Little Lost Lambs, page 11
The up-to-the-minute blue suit, tan shoes, and black derby of Li Chan Wang were as familiar to the men of Matt and Pell Streets as the cutaway of the mayor of New York City is in City Hall. Li Chan Wang was not the ruler of Chinatown—the days of the two tongs were past—but was the dispenser of news, the political weather-vane, and the manager of the Wu Huan Club.
Li Chan Wang pushed impatiently through the throng in the store of Jack Lun. The Chinaman, even Americanized, had the face-saving propensity of going where he pleases, and turning out for no one. The tourists were grouped around the door leading to Lun's restaurant; but Li Chan Wang went to the rear of the novelty store, through a curtained doorway into a back room.
De Bacourt and the girl followed. They found themselves in a small compartment, half filled with goods boxes, where several men were chatting, The Orientals apparently paid no attention to the visitors, but their slant eyes missed no movement of the two Americans. A tiny girl, playing with a sandalwood doll, scampered away on wooden-soled slippers at their approach. Li Chang Wang beckoned them to a flight of stairs which opened downward from the room.
Julia wrinkled her nose at the hot, stale odor which surged upward toward her. She climbed down pluckily after the scientist. De Bacourt's handsome face was impassive as Wang's as he surveyed the room where they stood.
But the Chinaman's mask of indifference concealed unusual excitement and curiosity. It was not often that he had been the bearer of letters written in the imperial characters of the Peking court, or had visitors to such a personage as Fo Tzu Khan.
The girl started as she saw the alert face of a boy in black silk garments looking at her. It was lucky for De Bacourt's purpose that Wun Lee had never seen Julia or himself. The boy spoke quickly to Wang. Presently, with a sign to stay where they were, their guide left them. Wun Lee followed him.
"Think of that!" the girl whispered to De Bacourt. "We're under Jack Lun's. If Mrs. Khan is here, all we have to do is to call the cops—"
De Bacourt caught her hand warningly.
"Non, mademoiselle. It would be useless. Besides, we do not know where Dick is. My way is the only way."
The girl could hear the tourists' steps on a stair in an adjoining room. It seemed to her an easy matter to call for assistance, search for Armstrong, and find the Khan woman.
"What are you going to do?" she asked the Frenchman impatiently.
De Bacourt twirled his mustache with a smile. His quiet confidence reassured the girl.
"Remember," he whispered, "we are guests here. And we are watched."
The curtains parted, and a silk-robed Chinaman appeared, arms crossed on his broad chest, hands folded in his sleeves. His shaven head and the insignia embroidered on the border of his gown told De Bacourt that he was a Taoist priest. The newcomer bowed ceremoniously, after a quick, penetrating glance.
De Bacourt made an answering bow.
"Who is the sender of the exalted note?" the other asked, in fair English. "What does he want?"
To the girl's surprise, De Bacourt answered rapidly in Chinese. The inscrutable eyes of the priest widened ever so slightly in surprise. He hesitated for a moment, while Wang and Wun Lee, who had returned to the room, watched.
Then the priest bowed again. He held open the curtain for them to pass through. Li Chan Wang, contrary to his usual custom, drew back respectfully for them to pass.
"I told him," whispered the scientist to Julia, "that one who bears a message concerning the one greatest must see some person higher in rank than a lower-caste Tao priest. Tout va bien!"
"You're a wonder at getting past office-boys and secretaries, I must say," the girl giggled., for her nerves were strung taut.
Her face was sober and purposeful when they came out upon the apartment of Fo Tzu Khan. The light was dim, but the explorer's eyes were direct to the woman who sat by the further wall in a high ebony chair.
Fo Tzu Khan was dressed in embroidered garments, wide-sleeved and costly. Ivory and pearl combs adorned her black hair. Her handsome face was painted, and—so Julia's searching glance discerned—her eyebrows penciled. A large fan waved back and forth slowly, half concealing her face. The two women stared at each other coldly, as enemies of the gentler sex will do the world over. Fo Tzu Khan's slant eyes went to De Bacourt.
"Who is the one," she asked slowly, "that dares to send me a message in the name of the one greatest?"
At mention of the name, the priest, who had remained by the door, kotowed.
"It is one who comes on business of the one greatest, O honorable princess of the Blessed Family."
De Bacourt's knowledge of Chinese ceremonial dress, coupled with the writing he had already seen, had told him the rank of Fo Tzu Khan. For a long moment the woman in the chair stared at him, the fan waving softly. Not often had Fo Tzu Khan failed to read the mind of others; but De Bacourt, self-possessed and smiling, perplexed her.
"And this woman?"'
"She has a message for you."
The fan did not cease its slow movement. Fo Tzu Khan Khan held out a dainty hand.
"What have you to say to me?"
De Bacourt smiled apologetically.
"Before you hear my message, I must see the American, Richard Armstrong. You have him here, a prisoner."
It was a bold stroke. Julia watched the Chinese woman breathlessly. She knew that De Bacourt and herself were in the power of the Chinese. At least four men, probably armed, guarded the exit from the room, More were within call, They were in the Lun cellars, where no call for assistance could be heard in the street. They were not even sure that Armstrong was alive. Julia's heart leaped painfully at this, and she hung on the words of Fo Tzu Khan.
"Why do you think he is here?" the latter asked calmly.
"How did I how," countered the scientist, "that you were here? My message concerns this man Armstrong."
The eyes of the woman hardened.
"You are prying into what does not concern you, Professor de Bacourt. You see, Li Chan Wang has told me your name. He did not want me to see you. But I will hear what you have to say. To-morrow, if you come to find us, we will not be here."
"Nor will Armstrong. He is here now. Bring him in. What I have to tell you concerns the Abode of the Blessed and Tranquil, in the hills of Foochow."
The scientist spoke quietly, as though an evening's conversation and not the life of a man was at stake. Fo Tzu Khan was silent. Presently she turned to the priest by the door.
"Bring the American here," she said briefly. Julia gave a cry of joy that was checked by De Bacourt.
Chapter X
The Dragon Tomb.
To Julia, even in her thankfulness that Armstrong was safe, it seemed strange that Fo Tzu Khan would let them see her prisoner. But De Bacourt, wise in the ways of the Chinese, knew that the woman thought only of her mission, the death of the man who had desecrated the Dragon tomb of Foochow. It mattered little to her if the two visitors saw Armstrong, so long as all were in her power. Moreover, De Bacourt's note still puzzled her. She did not yet know how important was the message he brought.
Armstrong appeared in the curtained doorway, escorted by the priest and another. Julia ran across the room to him eagerly, but the Taoist motioned her away. Armstrong's tired eyes lit up at sight of the girl. Then sudden fear flashed into his face.
"Have they got you, too. Julie?" he cried, "What's happened?"
The girl put her finger to her lips for silence: then blew him a kiss across the room.
"The professor's doing all this, honey," she said softly. "We came here to get you out."
The woman in the chair frowned. But the scientist stepped forward.
"Now I will tell you the message, Fo Tzu Khan, of the Blessed Family. It is about this man. He is not the Richard Quin Armstrong you are seeking. He is anothet man of the same name."
The woman in the chair smiled coldly.
"See," she said, "he is bound at the wrists by the red cord. You know what the red cord means. It is the penalty for sacrilege. Half across the world we have followed this man, so that I, all unworthy, could exact the lawful punishment for the wrong done to the ancient emperor of my family—"
The Chinese kotowed at mention of the name, but De Bacourt did not lose his smile. Julia's heart was pounding at the harsh words of the other. Fo Tzu Khan, in her high chair, had the appearance of a judge condemning a prisoner and proclaiming his doom.
"You must hear my message," De Bacourt resumed courteously. "For it was written in the script that even you, Fo Tzu Khan, must obey. And it is the truth. Two years ago I was in the hills of Foochow, among the tombs of the Blessed. I heard of the breaking up of the tomb, the desecration of the remains of your ancestor. It was not done intentionally. The man who did it left China at once. Some months later I met him in America. He was Richard Quin Armstrong, an engineer, by profession."
The woman in the chair was watching Armstrong, her veiled eyes glittering with a feverish light.
"In your country Fo Tzu Khan," continued the scientist, such a crime may be punished by death. You are doing what you know to be your duty. But this man"—he nodded at Armstrong—"knew nothing of what happened in Foochow. You may have seen the notice in the San Francisco paper, that Armstrong, the engineer, was in New York with e—"
Fo Tzu Khan nodded impassively.
"But it was not this man. They have the same name, yet are not relations. I know, Princess of the Celestial Family," De Bacourt raised his voice suddenly, "that even if you believed what I say, your mission would demand a death in satisfaction of the spirit of the Han ancestor. Your mission is ended. The desecration of the tomb is avenged by a higher hand than yours. The real Richard Armstrong is dead."
All eyes turned instantly to the scientist.
"Armstrong, the engineer," he explained, "returned at once from China, for a good reason. He had a bad case of dysentery, contracted in the Foochow Hills. After his arrival here he improved somewhat. But in New York he became worse. He had no relatives or friends, that I knew of, and when he was dying in the hospital he sent for me. He had no one to talk to but me, and he repeatedly told me how he had broken into the tomb. As I was his only friend, after his death I arranged for a small funeral and for burial. A notice of his death appeared in the paper the next morning. I have it here!"
De Bacourt drew from his wallet a clipping which he handed to the woman in the chair. She glanced at it briefly, and looked long at him. The clipping was dated more than a year ago. It bore the name of Richard Quin Armstrong.
"The life of the man who entered the tomb of your ancestor, Fo Tzu Khan," said De Bacourt slowly, "was taken by another hand than yours. I said that I have a message from the one greatest. This is it. For who can tell whether Armstrong's death did not come as a result of his stay at Foochow in the hills where he took the disease? And how can you, now that you know this, presume to set your will against a higher will? The man you sought is buried in Woodlawn Cemetery is this city. His tombstone, as you can see, hears his name and the date of his death."
The woman tapped her cheek slowly with fan, gazing with unseeing eyes straight before her. De Bacourt watched her intently. Suddenly Julia stepped to Armstrong's side and twisted her hands in his, bound by the red cord. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement,
"Two years ago, Mrs. Khan," she cried, "Dick began to save up for our flat, when we got married. He was keepin' company with me as steady as the best of them. You don't think he could have saved up six hundred dollars if he had gone to China? Say, maybe you got a man, too. Then you keep your hands off Dick! He belongs to me—see! Nobody else. I'm giving you the straight truth. Do you think I'd lie about Dick, to the China Emperor himself?"
The girl faced the painted woman in the chair defiantly. Anger and conviction were in her voice, which rang through the curtained chamber. Fe Tzu Khan looked at her long. The fan had ceased moving. Finally she turned to De Bacourt. The Frenchman spoke quickly:
"Is not the death of the real Armstrong sufficient?"
Fo Tzu Khan waved her hand imperiously toward the priest.
"They can go," she said. "Take them to the street. I want to be alone, I had heard that the man I sought was ill. Now, I know that he is dead."
At the door she checked them. She sat erect and proud in her chair, and De Bacourt at least, wondered if she had sat on a throne in her own country.
"Your police will come to look for me to-morrow," she told them quietly. "Because of the man who was killed. But they will not find me here. What I came for has been accomplished."
At the door Li Chan Wang undid the red cord skilfully from Armstrong. They heard the door of Jack Lun's close behind them. The girl clung to Armstrong's hand, taking deep breaths of the cool air of the street. Pell Street was nearly deserted, for it was late, even for Chinatown.
They hailed a belated taxi at Chatham Square, and were whirled up-town. They were silent during the swift ride, but as they drew up at the scientist's door, De Bacourt turned to the girl.
"Tiens, mademoizelle, that was what you call a close call, is it not? As for Fo Tzu Khan, I shall tell what I know to the police to-morrow. They will get the murderers of Green. But Fo Tzu Khan they will not get. Comment—"
For the girl had suddenly thrown her strong young arms around him and embraced him on both cheeks.
"You're a wonder, monseer!" she cried, with a break in her voice. "I didn't know—how bad all this had hit me, until it's over. Right now, we're going to tell you some real news. You say it, Dick. It ain't proper for me."
Armstrong broke his long silence, as the girl smiled at him meaningly. He put his arm around her, and she nestled in it.
"We're going to be married, professor, as seen as we can get a flat—"
"A flat!" Julia wiped away a trace of moisture from her eyes and dabbed vigorously at her nose with a powder-puff. "Dick, I'm not going to lose you again. We'll be married to-morrow if we have to live on a—door-mat!"
Yellow Elephants
Chapter I
A Young Man in a Hurry
The watch of Andrew Hollis told him that he had sixteen minutes to catch his train. His memory told him he had forgotten something. Instinctively he slowed his steps and ransacked his mind for the missing item.
His bag? No, he had that well stocked with traveling kit and necessary clothing. Pullman reservation—money? His tickets were in his coat-pocket, likewise an unopened week’s pay-envelope. Had he left anything at the office?
Andrew Hollis was a methodical young man, and he was sure that he had closed and locked his desk in the Wall Street office of the News’ financial page upon nothing that did not belong there when he left that afternoon bound for New England and Aunt Emma!
“Aunt Emma!” he thought swiftly. “Great guns—I haven’t any present for her!”
For seven years, ever since his start in business in New York, Andrew Hollis had been accustomed to pay a three-days’ visit to Aunt Emma Hollis, his nearest living relative. And he had never neglected to bring some gift, as it was Mrs. Hollis’s birthday.
He glanced hurriedly around. He was in the thick of the crowd at Fifth Avenue and Forty-Third Street. Beside him a shop window caught his eye, with its sign:
WONG LI
Oriental Art
The window contained a costly Samurai vase and an elaborate silken mandarin’s robe. Rather high-priced stuff, he thought, but Aunt Emma was fond of collecting Chinese trinkets.
Thus Hollis reasoned, and thereby exposed himself for three minutes to a whim of fate involving other lives.
He pushed hastily through the door. A Chinaman in a businesslike black suit bowed, with the courtesy of the Oriental salesman. Hollis sighted two ivory elephants standing on the counter beside an array of elaborate fans. They were grotesque beasts, a faded yellow in color, perhaps ten inches high, and resting on ebony stands. He picked up the nearest one.
“How much for this?’’ he asked hastily.
“Fourteen dollars and a half,” stated the Oriental concisely.
The other elephant seemed to Hollis to be more faded in color; moreover, it was undeniably scratched. It might be cheaper, he reasoned.
“That one is very rare,” the Chinaman responded to his question with a shake of the head, “it is fine ivory. It is old Ming work. A customer left it here to be sold. The price is four hundred dollars. The other is inferior ivory—”
“It’s good enough for me,” announced Hollis hastily. He set the Ming quadruped back on the counter and extracted his pay-envelope. From the bills inside it he took three five-dollar bills. Throwing the crumpled envelope on the floor, he handed the Chinaman the money, indicating the elephant he had first looked at. “Aunt Emma knows something about ivories, but she won’t know that I know the difference—so it’s a good risk.”
The shopkeeper glanced shrewdly from Hollis to the animals and departed rearwards for the change, leaving the elephants on the counter. Absently, Hollis noted that he joined one of his countrymen, talking in a curtained recess at the back of the store. His customer jerked out his watch. The sixteen minutes had been reduced to seven. And it was a little more than two blocks to the Grand Central.
Hollis, by instinct and professional training, was accustomed to act expeditiously. Within ten seconds he had snapped open his suitcase, dropped into it the yellow elephant and ebony stand and gained the door. As he did so he heard an exclamation in the rear of the store and hurried steps coming toward him.
“Keep the change, John!” he cried, and was out in the street. He had a vague impression of loud voices issuing after him. Then he darted into the crowd.
