“If we could only get our hands on Sang Tu,” mused Chick, half aloud. “That fellow is as slippery as a greased pigtail.”
“He is in New York, I know,” declared Nick. “I have no doubt he was close behind this murder of Anderton. But nobody has seen him here. The last glimpse of him I had was at Shanghai, and then only for a moment. He was coming to America then, I feel sure, but I never was able to trace him.”
“That’s proof enough that he’s a smooth guy,” interjected Patsy soberly. “If he hadn’t been slicker than most men, he wouldn’t have got away from you then.”
“Well, there’s nothing more to be said just now. “But I want you two to get to work on this case.”
“Good enough,” ejaculated Patsy, grinning his delight. “What am I to do, chief?”
“Find me a laundryman with a burned finger on his right hand and a white scar on his right ear. Looks as if he had been burned at some time. That is all the help I can give you, except that the man is middle size, and I should judge him to be about thirty years old, from his shape and movements. I did not see his face.”
“You’ve told me enough,” responded Patsy. “I reckon I’d better put on some clothes that will make the chinks think I’m all right. I don’t know whether I can make a good Chinaman of myself.”
“It isn’t necessary,” answered Nick Carter. “A Chinese disguise is always difficult, especially when you want to deceive Chinamen with it. They are very likely to see through it, unless you are in a rather dark place. You can put on a rather shabby suit of clothes of a sporting cut, and wear a soft hat pulled well down—the sort of hat most young men are wearing just now. The idea is that you are a gangster, and are used to going among Chinamen.”
“I get you,” interrupted Patsy. “I’ll show up some time in the morning, and I hope I’ll know where this chink is that you want. Got his name?”
“No. If I had, he would be easy to find, and I might not have to send you at all.”