“Look at some of these old photographs and you will see that they differ from this.  They lack the ‘L’ mark.  Some have circles, others a very different series of pits and elevations, a set of characters when examined and measured under the microscope utterly different from those in every other case.  Each is unique, in its pits, lines, circles and irregularities.  The laws of chance are as much against two of them having the same markings as they are against the thumb prints of two human subjects being identical.  The firing-pin theory, which was used in a famous case in Maine, is just as infallible as the finger-print theory.  In this case when we find the owner of the gun making an ‘L’ mark we shall have the murderer.”

Something, I could see, was working on O’Connor’s mind.  “That’s all right,” he interjected, “but you know in neither case was the victim shot to death.  They were asphyxiated.”

“I was coming to that,” rejoined Craig.  “You recall the peculiar marking on the nose of those bullets?  They were what is known as narcotic bullets, an invention of a Pittsburg scientist.  They have the property of lulling their victims to almost instant slumber.  A slight scratch from these sleep-producing bullets is all that is necessary, as it was in the case of the man who spied on the queer doings on Staten Island.  The drug, usually morphia, is carried in tiny wells on the cap of the bullet, is absorbed by the system and acts almost instantly.”

The door burst open and Walker Curtis strode in excitedly.  He seemed surprised to see us all there, hesitated, then motioned to Kennedy that he wished to see him.  For a few moments they talked and finally I caught the remark from Kennedy, “But, Mr. Curtis, I must do it.  It is the only way.”

Curtis gave a resigned nod and Kennedy turned to us.  “Gentlemen,” he said, “Mr. Curtis in going over the effects of his sister has found a note from Clendenin which mentions another opium joint down in Chinatown.  He wished me to investigate privately, but I have told him it would be impossible.”

At the mention of a den in the district he was cleaning up O’Connor had pricked up his ears.  “Where is it?” he demanded.

Curtis mentioned a number on Dover Street.

“The Amoy restaurant,” ejaculated O’Connor, seizing the telephone.  A moment later he was arranging with the captain at the Elizabeth Street station for the warrants for an instant raid.

XII

The “Dope trust”

As we hurried into Chinatown from Chatham Square we could see that the district was celebrating its holidays with long ropes of firecrackers, and was feasting to reed discords from the pipes of its most famous musicians, and was gay with the hanging out of many sunflags, red with an eighteen-rayed white sun in the blue union.  Both the new tong truce and the anniversary were more than cause for rejoicing.