He had already reported on his conversation with the consul general. There had been no word from Bradley, although Steve's instructions to co-operate with the Spindrift party had arrived. The American official had promised to get in touch with them if Bradley turned up. He had never heard of the Golden Mouse.
"I think we had better try to get in touch with Chahda right away," the scientist said. "So let's have a bite to eat here, then go have a look at this Golden Mouse, or Canton Charlie's. From the description, I'd say it is typical of a certain kind of place where toughs hang out. Each city in the Orient has several. If we wear these old clothes, we'll be less conspicuous."
In a short time they were in Hong Kong again. Zircon hailed three rickshaws and they got in. "Canton Charlie's," the scientist commanded. "Chop chop."
The rickshaw boys started off at a trot. The way led along the bay shore, past wharves and piers, until they were out of the central part of the city and moving into a section that was more as Rick had imagined an oriental city to be. The streets were wide, but lined with board-front buildings. The signs were all in Chinese, and usually painted in gaudy colors. There were no Englishmen in sight now, nor did they see any policemen.
It was a long way. They had left their hotel in full daylight, but dusk had settled before the coolies finally turned off the main road. They went into a narrow street, then turned down another and still another. With each turn the streets narrowed and the light grew dimmer. How had Chahda heard of a place in such a poor quarter of the city? Rick wondered.
Presently the rickshaws drew up in a dismal corner of what was little more than an alleyway. They were in front of a low wooden building with windows that hadn't been cleaned in years. Above the double door was a faded painting, illumined by a single electric light bulb. The painting probably was supposed to represent a mouse. Once, long ago, it had evidently been yellow. Now it was so glazed with grime that it was hard to tell.
Rick stepped down from his rickshaw, sniffing the combined odors of garlic, pungent sauces, filth, and stale beer. Scotty joined him, and they waited for the scientist to take the lead.
Zircon handed some money to the coolies and ordered them to wait. Then he motioned to the boys and led the way to the door. It opened on a large room dimly lighted by faded Chinese lanterns that hung over low-power bulbs. The walls were covered with a grimy paper of faded yellow on which unskilled drawings of mice at play were clustered. The floor was crowded with tables, each table covered with a yellow-checkered tablecloth. So far as Rick could see, there wasn't a clean cloth in the lot.
In front of the room was a long bar of scarred teak-wood. Behind it were row after row of ordinary ten-cent-store water tumblers. Rick guessed Canton Charlie's clients weren't fussy about drinking from fine crystal.
Next to one wall, a white man in rumpled, dirty dungarees was sleeping with head down on the table. His snores were not musical. At one of the tables near the opposite wall, a dark-skinned man in a seaman's woolen cap sat paring his nails with a knife easily a foot long.