Triple Spies | Page 2

struggling wildly. At the same instant, Johnny
heard shuffling footsteps approaching around the corner. He was sure
he did not mistake the tread of Japanese military police who were
guarding that section of the city. For a moment he studied the
probabilities of the short one's power of endurance, then, deciding it
sufficient to last until the police arrived, he gripped the knife behind his
back and darted toward an opposite corner where was an alley offering
safety. There were very definite reasons why Johnny did not wish to
figure even as a witness in any case in Vladivostok that night.
In a doorway off the alley, he paused, listening for sounds of increased
tumult. They came quickly enough. There was a renewed struggle, a
grunt, a groan; then the scuffling ceased.
Suddenly, a figure darted down the alley. Johnny caught a clear view of
the man's face. The fugitive was the shorter man with broad shoulders
and sharp chin; the man who the moment before had been the under
dog. He was followed closely by another runner, but not his antagonist
in the street fight. This man was a Japanese; and Johnny saw to his
surprise that the Jap did not wear the uniform of the military police; in
fact, not any uniform at all.
"Evidently, that stubby Russian with the queer chin is wanted for
something," Johnny muttered. "I wonder what. Anyway, I've got his
knife."
At that he tucked the weapon beneath his squirrel-lined coat and,
dropping out of his corner, went cautiously on his way.
So eager was he to attend to other matters that the episode of the street
fight was soon forgotten. Dodging around this corner, then that, giving
a wide berth to a group of American non-coms, dashing off a hasty

salute to three Japanese officers, he at last turned up a narrow alley, and,
with a sigh of relief, gave three sharp raps, then a muffled one, at a
door half hidden in the gloom.
The door opened a crack, and a pair of squint eyes studied him
cautiously.
"Ow!" said the yellow man, opening the door wider, and then closing it
almost before Johnny could crowd himself inside.
To one coming from the outer air, the reeking atmosphere within this
low ceilinged, narrow room was stifling. There was a blend of vile
odors; opium smoke, not too ancient in origin, mixed with smells of
cooking, while an ill-defined but all-pervading odor permeated the
place; such an odor as one finds in a tailor's repair shop, or in the place
of a dealer in second-hand clothing.
Second-hand clothing, that was Wo Cheng's line. But it was a rather
unusual shop he kept. Being a Chinaman, he could adapt himself to
circumstances, at least within his own realm, which was clothes. His
establishment had grown up out of the grim necessity and dire pressure
of war. Not that the pressure was on his own person; far from that.
Somewhere back in China this crafty fellow was accumulating a
fortune. He was making it in this dim, taper-lighted, secret shop,
opening off an alley in Vladivostok.
In these times of shifting scenes, when the rich of to-day were the poor
of to-morrow, or at least were under the necessity of feigning poverty,
there were many people who wished to change their station in life, and
that very quickly. It was Wo Cheng's business to help them make this
change. Many a Russian noble had sought this noisome shop to
exchange his "purple and fine linen" for very humble garb, and just
what he took from the pockets of one and put in the pockets of the
other suit, Wo Cheng had a way of guessing, though he appeared not to
see at all.
Johnny had known Wo Cheng for some time. He had discovered his
shop by accident when out scouting for billets for American soldiers.

He had later assisted in protecting the place from a raid by Japanese
military police.
"You wanchee somsling?" The Oriental grinned, as Johnny seated
himself cross-legged on a grass mat.
"Yep," Johnny grinned in return, "wanchee change." He gripped the
lapel of his blouse, as if he would remove it and exchange for another.
"You wanchee clange?" The Chinaman squinted at him with an air of
incredulity.
Then a light of understanding seemed to over-spread his face. "Ow!" he
exclaimed, "no can do, Mellican officer, not any. No can do."
"Wo Cheng, you no savvy," answered Johnny, glancing about at the
tiers of costumes which hung on either side of the wall.
"Savvy! Savvy!" exclaimed Wo Cheng, bounding away to return with
the uniform of an American private. "Officer, all same," he exclaimed.
"No can do."
"No good," said Johnny, starting up. "You no savvy. Mebby you no
wanchee savvy.