilsby had no objections. He was gladly prepared to spend a few days under arrest, as long as he didn’t go to prison or lose his money.

They took him away, and Nat Pinkerton said goodbye to the inspector and went to the apartment near Chinatown to disguise himself as a Chinese.

Chapter IV: An Execution that Never Took Place
Dressed as a Chinaman, Nat Pinkerton walked slowly along Mott Street. The Chinese he met along the way paid him no attention, which meant that the costume and makeup were a success.

The detective made his way forward with the heavy steps characteristic of sons of the Heavenly Kingdom. Turning onto Pell Street, he almost bumped in a Chinaman, whom he recognized as Bob Ruland.

They stopped and began to talk in a whisper.

"The German is in a basement reached by a staircase from the courtyard of 18 Pell Street," said Pinkerton, "I think that there’s another prisoner there too: the commercial traveller Freddy Maxwell. The Chinese forced him to write out the calling card that had the trunk brought over from the hotel. Nefeldt was most likely hidden in it."

"Excellent," answered Bob, "the policemen are already in place and will appear here at the first whistle. I think we should go down into the basement."

The disguised detectives moved slowly forward and turned into the dark alleyway of No. 18. A mass of Chinese were crowded together in the dilapidated building. There were tumbledown shacks built in the courtyard, and many of the yellow-faced rascals were living there too.

Walking along the passageway, the detectives heard the clomping of wooden shoes behind them. Three Chinese were following on their heels. One of them, with a dark expression on his face and a black beard, was dressed in a crimson-red outfit. His appearance did not instill trust.

Despite the darkness, Pinkerton recognized him. He had occasion to meet him previously. It was Lun-Tsa-Hang himself, the prophet and wizard, who enjoyed unlimited power over his compatriots.

He paid no attention to the Chinamen in front of him, and the detective calmly let him pass them. In the purest Chinese, Pinkerton asked one of the prophet’s companions: "Will the captured dogs be executed soon?"

"Yes, their hour has come! Lun-Tsa-Hang himself will execute them, and the two sacrifices will free Hang-Po from the clutches of the evil spirit!"

"Lun-Tsa-Hang is a righteous judge! The blood of the executed will bring us good," the detective said quietly.

Then he went down the stairs leading into the basement and found himself in a passageway lit by a single paper lantern.

Ten steps took him to a doorway guarded by two Chinamen holding broad double-edged swords.

The sentries stepped aside when Lun-Tsa-Hang and his companions appeared, the door opened and the detectives walked with the others into a new passageway that split into two branches.

Lun-Tsa-Hang went to the right and yelled to his two companions: "Bring me the first prisoner!"

They went off to the left. By an earlier agreement, the detectives split up in both directions; Bob followed the prophet and Pinkerton his companions. Another door opened at the end of the corridor and they entered a dimly lit room with a rug in the middle. It was also illuminated by a single paper lantern, and it was difficult to make out people’s figures.

The prisoners, Freddy Maxwell and Karl Nefeldt, were sitting on the rug. Both were deathly pale. They resembled each other a great deal; both were blond and had beards.

Along the walls were two guards holding broad swords; their eyes never left the prisoners.

When the three Chinese entered, the prisoners shuddered. One of the Chinamen approached Maxwell and said: "The hour of vengeance is here! Get up and follow me."

Since he spoke Chinese, Maxwell understood nothing and didn’t move.

They grabbed him, stood him on his feet and dragged him to the door. He put up a desperate resistance, but the swords and daggers they showed him forced him to submit. They dragged him away and slammed the door.

The guards again assumed a crouch. One of them looked in surprise at the detective who stayed behind.

"Don’t you want to see the captive dog executed?" he asked.

"No," objected Pinkerton, "I want something else!"

"What’s that?"

"This!" shouted Pinkerton in a choked voice and pounced like a tiger on the guard. He gave him a tremendous blow of the fist to the temple and the Chinaman collapsed without a sound. The second guard watched this scene in mute horror, but before he could get up and shout, he met the same fate.

Pinkerton quickly cut the ropes binding Nefeldt and whispered to him: "You’re saved, Mr. Nefeldt! I’m not Chinese, I’m Nat Pinkerton!"

Nefeldt almost shouted for joy. He grabbed the revolver that the detective handed him.

"Let’s go, Mr. Pinkerton. I’ll thank you later. Right now let’s get the rascals that dragged Mr. Maxwell and me here and taunted us so insolently."

"Let’s go, let’s go! There are policemen outside already, I’ll go call them."

Pinkerton rushed ahead and opened the door to the staircase. He quickly dealt with the unsuspecting guards, collapsing them with heavy blows. Not a sound escaped them, and the path outside was clear; Pinkerton raced up and let out a piercing whistle. In a few seconds steps were heard, as the police detachment rushed into the alleyway from Pell Street.

...........................
The Chinaman Lun-Tsa-Hang, followed by Bob, also reached the door, which he opened. They entered a large, square room lit by a row of multi-colored lanterns. There was a red carpet in the middle, and on it a broad, curved sword.

Fifty Chinese standing in a circle respectfully greeted the newcomer.

One of them lifted the sword, got to his knees and handed it to the prophet. He took it and looked at those present, his eyes glistening.

"Everything is ready! The first sacrifice will now be brought in, and Hang-Po’s vengeance will be complete!"

Following that, two Chinese led in Freddy Maxwell and stood him in the middle of the carpet before the prophet.

Lun-Tsa-Hang looked at him with a piercing glance and said slowly: "The night before last Hang-Po, one of our most esteemed compatriots, was murdered. His death demands a sacrifice, that his soul might be freed from the evil spirit! You shall be the first sacrifice, and must die!"

Freddy Maxwell understood nothing. The prophet made a sign to his assistants.

They threw themselves on Maxwell, untied him and ripped his clothes off to the waist. Then they threw him to the carpet and bent his head to the floor. The unfortunate man understood that they intended to behead him in the Chinese way; he tried to put up resistance, which, of course, was quickly broken.

His deathly pale face showed an iron resolution. He did not want the band of scoundrels to see his fear.

Until then, Bob had been watching the scene quietly, hoping that Pinkerton and the policemen would appear before the danger reached its peak. But the prophet had already raised his sword, the circle of Chinese was crowding in on the unfortunate man whose bared neck awaited the blow.

The final moment had come--the prisoner was to die! Bob made his decision. At the very second Lun-Tsa-Hang was going to cut off Maxwell’s head, Pinkerton’s assistant fired a shot and the sword flew from the prophet’s bloody hand.

A howl erupted. The entire yellow-faced band understood instantly that an enemy was among them. Daggers glittered, and with a savage howl the Chinese threw themselves at Bob, who was standing next to Maxwell holding his revolvers.

At that moment the door opened and Nat Pinkerton, Karl Nefeldt and the police broke into the room. A battle began, one that ended in the total defeat of the Chinese. Ten were killed, including Lun-Tsa-Hang, and the remainder was put under arrest.

So Karl Nefeldt and Freddy Maxwell were freed, and they did not know how to thank their savior. His energy and faultless logic had discovered their place of captivity and saved them from a horrible death at the last moment.

Nat Pinkerton celebrated a brilliant victory! In consequence it came to light that he had been absolutely correct in his initial guess about the importance of the talisman found by Karl Nefeldt, that it had been left on the street so that its finder could be made into a blood sacrifice.

With that Nat Pinkerton once again proved that a detective needs not only a calling, but also a broad education. Coming up against other nationalities, one also needs a deep knowledge of their language, life, customs, and even their fanatical rituals.