CHAPTER XX
DETECTIVE MALONE
It was the fourth week in September when the detectives arrived in Rumley; Oliver’s dredgers had completed their contract; the swamp was clear of men, machines and horses.
The city editor of the Despatch interviewed Detective Malone, the chief operative in charge of what the newspaper man and others, including Oliver October, were jocosely inclined to classify as the “expedition.”
“Where do you intend to begin excavating, Mr. Malone?” inquired the editor, notebook in hand. They were in the lobby of the Hubbard House. “And when?” he added.
Mr. Malone was very frank about it. “In China,” said he. “We’re going to work from the bottom up. If you’ll go out to the swamp to-morrow or next day and put your ear to the ground—and hold it there long enough—you’ll hear men’s voices but you won’t understand a word they say. They’ll be speakin’ Chinese. We’ve got thirty-five thousand coolies digging their way up from Shanghai, and according to schedule they ought to be here by to-morrow morning unless they’ve had a cave-in or stopped off in hell for breakfast.”
The editor eyed him in a cold, inimical manner. “Umph!” he grunted, flopping his notebook shut. “It’s a good thing you’ve got your Chinese army, because you won’t be able to get anybody to work for you in this town. That’s how we feel about this business, Mr. Malone—rich and poor, high and low. There isn’t a dago here who will lift a spade to help you.”
“I guess that’s up to the authorities,” said the detective coolly. “I’m here to boss the job, that’s all.”
“You won’t find anything.”
Mr. Malone grinned. “Exactly what those two old codgers out there on the sidewalk said to me not ten minutes ago.”