O’Neill regarded him blandly, his incisive, alert features half inquiring.
“Is that a bet, Bert?”
“Not on your life.” Burket grinned. “I don’t bet with you. So long. Going to shave.”
O’Neill smoked reflectively, while Burket whistled from the other room. These two American adventurers knew they were playing with death, but had undertaken to play Wang’s game, nevertheless.
It was true that in General Cheng they had a hard nut to crack. Each ruler of a Chinese city is actually independent, his authority absolute. His own troops obey him, not some higher power. He works his own racket for all it is worth, and woe to any theoretical superior who steps in for a share of the graft. In setting his two “foreign advisors” to exert his authority over outlying Szechuan, the wily Wang was gambling little, could lose nothing, and might win much if they survived. If not, that was their bad luck.
* * * *
Darkness fell swiftly. A slave-woman entered and began filling oil lamps and lighting them. O’Neill watched her as she moved about, stolid, heavy-footed, sunken-eyed. Suddenly he was astonished as she came close to light the table-lamp beside him, and he heard her speak in Mandarin, which few people hereabouts could understand.
“Other messengers have come here,” she said softly, “and foreign devils also. It is Pu-lo who deals with the foreign devils, being one himself. If you are given the blue beetle, that means your death this night. Many have received it, none has carried it away.”
O’Neill rose to question her, but she only gave him a stolid look, turned her back, and left the room. The warning was given, and that was enough. Presently Burket came in, struggling into a dean shirt. O’Neill told him of the woman, and he whistled softly.
“Spoke Mandarin, did she? That means she came from somewhere downriver. Hm! A friendly soul, no doubt. Took a chance on warning us—of what? Some white man named Pu-lo, and a blue beetle? Sounds like comic opera, old chap.”
“Life usually does, when it’s just beyond our focus,” said O’Neill. “Well, if we know what’s coming, the answer is simple. Beat ’em to it! We’re not here under any flag of truce, remember. We’re here to do a certain job, and we risk our necks doing it.”
“That’s the talk!” Burket beamed at him. “Now, I know where to start—”
A sharply authoritative knocking came at the door. O’Neill opened, to show two laden Chinese servants and a heavy-set, pockmarked man in uniform with immense mustaches, a white man, who bowed to them and introduced himself with an air of the greatest cordiality.
“Gentlemen!” he exclaimed in French. “Allow me. I am Colonel Varashefski, in command of the bodyguard of General Cheng. Learning of your arrival, I hastened to greet you. I bring gifts from the general, and materials for a drink—eh?”
He shook hands warmly and beckoned in the two Chinese. One of these bore a heavily loaded tray with bottles and glasses, which was set on the table. The other handed two boxes to the Russian, who extended one to O’Neill, the other to Burket, with a magnificent gesture.
“A small token of the general’s friendliness to the envoys from Chengtu,” he exclaimed, and dismissing the two servants, went to the tray. “Ah! This is the time of day for a proper drink, my friends! Shall I do the honors? If I may—”
Talking volubly, he prepared the drinks, while the two visitors opened the boxes. That of Burket disclosed a magnificent Webley pistol, heavily mounted with gold and exquisitely chased. O’Neill opened his own gift, to stare down at the cotton-bedded jewel there exposed, a mist of old memories flooding through his brain.
His father had owned this jewel years ago, after the Revolution first broke and the Manchu princes sold their precious things. By devious ways of loot it had been passed from hand to hand, and now came back to him. He missed the keen, sardonic glance of the Russian, found Burket at his elbow, staring at it with a sharply-caught breath.
“The blue beetle!”
O’Neill smiled, took out the jewel, laid it on the table, with a slight shake of his head. Even did one not know what it was, the sheer beauty of it was indeed breathtaking. A beetle in truth, less than two inches in length, the under-part was massy gold, wrought with almost microscopic perfection into a masterpiece of the goldsmith’s craft. The folded wings and upper portion were a rich blue, in the finest of Limoges enamel; the chased golden head was set with two blazing rubies for eyes, and the wings and body held over fifty diamonds, large and small. O’Neill pressed a spring, and the wings flew open, to reveal the face of a tiny watch.
“That,” said Colonel Varashefski impressively, “is one of Cheng’s greatest treasures. I congratulate you, General O’Neill, upon such a possession. It shows his great regard for you.”
“I have seen it before,” said O’Neill. “It was a present to the Emperor Chien-lung, in 1780, from Louis XVI of France. What’s this? Oh, the drinks! By all means.”
He took the glass the Russian handed him. Varashefski lifted his own.
“To the future, messieurs!” he exclaimed, his voice purring a little. “To the blue beetle or watch or whatever it is, and a health all around!”
Neill touched glasses with him, turned to clink his own against that of his friend. But Burket clinked too hard, and the edge of his glass burst into a semicircle of flinders that flew into the liquor. O’Neill laughed, and swallowed his own drink.
“Hang it!” exclaimed Burket. “No, don’t bother, Colonel. I’ll take a straight dram, thanks. Here’s another glass.”
He obtained another from the dresser, poured a straight drink, and drained it. Then he looked at the Russian, who seemed unaccountably disturbed.
“Are you called Pu-lo by the natives?” he asked directly. The pockmarked colonel nodded and smiled.
“My name is Paul, you know,” he said in response. “You must let me mix you a drink, my dear sir. I am rather expert at it. Do you know, I envy you that Webley? It’s a beautiful weapon, one of a pair that the general values highly. Whatever your mission is, gentlemen, you may account it already a success. I have never known Cheng to give such evident tokens of his high regard. He must be in good humor today.”
Turning to the tray, Varashefski began to mix another drink. O’Neill put the blue beetle on the table and dropped into a chair. He held out his hand to Burket.
“A cigarette, Bert? Thanks.”
He closed his eyes for an instant. Then he produced matches, tried to strike one, failed, took another, lit it, held it before the cigarette-end. The flame and the cigarette could not connect. His fingers were shaking.
“Damned odd matches!” he muttered thickly as the match went out. He fumbled for another. Burket was staring down at him with eyes suddenly flaming hot. Varashefski turned, holding up the drink he had just mixed, and extended it jovially.
“Here, General! A long life and a merry one!”
Burket took the glass, but set it down on the table. He looked at the Russian. His eyes blazed, his lips were drawn back in a grimace that showed his white teeth. Without a word, he drove in his left to the Russian’s belt, and crossed over his right—a tremendous smash square to the jaw.
This blow knocked Varashefski back across the bed and left him senseless.
Burket whirled about. O’Neill was trying to reach his feet, was clawing at the air, unable to get his balance. Burket caught him as he staggered.
“Drugged!” came O’Neill’s voice. “Poison—quickly—help me, Bert—”
Burket dragged him to the washbasin in the corner.
II
Burket usually spoke in a lazy drawl, and in appearance was deceptively languid. Yet, once he got into action, he had a knack of accomplishing the most amazing things in rapid-fire order.
In the present instance his movements were incredibly swift. When he had succeeded in emptying O’Neill’s stomach, he darted back to the bed, took the Russian’s head between his knees, and forced down the unconscious man’s throat the drink that Varashefski had pr
epared for him. This had the effect of bringing the man back to his senses.
Burket wrenched his arms behind his back, lashed them with the cords from the boxes, and stuffed a towel into his mouth. The eyes of Varashefski glared up at him, distended horribly, and Burket uttered a grim laugh.
“Take your own dose, my friend!” he said, and went back to O’Neill.
Burket was brutal but efficient. When his ministrations were finished, O’Neill was limp as a rag, and unconscious. Burket carried him to the bed—for the two rooms were furnished in European style, no doubt from loot—and laid him there, then examined the Russian, whom he found relapsing into unconsciousness. He incontinently tumbled Varashefski to the floor and then turned to O’Neill again.
The drug or poison had acted with extreme rapidity. Burket determined that it had affected the heart and brain, stimulating the one and throwing the other quite off balance. He found much the same symptoms with Varashefski, and not caring a jot whether the Russian lived or died, paid no more heed to him. O’Neill was entirely out, but his pulse was becoming more regular and the sharp anxiety of Burket lessened and was directed elsewhere.
Frisking his captive, he found another Webley, whose cartridges he transferred to his own gold-adorned weapon. He pocketed this, together with the blue beetle, then lit a cigarette and began to pace up and down the room, his brow corrugated. He was entirely thrown on his own resources now, and since it must be nearly dinner-time, had to face a new contingency.
“Hit first and hardest!” he muttered. “But how and where? If that slave woman hadn’t tipped us off, we’d both be done for now. Not the first time either, according to her. This Russian devil is an old hand at the game. Hm! Friend Cheng has us slated for the morgue, no mistake about that. It’d be folly to wait for him to get in more of his dirty work—”
He turned, picked up the body of the Russian, and laid it on the bed, removing the gag and bonds. With a shrug, he drew up a blanket over Varashefski and O’Neill, took a fresh cigarette, resumed his uneasy pacing. O’Neill’s respiration was good; all he needed was time.
* * * *
A brisk knock at the door. Burket opened, to find Colonel Li, the chief of staff, arrived with a soldier who carried the uniforms. Burket took them at the door, beckoned Li inside, sent off the soldier. He closed the door, to find Li staring at the figures on the bed.
“What is this, General Burket? They are ill?”
Burket eyed him harshly. Colonel Li was slender, trim, capable; how much did he know?
“Your Russian friend Pu-lo tried to poison us,” he said abruptly. “I made him drink his own dose. Unluckily, my friend became ill. I desire to have this Russian shot, later.”
“With pleasure.” Colonel Li’s eyes gleamed. “That is to say, if General Cheng approves the order. Since this foreign devil is his favorite officer—”
Burket got out O’Neill’s letter of authority and showed it to the chief of staff, whose gaze widened with astonishment. Then, taking the uniform designed for O’Neill, Burket thrust it at the other.
“Here. You are promoted. Get into this uniform; you are a general from this moment.”
“What?” The chief of staff eyed him uncertainly. “You are in earnest? General Cheng will not approve—”
“I am going to get his approval as soon as I get into this uniform myself,” said Burket. “You will await me here.”
That Colonel Li was delighted, was quite evident. In the bandit armies of China, rank is a matter of assumption and offhand appointment. It was obvious that Li disliked the Russian heartily; as he dressed in his uniform of rank, which fitted fairly well, Burket chuckled to himself.
Then he halted abruptly, half-dressed, and shot a look at the chief of staff, who had not yet begun to change his clothes. If the Russian had succeeded in his deviltry, then—
“Wait!” he exclaimed. “Li, I’ve changed my mind. Go to the general now, at once. Say to him that General O’Neill and I are both ill and unable to attend dinner. Tell him that this Russian is drunk and lying on the bed.”
“What?” The oblique eyes dwelt upon him sharply. “In that case he will come to see for himself.”
“Entirely possible,” said Burket. “Do you wish to be charged with complicity in the attempt to assassinate us? If not, then obey my orders. Do not return here for ten minutes or so.”
Colonel Li regarded him for a long moment of hesitation, but Burket spoke with authority, and the mention of assassination startled him with its implications. He saluted in silence, turned to the door, and departed. His manner had impressed Burket, who frowned after him.
“Hm! You’re an honest beggar, you don’t know what’s up, and you certainly weren’t in on the plot to wipe us out. Hang it! If O’Neill were only here, he’d know what to do in a flash, but I’ll have to muddle through somehow. Can’t let him down now.”
He understood perfectly that his own life and that of O’Neill hung upon the next few moments. He himself could not operate the Fokker; he was no airman. Even reaching the parade ground where the Fokker reposed, was out of the question. Finding his plot only half successful, Cheng was capable of shooting the surviving guest out of hand.
* * * *
With Varashefski to do his murdering in genteel fashion, Cheng had been able to meet all comers. Like his entire race, he evaded a present peril by embracing the most insane course—careless if it involved another peril on the morrow, not on this day. Typically Chinese, dependent on the Russian and ready to shift all blame to his shoulders if anything went wrong, Cheng was entirely without scruple or conscience.
“And, since there’s no running away, I’ll have to sit into the game,” reflected Burket. “Cheng will be awaiting word from the Russian, naturally. In a matter of killing white men, he would trust nobody else. Hm! I’d give a good deal if I had O’Neill’s brains—but no chance, so here goes.”
He turned out all except one light, which illuminated the larger room dimly; and as he did so, heard heavy steps in the hall outside. He darted behind the door. It was hurriedly flung open against him, effectually hiding him. A man strode into the room, alone.
“Pu-lo!” sounded the heavy, angry voice of Cheng. “Where are you? Answer me!”
Burket waited. The heavy tread crossed the room. Swinging the door quietly, shutting it without a sound, Burket saw General Cheng standing beside the bed, staring at the two blanket-covered figures. The general had removed his tunic and was in shirt and trousers. He leaned forward, drawing back the blanket. An angry exclamation burst from him.
“You drunken fool, what have you done? Where is the other foreign devil?”
“Here,” said Burket, striding rapidly across the room.
General Cheng whirled around, but already Burket was close to him, so close that the gold-mounted pistol crashed against his skull as Burket struck. The burly hillman wavered, shook his head like a bull, opened his mouth to shout—and Burket’s left, already swinging up, smashed up his jaw and toppled him backward. It was a cruel blow, and Burket, with a low oath, sucked at his knuckles as he looked down at the inanimate, collapsed ruler of Suifu.
“I might have known it would take a thunderbolt to put out a big ox like you!” he muttered angrily. “Well, you wanted it and you’ve got it; thanks be that you didn’t let out a yell!”
He treated the general as he had done Varashefski, trussing and gagging him, then rolling his bulky frame under the bed and letting a blanket hang to the floor to hide him. This done, he went to the side of O’Neill, found him breathing evenly, his pulse nearly normal, and flung a glance at the Russian. Startled, he leaned over, touched the pockmarked cheek. It was cold.
“Whew!” Burket straightened up with a low whistle. This was more than he had bargained for; he had supposed some sort of opiate was used. Instead, a swift and deadly poison. There was no doubt whatever now about the intentions of Varashefski.
* * * *
Burket relit the lamps. Covering the figure
of O’Neill, he lifted the body of the Russian from the bed and placed it in a chair near the door. He had barely finished when a soft knock sounded, and he opened to admit Colonel Li.
The latter came into the room, saw the body of Varashefski, and stiffened. He flung a sharp look around, then met the steady regard of Burket.
“Where is General Cheng?”
“Under arrest,” said Burket coolly. “For the attempt to poison us, for insulting messages sent to his excellency Governor Wang, and on various other charges. Has he any assistant in Suifu?”
“No,” answered Li slowly. “No. I act as his assistant—”
“Then act,” broke in Burket. “Summon his chief secretary here, with his official seal. Appoint another officer, one whom you can trust, to command the bodyguard. I imagine that Pu-lo was not well-liked?”
“He was not,” said Colonel Li, looking a trifle dazed. “Where is Cheng?”
“Safe,” returned Burket grimly. “Carry out your orders and return with the secretary. Bring a couple of men to carry out this Russian. Tell them that General Cheng visited him with speedy justice because he attempted the life of the envoys from the governor.”
Colonel Li looked him in the eyes for a moment, then grinned. This aroused his Chinese sense of humor—an extremely lively faculty, best reached by a touch of the macabre. He drew himself up, saluted stiffly, and marched from the room. Bert Burket drew a deep breath.
“So that’s that! O’Neill, it’s a pity you’re not aware of what’s going on. You couldn’t do a better job of it yourself, you wild Irishman!”
He finished dressing, adjusted his general’s stars, and settled down with a cigarette by the table. A tramp of feet sounded in the hall outside. The door opened to admit two soldiers and a sergeant, who saluted and then withdrew with the body of Varashefski.
“We don’t know where we’re going, but we’re on our way,” hummed Burket. Glancing at his watch, he was astonished to find the hour early enough. It seemed that half the night must have passed, but in reality little time had elapsed. Then Colonel Li appeared. With him was a slender little man wearing huge spectacles, and carrying a writing-case.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 90
