Barton bowed. “Professor Fu, my name is Jason H. Barton. You perhaps remember me. I see, also, that you have received my short note — requesting a favour.”
The Chinese threw open the door widely, exposing to Barton’s gaze a small library fitted with a heavy student’s table, an ornate lamp of hammered bronze, and easy chairs of dark leather, and a great bookcase whose volumes were shut off from view by a green silk curtain embroidered with a great gold dragon.
“Please to enter, Mr. Barton,” he commanded in very precise language. “I have just returned from a fatiguing directors’ meeting of the Field Museum, and am more than interested by your letter.”
Then he took up the red slip.
“Honourable Barton, if I may ask without seeming unduly curious, may I inquire as to where this came from?”
“Well,” rejoined Barton pleasantly, “I may say that I found it while out on some newspaper work.”
The Chinaman smiled, and stirred slightly in his gold robes. “I see,” he remarked politely at the vague answer. “Then may I ask if you have already had a translation of it — and have perhaps come to me to corroborate what you have received?”
Barton shook his head. “No, Professor. I have plenty of means by which to secure a translation, but none so convenient as you. I remembered our pleasant interview of some months back and so ran out on the Illinois Central.” He paused. He glanced meaningly at his watch. “And you will assist me in the matter?”
“Indeed, yes,” said Chan Fu. “But may I ask but one more question — without offending you. The other half — where is that?”
Barton stirred uneasily in his chair. “The two halves, Professor, came into my possession while working on a newspaper story. At the time I brought this out to you, the remaining half” — he paused, and then went on, lying resolutely — ”the other half hadn’t come into my possession. It’s now at my rooms. Had I felt sure of finding you I would have brought it along — but I decided to come out and regain the one I had left, and secure a translation somewhere else.”
Fu nodded. “I see,” he said casually. His eyes roved over the slip of red paper. “The words themselves are of little interest,” he pronounced. “They appear to be only a part of a poem. But the characters are characters used only by an educated man. And I doubt whether you could have secured a translation, honourable Barton, through ordinary channels. They read merely, translated, idiomatically, ‘The Twelve Coins of Confucius are — ’ and there they stop.” He looked at the man across from him, but ventured nothing further.
“So it seems to be part of a poem, Professor?” Barton meditated. “ ‘The Twelve Coins of Confucius are — ’ That’s rather odd. What are the Twelve Coins of Confucius?”
Chan Fu tossed over the red slip to him and stifled a perceptible yawn. “I could tell you much of Kong-Fu-Tse,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “but the Twelve Coins of Kong-Fu-Tse sounds rather puzzling even to me.” He glanced up at the onyx clock on the bookcase. “Tell you what to do, Mr. Barton. Suppose you bring in that other half, and we’ll run over it together and see what this Chinese school-boy of yours is driving at. I am curious — and so are you. Also, the characters are ‘feng’ characters — they are of a special alphabet used only by learned men in our country. I am more than glad to give you my poor services.” He paused. “There might be something of interest there.”
Barton rose hastily. He tucked the half-ticket carelessly in his coat pocket. He was trembling with eagerness, but carefully refrained from showing it. “I’ll be glad to do that, Professor Fu. I’ll be back later inside of an hour with the other half, if you’ll help me out.”
“Indeed I shall,” said the other, rising. “I am very grateful to you for your splendid write-up of me some months ago.” He glanced again at the clock. “I shall see you in an hour?” he asked.
Barton nodded. A moment later he had bowed himself out of the professor’s rooms and was making his way across the campus in as dignified a manner as he could. He wanted to shout and throw up his hat, but he knew that he dared not betray his feelings within sight of those old, austere buildings.
As for Chan Fu — the moment his visitor got out of the rooms and footsteps were echoing down the wooden stairs, he stepped quickly to a telephone on the wall and raised the receiver. “Give me Harrison 2428,” he directed in perfect English.
A clicking followed; then: “This is Professor Chan Fu, Chinese exchange professor at Chicago University, speaking. Put me at once on the wire of Mr. Li Hwei Tsung, if you please.”
Another clicking, a man’s voice, and Fu spoke quickly, excitedly, hastily, into the ‘phone, using the Chinese language.
“Tsung? This is Chan Fu of the university. Tsung, I have most astounding news for you. A newspaper reporter just visited me with a paper which he wished translated. He claims to have found it in some peculiar manner. It appears to describe the location of the missing Coins of Confucius, but goes no further than to mention the coins and there it stops. It reads: ‘The Twelve Coins of Confucius are — ’ It is written on the face of a red slip, bearing at the top in English the letters: O-Y; then R-O-N-space-S-T; then D-R-Y. There is another half — the left half-containing the last half of the message and the first half of the English words. And this reporter is to bring this other half in an hour. He — ”
“You believe, then,” broke in Tsung’s voice excitedly, in the same tongue, “that it could possibly be connected with the missing Yuan?”
“I do absolutely,” affirmed Fu. “I have always held the theory that Yuan fled to America by way of Mexico. Likewise, one of the characters is a ‘feng’ letter. Honourable Tsung,” he went on breathlessly, the gutturals tumbling over themselves, “do not underestimate the importance of this discovery — or the seriousness of it. If this man in any way suspects — if he learns the location of those coins, he is likely to have power beyond all description in the empire. You know the value which Hoang-Ti attaches to them. He considers them priceless — absolutely the biggest treasure in the history of China. One more — and he believes China shall be the most powerful country on the face of the globe. He has told me this in his own words — years ago. And if this reporter succeeds even in locating them, there is no telling what Hoang-Ti might do for him. What steps shall I take?”
“Give him an erroneous translation of the other half when he returns,” snapped the Chinese prime minister. “Do — do anything to steer him away from the truth. In the meantime I shall be searching city directories for the names of all Chinese tradesmen ending in O-Y. Professor Fu, do not let this man get away from you. I believe there is something in it. If so, then you and I have the Emperor by the nose. This means the biggest stroke ever put over in court circles — and you and I shall share it together, Fu. Keep me in touch every half-hour with developments. I shall call you, also. And keep to your rooms.”
“I will do that,” said Fu grimly. “I shall play this end correctly, Tsung. Never fear.”
He hung up and, dropping back into the big chair, took down a great Chinese water-pipe which he proceeded to smoke, drawing in great draughts from the heavy Chinese tobacco, and drumming nervously on the table with his long fingers.
Barton, in the meantime, was boarding a city-bound express at the Fifty-seventh Street platform.
“The Professor seemed more than interested,” he ruminated as he dropped into an empty seat. “There seemed to be a most eager gleam in his slant eyes; even his long black moustache seemed to quiver. And he lied even worse than I did when he disclaimed all knowledge of the Twelve Coins.” He paused in his reflections. “I’m thinking I’d better get a translation of that other half just as far from Chicago U. as I can. But where in God’s name can I find an educated Chinaman? Perhaps he lied — perhaps they’re ordinary characters, after all. If so, there’s Mrs. O’Malley’s friend’s Chink servant in Ravenswood and — ”
He fumbled in his breast pocket, but suddenly stopped short in his search. His hands fell he
lplessly to his side, his breath left him in a great gasp, the bottom seemed to fall out of the universe.
For the first time that afternoon he recalled that he had placed the other half of the laundry ticket in his old black leather bill-fold — that he had also placed Frangenac’s credential paper in that same bill-fold — and that in the hurry and excitement of packing he had slipped the bill-fold in Fawcett’s suit-case without removing the torn red slip.
“Oh Lord, oh Lord!” he groaned to himself, slumping down in his seat. “And now — now — the rest of Yuan’s message is on its way to Washington in Fawcett’s luggage!”
CHAPTER XXXVII
WHEN THE ‘PHONE BELL RANG
BARTON didn’t go back to the Loop. Instead, he got off at the Twenty-sixth Street station and went home to his rooms, to indulge in a few self-recriminations at his stupidity in letting the vital half of Sam Toy’s laundry ticket get into Fawcett’s suit-case.
There seemed no way to get into touch with Fawcett before the latter should reach Washington, unless he telegraphed ahead and had the message delivered by the conductor on the Washington Flyer. But that was not going to bring back the vital half of Sam Toy’s message.
But his concentration evolved a plan. He would have a telegram dispatched long before Fawcett should reach Washington, addressed to the same Jason H. Barton, in care of the correspondents’ rooms in the Capitol building. And at the thought of sending a telegram to himself he smiled whimsically as he lay back on his bed. In that telegram he would apprise Fawcett of the latter’s accidental possession of a piece of Chinese writing, and tell him to drop everything — even the Speaker Farley trial if necessary — secure a translation of those few characters, and then to wire that translation back to Chicago.
With this problem solved for the time being, although unsatisfactorily, to be sure, he began to think about the Princess O Lyra Seng. Somehow, since he had seen her, strange unrest, a feeling of unhappiness, a sense of profound mental disquiet had filled his being; and he was dimly conscious of the fact that something had come into his active life that was going to constitute a psychical disturbance for a long time to come. He closed his eyes and fell to thinking of her slim figure, of her cheeks with their creamy tint and their pink tinge, of the silky black hair with the rose in it, of the peculiar personality that radiated from her in her every word and gesture. And tired from working late the night before, he dropped away into sleep.
He awoke suddenly, rubbing his eyes. The sun was gone, Outside the street was dusky — almost dark. Long purple shadows filled the room. And by the cuckoo of the Swiss clock on his wall, he knew that it was half-past six — that he had slept for two hours. He wondered, as he sat up and blinked his eyelids into some semblance of winkability, why he had awakened so suddenly, and then — he found the reason. The telephone bell was ringing violently.
With a strange leap in his heart, all sleep gone from his being, he jumped from the disarranged bed and flew over to the instrument. He raised the receiver and uttered the customary “Hello?”
“I am talking to Mr. Jason H. Barton?” tinkled a voice that had been echoing in his ears the livelong day.
“Princess!” he ejaculated, “I — I knew you at once. This is Jason H. Barton — at his rooms.”
“Mr. Jason H. Barton,” she said, “I used the magic words because — because — I think as I like to see you once more. You so busy to-day — but you say that you come again if I call you on telephone.”
“Indeed I’ll come, Princess O Lyra Seng,” he responded quickly. “Indeed I’ll come. But where is honourable Li Hwei Tsung — and Mrs. Tsung?”
“Mrs. Tsung at Chinese consul’s home for rest of evening,” the girl said clearly into the transmitter, “and honourable Tsung leave hotel few minutes ago in big hurry. He tell not where he go, but say he be gone good while. My maid belong to me — she say nothing if I command. And — and so — Jason H. Barton, I want to talk with you. You will come just so like you did to-day and you will tap on door. Then we have nice long talk — nicer than ever we had this morning. Princess O Lyra Seng commands that from Jason H. Barton.”
“Princess, I’ll be there in three-quarters of an hour,” he said gaily. “I’ve wanted much to see you again — but I should never have tried to come unless you had asked me first. I have due appreciation of your rank, you see.”
“Then I wait,” she said happily. “And you come sure.”
He hung up the receiver in a daze.
Before he realised it he was madly flinging his working clothes off and dragging from his wardrobe a splendid dress-suit that he had worn at a newspaper men’s banquet two days before. He was stripping himself to the skin, plunging into his shower bath and out again like a meteorite; he bruised his thumbs trying to jam studs into a stiff white shirt; half-clad, he walked around in a circle trying to locate a silk hat which he suddenly found on a shelf in the closet and in front of his very eyes.
“You crazy fool!” he kept muttering to himself under his breath as he dressed with lightning rapidity; “you crazy fool. From the way you’re primping up you act as though you think you’re calling on your best girl.”
In less than no time he was surveying himself in the glass with some slight degree of pride. “There, Jason H. Barton,” he commented, “you look like something half fit to touch the hem of a princess’s garment and talk — not like the wild-eyed newspaper man that you were this morning. Now for a taxi.”
Outside, he stepped to the kerbing, and looking up and down the two rows of frosted-globe arc lights that illumined that quiet street, spied a lone yellow taxicab bearing down on him. He hailed it and climbed in. “Stop at the first florist’s shop you come to,” he ordered the driver. “Then go to the Hotel Rydenour.” And with the sudden forward lurch of the machine he settled back on to the cushions, his face burning with a strange excitement.
On Sixteenth Street, near Michigan Avenue, the cab stopped in front of a florist’s shop. Out he jumped, returning a few minutes later with a great bunch of “American Beauties.” Again he climbed back in and finished his journey up Michigan Avenue, lighted from this point on with hundreds of brilliant shops whose store fronts reflected even in the oiled macadam pavement. The cab stopped finally in front of the Rydenour, where Barton dismounted and paid the driver. Then, a bare trifle uneasy, he walked boldly into the hotel through the small side entrance, and made the elevator without having to pass through the throngs in the lobby. “Fifteenth floor,” he said nonchalantly to the operator, and essayed an artificial yawn as he said it.
He was whisked like an arrow to the fifteenth floor. Again he made a pretence of fumbling in his pockets until the car had descended; then he stepped hurriedly up the deserted hall, lighted only by a few shaded electric bulbs, and slipped like a shadow through the door of vacant Suite 15 B. Down the dark corridor he proceeded, and finding the window whose fire-escape led to the interior of the suite below, descended it carefully, and within sixty seconds was inside the royal suite. He tiptoed down the corridor, wiping his hands on his handkerchief, and tapped three times on the door.
When it opened he gasped. The room was lighted only by the soft rays of an electric lamp. In the opening stood a slender girl, clad in a filmy black dress that bore the unmistakable marks of the latest Parisian fashion. It was covered with a gauzy stuff that showed beneath it the sheen of black silk; it was full, yet did not quite come to her ankles. The slim ankles themselves were encased in black silk, with two black silk slippers bearing buckles of jet and gold. But it was the Princess, for her peculiar dark eyes with their slightest hint of obliquity, gazed out at him in welcome and her silky black hair was done on one side of her head into a cluster of curls so bewitching as to have excited the envy of the most vain of American girls. There was but one Chinese note in her startling transformation: that was the gold and green tip of a peacock feather she had daintily woven into her hair.
“I am so glad you come,” she said, holding out one sli
m hand. “You see — Mr. Jason H. Barton — I fix myself up just so like American girl — so you like me a little more. And we have time to talk now.”
She spied the great bunch of “American Beauties,” and he held them out to her. “ ‘American Beauties’ to the most beautiful girl in both China and America,” he said, with a bow.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
A DISCUSSION ON LOVE
SHE hugged the flowers to her with a cry of delight. She led him inside the room and closed the door. The maid sat over in the corner again, like a graven image, and Barton felt an almost irresistible impulse to go over and touch her with his finger to see whether she were living or graven from wax.
O Lyra Seng surveyed him from head to toe with her eyes beaming. Then she pointed to a chair and drew up another one very close to it. “Now we talk,” she ordered. “Honourable Tsung say he not be back for long, long time — and we not ever get another such chance.”
Settled across from her, Barton endeavoured to get her to tell him what had happened after he had been forced to leave there that morning. But she dismissed the subject in a few words. “Honourable Tsung all happy now,” she averred. “He go away from here directly after, and then come back. He say: ‘Princess, you’ve been bad girl, but you all forgiven now. Everything is all right — and your honourable father will understand.’”
Barton gave a short, hard laugh. “I’m glad of that. I’m glad that honourable Tsung is pleased with the outcome. He may be a little hasty, though.” He looked at the splendid young form across from him. “Princess, in Chinese costume you were what we call stunning — but in these French garments you are ten times as much so.”
“I have it made for me at Madame Paquin’s in Paris,” she announced, “on our trip through. I never wear it, though, until to-night. But I feel you rather have me in American costume.”
Sing Sing Nights Page 19
