Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China

by George F. Worts

  CHAPTER VIII

  Night brings counsel, say the French. Only in sleep does one mine thegold of truth, said Confucius.

  When Peter was aroused by the golden dawn streaming through theswinging port-glass upon his eyes the cobwebs were gone from his brain,his eyes were clear and of a bright sea-blue, and he was bubbling withenthusiasm for the new-born day.

  His ablutions were simple: a brisk scrubbing of his gleaming, whiteteeth, a dousing of his hands and face in bracing, cold water, with asubsequent soaping and rinsing of same; followed by a hoeing process atthe mercy of a not-too-keen Japanese imitation of an Americansafety-razor.

  Assured that the deck below his port-hole was spotless, he ventured tothe dining-room, half filled and buzzing with excitement.

  He was given to understand by a dozen gesticulating passengers thatsome time in the course of the night a deck-passenger, a Chinesecoolie, from Buitenzorg to Hong Kong, or Macao, had fallen overboard,leaving no trace.

  It was whispered that the helpless one had been done away with by foulmeans. And Peter became conscious during the meal that his fat andjovial little captain was looking at him and through him with a glancethat could not be denied or for long avoided.

  Wondering what his Herr Captain might know of the particulars of lastnight's doings, Peter sucked a mangosteen slowly, arranging histhoughts, card-indexing his alibis, and making cool preparations for anofficial cross-questioning. Clever lying out of his difficulty was theorder, or the alternative for Peter was the irons.

  When the fat fingers of Mynheer the Captain at length dabbled in thelacquered finger-bowl, after rounding out his fourth pomelo, Peter gotup slowly and walked thoughtfully to the foot of the staircase. Herethe captain caught up with him, touched his elbow lightly, and togetherthey proceeded to the promenade-deck, which was shining redly in placeswhere the wetness of the washing down had not yet been evaporated bythe warm, fresh wind.

  Mynheer the Captain fell into place at Peter's side, gripped his fatJavanese cigar between his teeth, and caught his fat wrists togetherstolidly behind his back, and his low, wide brow slowly beetled.

  "Mynheer," he began in a somewhat constrained voice, low and richlyguttural, "it iss known to you vat took place on der ship some damduring der nacht? Ja?"

  "I overheard the passengers talking about a coolie falling overboardlast night, sir," replied Peter guardedly. As long as no directaccusation came, he felt safer. He was reasonably sure, basing hisopinion of skippers on many past encounters, that this one would gotypically to his subject. In his growing cock-sureness, Peter expectedno rapier-play. It would be a case, he felt sure, of all the cards onthe table at once; a slam-bang, as it were.

  "You know nodding of dot business, young man?"

  "Nothing at all, Myn Captain."

  "Dot iss strange. Dot iss strange," muttered the captain as theyrounded the forward cabin and made their way in slow, measured stridesdown the port side. "I haf seen you come aboard yesterday, mynheer;und I haf seen you t'row over der side a coolie, a coolie who wass wit'der coolie who dis'ppeared last nacht. Why did you t'row him over derside, eh?"

  "He threatened me with his knife," replied Peter without an instant'shesitation. "_Mynheer_, he was a bad Chink, a killer."

  "_Ja_. _Tot ver vlomme_! All of 'em are bad Chinks."

  "Why should he stab me?" intoned Peter. "I never saw him before. I ama peaceful citizen. The only interest I have on this ship, MynheerCaptain, is the wireless apparatus."

  "_Ja_? Dot iss gude to hear, young man. I haf liked you--how does onesay it?--immensely. Der oder man wass no gude. He is gude rittance.You intend to stay wit' us. Ja?"

  "I hope so," said Peter heartily and with vast relief.

  "You like dis ship, eh?"

  "Very much, indeed."

  "And I vant you to stay, young man. I vant you to stay joost as longas you feel like staying. But I vant to ask you one t'ing, joost onet'ing."

  "I'll do anything you say, sir."

  The fat, jovial skipper of the _Persian Gulf_ eyed Peter with beady,cunning eyes, and Peter was suddenly conscious of a sinking sensation.

  "Joost one t'ing. Better, first I should say, ven you t'row overboardder coolies you dislike, it vould be best not to keep--vat are deycalled--der soufenirs. Sooch t'ings as peestols."

  "But, _mynheer_----"

  The fat hand waved him to silence.

  "Bot' of dem vas bad Chinks. I know. I know bot' of dose coolies along, long time. T'ieves and blood men. _Tot ver vlomme_! It issgude rittance, as you say. Young man, I haf nodding but one more t'ingto tell you. I say, I like you--immensely. I vant you very much tostay. But der next time coolies are to be t'rown over der side, I willbe pleased to haf you ask my permission."

  Peter stared hard at the fat little man, with a quick glaze ofgratitude over his eyes. The skipper left him, doubling back in thedirection of the wheel-house. And something in the unsteadiness of thebroad, plump shoulders gave to Peter in his perplexity the notinaccurate notion that the fat little man had enjoyed his joke and wasgiggling to such an extent that it almost interfered with his dignifiedstrut.

  Before buckling down to the day's business he made sure of one thing.Gone from his stateroom was the revolver with its Maxim silencer.

  Because the wireless room at sea is a sort of lounging-room for thosepassengers who are bored from reading, or poker, or promenading, orsimply are incompetent to amuse themselves without external assistance,Peter ignored the dozen pair of curious and interested eyes which werefocussed on his white uniform as he passed, with those telltalechevrons of golden sparks at the sleeves, strode into the wirelesscabin, hastily closed the door, locked it, and thereupon gave hisattention to the void.

  He was not surprised to hear the shrill yap of the Manila stationdinning in the receivers, and having no desire to allow his fair nameto be besmirched by what might be professional inattention to duty, hegave Manila a crackling response, and told him to shoot and shoot fast,as he had a stack of business on hand, which was the truth.

  Steamship and commercial messages were awaiting his nimble fingers, ahalf-dozen of them, in a neat little pile where the purser had leftthem to attract his attention as soon as he came on duty.

  Manila's first message, with a Hong Kong dateline, and via thePhilippine cable, was a service message, directed to Peter Moore,"probably aboard the steamer _Persian Gulf_, at sea." The context ofthis greeting was that Peter should report directly upon arrival inHong Kong to J. B. Whalen, representative of the Marconi Company ofAmerica, residence, Peak Hotel.

  Following this transmission the Manila operator was anxious to knowwhether or not this was Peter Moore at the key; that he had been giveninstructions by the night man, who claimed to be a bosom companion ofPeter Moore's, to make inquiries regarding Peter Moore's whereaboutsduring the past few months.

  He further expressed a profane desire to know, provided the man at thekey was Peter Moore, how in Hades he was, _where_ in Tophet he had beenkeeping himself, and _why_ in Gehenna he had so mysteriously vanishedfrom the face of this glorious earth.

  "But why all the hubbub about Peter Moore?" flashed back Peter to theinquisitive Manila operator, who was only about two hundred milesdistant by now and rather faint with the coming up of the sun.

  "Are--you--Peter--Moore?" came the faint scream.

  "No, no, no!" shrieked the voluptuous white spark of the _Persian Gulf_.

  "Is--he--on--board?"

  "No, no, no!" rapped Peter making no effort to disguise that inimitablesending of his.

  "You--are--a--double-barreled liar!" said the Manila spark withvehement emphasis. "No operator on the Pacific has that fist. Youmight as well try to disguise the color of your eyes!"

  Manila tapped his key, making a long series of thoughtful little doubledots, the operator's way of letting his listener know he is still onthe job, and thinking. Then:

  "Why did you leave the _Vandalia_ at Shanghai?"

 
"I never left the _Vandalia_ anywhere," retorted Peter. "I've justcome up from Singapore and Singaraja way. I am taking the _PersianGulf_ to Hong Kong, and back to Batavia."

  "No--you're--not," stated Manila's high-toned spark. "You're going tobe pinched as soon as you land in Hong Kong for deserting your ship atShanghai. That's a secret, for old friendship's sake."

  It was now Peter's turn to tap off a singularly long row of littledouble dots.

  "It may be a secret, but only a thousand stations are listening in," hesaid at length. "But, thanks, old-timer, just the same. If they pinchPeter Moore in Hong Kong, they will have to extradite him from Kowloon.In other words, they will have to go some. Besides, what Peter does inShanghai cannot be laid against him in Hong Kong. The law's the law."

  A savage tenor whine here broke in upon Manila's laughing answer, theHi! Hi! Hi! of the amused radio man; and Peter listened in someannoyance to the peremptory summons of a United States gunboat,probably nosing around somewhere south of Mindanao.

  "Stand by, Manila," shrilled this one. "Message for the _PersianGulf_." He broke off with a nimble signature.

  "Good morning, little stranger," roared Peter's stridulent machine."You're pretty far from home. Won't you get your feet wet? Theocean's pretty dewy this morning. Well, what do _you_ want? Shoot it,and shoot fast. Peter Moore's at the key, and the faster you shootthem the better Peter likes them."

  The gunboat stuttered angrily.

  "A message for Peter Moore, operator in charge, steamer _Persian Gulf_,at sea. Report immediately upon arrival in Hong Kong to Americanconsul for orders. (Signed) B. P. Eckles, commanding officer, U. S. S._Buffalo_."

  To which Peter composed the following pertinent reply:

  "To Commander Eckles, U. S. S. _Buffalo_, somewhere south of Mindanao.What for? (Signed) Peter Moore."

  The promptness of the reply to this indicated that the recrudescence ofPeter Moore, dead or alive, was of sufficient interest to command thepresence of the gunboat's commander in the wireless house. In effect,Peter now realized that his confession had got him into considerablehot water.

  Back came the _Buffalo's_ nervous answer: "To Peter Moore, operator incharge, steamer _Persian Gulf_, at sea. Orders. Obey them. (Signed)B. P. Eckles."

  Peter cut out the formalities. "Please ask the commander what's thetrouble."

  And out of the void cracked the retort: "He says, ask the Americanconsul at Hong Kong."

  There seemed nothing much to do aside from attending to the accumulatedbusiness on hand. In Hong Kong he could only decide which of the twohe would honor first, the Marconi supervisor or the American consul;for in strange lands one falls into the custom of complying with therequests of his countrymen.

  But Peter was beginning to feel a little of the old-time thrill. Itwas fine to have the fellows recognize that lightning fist of his; fineto have their homage. For the stumbling signals of both Manila and the_Buffalo_ were homage of the most straightforward sort.

  For Peter Moore as wireless operator was swift of the swiftest; hedespatched with a lightning lilt, and the keenness of his ears, forwhich he was famous on more than one ocean, made it possible for him toreceive signals with rarely the necessity for a repeat.

  Manila, obeying orders, was standing by, and Peter, tightening a screwto bring the silver contacts of the massive transmission-key in betteralignment, despatched his string at the highest speed of which he wascapable. As long as his listeners knew he was Peter Moore, he might aswell give them, he decided, a sample of the celebrated Peter Mooresending.

  For five minutes the little wireless cabin roared with theundiminishing _rat-tat-tat_ of his spark explosions, and Manila, a navyman of the old school, rattled back a series of proud O.K.'s.

  Proud? Because Peter Moore, of the old _Vandalia_, of the _Sierra_,and a dozen other ships, was at the key. And an operator who said"O.K." at the termination of one of Peter's inspired lightningtransmissions had every right to be proud, as any wireless operator whohas ever copied thirty-three words a minute will bear me witness.