He wiped his eyes carefully, and looked again. The breeze blew more strongly. The doctor clenched his fists.
“No,” he said, and his voice sounded far away to him, and like an excited girl’s. “No.” His voice rose so that all heard him. “No! It’s a small cruiser—flying the American flag!”
The magistrate gasped. He clapped his hands excitedly.
“Of course!” he shouted. “I forgot. The Florida, going to Rangoon for the governor’s big tomashe! I had word she would call here. But—she’s two days ahead of time! Hurrah! We’re saved!”
“No chance,” snapped the doctor. “Look! The oil!”
“But the Americans will help us!” the magistrate screamed.
“How’s her captain to know we need help? Until it’s too late? He’ll find our ashes when he comes ashore! They are starting the oil! The captain will see the fire and hear the fuss, but how will he know what’s going on? Unless he knows what’s happening— It isn’t his business to land on British territory to put out fires!”
“Oh, God,” groaned the priest, “is there no way we can let that American captain know we need help?”
“Of course there is!”
* * * *
It was the Spirit of France who shouted. It was the Spirit of France who seized the flag lying on the table and dashed for the jail door. Understanding, the men tried to stop her—to do the work themselves. But she eluded them.
She dashed out into the yard—a Joan of Arc, undaunted among the flames and smoke. Mohamet Ali saw her.
“Don’t shoot!” he screamed to his men. “Does she come to me for mercy? Don’t shoot her—my mercy waits!”
The girl turned and dashed for the flagpole. Swiftly ran the Spirit of France. Her nimble fingers were at the flag halyards. The smoke beat about her. The red flame of the oil creeping across the yard struck at her like tongues of snakes. But—a long moment—and she was hoisting the flag! Half mast and Union down—a signal of distress everywhere! And Mohamet understood. Of the volley that broke around the girl he fired the first shot.
She was hit. She was hit again. But she managed to stagger into the doctor’s arms, and he lifted her into the jail.
“Tear it down! Down with that signal!” screamed Mohamet Ali.
But his men could not obey! The flaming oil made a barrier of safety for the flag which even their fanaticism could not pass. And the flag stiffened in the morning breeze, and sent its message seaward.
The yelling besiegers redoubled their efforts. They were shooting the Chinese who wouldn’t give them oil. Was there time? Surely, the American captain would understand! But was there time? If Mohamet Ali could get more oil quickly—
A shell from the American cruiser shrieked over the jail. A messenger!
A messenger of comfort and hope to tell the defenders their signal had been seen—for of course a bombardment of the enemy would have been dangerous to the defenders of the jail.
“American bugles coming up the hill!”
“The girl?” asked the magistrate. “Is she dead?”
“No,” said the doctor gruffly. “No. Badly wounded, but we’ll pull her through!”
The Spirit of France opened her eyes.
“You won’t die,” said the doctor gently.
She smiled.
“The Spirit of France will never die!” she answered.
THE BOX OF THE IVORY DRAGON, by James L. Aton
CHAPTER I
Shanghai … February … Clammy morning … The great city where East meets West shivered in damp and foggy cold. Sikh policemen muffled in greatcoats hummed manfully as they breasted the frosty air. White men of affairs whirled along to work in closed cars; lesser white men damned fate in rickshaws. Chattering coolies in quilted winter coats lurched along the Bund in vain search of warmth.
The strip of garden between Bund and harbor that in summer had sheltered the choice loafers of Asia was now abandoned to the cold—and to Kelley.
Quite unmindful was Kelley of the air’s wintry sting. He had no greatcoat and no gloves; yet he lolled on a bench, facing the chill from the harbor, and did not shiver. Part of his inner warmth came from an overdose of hootch; more of it came from the marrow of the man, grown mighty on winter seas.
From the misty harbor came a raucous medley of fog-horns. The lone man on the bench ignored them expertly; he was otherwise busy. Deep from his pants pocket he had pulled the handful of small coins that made up his available cash assets, and was looking them over—appraisingly, yet not cheerlessly.
“Heck!” he meditated. “Guess I’ll have to hunt for a job!”
He was a big man, was Kelley—too big for speed. There was a military erectness to his shoulders; a hint of the stevedore in his huge hands, the roll of the sea in his legs, the devil-may-care glint of the soldier of fortune in his steel-blue eyes. With more fire than wisdom he had adventured to the ends of the earth—and had now no more than a jingle of small change to show for all that he had fought and dared.
Of the coins in his palm, many were pocket pieces, rich with associations, but poor in purchasing power. The pennies were from dirty Singapore … the eight-sided annas from red-and-yellow Bombay … the copper sens from the toy streets of Tokyo … the smart yellow franc from a wine-shop in Marseilles … the quarter from singing New Orleans. The few Shanghai dimes and coppers that topped the heap were reminders of the five hundred dollars that he had squandered in four glorious days on shore.
The thought came that he might walk up Broadway to a native money-changer and swap his assortment of alien coins for a Shanghai big dollar; but—
“Nix!” he muttered. “I won’t do it— I’ll hunt for a job.”
From his coat-pocket he took the paper he had picked up that morning off the street, and began awkardly to seek the column that told of help wanted. He was no reader; it would have been more in keeping with his genius to have prowled along the water-front, seeking a berth on an outbound steamer. But he had been on salt water steadily for a long year; he had it in mind now to stay on shore and see somewhat of this land of China.
The want ads, when he found them, were few in number, as becomes a land where the man-supply exceeds the demand: “Number one office coolie, able to speak French, English and Mandarin” … “Experienced compradore by established house in Tientsin” … “Chinese student will exchange letters with American man for mutual self-improvement—” … “Russian Countess travelling to France wishes companion who will act also as nurse-maid” … “Missionary family will employ trained amah—call mornings only” …
“Nothing for me,” reflected Kelley. Already his huge hands were crumpling the paper when a line in the lower right-hand corner caught his eye:
American with military training for special service. Apply at once, top floor, 600 N.
Szechuen Road.
Kelley started. Across the wide sweep of the traffic-congested Bund he dodged his way, and stopped in front of a stately Sikh policeman who held the head of a narrow cross-street.
“Hey, Bud, where’s this location?” The American put his finger on the ad.
The bearded Sikh read the name, then pointed—a vague gesture indicating some far-off indefinite spot in the teeming city back from the harbor. Kelley went his way along the narrow cross-street, keeping his eye out for some fellow white man from whom he might seek more explicit direction.
In the middle of the third square back from the Bund, he first saw the Lank Man with the Brown Beard, bargaining with a Chinese peddler who had spread his wares of polished brass out on the narrow walk.
“It’s worth five dollars.” The Lank Man held a brass bowl in his hand. “I’ll give you that—no more.”
“No can do,” the peddler was saying. “Eight dollars best price. I tell you true.”
Kelley forgot his objective for a moment and stopped to stare.
Indeed, the Lank Man with the Brown Beard would have won many stares on any street in any city. Some would have gaped at his abnormally la
nk tallness, some at the outsprouting luxuriance of his whiskers, some at the light summer suit and topcoat that flapped about his leanness in the moisture-laden winter wind. Whether in New York or London, in Shanghai or Winnipeg, he would have stood forth, unreal, foreign, alien, one apart from the conventionalities of this world. American he was, but, rarest of all Americans, an artist— glorious rebel against the ways of the majorities.
“I cannot afford eight dollars,” began Brown Beard. “I—” he glanced up and saw Kelley gaping. “How do you like it?” He held out the brass bowl. “The tracing, I admit, is crude—but the shape! Manf only a Chinaman could dream of a curve like that.”
Kelley became aware that Brown Beard was speaking certainly to him.
“I don’t know nothing about that junk,” he admitted. “It all looks alike to me.”
“Each of us has his separate dream.” Brown Beard looked keenly at Kelley. “There are some things, I fancy, in which you could see beauty.” He handed the bowl back to the watchful peddler, then with a deft motion drew something from his inner coat-pocket “There, what do you make of this?”
Kelly looked curiously at the dagger which Brown Beard placed in his hand.
“That’s Jap stuff!” he exclaimed eagerly|. “Samurai, or whatever you call it. That’s a real one—you don’t see many like it They held ’em like this—” He illustrated “Doggone hard things to dodge.”
He continued to hold the dagger, studying it with approval.
“That’s a dandy!” he said, avidly. “That’s a real curio. I’d rather own that than some of them old ones I saw in the Tower of London.”
Brown Beard’s eyes were fixed thoughtfully on Kelley.
“I thought you’d see beauty in that,” he said as he put the dagger carefully back in his pocket. “Now you can understand how I see beauty in yon brass bowl.”
“No, I can’t,” disputed Kelley. “A bowl ain’t no use; a dagger is—anyway, it has been. Just think—maybe kings have been killed with that there weapon.”
“Maybe they have.” Brown Beard was still eyeing Kelley; the intentness of his gaze was well-nigh disconcerting … Kelley’s mind swung back to his errand.
“Maybe you can tell me where this street is.” He drew the paper from his pocket and pointed to the ad. “I won’t try to pronounce it.”
“Ha!” There was meaning in Brown Beard’s ejaculation as his eye caught the ad. “Six hundred North Szechuen!”
“Is that some place you know?” demanded Kelley.
“Looking for work?” countered Brown Beard.
“You’ve guessed it. Do you want to hire me?”
The Lank Man seemed on the edge of saying something vitally important. His eyes devoured Kelley as a critic studies a canvas. Kelley shoved the paper back into his pocket and turned away.
“Let me know when you’re ready to talk,” he said gruffly.
The Lank Man was at Kelley’s side in an instant.
“Here, I’ll show you the way.” His hand rested on Kelley’s arm as he pointed out directions. “You’ll find it easily,” he concluded. “It’s on a main street. And pardon me for not answering; I went to thinking of something else. I’m very often absent-minded, you know. I’m glad we met. My name is Hamilton—Wall Hamilton. I hope we’ll meet again.”
“Same here!” Kelley was a welcomer of friendships. “My name’s Kelley—plain Kelley.”
“Good luck, Kelley!” The two shook hands. “Better look into that job thoroughly before you take it—don’t set yourself up too high, and don’t believe everything you see. Good-by!”
“He’s a nut,” mused Kelley as he went on his way. “I’ve seen ’em like that before. He’s different though—that kind are mostly so wrapped up in themselves that they don’t even see you. He’s got eyes like a detective—” the big man chuckled. “Heck, wouldn’t he surely make a right funny detective!”
CHAPTER II
The front door coolie at 600 Szechuen Road grinned understandingly at Kelley holding his morning paper, opened the door wide enough to admit the big American, pointed up the stairs.
“Topside,” he said briefly.
Kelley climbed — one flight, two flights.
A door stood open before him; he looked. into a wide, low-ceilinged room. Soft coal smoked in the fireplace. A man—a white man with smooth black hair, heavy eyebrows, rich olive complexion—sat busy with documents at a square table. He glanced up inquiringly at Kelley in the doorway.
“I’m looking for a job,” said Kelley, and pointed to his paper. The man at the table exhaled authority—gave Kelley the feeling that he ought to salute.
“Be seated!” From his voice the man was American. “I’ll be through shortly.”
There wasn’t much in the room to attract Kelley’s eye as he sat comfortably waiting. Sagging cracks in the white-washed ceiling … a map or two on the wall … a shelf of sheepskin books … a telephone … beyond the fireplace a rifle atop a wide mahogany chest. Kelley eyed the chest hopefully—here, he surmised, was an arsenal.
The man at the table was more interesting to look at than was the furniture of the room. Smooth skin, straight nose, strong chin, thoughtful mouth, glossy hair, all blended into insolent handsomeness. His air was capable, assured—the air that speaks of hundred-thousand-dollar positions. Kelley compared him to Brown Beard: the one a ragged roamer, dickering with a peddler on the street—the other a dependable man of affairs.
“I hope I land the job,” wished Kelley, and smiled at Brown Beard’s advice that he be wary of what he saw. “I guess I know the real thing when I see it,” he argued inwardly. “I guess Hamilton’s the one that needs a guardian—not me.”
He waited for a long hour. The man of affairs worked steadily at his documents, occasionally consulted the map of China that hung on the wall, once made use of the telephone—to relay a cablegram in code to the Department of State at Washington. Kelley was more and more impressed; plainly this man stood high in Government service.
At length he swung around.
“Name?”
“Clay Kelley.”
“Military service?”
“Three years in the Marines.”
“Discharge?”
Kelley dug the treasured paper from an inner pocket and handed it over. The man at the table studied it closely, compared it with a typewritten docket which he drew from the table drawer, handed it back finally without comment.
“Last job?”
“On a tramp—the Mary Peter. I quit last week—here’s a paper,”
Kelley proffered a “to-whom-it-may-concern” signed by the captain of the Mary Peter. The man gave it scarcely a glance.
“Have you been in China before?”
“Not before last Monday,” admitted Kelley.
“Any friends here?”
“Not to speak of.”
“Any money?”
Kelley grimaced. “Them sing-song girls are good gamblers,” he said with apparent irrelevance.
The man bowed his head for a few seconds in thought.
“All right!” he said with decision. “You’re hired.”
“What for?” It was Kelley’s turn to interrogate.
“Secret Service,” the man at the table leaned forward confidentially. “I’ll have to tell you a bit; I see you’re the sort that can be trusted.”
“You bet I am!” bragged Kelley. “You can just bank on me.”
“My name is Leighton,” went on the other.
“I’m working directly from Washington—even the consular officers here don’t know that I’m on the field. That’s to avoid any possibility of a leak. It’s ticklish work—I’m cooperating with a like man from London. We’re looking for exports of opium. A good deal is smuggled out from here. If we can stop it, it will be easier than trying to uncover and confiscate it at port of entry. Understand?”
“Sure!” approved Kelley. “That’s a good idea. It’s nothing to land opium in ’Frisco—I’ve seen it
done enough times. Where do I come in?”
“So far I’ve been doing only preliminary investigating,” continued Leighton. “I’m onto the gang now that’s doing the smuggling—it’s an organized ring, you understand. I have authority to conduct a raid whenever I have a chance to confiscate a sufficient amount to make it worth while. Raids will call for more or less force; I need a man who can give a blow or two when there’s need, and who can be trustworthy and discreet. I’m giving you a chance at the job.”
“When do I start? What do you pay?”
“You start today. I may arrange our first raid to-night. The salary is two hundred per month gold, and necessary expenses.”
“I’m hired!” Kelley expanded his chest luxuriously. “Lead me to it.”
“The car is ready,” said Leighton in a low voice. “Let’s go.”
* * * *
It was eight o’clock—a dark rainy evening. Kelley had put in a lazy day, loafing most of the while in a room adjoining Leighton’s office. He was tired of inactivity—hungry for action.
The two of them piled into the back seat of a touring car, atop two silent and impassive Chinamen. In the front seat sat two more—one of them driving.
“These boys are fairly trustworthy,” whispered Leighton. “They’ve been with me for a year. They’re Chinese—of course I don’t dare trust them too far! They might be tempted to drop the loot in their pockets and make away. That’s why I’ve hired you.”
The car leaped away at reckless speed. They skidded through curving narrow streets, dodged rickshaw runners and foot-passengers, shot past a loaded tram, swung around sharp corners, passed saluting Sikh policemen, scraped the curb to avoid an aged woman with a teapot who was tottering on bound feet down the middle of the road. The driver honked incessantly. Through the rain gleamed the lights of tiny native shops. Once Kelley spied a painted woman leaning out into the night from an upstairs window.
“We’re raiding a house where there’s opium hidden,” Leighton spoke with the sharp detail of a stage director. “It’s a Chinese house — seven rooms, one behind the other, with open courtyards between. There’s only the one entrance. I’ll stay with the car so as to ensure you a safe retreat. Two of these boys will guard the door of the house. You and the other two will do the actual raiding. I hardly think you’ll meet with any resistance. Show the badge that I pinned on your coat, wave your revolver, and shout ‘Police’—that’s a word they all know.”
The Adventure Megapack: 25 Classic Adventure Stories Page 40
