She was staring up at the evil face, and saw his mouth open in a queer, hideous grimace, and huge hands wave, as though to shut out some horrible vision. She turned her head in the direction he was staring.
Clifford Lynne was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, and each hand held death.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It seemed to Joan Bray that she had slipped out of the world in fear, and was returning painfully oppressed with a great apprehension. She was in bed, she discovered…Then it was all a terrible dream. But the light was still burning, and a man was standing at the foot of her bed, surveying her gravely. She raised herself on her elbow, her head swimming, and frowned at him.
“Good morning,” said Clifford Lynne lightly. “Your terpsichorean relations are slow travellers.”
The faint glow of dawn whitened the windows, she saw as she turned. Her face was wet; a glass half filled with water stood on the table by the bed.
“Mr Lynne!” She was trying to think. “Where—where–-?” She stared round the room.
“I’m afraid I woke you up, didn’t I?” he asked, ignoring the question. “I’m a clumsy burglar, though it was the easiest thing in the world to get into the room next door. Did you hear me?”
She nodded slowly.
“It was you, then?” she asked jerkily.
He was biting his lower lip thoughtfully, still looking at her.
“I’m hopelessly compromised, I trust you realize that?” he said. “I’ve climbed into your house in the dead of night, I’ve put you to bed, and here are you and I, in the grey dawn! I shudder to think of what Stephen will say or the stoutish Mabel will imagine. As for Letty”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I cannot hope she will extend her well-known charity to me.”
She struggled up into a sitting position, her throbbing head between her hands.
“Do you always make a jest of everything?” she asked, and shuddered as the memory of the night crowded in upon her. “Where are those awful men?”
“They’re not quite so awful as they look,” he said. “Anyway, they’ve gone. They went out of the window, and none of them is seriously hurt—I am glad to say. I already have a sick and stupid coolie on my hands, and I have no desire to turn the Slaters’ Cottage into a convalescent home for the criminal classes of China.”
He drooped his head, listening; his sharp ears had detected the distant whine of a motor-car.
“That sounds like Stephen and the two graces,” he said.
At this she looked up.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, in consternation. “You mustn’t stay here.”
He chuckled softly.
“How like a woman in this crisis to study the proprieties!”
And then most unexpectedly he walked up to her and, laying his hand upon her throbbing head, rumpled her hair.
“Watch me time my effort,” he said, and in an instant was gone.
She could hear the car now, and, getting out of bed, walked to the window, the curtain of which had been pulled aside. Two bright headlamps came into view; they turned into the drive. As they did so, she heard the thud of the front door close and saw Clifford Lynne dart across the drive to the cover of a clump of rhododendrons. Almost before he was out of sight, the car was at the door and Stephen Narth had alighted.
From where she stood she could see the little group: Stephen, his white dress-shirt shining palely, the two girls in their over-rich evening wraps. She could not see his face, but there was something in his attitude which struck the girl as curious; a certain nervous hesitancy in his movements. He did not seem anxious to go into the house. He walked twice round the car, spoke to the chauffeur, and not until she heard the girls’ feet on the stairs did he reluctantly enter the hall.
Letty and Mabel slept on the floor below. She heard Letty’s shrill voice raised in anger and the deeper tone of her elder sister. And then Mr Narth came into the conversation.
“…of course she’s all right,” said Letty, in high-pitched tones. “Don’t be ridiculous, father.”
Joan walked across the room and opened the door.
“Why shouldn’t she be all right?” demanded Mabel. “Stuff and nonsense, father! You’ll only wake her up…how ridiculous!”
Stephen’s heavy feet were on the stairs and Joan closed the door wonderingly. Presently there was a knock at the door, and she opened it.
“Hallo!” said Narth huskily. “All right?”
His face was ghastly white, his lower lip was tremulous, and he had pushed his hands into his pockets that she should not see them shaking.
“Everything all right?” he croaked again.
“Yes, Mr Narth,” she said.
“Nothing wrong, eh?” He thrust his head forward in a strange, bird-like gesture, peering at her. “Everything all right, Joan?”
His voice was so thick, his manner so strange, that she could only imagine he had been drinking. Yet there was no other evidence of indulgence.
“Nobody disturbed you? That’s good…girls woke you up, I suppose? Goodnight, Joan.”
He stumbled unsteadily down the stairs and she closed the door, wondering.
She had further cause for wonder when she came down to a solitary breakfast later in the morning, and learnt for the first time that the butler had been out at dinner on the previous night. Mr Narth had telephoned him, asking him to bring a book to town. Why Mr Narth should want a book, when the evening had been fully occupied in the chaperonage of his daughters, only he could have explained, and then to nobody’s satisfaction.
He came down to breakfast at eleven, a yellow, nervous, irritable man, who looked as if he had not slept.
“Girls not up, eh?” He had a quick, staccato method of talking on such occasions as these, and usually he rounded off a bad night with an exhibition of bad temper; but although she quite expected a display of irritation, he was singularly inoffensive.
“We shall have to get you married, Joan,” he said, as he sat down with a grimace before an unappealing breakfast. “That man Clifford is probably a good fellow. It’s rather awkward, finding that he’s the senior partner, and I’m glad I didn’t say the things I was tempted to say when we met–-“
“I am getting married on Friday,” said Joan quietly, and he gaped up at her with a frightened expression.
“On Friday?” he squeaked. “Impossible—impossible! It’s—it’s indelicate! Why, you don’t know the man!”
He sprang up from his chair in a weak rage.
“I will not have it! The thing must be done as I wish! Does Mabel know?”
It was surprising that Mabel had not told him, thought Joan. She learnt afterwards that Mr Narth’s elder daughter was reserving this tit-bit for the privacy of a family council.
“Decency, decency!” quavered Mr Narth, so unlike his sual self that the girl could only look at him. “There’s a lot to happen before—before you’re married. You owe me something, Joan. You haven’t forgotten your brother–-“
“You have not given me much chance of forgetting, Mr Narth,” she said, with rising anger. “It was because of all you did for my brother that I agreed to marry Mr Lynne at all. Clifford Lynne wishes the marriage to take place on Friday—and I have agreed.”
“Have I nothing to do with this?” he stormed. “Am I not to be consulted?”
“Consult him by all means,” said the girl coldly.
“Wait, wait!” he called after her as she was leaving the room. “Don’t let us lose our tempers, Joan. I have an especial eason for asking you to postpone this marriage till a later date–-What is it?” he snapped irritably at the newly-returned butler who appeared in the doorway, still in his street attire.
“Will you see Mr Lynne?” asked the man.
“Does he want to see me?” Stephen demanded. “You’re sure he doesn’t mean Miss Joan?”
“He particularly asked for you, sir.”
Narth’s trembling hand went up to his mouth.
“Put him in
the library,” he said ungraciously, and steeled himself to an interview which instinct told him would be unpleasant; and in this case instinct did not lie, for Clifford had come to ask a few very uncomfortable questions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
He was pacing the library floor when Mr Narth went in (“as though it were his own,” complained Stephen bitterly to his daughter) and turned abruptly to face the senior partner of Narth brothers.
“Shut that door, will you?”
It was a command rather than a request, and it was strange how instantly Stephen obeyed.
“You came back here at four o’clock this morning,” he began. “You had supper at Giro’s, which closed at one. What did you and your daughters do between one and four?”
Narth could not believe his ears.
“May I ask–-” he began.
“Ask nothing. If you were going to ask me what authority I have for putting these questions to you, you can save yourself the trouble,” said Clifford briefly. “I want to know what you were doing between one and four.”
“And I absolutely refuse to satisfy your curiosity,” said the other angrily. “Things have come to a pretty pass when–-“
“At three o’clock this morning,” the man from China broke in brusquely, “an attempt was made to carry off Joan Bray from this house. That is news to you?”
The man nodded dumbly.
“You think the attempt has not been made, but you expected it. I was in the bushes listening to you when you were talking to the chauffeur. You asked him to come into the house after he had put the car away; you told him you were nervous, that there had been burglaries in the neighbourhood recently. You were astonished to find that Joan Bray was in her room and unharmed.”
White to the lips, Stephen Narth was incapable of replying.
“You had to fill in the hours between one and four; how did you do it?” The keen eyes were searching his very soul. “You wouldn’t have gone to Fing-Su’s place, and rightly, because you would not wish your daughters to be brought into contact with this man. Shall I tell you what you did?”
Narth made no answer.
“You sneaked out whilst the dance was on and locked the gears of your car. You made that an excuse to take your girls to one of those queer all-night clubs in Fitzroy Square. And then, providentially, at the right moment you discovered the key in your pocket.”
Now Mr Narth found his voice.
“You’re a bit of a detective, Lynne,” he answered. “And, strangely enough, you’re right, except that I did not lock the gears. My chauffeur did that and lost the key. I happened to discover a duplicate in my pocket.”
“You didn’t want to get back until the dirty wor^ was finished, eh?” Clifford’s eyes were glowing like live fires. “You swine!” He spoke the word in a voice that was little above a whisper. “I’m going to tell you something, Narth. If any harm comes to that girl whilst she is in your house and under your care, you’ll never live to enjoy the competence which Joe Bray is supposed to have left you. I’m going to kill your friend—he knows that, doesn’t he? If he doesn’t, just tell him so from me! There’s an old saying that one may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a goat. I don’t know which of the two you are. Listen carefully, Narth—it isn’t an angry man talking to you—threats of killing come pretty glibly to people who couldn’t see a rooster’s neck wrung without fainting. But I’ve killed men, yellow and white, and I’m not going to shiver when I send you down to hell. Get that into your mind and let it walk around! Joan won’t be with you very long, but during that time she’s got to be safe.”
And now Stephen Narth found his voice.
“It’s a lie, a lie!” he screamed. “Why didn’t Joan tell me? I knew nothing about it! Do you think I would allow Fing-Su to take her away–-“
“I didn’t say it was Singili,” said the other quickly. “How did you know?”
“Well, Chinamen–-“
“I didn’t even say Chinamen. You’ve convicted yourself, Mr Stephen Narth! I’ve warned you before, and I’m warning you again. Fing-Su has bought you for fifty thousand pounds, but you could twist out of that, because you’re naturally a twister. But he’s going to hold you in a tighter bond than monetary obligation. He nearly did it last night. He’ll do it before the week’s out—how or where or when, I do not know.” He paused. “That’s all I have to say to you,” he said, and strode past the paralysed man into the hall.
He was walking down the drive when he heard Stephen’s voice calling him, and, turning, he saw the white-faced man gesticulating wildly, in a mad abandonment of rage. He was pouring forth a torrent of wild, incoherent abuse:
“…you won’t marry Joan…do you hear that? I don’t care a damn if all Joe Bray’s fortune goes to you! I’ll see her dead first…”
Clifford let him rave on, and when from sheer exhaustion he stopped:
“Then you did see Fing-Su last night? What offer did he make to you?”
Stephen glowered at him, and then, as though he feared that his secret thoughts could be read by those piercing eyes, he turned and ran back to the house like a man possessed.
*
“There’s going to be trouble, Joe, and as you’ve caused most of it I hope you’ll get your share.”
Joe Bray, dozing before an unnecessary fire, for the day was warm, his hands clasped before his stomach, woke with a start.
“Eh?…I wish you wouldn’t pop in and out like a—a—what d’you call ‘em, Cliff. What did you say?”
“‘Trouble’ was the word,” said the other laconically. “Your spoon-fed Chink plus your disreputable relation have a Plan.”
Joe grunted, selected a cigar from the box on the table and gnawed off the end savagely.
“Wish I’d never come to this bloomin’ country,” he said plaintively. “Wish I’d never left Siangtan. You’re a good fellow, Cliff, but too vi’lent—much too vi’lent. I wish Fing-Su had been a sensible boy. Well educated and everything, Cliff…it does seem a pity, don’t it? Here’s me, with just enough education to read and write, rich as Creasers in a manner of speaking–-“
Cliff’s nose wrinkled.
“Croesus would have spent your income on cigarettes,” he said contemptuously.
“In a manner of speaking—did I say that or didn’t I?” demanded Joe reproachfully. “Here’s me as rich as Creasers and white, and there’s him, a poor suffering Chink, who can speak Latin and Algebra and French and all them foreign languages as easily as I speak Mandarin!”
He sighed and shook his head.
“Life’s comic,” he said vaguely.
Clifford was changing his shoes and growled:
“If you were the only man I’d ever met in the world I should say life was comic. As it is, it’s darned serious, and a lot of people whose only job in life is to keep living are going to find it pretty hard to hold down their sinecure. Have you seen the papers?”
Joe nodded and reached out lazily for a heap of newspapers that lay on a table at his elbow.
“Yes, I was reading about the murder of those missionaries up in Honan. But there’s always trouble in Honan. Too many soldiers loafin’ around hungry. If there wasn’t soldiers there wouldn’t be any brigands.”
“That’s the ninth missionary murder in a month,” said Clifford tersely; “and the soldiers in Honan are the best disciplined in China—which isn’t saying much, I admit. But the soldiers were in this and had banners inscribed ‘We welcome the Son of Heaven,’ which means that there is a new pretender to the throne.”
Joe shook his head.
“I never did hold with Chinamen being trusted with rifles,” he said. “It demoralizes ‘em, Cliff. You don’t think we shall have any trouble on the Concession, do you?” he asked anxiously. “Because, if you do, I ought to be getting back.”
“You’ll stay here,” said Cliff ominously. “I don’t think we shall have trouble in that part of China—we are paying the Governor too much for him to risk. But ther
e are seventeen separate points in open rebellion in China.” He opened a drawer, took out a map and unfolded it, and Joe saw that the chart was covered with little red crosses. “They call it ‘unrest’ in the newspapers,” said Clifford quietly. “They give as the reason the failure of the rice crops and an earthquake hundreds of miles from any centre of trouble!”
Old Joe struggled up to an erect position.
“What’s the idea?” he asked, looking at the other through narrowed lids. “First time I knew you took any interest in Chinese wars. You talk as if you knew all the risin’s. What’s the big idea? They can’t effect us?”
Lynne folded the map.
“A big change of government would affect everything,” he said. “Honan doesn’t worry me, because it is a brigands’ province; but there has been trouble in Yun Nan, and when Yun Nan starts hooting the trouble is far advanced. Somebody is working hard for a new dynasty—and all the flags are decorated with the symbol of the Joyful Hands.”
Old Joe’s jaw dropped.
“But that is a little affair,” he said jerkily; “just a little fool society–-“
“Eight provinces are strong for the Hands,” interrupted Clifford. “And Fing-Su has a headquarters in each. He has double-crossed us from the start—using the money he has taken from the concessions to finance a trading company in opposition to us.”
“He never has!” Joe’s voice was hollow with amazement.
“Go up to the Tower and take a peek at Peking House—the London office of the trading company, and the Emperor Fing-Su’s general headquarters!”
Old Joe Bray could only shake his head.
“Emperor…um! Same as Napoleon…gosh!”
Lynne allowed that idea to soak.
“In three months’ time he will be wanting money—big money. At present he is financing divers generals, but he cannot go on indefinitely. His scheme is to form a national army under Spedwell, who knows China, and when he has done that and established himself on the throne, it will be easy to deal with the three big generals who are in his pay at the moment. How this Emperor bug got into his brain, heaven knows!”
The Yellow Snake Page 11
