CHAPTER XVII
A road as white and straight as a silver bar led directly between theblack, jutting shoulders of the hills to the gates of Len Yang.
Peter, with his heart beating a wild symphony of anticipation and fear,drew rein.
The small mule panted from the long desperate climb, his plump sidesfilling and caving as he drank in the sharp evening air.
Close behind the city's faded green walls towered the mountain rangesof Tibet, cold, gloomy, and vague in the purple mystery of theiruncertain distances. They were like chained giants, brooding over thewrongs committed in the City of Stolen Lives, sullen in their mightyhelplessness.
In the rays of the swollen sun the close-packed hovels enclosed withinthe moss-covered walls seemed to rest upon a blurring background ofvermilion earth.
As Peter clicked his tongue and urged the tired little animal down theslope, he recalled the fragment of the description that had been givenhim of this place. Hideous people, with staring eyes, dripping theblood-red slime of the cinnabar-mines--leprosy, filth, vermin--
His palace! It stood out above the carmine ruck like a cube of purestivory in a bleeding wound. Its marble outrivaled the whiteness of theTaj Mahal. It was a thing of snow-white beauty, like a dove poisingfor flight above a gory battlefield. And it was crowned by a dome oflapis lazuli, bluer than the South Pacific under a melting sun! Butits base, Peter knew, was stained red, a blood-red which had seeped upand up from the carmine clay.
The gate to the city was down, and by the grace of his blue-satin robePeter was permitted to enter.
And instantly he was obsessed with the flaming color of that man'sunappeased passion. Red--red! The hovels were spattered with the redclay. The man, the skinny, wretched creature who begged for a momentof his gracious mercy at the gate, dripped in ruby filth. The mulesank and wallowed in vermilion mire.
Scrawny, undernourished children, naked, or in rags that affordedlittle more protection than nakedness, thrust their starved,red-smeared faces up at him, and gibed and howled.
And above all this arose the white majesty of his palace--the throne ofthe Gray Dragon!
Peter urged the mule up the scarlet alley to a clearing in which hefound coolies by the thousands, trudging moodily from a central orificethat continued to disgorge more and more of them. The dreadful,reeking creatures blinked and gaped as if stupefied by the rosy lightof the dying day.
Some carried lanterns of modern pattern; others bore picks and shovelsand iron buckets, and they seemed to pass on interminably, to beengulfed in the lanes which ran in all directions from the clearing.
It was as though the earth were vomiting up the vilest of itscreatures. And in the same light it was consuming others of equalvileness. Down into the red maws of the shaft an endless chain of menand women and children were descending.
Quite suddenly the light gave way, and Peter was aware that the nightof the mountains was creeping out over the city, blotting out itsdisfigurements, replacing the hideous redness with a velvety black.
At the shaft's entrance a sharp spot of dazzling light sprang intobeing. It was an electric arc light! Somehow this apparition struckthrough the horror that saturated him, and he sighed as if his mind hadrelinquished a clinging nightmare.
Professionally now he gave this section of Len Yang another scrutiny.Thick cables sagged between stumpy poles like clusters of black snakes,all converging at the mine's entrance. His acute ears were registeringa dull hum, indicating the imminence of high-geared machinery or ofdynamos.
At the further side of the red shaft, now crusted with the night'sshades, and garishly illuminated by the diamond whiteness of the frostyarc, he made out a deep, wide ditch, where flowed slowly a ruddycurrent, supplied from a short fat pipe.
Peter believed that electric pumps sucked out the red seepage watersfrom the mine and lifted them to the bloody ditch.
On impulse he lifted his eyes to the darkening heavens, and he knew nowthat the threads of this, his greatest adventure, were being drawn to ameeting point; for he detected in the sun's last refracted rays thebronze glint of aerial wires! What lay at the base of the antenna hecould guess accurately. He hastened to the base of the nearest aerialmast--a pole reaching like a dark needle into the sky--and found therea low, dark building of varnished pine with a small door of eroded,green brass.
The rain-washed pine, the complete absence of windows, and theausterity of the massive brass door contributed to a personality ofdignified and pessimistic aloofness. The building occupied a place toitself, as if its reserve were not to be tampered with, as if its darkand sullen mystery were not meant for the prying eyes of passingstrangers.
Peter knocked brazenly upon the door, and it clanked shallowly, givingforth no inward echo. He waited expectantly.
It yawned open to the accompaniment of grumbled curses in a distinctlytenor whine.
A man with a white, shocked face stared at him from the threshold. Thecountenance was long, tapering, and it ended nowhere. Dull, mockingeyes with a burned-out look in them stared unblinkingly into Peter'sface.
Peter could have shouted in recognition of the weak face, but hecompressed his lips and bowed respectfully instead.
"What the hell do you want?" growled the man on the threshold.
"May Buddha bring the thousandth blessing to the soul of your virtuousmother," said Peter in solemn, benedictive tones. "It is my pleasureto desire entrance."
"Speak English, eh?" shrilled the man. "Dammit! Then come in!" Andto this invitation he added blasphemy in Peter's own tongue that madehis heart turn sour. It was the useless, raving blasphemy of aweakling. It was the man as Peter had known him of old. But a littleworse. He still wore what remained of his Marconi uniform, tattered,grease-stained coat and trousers, with the ragged white and blueemblems of the steamship line by which he had been employed before hehad disappeared. His bony hands trembled incessantly, and his face hadthe chalky pastiness native to the opium eater.
Peter, reflecting upon the honor which that uniform had always meantfor him, felt like knocking this chattering, wild-eyed creature downand trampling upon him. But he bowed respectfully. The door clangedbehind him, and his eye absorbed in an instant the details of theponderously high-powered electrical apparatus.
"Speak God's language, eh?" whined the man. "Sit down and don't stareso. Sit down. Sit down."
"A mandarin never seats himself, O high one, until thrice invited."
"Thrice, four, five times, I tell you to sit down!" he babbled. "Men,even rat-eaters like you, who speak my language, are too rare to let goby. Mandarin?"
He stepped back and eyed his guest with stupid humor.
"I say, men who speak my language are rare. Nights I listen to foolson this machine, and tell them what I please. What is the news fromoutside? What is the news from home?"
"From where?"
"From America!" He stumbled over the words, and took in his breathwith a long, trembling hiss between his yellow teeth.
"It is many years since I visited that strange land, O great one! Itis many, many years, indeed, since I studied for the craft which younow perform so honorably."
"You--what was that?"
"I, too, studied to your honorable craft, my son. But it was deniedme. Buddha decreed that I should preach his doctrines. It is my lifeto bring a little hope, a little gladness into the hearts----"
"You stand there and tell me that you know the code?" cried thewhite-faced man shrilly.
"Such was my good fortune," Peter replied gravely.
"Well, I believe you're a dam' liar, you Chink!" scoffed the other, whowas swinging in nervousness or irritation from side to side.
Peter shrugged his shoulders, and permitted his gaze to fondle themonstrous transmission coil.
"I'll show you!" railed the man. "I'll give you a free chance, I will!Now, listen to me. Tell me what I say." He pursed his lips andwhistled a series of staccato dots and dashes.
"What you have said," replied Peter in a deep voice, "is true, O highone!"
"What did I say?"
"You said: 'China, it is the hell-hole of the world!' Do I speak thetruth?"
Peter thought that this crazy man--whose name had formerly beenHarrison--was preparing to leap at him. But Harrison only sprang tohis side and seized his hands in a clammy, excited grip. Tears of anexultant origin glittered in the man's eyes, now luminous.
"You stay with me, do you hear?" he babbled. "You stay here. I'llmake it worth your while! I'll see you have money. I'll see----"
"But I have no need of money, O high one!" interrupted Peter in asomewhat resentful tone, striving to mask his eagerness.
"You stay!" cried Harrison.
"Lotus eater!" Peter said, knowing his ground perfectly.
"What if I am?" demanded Harrison defiantly. "So are you! So are weall! So is everybody who lives in this rotten country!"
"To the sick, all are sick," Peter quoted sorrowfully.
"Rot! As long as I must have opium, there's nothing more to be said.Now, I pry my eyes open with matches to stay awake. With you here----"
His thin voice trailed off. He had confessed what Peter already knew.It was the blurted confession, and the blurted plea, of a mind that washalf consumed by drugs. A diseased mind which spoke the naked truth,which caught at no deception, which was tormented by its own gnawingsand cravings to such an extent that it had lost the function ofsuspecting. Suspicion of a low, distorted sort might come later; butat its present ebb this mind was far too greedy to gain its own smallends to grope beyond.
The lids of Harrison's smoldering eyes drew down, and they were blue, asickly, pallid blue. With their descent his face became a death-mask.But Peter knew from many an observation that such signs were deceptive;knew that opium was a powerful and sustaining drug; knew that Harrison,while weak and stupid and raving, was very much alive!
"There is little work to be done," went on the thin voice. "Only atnight. Say you will stay with me!" he pleaded.
Peter permitted himself to frown, as if he had reached a negativedecision. Harrison, torn by desire, flung himself down on his raggedknees, and sobbed on Peter's hand. Peter pushed him away loathfully.
"What is my task?"
Harrison sank back on his heels, oblivious of the wet streak which randown from his eyes on either side of his thin, sharp nose, and delvednervously into his pocket. He withdrew a lump of black gum, about thesize of a black walnut, broke off a fragment with his finger-nails, andmasticated it slowly. He smirked sagely.
"He won't care. Why should he care?"
"Who, my son?"
"That man--that man who owns Len Yang, and me, and these rat-eaters.All _he_ wants is results."
"Ah, yes. He owns other mines?"
"What does _he_ care about the mines? Of course he directs the othermines by wireless. He owns a sixth of the world. _He_ does. He isrich. Rich! You and I are poor fools. He gives me opium"--Harrisonglared and gulped--"and he does not ask questions."
"Wise men learn without asking questions, my son," said Peter gravely.
"Certainly they do! He knows everything, and he never asks a question.Not a one! He answers them, _he_ does!"
"You have asked him questions?"
"I? Humph! What an innocent fool you are, in spite of that gold onyour collar! Have I seen him to ask questions?"
"That is what I meant."
"Not I. He is no fool. You may be the Gray Dragon for all of me. Noone in Len Yang sees him. No one dares! It is death to see that man!Didn't I try? But only once!"
"You did try?"
"That was enough. I got as far as the first step of the ivory palace.Some one clubbed me! I was sick. I thought I was going to die! Thereis a scar on my neck. It never seems to heal!"
The senile whine trailed off into a thin, abusive whimper. His bonyjaws moved slowly and meditatively. He went on:
"He is crazy, too. Women! Beautiful women for the mines!Men--men--men everywhere know the price he will pay. In pure silver!"
"He pays well, my son?"
"A thousand taels, if he is satisfied. That is where this hole got itsname. You know the name--the City of Stolen Lives? It should be theCity of Lost Hope. For none ever leave. The mines swallow them up.What becomes of them?"
"Ah! What does become of the stolen lives?"
The sunken eyes stared playfully at him. "What is a thousand taels tohim? He is rich, I tell you! They say his cellar is filled withgold--pure gold; that his rooms and halls run and drip with gold, justas his rat-eaters run and drip with the cinnabar poison. And thewireless--he has stations, and this is the best. Mine is the best. Isee to that, let me tell you!"
"To be sure!"
"These hunters, these men who know his price for beautiful women--hewill have none other--and who are paid a thousand taels----"
"Where did you say these stations are?"
"In all parts. There is a station in Afghanistan, between Kabul andJalalabad, and one in Bengal, in the Khasi Hills, and another innorthern Szechwan Province, and one in Siam, on the Bang PakongRiver----"
"A station on the Bang Pakong?"
"Yes, I tell you. All over. These hunters find a woman, a lovelygirl; and they must describe their prize in a few words. He is sly!The fewer the better. If the words appeal to him, he has me tell themto come. Lucky devils! A thousand taels to the lucky devils! Someday I myself may become a hunter."
"It is tempting," agreed Peter. "But why does he want beautiful younggirls for his mine, my son?"
Harrison ignored the question.
"To-night I will listen. You can watch me. Then you can see howsimple it is. It is time."
Peter was aware that the door had opened and closed behind his back,and now he heard the faint scraping of a sandaled foot, heavy with thered slime. A Chinese, in the severe black of an attendant, stoodlooking down at him distrustfully. His eyebrows were shaved, and amustache drooped down to his sharp, flat chin like sea-weed.
He asked Harrison a sharp question in a dialect that smacked of theguttural Tibetan.
"He wants to know where you came from," translated Harrison irritably.
"From Wenchow. A mandarin. He should know."
The man in severe black bowed respectfully, and Peter looked at himfrigidly.
Harrison slipped the Murdock receivers over his ears, and his voicewent on in a weak, garrulous and meaningless whimper.
"Static--static--static. It is horrible to-night. I cannot hear thesefellows. Ah! Afghanistan has nothing, nor Bengal. Hey, you fool, Icannot hear this fellow in Szechwan. He has a message. Yes, you, Icannot hear him. Not a word! He is faint, like a bad whisper. Theywill beat me again if I cannot hear!"
He tried again, forcing the rubber knobs against his ears until theyseemed to sink into his head.
"Have you good hearing?"
"I will try," said Peter.
"Then sit here. You must hear him, or we will both be beaten. Thisfellow goes straight to _him_."
Peter slipped into the vacated chair and strapped down the receivers.A long, faint whisper, as indistinguishable as the lisp of leaves on adistant hill, trickled into his ears. Ordinarily he would have givenup such a station in disgust, and waited for the air to clear. Now hewanted to establish his ability, to demonstrate the acuteness ofhearing for which he was famous.
Behind him the black-garbed attendant muttered, and Peter scowled athim to be silent.
With deftness that might have surprised that wretch, Harrison, had hiswits been more alert, he raised and closed switches for transmission,and rapped out in a quick, professional "O.K."
He cocked his head to one side, as he always did when listening tofar-away signals, and a pad and pencil were slid under his hand.
The world and its noises and the tense, eager figures behind him,retreated and became nothing. In all eternity there was but onething--the message from th
e whispering Szechwan station.
His pencil trailed lightly, without a sound, across the smooth paper.
A message for L. Y. An American girl. Brown hair. Eyes with themoon's mystery. Lips like a new-born rose. Enchantingly young.
The blood boiled into Peter's brain, and the pencil slipped fromfingers that were like ice. There was only one girl in the world whoanswered to that description. Eileen Lorimer! She had been capturedagain, and brought back to China!
He grabbed for the paper. It was gone. Gone, too, was theblack-garbed attendant, hastening to his master.
Harrison was pawing his shoulder with a skinny, white hand, and makingnoises in his throat.
"You lucky fool! He'll give you _cumshaw_. God, you have sharp ears!Only one man I ever knew had such sharp ears. He always gives_cumshaw_. _Na-mien-pu-liao-pa_! You must divide with me. That isonly fair. But--what difference? Here you can enter, but you cannever leave. You have no use for silver. I have."
The face of Eileen Lorimer swam out of Peter's crazed mind. Miss Vost,that lovely innocent-eyed creature, fitted the same description!
Peter stared stupidly at the massive transmission key, and disdained areply. Miss Vost--and the red mines! He shuddered.
Harrison was whining again at his ear. "He says yes. Yes! Tell thatfellow yes, and be quick. The Gray Dragon will give him an extrathousand taels for haste. Oh, the lucky fool! Two thousand taels!Tell him, or shall I?"
How could Peter say no? The ghastly white face was staring at himsuspiciously now.
While he hesitated Harrison pushed him aside, and his fingers flew upand down on the black rubber knob. "Yes--yes--yes. Send her in ahurry. A thousand taels bonus. The lucky devil!"
Out of Peter's anguish came but one solution, and that vague andindecisive. He must wait and watch for Miss Vost, and take whatdrastic measures he could devise to recapture her when the time came.
The pallid lips trembled again at his ear. "Here! You must dividewith me. A bag of silver. _Yin_! A bag of it! Listen to the chinkof it!"
Peter seized the yellow pouch and thrust it under his silken blouse.He was beginning to realize that he had been exceptionally lucky incatching the signals of the Szechwan station. He was vastly moreimportant now than this wretch who plucked at his arm.
"Give me my half!" whined Harrison.
Peter doubled his fist.
"Give me my half!" Harrison clung to his arm and shook him irritably.
Peter hit him squarely in the mouth.
Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China Page 17
