The gangster still held his revolver leveled.
“What did you come here for?” Garry demanded.
“Wing Toy, he say comee here,” replied the Chinaman, in pidgin English. “He say lookee to see if man all rightee in there. He say comee soon — lookee — then go away. I comee too late.”
“You’re lucky,” declared Garry, pointing over his left shoulder with his thumb. “I was going to pull that rope. Then it would have been curtains for you. But when I heard you tapping, I let you out.”
“Velee good. You wanee me go now?”
“Yeah,” growled Garry. He was staring at the Chinaman’s hands. There seemed to be a slight bulge in the gown beneath them, as though something was hidden there. “You go fast — and don’t come back. Savvy?”
The Chinaman nodded. Garry glanced into his face. Now, like Moose Shargin, Garry noticed the singular, masklike appearance of those features, with the sparkling eyes that stared from deep hollows.
Their effect was almost hypnotic. The gangster’s watchfulness dwindled momentarily; then, seized by a vague suspicion, he started to raise the gun that he had lowered unthinkingly, while his left hand shot out to seize the Chinaman’s wrist.
But Garry was too late. Before his finger could press the trigger of the automatic, the yellow-faced man was upon him.
The man’s left hand wrested the automatic from Garry’s grasp. His right arm warded aside the gangster’s clutch and, continuing upward, dealt a solid blow to Garry’s chin. The gangster staggered. Before he could recover, the Chinaman clutched him in a jujutsu hold.