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 cl.u.s.tered. 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.

Zircon motioned to the boys and they sat down at one of the tables.

"It's too early for many customers, I suppose. But someone in charge must be here." He banged on the table, then lowered his voice. "How do you like the customer over there? A Portuguese sailor, from the look of him."

In a moment dingy curtains parted next to the bar and a man emerged. At a guess, he was Spanish.

"Bet he's got a knife a foot long, too, under that ap.r.o.n," Scotty whispered. "He's the type."

Rick nodded. Scotty was so right! The man's heavy-lidded eyes were set in a swarthy face whose most prominent feature was a broken nose, flattened probably with some weapon like a hard-swung bottle. A white scar across his chin indicated that it might have been a broken bottle.

He was medium tall, and he wore a cap that might have been white once.

An ap.r.o.n covered loose black Chinese shirt and trousers. Rick was glad big Hobart Zircon was sitting next to him.

The man walked to the table and greeted them in a surprisingly soft voice in which there was an accent Rick couldn't identify.

"You're a little early, gents. But I can take care of you. What'll you have?"

"Chahda," Zircon said flatly.

The man's eyes narrowed. "You better have a drink and sit tight."

"Why?" Zircon asked.

"You'll see. What'll you drink?"

Zircon ignored the question. "Who are you?"

"Canton Charlie. What'll you drink?"

"What have you got?"

There was a ghost of a smile on the scarred face. "I'll fix you up." He clapped his hands. An elderly Chinese in dirty whites shuffled out.

Canton Charlie spoke a few words of singsong Cantonese and the old man nodded.

"Sit tight," Charlie said again, and walked away.

"Lot of fine, useful information we're getting out of this," Scotty grumbled. "I wonder how long we'll have to sit in this flea bag?"

"Hard to say," Zircon replied. "But Charlie seemed friendly enough."

The old Chinese was shuffling across the floor with a tray that held three tumblers of dark liquid. "Wonder what he's going to give us?" Rick said. "Probably dragon blood."

The Chinese put the gla.s.ses down in front of them and padded off again.

Scotty picked up his gla.s.s and sniffed, and a grin split his face.

"Dragon blood, huh? Ten thousand miles from home, in the worst dive in Hong Kong, and what do we drink? c.o.ke!"

Rick laughed. "American civilization and the mysterious East. But it suits me. c.o.ke is probably the only thing in the house fit to drink."

The Portuguese finished the drink that had been in front of him, gave his nails a last inspection, stowed his knife in a leg sheath, and left.

He hadn't even looked at them.

"He's probably gone to find a blowtorch to shave with," Zircon rumbled.

He motioned toward the door. "New customers coming."

They were the first of many. Within a half-hour the room was filled with a strange a.s.sortment. There were British, American, French, Dutch, Portuguese, and Filipino sailors, and men of uncertain profession who ranged in complexion from pure Chinese to pure black. Many were Eurasians, and of the Eurasians, a large percentage were of mixed Chinese and Portuguese blood. Zircon reminded the boys that the Portuguese colony of Macao was only half an afternoon's boat trip south of Hong Kong.

By and large, Rick decided, Canton Charlie's customers were as tough a looking bunch of pirates as he had ever seen. They applauded noisily by banging gla.s.ses on the table as a disreputable lot of musicians appeared and began to make the night hideous with what seemed to be a Chinese version of a Strauss waltz. By this time, the room was so blue with cigar and cigarette smoke and so noisy with coa.r.s.e chatter in a half-dozen tongues that it was hard to see or hear one's neighbor.

Again Rick wondered. How had Chahda ever heard of this place? He sipped on his third c.o.ke and leaned over toward Scotty and Zircon. "Wonder what's keeping Canton Charlie?"

Zircon shrugged expressively. "Can't do a thing but wait, Rick."

Fortunately, the wait was not much longer. A Chinese shuffled past and dropped a folded note on the table. Before they could question him, he had made his way among the tables and was gone.

Zircon picked up the note, glanced through it, and handed it to Scotty.

Rick read over his friend's shoulder. The note was scrawled in pencil, as though written in haste.

"_To find the one you want, go to the end of the Street of the Three Blind Fishermen. Go to the junk with the purple sails._"

"Let's get started," Rick said. He rose to his feet. Zircon tossed some money on the table. The three of them made their way through the noisy mob of rough-necks and out the door. Rick breathed deeply when they were out in the narrow street again.

"Even with the garlic, this air smells better than what we left inside,"

Scotty said. "Why do you think Canton Charlie didn't deliver the message himself?"

"Maybe he's not mixed up in it," Rick suggested. "Maybe he just had orders to let someone know when we showed up."

"We'll soon know," Zircon predicted.

As the three rickshaw coolies materialized from the darkness where they had been waiting, the Americans climbed in. Zircon asked, "You know street called Three Blind Fishermen?"

One of the rickshaw boys nodded. "Not far. We go?"

"Yes."

The rickshaws lurched forward.

Inside the Golden Mouse, Canton Charlie started for the table where the three had been waiting. He stopped short as he saw they were no longer there, turned on his heel, and hurried into an inner room. He spoke quick words to a slim Chinese-Portuguese half-caste who immediately hurried out the back door. Once in the open, the slim man ran as though devils were after him.