Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  Communication between certain individuals in China and their relativesand friends in Chinatown must, for political and other reasons, beconducted in a secret way. In Shanghai, Moore had made theacquaintance, under somewhat mysterious auspices, of Ching Gow Ong, animportant figure in the silk traffic.

  Moore, so it was said by those who were in a position to know, had onceperformed a favor for Ching Gow Ong, of which no one seemed to know theparticulars. What was of equal importance, perhaps, was that Ching GowOng would have willingly given Moore any gift within his power hadMoore been so inclined.

  But it appears that Moore was not a seeker after wealth, thereby givingsome real basis to the common belief that he possessed that rarething--a virginal spirit of adventure. He cemented this queerfriendship by conveying messages, indited in Chinese script, which hedid not read, between Ching Gow Ong and his brother, Lo Ong, officiallydead, who conducted a vile-smelling haunt in the bowels of Chinatown.

  Peter Moore made his way through the narrowing alleys, proceededthrough a maze of blank walls, down a damp stone stairway, and rappedupon a black iron door. It opened instantly, and a long clawlike handreached forth, accepted the yellow envelope from the operator's hand,and slowly, silently withdrew, the door closing as quickly and asquietly as it had opened.

  No words were spoken. His errand done, Peter Moore retraced his stepsto the wider and brighter lanes which comprised the Chinatown known totourists.

  He walked slowly, with his head inclined a little to one side, whichwas a habit he had acquired from the eternal listening into the hardrubber receivers. He had proceeded in this fashion a number of stepsup one of the narrow, sloping sidewalks when he felt, rather thanperceived, a pair of eyes fastened upon him from a second-story window.

  They were the eyes of a young Chinese woman, but he sensed immediatelythat she was not of the river type. Her fine black hair was arrangedin a gorgeous coiffure. Gold ornaments drooped from her ears, and hercomplexion was liberally sanded with rice powder. Her painted lipswore an expression of malignity.

  In the obliquity of the eyes lurked a solemn warning. Then he becameaware that she seemed to be struggling, as if she were impeding themovements of some one behind her.

  It is safe to say that in his tramps through the winding alleys ofCanton, of Peking, of Shanghai, Peter Moore had encountered manyChinese women of her type. There was a sharp vividness to her featureswhich meant the inbreeding of high caste. She was unusual--startling!She looked into the street furtively, held up a heavily jeweledhand--an imperial order for him to stop--and withdrew. He lounged intothe doorway of an ivory shop and waited.

  It was quiet in Chinatown, for the time was noon and the section waspursuing its midday habit of calm. The padding figures were becoming atrifle obscure, owing to a cold, pale fog that was drifting up from thebay. In a moment the woman reappeared, examined the street again withhostile eyes, held up a square of rice paper, and slowly folded it.

  Peter Moore nodded slightly and smiled. It was a habit with him--thatsmile. The sensitiveness of his nervous system found a quick outlet,when he was nervous or excited, by a disingenuous smile. He proceededto the shop directly underneath her window, observing it to be Ah SihKing's gold shop. The window was rich in glittering splendors from theOrient. He picked up from the sidewalk a crumpled ball of red paperand stowed it away in his coat pocket.

  To an alert observer the indifference with which Moore turned andpretended to study the gold ornaments in Ah Sih King's window mighthave seemed a trifle too obvious, and the smile on his lips, one mightgo on to say, was uncalled for.

  As he waited, a soft thud sounded at his feet, coincident with a flashof black and white across his shoulder. He covered the object with onefoot, as the oily, leering face of Ah Sih King appeared in the doorway.The blanched face surmounted a costly mandarin robe, righteously worn,a gorgeous blue raiment with traceries of fine gold and exquisite gems.At this moment he seemed to exhale an air of faint suspicion.

  "Gentleman!" accosted the thin, curled lips in a tone that waswell-nigh personal.

  "Buy nothing," Peter Moore said curtly.

  "You see my--my see you," observed Ah Sih King, reverting, as he deemedfitting, to pidgin.

  The wireless operator turned his back impolitely; Ah Sih King didlikewise. When he turned again, sharply, the oily smile was gone, alook of concern having crept into his sly, old face, and the slightlybent shoulders of the much slier young man were several strides distant.

  A faint hiss, as of warning, issued from the carmine lips of theChinese woman. Then the window closed noiselessly, and Chinatown,having paid not the slightest heed to the incident, pattered about itsmultifarious businesses, none the wiser.

  There was an indefinable something in this incident which causedcreases to appear across Moore's brow. Why had two notes been thrown?The puzzle sifted down to this possibility: Some one behind the Chinesewoman had thrown a ball of red paper, a note, into the street.

  Then she had beckoned him to wait, had written a second note, perhapsto warn him away. He glanced furtively at the second note, saw that itwas written in Chinese, and thereupon decided in return for many favorsto call upon Lo Ong for a translation.

  Chinatown now was slowly vanishing from view, swallowed by the grayblanket of fog which rolled in from the Pacific through the mouth ofthe harbor. Retracing his steps through the mist, Moore descended thenarrow stone stairway and tapped on the oblong of iron with his heavyseal ring. A shutter clinked, uneasy eyes scrutinized him, and heheard the bolt slide back. He opened the door and entered, restoringthe bolt to its place.

  The room was low, deep and dark under the flickering light of a singledong, which hung from the ceiling at the end of a roped-up cluster offine brass chains. The rich, stupefying odor of opium tainted theheavy air. The orange flame, motionless as if it were carved fromsolid metal, showed the room to be bare except for a few grass matsscattered about in the irregular round shadow under it.

  To one of these mats Lo Ong, gaunt, curious, even hostile, retreated,squatting with his delicately thin hands folded over his abdomen. Alook of recognition disturbed only for the instant the placidity of theochre features.

  "No come buy?" he intoned, as if Peter Moore had never passed underthat piercing gaze before.

  "My never come buy," said the wireless man curtly. "Wanchee you comehelp; savvy?"

  "Mebbe can do," asserted Lo Ong, in the voice and manner of oneincessantly pursued by favor-seekers. Lo Ong's draped arm, as if itwere detached from his body and governed by some extraneous mechanism,indicated a mat. Moore slipped down in the familiar cross-leggedattitude, lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke at the belly on thedong.

  "You Wanchee cumshaw?" demanded the Chinese, uneasily.

  Peter Moore disdained to reply, extracted the two lumps of paper, slidone under his knee and unfolded the other, while Lo Ong lookedunfavorably beyond him at the door. Three rows of Chinese markingswere scrawled down it. Lo Ong's body commenced to sway back and forthin impatient rhythm.

  "Lo Ong," stated Moore, "my wanchee you keep mouth shut--allatimeshut--you savvy?"

  "Can do," murmured Lo Ong indifferently. He reached for the ricepaper, lifting it tenderly in long, clawing fingers, and held it to theflame. He seemed not to believe what he read, for he twisted the paperover, looked at it upside down, then sat down again, his lean fingersconvulsing.

  "No can do," he muttered, replacing the paper on his visitor's knee."Mino savvy."

  The white forefinger of the wireless operator pointed unwaveringly atthe flattened nose. "Read that," he ordered.

  Lo Ong glanced the other way, as if the subject had ceased to interesthim, and tapped the floor with his knuckles.

  "Wanchee money--cumshaw?"

  "Lo Ong," declared Moore, losing his patience, "you b'long dead. Nowsavvy?"

  "Mebbe can do," said Lo Ong faintly.

  Moore ran his fingers down the first r
ow of fresh markings.

  "O-o-ey," commented Lo Ong, shifting uneasily, "'My see you allatime,long ago on ship.' Savvy?"

  "What's next?"

  "'You no see my. My see you allatime.'"

  The long, sloping shoulders seemed to jerk. "Keep away. Savvy?"

  "It says that?"

  "Take look see," invited Lo Ong, poking his claw nervously down thecolumn. "'Keep away. Keep away.' One--two times. Savvy?"

  Peter Moore nodded thoughtfully.

  The Chinese, officially dead, replaced the sheet gingerly on his knees,as if it were an instrument of wickedness. His bony fingers twitched amoment.

  "High lady," he added nervously; "velly high lady. You stay away.Huh?"

  "Wait a minute." Peter extracted the other paper ball, unfolding itnear the orange flame. The inner surface was red, the earthly red ofporphyry, and cracked and scarred by the crumpling. Nearly obliteratedby the lacework of wrinkles and scratches was a scrawl, evidentlyscarred into the glazed surface by a knife-point. The upper part wasunintelligible. On the lower surface he made out with difficulty thesingle word, _Vandalia_. He carried it to the door, slid back theshutter and let the dim, gray light filter upon it. The other wordswere too mutilated to be read.

  "Hi!"

  He returned to Lo Ong's jacketed side. The bony finger was circlingexcitedly about a smear of black in the lower corner of the rice paper.

  "What's this?"

  "Len Yang. _Len Yang_! Savvy?"

  "O-ho! And who is Len Yang?"

  Lo Ong shook his head in agitation. "Len Yang--city. Savvy?Shanghai--Len Yang--fort' day."

  "Fourteen days from Shanghai to Len Yang?"

  "No. No! _No_! Fort'."

  "Forty?"

  "O-o-ey." The flattened nose bobbed up and down. "Keep away--ai?"

  "Maskee," Peter replied, meaning, broadly speaking, none of yourbusiness.

  Lo Ong unbolted the door, to hint that the interview was concluded."You keep away--ai?" he repeated anxiously. Moore grinned in hispeculiarly disingenuous way, swung open the black door, and a long,gray arm of the fog groped its way past Lo Ong's countenance.