Triple Spies | Page 4

men in uniform. But some came for a permanent change.
Wo Cheng never inquired why. He asked only "Cumshaw, money," and
got it.
Was this newcomer Russian, Japanese, Chinaman or American?
The door at last opened half way, then closed quickly. The person who
stood blinking in the light was not a man, but a woman, a short and
slim young woman, with the dark round face of a Japanese.
"You come buy?" solicited Wo Cheng.
For answer, the woman drew off her outer garment of some strange
wool texture and trimmed with ermine. Then, as if it were an everyday
occurrence, she stepped out of her rich silk gown, and stood there in a
suit of deep purple pajamas.
She then stared about the place until her eyes reached the fur garments
which Johnny had recently examined. With a laugh and a spring, lithe
as a panther, she seized upon one of these, then discarding it with a
fling, delved deeper until she came upon some smaller garments, which
might better fit her slight form. Comparing for a moment one of
squirrel skin with one of fawn skin, she finally laid aside the latter.
Then she attacked the pile of fur trousers. At the bottom she came upon
some short bloomers, made also of fawn skin. With another little gurgle
of laughter, she stepped into these. Next she drew the spotted fawn skin
parka over her head, and stood there at last, the picture of a winsome
Eskimo maid.
This done, woman-like, she plumed herself for a time before a murky
mirror. Then, turning briskly, she slipped out of the garments and back
into her own.
"You wanchee cumshaw?" she asked, handing the furs to the Chinaman

to be wrapped.
The Chinaman grinned.
From somewhere on her person she extracted bills, American bills.
Johnny was not surprised at that, for in these uncertain times, American
money had come to be an undisputed medium of exchange. It was
always worth as much to-day as yesterday--very often more. The thing
that did surprise Johnny was the size of the bills she left with the dealer.
She was buying those garments, there could be no question about that.
But why? No one in this region would think of wearing them. They
were seldom seen five hundred miles north. And this woman was a
Japanese. There were no Japanese men at Khabarask, five hundred
miles north, let alone Japanese women; Johnny knew that.
But the door had closed. The American looked at his watch. It was one
o'clock. The train went at four. He must hurry.
He was about to move out from among the furs, when again there came
a rap, this time loud and insistent, as if coming from one who was
accustomed to be obeyed.
"American officer!" Johnny stifled a groan, as he slid back into hiding.
"Wo Cheng!" he cautioned again in a whisper, "my wanchee you keep
mouth shut; you savvy?"
"O-o-ee," mumbled Wo Cheng, his hand on the latch.
CHAPTER II
THE MYSTERIOUS RUSSIAN
Johnny's jaw dropped, and he barely checked a gasp, as through his
screen of furs he saw the man who now entered Wo Cheng's den of
disguises. He was none other than the man of the street fight, the short
one of the broad shoulders and sharp chin. Johnny was surprised in
more ways than one; surprised that the man was here at all; that it could

have been he who had given that authoritative signal at the door, and
most of all, surprised that Wo Cheng should have admitted him so
readily, and should be treating him with such deference.
"Evidently," Johnny thought to himself, "this fellow has been here
before."
Although unquestionably a Russian, the newcomer appeared quite
equal to the task of making his wants known in Chinese, for after a
moment's conversation the two men made their way toward the back of
the room.
Johnny had his second shock when he saw the garments the Russian
began to examine. They were no other than those which had twice
before in the last hour been examined by customers, the clothing for the
Far North. This was too much. Again, he barely checked a gasp. Was
the entire population of the city about to move to the polar regions? He
would ask Wo Cheng. In the meantime, Johnny prayed that the Russian
might make his choice speedily, since the time of departure of his train
was approaching.
The Russian made his selections, apparently more from a sense of taste
than with an eye to warmth and service. This final choice was a suit of
squirrel skin and boots of deer skin.
"Cumshaw?"
Into Wo Cheng's beady, squinting eyes, as he addressed this word to
the Russian, there came a look of malignant cunning