This did not deceive Nick Carter, however. He knew that the very calmness of these Chinamen was suspicious. There might be a dozen more of them in the place behind, or upstairs, and each one might be staring down through peepholes at the strangers.
Only one thing Nick was sure of, and that was that the man with the scarred ear was not in the front shop. Neither of the men working had any such mark, and their hands were clear of bandages or injuries.
Without comment or inquiry, Nick accepted his check. The Chinaman said laconically, “Thursday!” and went on with his ironing without looking at his visitors as they left the shop and closed the door behind them. Patsy glanced through the window as they passed. The two Chinamen were still ironing with characteristic patient industry.
Turning a corner, Nick met a policeman, and the quick look of recognition from the officer made him ask a quiet question, without stopping, as they passed:
“Is there another entrance into Sun Jin’s laundry besides the front one?”
“Through the saloon on the corner,” replied the officer briefly, as he walked on.
“That cop knows his biz,” remarked Patsy, in a low tone. “Anybody seeing him would think he’d never seen you before.”
“He’s an old friend of mine,” returned Nick coolly. “I have a great many on the force.”
Neither Nick Carter nor Patsy wore any disguise, but both were dressed in such inconspicuous raiment that they looked like thousands of other New Yorkers. At a glance, one would have said they were ordinary business men—insurance agents, perhaps.
So, when they slipped into the saloon the policeman had specified and strolled into the room at the back of the bar, the waiter served them with the beer Nick ordered, and went back to the free-lunch counter in front without giving them any further attention.