ADVENTURE TALES #5

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “What happened?”

  “The Chinese authorities pro­duced proof that you are a Chinese subject.”

  “With the name of Campbell?” she mocked. “I know that I was born in China, but —”

  “They proved that, according to an old law not yet abolished by the republic and reaching far back to the days of Tatar dominion, the children of Tatars and kindred Central-Asian races, on both the father’s and the mother’s side, are Chinese subjects.”

  “My father is Scotch!”

  “What about your mother? Per­haps she — Certainly you ought to know —”

  “I ought to know!” cried the girl. “Oh, yes — you are quite right — I ought to know. But —”

  She was silent, staring straight ahead of her; she felt utterly alone as suddenly through the mists of her ap­prehension floated down the full re­alization of the fact that her father had never taken her into his confidence as to her mother, who and what she had been. Mystery, intrigue, tra­gedy were on every side of her. Her father must have sensed something of the sort, or he wouldn’t have made that allusion to the little Chinese vase. Why, then, had he let her go without telling her the full tale? Her glance crossed the man’s, and he took her right hand in his.

  “I wish I could help you more,” he said. “But — don’t you see? I am the American consul, and this is a political case of a foreign government against one of its own subjects. There is diplomatic etiquette — my consular oath. In fact, before the Chinese officials allowed me to see you alone, I had to assure them that —”

  “I understand, Mr. Coburn.”

  “Don’t give up the ship, though! I don’t know exactly why you are here in this predicament. But I was given to understand by the Chinese officials and by Judge Winchester that you can get out of it simply enough by telling them something — I don’t know what — which they seem keen on knowing. It must be political, or they wouldn’t be so excited, so upset —”

  “Are they really? I am glad of it.”

  “Why, Miss Campbell?”

  “Vindictiveness, revenge! That’s the Scots of me! I don’t like Mr. Win­ches­ter or Pailloux or all the rest.”

  “Never mind that. Tell them what they want to know and they’ll release you at once. They are even willing to pay your passage home. What do you say?”

  “I say, ‘No!’ ”

  “But — listen —”

  “I am grateful to you, Mr. Coburn. But —” She hesitated. She thought of the murdered Manchu woman, of Pail­loux’s and De Smett’s flagrant du­pli­city, of Winchester’s pompous bru­tal­ity. She was indignant at these people’s lack of fair play, and she made up her mind that she would hurt them, even if it were dangerous for herself. They were after the vase for some grave and vital reason. She would not tell them where she had hidden it, or would they dream of searching Pailloux’s private safe for it, “Mr. Coburn,” she continued, “all this is something to me.”

  “What?”

  “A matter of principle.”

  “Principle?”

  “You are a Virginian, aren’t you?”

  “I plead guilty, m’lady,”

  “And, as a Virginian, aren’t there certain principles you respect — deep down in your heart — even though the rest of the world may deem them foolish and quixotic and self-hurt­ing?”

  “I reckon that’s right.”

  “Very well. I am the same way. And one of my principles is that I will not quit under fire.”

  “Bravo!” he cried. “I adore your delicious folly. If I weren’t a married man —”

  “I am sorry you are,” she smiled, “but so glad for the sake of your wife.” She was serious again. “Listen —”

  “Yes?”

  Should she tell him about the murdered Manchu woman? The next mo­ment she decided that she would not. The consul, too, would say that it must have been a case of too much champagne. But she told Mr. Coburn she had cabled her father.

  “Oh!” he said, “You cabled?”

  “Yes.” And, as he looked at her, shaking his head, “What is the mat­ter?”

  “I told you martial law has been proclaimed. All cables pass through the censor’s hands.”

  “Oh! You think that my cable —”

  “Was most likely never ticked off at all.”

  “Mr. Coburn,” she said, “won’t you —”

  “Please!” he interrupted. “I know what you want me to do, but I can’t. If I send a cable to your father in my private capacity, the censor will stop it, just as he stopped yours. As to my official capacity, I explained to you —”

  “Yes. Your oath of office — and the very ticklish political situation, and —” bitterly “— it seems that I am not an American citizen — legally. Oh, it isn’t fair!”

  “I am so sorry. I do wish there was something I could do to help you —”

  “You can. I want to know something about Mr. Moses d’Acosta and Mandarin Sun Yu-Wen. Do you know them?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Are they influential in Canton?”

  “Yes — and no. The local officials do not like them, in fact, hate them, would like to see them dead and buried —”

  “Then,” asked Marie, “seeing how unscrupulous these Southern Chinese officials are, why don’t they cause them to disappear?”

  “That’s where the rub comes in. D’Acosta and Sun Yu-Wen are too rich, too influential. If anything happened to them — why — heaven alone knows what might come of it. You see, where two are concerned, the Southern re­pub­lic is really between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

  “Good enough! What do you know about Prince Pavel Kokoshkine?”

  “What all the world knows — that he is a Russian — an aristocrat — a gentleman — and a former officer in the czar’s army. He puzzles me. He is an imperialist — an aristocrat — and yet here he is in the service of these Southern radicals. It’s beyond me.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “On the other side of the river, not far from Nan-Hai prison, on the cor­ner of the street of the Leaning Plum Tree.”

  “Thank you.”

  The consul rose to go, but Marie put her hand on his arm.

  “One second,” she begged. “There is a British sailor across the landing. He is in trouble, too.”

  “Oh? — Tommy Hig­gin­son?”

  “You know him?”

  The consul laughed.

  “We all do in Canton. In trouble — and serves him right. It seems that he has been do­ing a little private gun-running, and so he has put him­self outside the consu­lar jurisdiction and protection. It looks black for him.”

  “You can’t help him out, can you?”

  “Neither I nor my British col-league.”

  “But,” said Marie, “is there a re­ason in the world why you can’t give him — let’s say — a few cigarettes, just for the sake of humanity?”

  “I reckon I can.”

  “And — is there any reason why you can’t give him some of my cigarettes? Finally, is there any reason why, being a Virginia gentleman, you can’t turn your back on a lady for a few minutes when she asks you nicely — and although you are the consul, and under consular oath?”

  He looked at her significantly; then he laughed.

  “Very well,” he said, and turned his face to the wall

  She opened her handbag and took out a package of Bostanioglo cigarettes she had bought that morning. Rapidly she scribbled a few words on the in­side of the box, closed it again and handed it to the consul.

  “Here you are,” she said. “Give it to Mr. Higginson. Tell him the cigarettes are from me. Tell him they are good cigarettes, that they were made in dear old London. Tell him, ­fur­thermore, that the advertisement on the inside cover of the box may make him think of home. You understand?”

  The consul smiled. “I think I heard the scratch of a pencil.”

  “Forget it, please!”

  “I will Good-nigh
t, Miss Campbell!”

  “Good-night, Mr. Co­burn! And thanks!”

  The consul left and, a few seconds later, the baboo returned.

  “Booker T.,” Marie said, “I am go­ing to take a little nap — on that chair there. So would you mind remaining outside?”

  “Memsahib, I regret very much, but it is against —”

  “I get you, old dear! On the other hand, consider my feminine prejudices and inhibitions. Consider your own sense of delicacy —”

  “But —”

  “Don’t be a little chocolate-éclair-colored jackass! See — I’ll curl up on that rocking-chair — and,” — suiting the action to her words — “I’ll put it right near the door. You can stay just beyond the threshold, where you can look at me any time you want to. I am tired, very tired, but I know I couldn’t sleep if you stay here in the room. Aren’t you armed with that big re­vol­ver of yours?”

  “But —”

  “Please!”

  She gave him a brilliant smile, and — thought Marie — at last he showed certain signs of strictly male humanity. He bowed.

  “Yes-s-s, memsahib,” he replied, and he took his place beyond the thres­hold while she sat on the chair near the door, imitating a moment later the deep breathing of an ex­hausted sleeper, but watching carefully from beneath lowered eyelids and listening to whatever might happen on the landing.

  There was a silence — swath­ing, leaden, and un­broken, except ­oc­ca­sion­ally by the creaking noise of a sentinel outside grounding his rifle or the click-clank-click of a metal scabbard-tip being dragged against the stone pavement as the officers of the night watch went on their rounds.

  *****

  MARIE GLANCED across her shoul­der at the iron-grilled windows. It was still night, heavy, deep violet, with a froth of stars tossed over the crest of the heavens.

  She looked at her wrist-watch. Two o’clock in the morning, she could tell, by the rays of the single electric bulb on the landing. She felt despair creep­ing over her soul, and, pluckily, she decided to fight it back. So she began to marshal her thoughts as logic­ally and constructively as she could. By this time she had completely dismissed any idea of coming to terms with Judge Winchester and Pailloux and whatever political party and ­in­fluence they represented. These men were intriguing, unscrupulous, thoroughly evil. But what about Moses d’Acosta, the mas­terful, idealistic Turkish Jew, and about Mandarin Sun Yu-Wen? How did they come into the focus of this dark-coiling adventure? It seemed that they were both dangerous enemies of the Southern radicals — thus, logic­ally, both working for the same end. Too, they seemed to have genuine lik­ing and sympathy for each other. Yet, she remembered, there had been that un­der­current between them as if, some­how, they were opposed one against the other; and both had been anxious about that little Chinese vase which had been the real root of her troubles — which had begun with an overdue hotel bill and had wound up with her here in a political prison. Then there was Prince Pavel Kokoshkine’s enigmatic figure, and the Chuen to yan of the Temple of Horrors, whom the murdered Manchu woman had mentioned with her dying breath. What did “Chuen to yan” mean? Why hadn’t she thought of asking the American consul? She was quite angry with herself.

  Try as she might, she was not able to fit the pieces of the puzzle into a reasonable whole. There was a miss­ing link, and it consisted in her own relation to this mystery — her own and her mother’s. So once more her thoughts returned to the latter. She must have been a Chinese subject, Tatar or Central Asian, but whatever her race and blood, she must have been important during life, even from beyond death.

  Marie speculated and wondered. What and who were her mother’s people? There was that uncle of hers, dead, murdered — Who, what had he been? How had he been connected with it all? Quite clearly she recalled d’Acosta’s words:

  “Shall we call him your uncle? Or shall we call him Mr. Mavropoulos? Or shall we go straight back into an­cient history and call him — ah — what is the old Tatar title he loved so? The Ssu Yueh?”

  Mavropoulos! It sounded to her like a Greek name. How could she be connected with it?

  “My word!” she thought. “What a mess!”

  She stretched her cramped limbs a little and yawned. But the next mo­ment she imitated again a sleeper’s deep breathing as she heard Judge Win­chester’s pinchbeck Lancashire ac­cents in the corridor:

  “All right, Pailloux. We shall see what the man wants.”

  The door being open at a convenient angle and the baboo’s back not obstructing her vision, she saw the two men coming along the corridor, saw them, through a minutely raised eye­lid, stop at the door of her room and peer in.

  “By Jove!” whispered Winchester. “Fast asleep! Has nerve that girl!”

  Then they crossed and entered the room where Higginson was im­prisoned.

  She heard the judge’s first words:

  “You asked for me?”

  “Yes, yer ’Onor,” replied the sailor.

  “I suppose you have decided to make a clean breast of it, my man.”

  “Well, yer ’Onor, I got some ­val­uable information for yer. For a price —”

  “Name it!”

  “I want yer to release me.”

  “I’ll see what can be done. First, the information. About the gun-running, eh?”

  “To ’ell with them blanked guns!” came the reply in the picaresque diction of the London docks. “It’s something different — and a bleedin’ sight more important, cully!”

  “Oh!” countered the judge. “For instance —”

  Marie sucked in her breath. It was now evident to her that the sailor had read and understood the message which she had scribbled on the inside of the cigarette-box.

  “Yes, yer ’Onor!” said the man. “It’s about a vase wit’ a funny nyme — ’eathenish and chinky —”

  “Sssh!” interrupted Winchester.

  “Sssh!” echoed Pailloux.

  They stepped into the sailor’s room and closed the door from the inside, and again there was silence, while Marie waited, excited, expectant. The message she had written on the inside cover of the box had of necessity been short. But she relied on the sailor’s shrewd cockney sense to supply the missing links, all the more that she had learned from the consul that the man was in real danger and would grasp at the proverbial straw to save his neck. She glanced in the direction of the window. She did not want morning to come before she had her chance. It was still dark enough out­side, with just the faintest sign of morn­ing blazing its purple message. Ten min­utes she waited, fifteen, twenty, and the purple morning light in­creased in vividness; it took on a slight tinge of gold and deep red.

  “Dear God, help me!” prayers of her childhood, long forgotten, rose to her lips.

  *****

  SHE WAITED another five minutes, and then the door of the sailor’s room opened and, from beneath lowered eye­lids, she saw Winchester and Pail­loux on the threshold, and between them Higginson, who was gesticulating for dear life.

  “Stroike me pink,” he exclaimed, “if I ain’t tellin’ yer Gawd’s truth!”

  “I do not believe you,” said Pail­loux.

  “Listen!” continued Higginson. “Call me a sanguinary organ-grinder’s ring-tailed monkey if I’m lyin’ to yer two gents! I tell yer I seen that ’ere vase —”

  “Nom d’un nom d’un nom!” ­in­terrupted the hotel manager. “Do not name it! Call it ‘the thing!’ We told you before that it is dangerous to mention it by name, that nobody, except the judge and me and perhaps three or four important Chinese officials, know of the thing’s existence.”

  “Wot ho! Wot bloody ho!” cried the sailor triumphantly, while Marie blessed his ready mother-wit. “If no­body except yerselves and mebbe ’arf a dozen toffs knows about this ’ere bloomin’ — now — thing, then ’ow, in the nyme of me sainted grandaunt Pris­cilla, can I know about this ’ere syme — now — thing, eh? Don’t yer see that I’m givin’ it to yer
straight?”

  “Logical!” suddenly exclaimed the Frenchman. “Absolutely logical!”

  “Now ye’re talkin’, Mister Whis­ker­ando!” said the sailor. “It’s the truth, don’t yer see?”

  “By Jupiter!” admitted Winches­ter. “I am beginning to believe it my­self!”

  “Truthful ’Arry — that’s wot me mytes calls me aboard ship!” cut in Mr. Higginson in a splendid outburst of seafaring imagination.

  Winchester took Pailloux to one side and whispered to him earnestly. Then he approached the sailor once more.

  “My man,” he said, “we have de­cided that you are speaking the truth. You could not possibly know about the existence of the — ah — thing un­less — well — unless you knew. And you described the thing correctly. You know its name. Very well. We shall give you the chance you ask for.”

  “All I wants is ten minutes alone with the lydy,” said the sailor. “I’ll myke ’er ’fess up, or me nyme ain’t Truthful ’Arry ’Igginson, gents’ I knows wot to say to ’er! I —” again his imagination surged up riotously and magnifi­cently — “I knows a few things about ’er that’d myke yer ’air turn gray. Let me tell you, gents —”

  “Some other time. We are in a hurry to put our hands on the thing.”

  “Right-o! Ten minutes with ’er, mebbe fifteen. Alone. That’s all I aisk.”

  “Alone?” objected Monsieur Pail­loux. “But —”

  “I got to talk to her gentle-like first. She won’t spill unless I gets ’er confidence first — and we got to be alone for that.”

  “Still, I don’t see —” said the French­man.

  “We’ll leave the baboo in the room. Oh, yes,” — as Higginson was about to expostulate — “got to be done!” He called to the baboo. “Hey, there, Hur­ree Chuckerjee!”

  The latter approached and sa­laamed.

  “Yes, sahib?”

  “Armed, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “Mr. Higginson is going to talk to Miss Campbell for a few minutes, and you’ll stay in the room with them.”

  “But — yer ’Onor —” interjected the sailor.