Page:Weird Tales Volume 7 Number 6 (1926-06).djvu/15

the weird incident in the Chinese shop the day before.

"Of course, that's it," Powell stated. "Your daughter was kidnaped, probably because of some significance attached to the mark on her foot. A foot-fetish people wanted her. Pretty deep for us. But hurry! We'll go down to that store and get the truth from those yellow devils if I have to pound it out of them!"

John Powell and Mr. Hubbard raced into the Chinese section in their chartered taxicab. Before 8 o'clock they whirled up before the dingy store and in a moment assailed the Chinese youth who appeared from behind the curtains. But that gayly-dressed individual was all smiles and urbanity. In reply to the frantic questioning of Mr. Hubbard he shrugged his shoulders. "I not know, I not know," he repeated. "No see lady you talk about."

"Tell us or I'll kill you!" Powell shouted, grasping the Chinese by the shoulder and shaking him. "Tell us, or I'll smash every bone you have!"

The Chinese smiled as if at a joke. "I not know," he reiterated. "Just one minute. I go ask my honored father."

Baffled, helpless, Powell was forced to let the youth disappear through the curtains in the back of the store. A moment later the yellow face peered out. "You wait," he said. "I find out!"

They waited, John Powell and Mr. Hubbard, waited for long minutes. There was no sound from the back room. "I'll see what's going on back there," Powell muttered at last, pushing the draperies aside.

He half expected a savage onslaught; instead he saw three graven-faced Chinese quietly drinking tea and eating rice. They rose when Powell strode into the room.

"Very nice tea!" one of them said graciously. "Will mister have tea?"

Powell stared into the expressionless old face; there was something indefinable shining from the man's eyes, a cunning satisfaction, perhaps, a pleased appreciation of his own cleverness. "Will mister have tea? We talk of ladee."

The Chinese overplayed his part. The solution flashed through Powell's mind. These men were attempting to detain him. Why? To poison him? Attack him when the moment was right? No, hardly that. Then he knew. It was to allow someone else time to get June Hubbard safely away.

He turned quickly toward the curtains, ready to resume the chase, he knew not just where. Immediately the three Chinese plunged after him. The curtains were pulled down and trapped his arms and legs. He tripped and fell. Atop him the Chinese piled. Fingers reached for his throat; the silk was pulled tighter and tighter around his neck. He was slowly smothering.

Slowly, like a giant lifting a family of pigmies, John Powell rose to his feet, the Chinese clinging to his shoulders and throat, his arms, his legs. From the other room came a cry, then the sound of a heavy fall. Other Chinese had downed Mr. Hubbard easily. Well, all the more reason for Powell to fight.

An immense anger rose in him. Who were these yellow men to try to fight John Powell? He straightened his right arm, carrying on it into space one of the clinging Chinese. Using the body of the Oriental as a flail, he whirled to beat off the others. Arms encircled his legs and tripped him; he was falling again. If he went down he was lost. His six feet of muscular body responded to the desperate call on it. There was a flailing of arms and legs, tom bits of silk flying through the air, quick gasps of pain, guttural oaths. Three Chinese bodies came hurtling from the melee and crashed against the walls