The Pagan Madonna

by Harold MacGrath

  Produced by Roger Frank and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  BOOKS BY HAROLD MACGRATH

  ADVENTURES OF KATHLYNARMS AND THE WOMANBEST MANCARPET FROM BAGDADDEUCES WILDENCHANTED HATGOOSE GIRLHALF A ROGUEHEARTS AND MASKSLUCK OF THE IRISH: A ROMANCELURE OF THE MASKMILLION DOLLAR MYSTERYPARROT & CO.PIDGIN ISLANDPLACE OF HONEYMOONSPRINCESS ELOPESPUPPET CROWNSPLENDID HAZARDTHE DRUMS OF JEOPARDYTHE GIRL IN HIS HOUSETHE GREY CLOAKTHE MAN ON THE BOXTHE MAN WITH THREE NAMESTHE PAGAN MADONNATHE PRIVATE WIRE TO WASHINGTONTHE YELLOW TYPHOONVOICE OF THE FOG

  "'Thank you for coming up,' said Cunningham. 'It makes mefeel that you trust me.'"]

  THEPAGAN MADONNA

  BYHAROLD MacGRATH

  FRONTISPIECEBYW. H. D. KOERNER

  GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTODOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY1921

  COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY

  DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATIONINTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

  COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

  THE PAGAN MADONNA

  CHAPTER I

  Humdrum isn't where you live; it's what you are. Perhaps you are one ofthose whose lives are bound by neighbourly interests. Imaginatively, younever seek what lies under a gorgeous sunset; you are never stirred by anylonging to investigate the ends of rainbows. You are more concerned bywhat your neighbour does every day than by what he might do if he weresuddenly spun, whirled, jolted out of his poky orbit. The blank door of anempty house never intrigues you; you enter blind alleys without thrillingin the least; you hear a cry in the night and impute it to some maraudingtom. Lord, what a life!

  And yet every move you make is governed by Chance--the Blind Madonna ofthe Pagan, as that great adventurer, Stevenson, called it. You neverstop to consider that it is only by chance that you leave home and arriveat the office alive--millions and millions of you--poor oldstick-in-the-muds! Because this or that hasn't happened to you, youcan't be made to believe that it might have happened to someone else.What's a wood fire to you but a shin warmer? And how you hate to walkalone! So sheer off--this is not for you.

  But to you, fenced in by circumstance, walls of breathless brick andstone, suffocating with longing, you whose thought springs ever toward thegorgeous sunset and the ends of rainbows; who fly in dreams across thegolden south seas to the far countries, you whose imagination transformsevery ratty old square-rigger that pokes down the bay into a Spanishgalleon--come with me.

  For to admire an' for to see, For to be'old this world so wide.

  First off, Ling Foo, of Woosung Road, perhaps the most bewildered Chinamanin all Shanghai last April. The Blind Madonna flung him into a great gameand immediately cast him out of it, giving him never an inkling of whatthe game was about and leaving him buffeted by the four winds of wonder.

  A drama--he was sure of that--had rolled up, touched him icily ifslightly, and receded, like a wave on the beach, without his knowing inthe least what had energized it in his direction. During lulls, for yearsto come, Ling Foo's consciousness would strive to press behind the wallfor a key to the riddle; for years to come he would be searching theInternational Bund, Nanking Road, Broadway and Bubbling Well roads for theyoung woman with the wonderful ruddy hair and the man who walked with thesluing lurch.

  Ah, but that man--the face of him, beautiful as that of a foreign boy's,now young, now old, as though a cobweb shifted to and fro across it! Thefire in those dark eyes and the silk on that tongue! Always that facewould haunt him, because it should not have been a man's but a woman's.Ling Foo could not go to his gods for comparisons, for a millionvariations of Buddha offered no such countenance; so his recollectionwould always be tinged with a restless sense of dissatisfaction.

  There were other faces in the picture, but with the exception of thewoman's and the man's he could not reassemble the features of any.

  A wild and bitter night. The nor'easter, packed with a cold, penetratingrain, beat down from the Yellow Sea, its insensate fury clearing thehighways of all save belated labourers and 'ricksha boys. Along theChinese Bund the sampans huddled even more closely together, and rockedand creaked and complained. The inscrutable countenance of the averageChinaman is the result of five thousand years of misery. It was a nightfor hand warmers--little jigsawed brass receptacles filled with smolderingpunk or charcoal, which you carried in your sleeves and hugged if youhappened to be a Chinaman, as Ling Foo was.

  He was a merchant. He sold furs, curios, table linen, embroideries. Hisshop was out on the Woosung Road. He did not sit on his stool or in hisalcove and wait for customers. He made packs of his merchandise andcanvassed the hotels in the morning, from floor to floor, from room toroom. His curios, however, he left in the shop. That was his lure to bringhis hotel customers round in the afternoon, when there were generallyadditional profits and no commissions. This, of course, had been the_modus operandi_ in the happy days before 1914, when white men began theslaughter of white men. Nowadays Ling Foo was off to the Astor House themoment he had news of a ship dropping anchor off the bar twelve miles downthe Whangpoo River. The hour no longer mattered; the point was to beat hiscompetitors to the market--and often there was no market.

  He did not call the white people foreign devils; he called them customers.That they worshipped a bearded Buddha was no concern of his. Born in themodern town, having spent twelve years in San Francisco, he was notheavily barnacled with tradition. He was shrewd, a suave bargainer, andas honest as the day is long. His English was fluent.

  To-night he was angry with the fates. The ship was hours late. Moreover,it was a British transport, dropping down from Vladivostok. He would bewasting his time to wait for such passengers as came ashore. They would betired and hungry and uncomfortable. So at seven o'clock he lit a piece ofpunk, dropped it into his hand warmer, threw his pack over his shoulders,and left the cheery lobby of the hotel where he had been waiting sincefive in the afternoon. He would be cold and wet and hungry when he reachedhis shop.

  Outside he called to a disconsolate 'ricksha boy, and a moment laterrattled across the bridge that spans the Soochow Creek. Even the Sikhpoliceman had taken to cover. When he finally arrived home he was drenchedfrom his cap button to the wooden soles of his shoes. He unlocked the shopdoor, entered, flung the pack on the floor, and turned on the electriclight. Twenty minutes later he was in dry clothes; hot rice, bean curd,and tea were warming him; and he sat cross-legged in a little alcovebehind his till, smoking his metal pipe. Two or three puffs, then he wouldempty the ash in a brass bowl. He repeated this action half a dozen times.He was emptying the ash for the last time when the door opened violentlyand a man lurched in, hatless and apparently drunk--a white man.

  But instantly Ling Foo saw that the man was not drunk. Blood was streamingdown his face, which was gray with terror and agony. The man made adesperate effort to save himself from falling, and dragged a pile ofembroidered jackets to the floor as he went down.

  Ling Foo did not stir. It was not possible for him to move. The suddennessof the spectacle had disconnected thought from action. He saw all this,memorized it, even speculated upon it; but he could not move.

  The door was still open. The rain slanted across the black oblong space.He saw it strike the windows, pause, then trickle down. He could not seewhat had become of the man; the counter intervened. A tingle ran throughLing Foo's body, and he knew that his brain had gained control of his bodyagain. But before this brain could telegraph to his legs three men rushedinto the shop. A bubble of sound came into Ling Foo's throat--one of thosecalls for help that fear smothers.

  The three men disappeared instantly below the counter rim. Silence, exceptfor the voices of the rai
n and the wind. Ling Foo, tensely, evenpainfully alive now, waited. He was afraid, and it was perfectly logicalfear. Perhaps they had not noticed him in the alcove. So he waited forthis fantastic drama to end.

  The three men rose in unison. Ling Foo saw that they were carrying thefourth between them. The man who carried the head and shoulders of thevictim--for Ling Foo was now certain that murder was abroad--limped oddly,with a heave and a sluing twist. Ling Foo slid off his cushion and steppedround the counter in time to see the night absorb the back of the man wholimped. He tried to recall the face of the man, but could not. His initialterror had drawn for him three white patches where faces should havebeen.

  For several minutes Ling Foo stared at the oblong blackness; then with ahysterical gurgle he ran to the door, slammed and bolted it, and leanedagainst the jamb, sick and faint, yet oddly relieved. He would not nowhave to account to the police for the body of an unknown white man.

  A queer business. Nothing exciting ever happened along this part ofWoosung Road. What he had witnessed--it still wasn't quitebelievable--belonged to the water front. Things happened there, for thesewhite sailors were a wild lot.

  When the vertigo went out of his legs, Ling Foo cat-stepped over to thescattered embroidered jackets and began mechanically to replace them onthe counter--all but two, for these were speckled with blood. Hecontemplated them for a space, and at last picked them up daintily andtossed them into a far corner. When the blood dried he would wash them outhimself.

  But there was that darkening stain on the floor. That would have to bewashed out at once or it would be crying up to him eternally and recastingthe tragic picture. So he entered the rear of the shop and summoned hiswife. Meekly she obeyed his order and scrubbed the stain. Her beady littleblack eyes were so tightly lodged in her head that it was not possible forher to elevate her brows in surprise. But she knew that this stain wasblood.

  Ling Foo solemnly waved her aside when the task was done, and sheslip-slapped into the household dungeon out of which she had emerged.

  Her lord and master returned to his alcove. Ah, but the pipe was good! Herocked slightly as he smoked. Three pipefuls were reduced to ashes; thenhe wriggled off the cushion, picked up his cash counter and beganslithering the buttons back and forth; not because there were any profitsor losses that day, but because it gave a welcome turn to his thoughts.

  The storm raged outside. Occasionally he felt the floor shudder. Thewindows ran thickly with rain. The door rattled. It was as if all objectsinanimate were demanding freedom from bolts and nails. With the tip of hislong, slender finger Ling Foo moved the buttons. He counted what hisprofits would be in Manchurian sables; in the two Ming vases that had comein mysteriously from Kiao-chau--German loot from Peking; counted hisformer profits in snuff bottles, and so on.

  The door rattled furiously.

  Ling Foo could consider himself as tolerably wealthy. Some day, when thisgreat turmoil among the whites subsided, he would move to South China andgrow little red oranges and melons, and there would be a nook in thegardens where he could sit with the perfume of jasmine swimming over andabout his head and the goodly Book of Confucius on his knees.

  A thudding sound--that wasn't the wind. Ling Foo looked over his buttons.He saw a human face outside the door; a beautiful boy's face--white. Thatwas the first impression. But as he stared he saw a man's fury destroy theboyish stamp--gestures that demanded admission.

  But Ling Foo shook his head with equal emphasis. He would not go near thatdoor again this night.

  The man outside shook his fists threateningly, wheeled, and strode off.Three strides took him out of sight; but Ling Foo, with a damp littlechill on his spine, remarked that the visitor limped.

  So! This would be the man who had carried the bloody head and shoulders ofthe unknown.

  Oriental curiosity blazed up and over Ling Foo's distaste. What was it allabout? Why had the limping man returned and demanded entrance? What hadthey done with the body? Pearls! The thought struck him as a blow. Hebegan to understand something of the episode. Pearls! The beaten man hadheard that sometimes Ling Foo of Woosung Road dealt in pearls withoutbeing overcurious. A falling out among thieves, and one had tried tobetray his confederates, paying grimly for it. Pearls!

  He trotted down to the door and peered into the night, but he could seenothing. He wished now that he had purchased those window curtains such asthe white merchants used over on the Bund. Every move he made could beseen from across the way, and the man who limped might be lurking there,watching.

  The man had come to him with pearls, but he had not been quick enough.What had he done with them? The man with the slue-foot would not havereturned had he found the pearls on his moribund partner. That was soundreasoning. Ling Foo's heart contracted, then expanded and began to beatlike a bird's wing. In here somewhere--on the floor!

  He turned away from the door without haste. His Oriental mind workedquickly and smoothly. He would tramp back and forth the length of the shopas if musing, but neither nook nor crevice should escape his eye. He washeir to these pearls. Slue-Foot--for so Ling Foo named his visitor--wouldnot dare molest him, since he, Ling Foo, could go to the authorities andstate that murder had been done. Those tiger eyes in a boy's face! Hisspine grew cold.

  Nevertheless, he set about his game. With his hands in his sleeves, hischin down, he paced the passage between the two counters. As he turned forthe fifth journey a red-and-blue flash struck his eye. The flash came fromthe far corner of the shop, from the foot of the gunpowder-blue templevase. Diamonds--not pearls but diamonds! Russian loot!

  Ling Foo pressed down his excitement and slowly approached the vase. Anecklace! He gave the object a slight kick, which sent it rattling towardthe door to the rear. He resumed his pacing. Each time he reached thenecklace he gave it another kick. At length the necklace was at thethreshold. Ling Foo approached the light and shut it off. Next he openedthe door and kicked the necklace across the threshold. Diamonds--thirtyor forty of them on a string.

  The room in the rear was divided into workshop and storeroom. The livingrooms were above. His wife was squatted on the floor in an unlitteredcorner mending a ceremonial robe of his. She was always in this room atnight when Ling Foo was in the shop.

  He ignored her and carried his prize to a lapidary's bench. He perchedhimself on a stool and reached for his magnifying glass. A queer littlehiss broke through his lips. Cut-glass beads, patently Occidental, andhere in Shanghai practically worthless!

  In his passion of disappointment he executed a gesture as if to hurl thebeads to the floor, but let his arm sink slowly. He had made a mistake.These beads had not brought tragedy in and out of his shop. Somehow he hadmissed the object; some nook or corner had escaped him. In the morning hewould examine every inch of the floor. White men did not kill each otherfor a string of glass beads.

  He stirred the beads about on his palm, and presently swung them under thedroplight. Beautifully cut, small and large beads alternating, and on thesmaller a graven letter he could not decipher. He observed some darkspecks, and scrutinized them under the magnifying glass. Blood! HisOriental mind groped hopelessly. Blood! He could make nothing of it. Amurderous quarrel over such as these!

  For a long time Ling Foo sat on his stool, the image of Buddhacontemplating the way. Outside the storm carried on vigorously, sendingrattles into casements and shudders into doors. The wifely needle, athread of silver fire, shuttled back and forth in the heavy brocade silk.

  Glass beads! Trumpery! Ling Foo slid off the stool and shuffled back intothe shop for his metal pipe.

  Having pushed Ling Foo into this blind alley, out of which he was shortlyto emerge, none the wiser, the Pagan Madonna swooped down upon the youngwoman with the ruddy hair and touched her with the impelling finger.