Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China Page 7

  CHAPTER VII

  That a recrudescence of those involved in the murky affair might beimminent was the thought induced in Peter's mind as the green coast ofJapan heaved over the horizon. With each thrust of the _Vandalia's_screws the cipher was nearing its solution. Each cylinder throbnarrowed the distance to the shore lights of China--the lights ofTsung-min Island. And then--what?

  In a corner of the smoking-room he puffed at his cigarette and watchedthe poker players as he drummed absently upon the square of green corkinlaid in the corner table. The vermilion glow of the skylight dimmedand died. Lights came on. A clanging cymbal in the energetic hands ofa deck steward boomed at the doorway, withdrew and gave up its life ina far away, tinny clatter.

  The petulant voice of a hardware salesman, who was secretly known torepresent American moneyed interests in Mongolia, drifted through thehaze of tobacco smoke at the poker table.

  "----that's what I'd like to know. Damn nonsense--saving steam,probably--off Wu-Sung before midnight--if--wanted to throw in a littlecoal--means I miss the river boat to-morrow--not another--Saturday.Dammit!"

  Peter drew long at the cigarette and glanced thoughtfully at theoak-paneled ceiling. Chips clicked. The petulant voice continued:

  "----rottenest luck ever had." Evidently he was referring to hislosses. "Rotten line--rottener service--miss my man--Mukden----" Thevoice ceased as its owner half turned his head, magnetized by theintentness of the operator's gaze. Peter glanced away. The salesmandevoted himself to the dealer.

  The _Vandalia_ was bearing into a thin mist. The night was cool,quiet. Had he been on deck Peter would have seen the last lights ofOsezaki engulfed as if at the dropping of a curtain.

  During the voyage he had haunted the smoking-room, hoping that by dintof patient listening he might catch an informative word droppedcarelessly by one of the players. No such luck. The players wereout-of-season tourists, bound for South China or India, or salesmen,patiently immersed in the long and strenuous task of killing time.

  "----thirty--thirty-five--forty--forty-five----" The fat man wascounting his losings.

  Faint, padded footsteps passed the port doorway. Peter became aware ofan elusive perfume--scented rice powder----

  "----seventy-five--eighty--eighty-five--ninety----"

  A pale, malignant face was framed momentarily in one of the starboardwindows.

  Peter blinked, then bounded after. The salesman impeded his progressand grudgingly gave way.

  The deck was empty, slippery with the wet of the mist. He was suddenlyaware that one of the ports, in the neighborhood of the stateroom hehad entered, was ajar. Nervously he halted, gasping as a long,trembling hand, at the extremity of a spectral wrist, plucked at hissleeve. Blanched as an arm of the adolescent moon, it fumbled weaklyat his clutching fingers--and was swiftly withdrawn!

  The staring eyes of a white, gibbous face sank back from the hole.Below the nose the face seemed not to exist.

  Its horror wrapped an icy cord about his heart. He plunged his arm tothe shoulder through the round opening, struck a yielding, warm body;descending claws steeled about his wrist and deliberately forced himback.

  The brass-bound glass squeezed on his fingers. He wrenched them free,crushed, throbbing, and warmly wet. The anguish seemed to extend tohis elbow. Then, suddenly, the gruff, seasoned voice of Captain Jonesdescended from space behind him. "Sparks, come to my cabin."

  Peter followed the brutish shoulders to the forward companionway,endeavoring to clarify his thoughts. Mild confusion prevailed whenCaptain Jones closed and locked the door of his spacious stateroombehind them and dropped heavily into one of the cumbersome teak chairs.

  He was a hardened, brawny chunk of a man, choleric in aspect andtemperament, brutal in method, bluntly decisive in opinion. Iron washis metal. "Starboard Jones" was one of the few living men who hadsuccessfully run the Jap blockade into Vladivostok during that bloodytiff between the black bear and the island panther.

  Reddened sockets displayed keen, blue eyes in a background of perpetualfire. His large, swollen nose had a vinous tint, acquiringpurplishness in cold weather. Tiny red veins, as numerous as thecracks in Satsuma-ware, spread across both cheeks in a carmine filigree.

  His cabin was ornamented chiefly by hand-tinted photographs from theyoshiwaras of Nagasaki, of simpering, coy geishas. Souvenirs of theirtrade, glittering fans, nicked teacups, flimsy sandals, adorned theavailable shelf room. Cigars as brawny and black as if their maker hadstriven to emulate the captain's own bulk were scattered among paperson his narrow desk.

  He reached clumsily for one of these brown cylinders now, neglecting toremove his glance of gloating austerity from the operator's tense face.

  "Haven't seen much of you lately, Sparks," he observed, applying asteady match flame to the oval butt. He spoke in his usual tones, witha gruffness that balanced on a razor edge between rough jocularity andofficial harshness. "What's new? Have one of my ropes?"

  Peter studied the glowing end narrowly. "Had a little trouble firstnight out. No, thanks. Not smoking to-night." His bruisedfinger-tips were curved up tenderly in his coat pocket.

  "What's 'at?" The steel eyes were motionless beneath half-lowered lids.

  "Some one used an electric machine. Jammed my signals."

  The choleric face dipped knowingly. What Captain Jones did notcomprehend he invariably pretended to comprehend. "Noticed anythingelse?" His ruddy face was now weighty with significance.

  Peter sat up abruptly. "What!"

  A thick, red forefinger threatened, "Lis'n to me, Sparks, you're aovergrown, blundering bull in a china-shop. You're----"

  "Well?" There was a trace of anger in Peter's suave inquiry. His facebecame stony white. A spot of color appeared at either cheek.

  "I mean: Keep your damn nose out of what don't concern you. Savvy?"The heated words spilled thickly from the captain's red lips. "I mean:Butt out of what concerns Chinese women and--and--other words, mindyour own particular damn business! Duty on this ship's to mind theradio. What goes on outside your shanty's none of your damn concern!"Captain Jones' mouth remained open, and the butt of the black cigarslid into it.

  Peter raised a restraining hand. His lips trembled. His eyes seemedto snap in a rapid fire between the eyes and mouth of the big manslouched down in the chair in front of him. "Wait a minute," he spatout. "Since you do know that somebody is being kidnapped on thisship----"

  "What in hell do you mean?"

  "Exactly what I say. A Chinese woman, no matter who she is--is hidingsome one, a woman, somewhere on this ship. That woman--that womanwho's being held--grabbed my hand not five minutes ago. It's yourduty----"

  "Keep your hands where they belong. You're talking like a fool.Kidnapped? You're crazy. My duty? You're a fool! You're talkingbaby talk." Captain Jones sprang from his chair. "You're on this shipto tend the wireless," he bawled. "You're under oath to keep yourmouth shut. Any one back there?"

  "No!"

  "Don't you know it breaks a government rule when that room's empty--atsea?"

  The mist-laden wind shrilled through the screen door abruptly thrustback. Captain Jones slammed the stout inner door. Peter turned up hiscoat collar, bound a clean handkerchief about his aching fingers,climbed agilely over the life-rafts, passed the roaring, black funnels,and entered the wireless house.

  The low, intermingling whine of Jap stations was broken by an insistentP. and O. liner, yapping for attention. Shanghai stiffly droned areply, advising the P. and O. man to sweeten his spark.

  Peter tapped his detector and grunted. Shanghai was loud--close! The_Vandalia_ must be nearing the delta.

  "----Nanking Road. Stop. Forty casks of soey----" yelped the P. and O.

  Nearing the great river! Out of the mist a faint blur would come--thefirst lights of China!

  "----Thirteen cases of tin----" The P. and O.'s spark remainedunsweetened.

  Would the lights be Hi-Tai-Sha--
Tsung-min?--port or starboard?

  Far below decks a bell jangled faintly. The throbbing of the engineswas suddenly hushed. The bell sounded distantly, through a portentoussilence. Peter glanced at the clock. Half-past twelve.

  The silence was shattered by a turbulent, stern lifting rumble as thescrews reversed. The _Vandalia_ wallowed heavily, and lay with theyellow tide.

  Extinguishing the lights, Peter slipped out on deck, leaned over theedge, and peered into the murk. His heart pumped nervously.

  At first all was blank. Then a misty, gray-white glow seemed to swimfar to port. Murkily, it took form, vanished, reappeared and--wasswallowed up again.

  But these were not the lights of Tsung-min. The ship was in the river.He knew those lights well. Even now the _Vandalia_, was slipping downwith the current abreast of Woo-Sung! The first lights of China! Butwhat was happening? He dashed to the starboard side.

  Out of the mist there arose a tall, gaunt specter. A junk. Perhaps acollision was decreed by the evil spirit of the Whang-poo. But theusual shriekings of doomed river men were absent. The gray bulkfloated idly with the steamer. The silence of death permeated bothcraft.

  At a loss to account for this queer coincidence, this mute communion,Peter elbowed over the edge, dangerously high above the water, and sliddown a stanchion to the promenade deck.

  Simultaneously every light on that side of the ship was extinguished.As his feet struck the metal gutter, several unseen bodies rushed pasthim, aft.

  He was grabbed from behind and hurled to the deck. Springing up, heheard the thick breathing of his unknown assailant. He lunged for thesound, met flying fists, smashed his man against the rail. The blowknocked the wind from his antagonist, or broke his back.

  Peter did not pause to make inquiries. As the limp body thudded to thewood, the operator sprinted after the vanished figures.

  A lone light on the after spur illumined a dim confusion in the cargowell. The stern of the junk was backed against the rail. Oars flashedfaintly as the crew of the junk strove to keep her fast against thesteamer's side. But where was the crew of the _Vandalia_? Had CaptainJones consented to and perhaps aided in this mid-river tryst?

  Another source of illumination sprang into being. A dong was burningyellowly on the junk's poop deck, casting a plenitude of light upon thescene.

  As Peter dropped down the precipitous ladder into the well, he made outtwo figures struggling against the rail. From the junk, imploringly, agiant Chinese with pigtail flapping held out his long arms. Silent,his face was writhing with the supplication to hurry.

  Peter drove in between the two figures, one of which suddenly collapsedand lay inert. The other sprang at his neck, sinking long claws intohis throat. Slit eyes glinted close. Before his wind was shut off hecaught the oppressive fragrance of a heavy perfume. A woman!

  He struck the clawing hands loose, and she stemmed a scream betweenconvulsing lips. The woman above Ah Sih King's!

  He hurled her back, and she staggered against the iron flank of thewell. A chatter of Chinese broke from her lips. Shaking, sheextracted an envelope from her satin blouse and pressed it into hishands. Thoughtlessly he stuffed the envelope into his pocket, notreckoning what it might contain.

  The junk swung out, closed in with a smart smack, and the giant on herdeck crouched to spring. He squealed, a high-pitched ululation ofanger. Another sound was abroad, the jangling of the engine-room bell.

  Peter struck down the groping hands of the woman and sprang to therail, bracing his feet on the smooth iron deck-plate as the Chineseleaped. A knife glinted. Peter seized a horny wrist with both hands,bent, and wrenched it. The knife struck the water with a sibilantsplash. The _fokie_ lost his balance. His legs became entangled.

  He gibbered with horror as he slipped--slipped----

  The Chinese woman sprang at Peter with the frenzy of a pantheress.

  A weltering splash--Peter dimly saw the bobbing head before it wasdriven below the surface as the junk, yawing in, crowded the swimmerdown.

  A life? Nothing to the turgid river, draining all effluvia from theyellow heart of this festering land.

  With a hissing sob, the woman drove Peter backward, raining blow afterblow on his chest. The engines pounded briskly. A boom rattled.Despairingly, Peter's antagonist shifted her tactics, surprised him byflinging herself to the rail.

  The junk was veering away as the _Vandalia's_ blades took hold.

  She poised on the top rail, drew herself together, and leaped!

  The junk slid into the mist.