Evening Star Newspaper, August 8, 1937, Page 73

Avgust 8, 1937 BEFORE THEY COULD STOP HIM, HO-LING STEPPED UP TO TONY AND SLIPPED INTO HIS HAND THE TINY CLAY CAT. ‘“FOR YOU,'” HE SAID, “NICE PRESENT" _ Ho-Ling sat down at one of the tables andgave his undivided attention to the paper. The soda pop finished and the comic page scanned, he slipped from the chair. Wah Dook was gazing dreamily out of the window. Feeling certain that Wah Dook had completely for- gotten his presence, Ho-Ling crept quietly away from the restaurant and down the street, the paper tucked under his arm. He felt rather proud of himself. The paper was his, and no embarrassing questions had been asked. He made straight for Columbus Park on Mulberry Street, where he knew he would be alone. He found a bench and sat down, and then turned to the page he wanted to see. And there staring at him was a picture of the man in the courtyard; ugly scar, beady eyes, and sullen frown. The paper told in vivid details the whole story of this Public Enemy Number One. Tony was his name. In gory details were listed his victims. Six had fallen to this killer’s caressing gun. Then he read how the day before the members of Tony’s gang had been caught red-handed in a spectacular raid. But Tony, the brains of the gang and the worst of the lot, had escaped. The police believed him to be hiding some- where in New York, and were leaving no stone unturned to track him down. And then the aewspaper, with a munificent gesture, made an offer of one thousand dollars to anyone furnishing information that would lead to Tony’s capture. For a long time Ho-Ling sat quietly medi- tating. One thousand dollars. Whew! With that he could spend the rest of his life at Coney Island riding the roller coaster. He could even afford to take his friends with him, THIS WEEK buy a whole roll of tickets, and ride and ride. But how could he inform the police that he, Ho-Ling, Boy Scout, of all the millions of people in New York, alone knew where this Public Enemy Number One was hiding? To go directly to the policeman on the corner and say, “I know where Tony is,” was unthinkable. There was no cunning, no sub- tlety in such a method. It was too simple, too obvious. The mind of Ho-Ling, with genera- tions of crafty ancestors behind it, did not work that way. Had it not been for Meu, he might have considered it none of his affair. But the brutal killing of Meu had made it a personal matter. He looked down Mulberry Street. An Italian bank, a restaurant, a pool hall, another restaurant, a deserted store, and beyond that a butcher shop. Yes, in that empty store in the basement. That was the place. Nobody would think of looking for Tony there. The windows were thick with dust, the ‘“To Rent” sign was stained with' age. On the other side of the Park were the buildings belonging to the Government. Slowly an idea began to evolve in his mind. He looked, as he sat there, for all the world like a diminutive Chinese philosopher con- templating nature in the few whispering trees in the Park. And not even an expression of elation crossed his face as he finally came to a conclusion. He rose and started back to Chinatown. To carry out his scheme he must make a few purchases. First he went into the court, where he re- trieved the piece of fish he had meant to feed to Meu. Then he picked up the dead cat and, wrapping him up in the newspaper, hurried home. He shared a room with his brother, Foo Jung, who was twenty years old and a student at Columbia University. Under Foo Jung's bed was a shoe box that Ho-Ling coveted. The box contained the new white shoes that Foo Jung had recently purchased. Ho-Ling measured the box. It would serve his purpose. Then depositing Meu under his own bed, he went out and made his purchases. In one of the shops he saw a tiny clay cat. This, too, he bought. He meant to carry it in his trouser pocket to touch occasionally. It would remind him of Meu in case his courage ever faltered. : ; He had enough money left to afford a movie, and over on the Bowery was a superb gangster pictured entitled, “‘Get Your Man.” But instead of giving him any new ideas it only brought terror to his heart. For in the picture the G-Men chased gangsters through the streets and into deserted alleyways, shooting it out with machine guns, and hurl- ing blistering tear gas bombs. And the only weapon Ho-Ling had was a bean-shooter! When he got back to Mott Street he saw some of his friends, Boy Scouts like himself, playing handball in the courtyard of a church. They called to him to come and join them. But Ho-Ling shook his head and trudged on home. Handball was a game for babies com- pared to the great problem he had on his mind. He spent the rest of the hot afternoon seated on the edge of his bed, fanning himself and soberly meditating. When seven o’clock came he went out into the street again. He lingered quietly near the passageway by the Wah Chong Company and, when he saw he was unobserved, he slipped into the dark retreat. The door to the cellar was closed. Ho-Ling knocked three times. “Come in,” said Tony, opening the door. Ho-Ling, his heart beating like a trip ham- mer, stepped down the stairway. The dismal basement was lighted by a single candle. In one corner were piles of boxes. In the rear a flight of steps led to upstairs — and what? “I’'m doin’ some work here,” said Tony, noticing Ho-Ling’s roving eyes. ‘“‘Checkin’ Magazine Section 5 these here boxes. Keep me busy.” He chucklied as if he had said something amus- ing. “May be here a few more days yet. Gotta get this work done. Don’t even have time to get somethin’ to eat. What 'bout doin’ an errand for me, kid? Trot your little legs around the corner and get me some eats, huh?” “Okay,” said Ho-Ling, asked, ““Go out that way?"’ “No. Boarded up. Go out [ got somethin’ else for you to do. Somethin’ important. Mean a whole buck. You ain’t told nobody 'bout see- ing me here?”’ “‘Secret,”’ replied Ho- Ling. “Our secret.” “That’s Chink, all right. Like to keep things to your- selves. Damn good idea, too. Now, scram. Gotta check these boxes.” So Ho-Ling went home. Fortunately he would be alone for a time. Foo Jung worked uptown in a restau- rant and came home very late. When the rest of the family had gone to bed and the house was quiet and even the murmurs from the street outside had subsided, Ho-Ling crept from his bed. First he removed Foo Jung’s white shoes from the box, being careful not to rustle the tissue paper. In the box he placed Meu. Then with his pen-knife he cut from the newspaper the picture of Tony. He placed this on top of Meu. He closed the box and wrapped it securely. On the cover in his boyish scrawl he printed : “Victim Number 7 of Public Enemy Number 1.” Below this he signed his name in Chinese. And added in parentheses: ‘“Ho-Ling” — and his ad- dress in Chinatown. It was now long after midnight. Foo Jung wouldn’t be home until two or three o’clock. Ho-Ling dressed quietly and then with the purchases he had made that day, and the box containing Meu, he crept noiselessly down the stairs and out into the deserted streets. He went directly to one of the government buildings on the other side of Columbus Park. It said ““State of New York” quite proudly on its white facade. On the Leonard Street side he looked about. No one was in sight. So by the huge door he placed the box containing Meu. Then he unwrapped his purchases. At the foot of the box he placed a rice bowl he had bought. He filled the bowl with rice taken from the huge kettle that stood on the stove at home. In this rice he put two chopsticks standing upright. This was the way it was always done with the dead, and even though Meu may never have eaten rice, it was the proper thing to do. The piece of fish, that from the first he had meant for Meu, he placed on top of the rice. Next to this, in a small vase, bowl and the vase, wrapped in red tissue paper, he laid three pennies. Meu, when he arrived in the Land of the Dead, must not be, as he had been in this life, a beggar. Then Ho-Ling crept happily away. He had given Meu a decent burial. He slept well that night and the next morn- ing was almost beaming when he kept his ap- pointment with Tony. ; “If it ain’t my old pal,” said Tony. “Listen, kid, ever get away from Chinatown?"’ *“Central Park once,” said Ho-Ling. “Row- “Traveler, huh?” No, he’d better not mention the time he had marched proudly up Fifth Avenue in a Boy (Continved on poge 13)