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BOOKS BY HAROLD MACGRATH
ADVENTURES OF KATHLYN
ARMS AND THE WOMAN
BEST MAN
CARPET FROM BAGDAD
DEUCES WILD
ENCHANTED HAT
GOOSE GIRL
HALF A ROGUE
HEARTS AND MASKS
LUCK OF THE IRISH: A ROMANCE
LURE OF THE MASK
MILLION DOLLAR MYSTERY
PARROT & CO.
PIDGIN ISLAND
PLACE OF HONEYMOONS
PRINCESS ELOPES
PUPPET CROWN
SPLENDID HAZARD
THE DRUMS OF JEOPARDY
THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
THE GREY CLOAK
THE MAN ON THE BOX
THE MAN WITH THREE NAMES
THE PAGAN MADONNA
THE PRIVATE WIRE TO WASHINGTON
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
VOICE OF THE FOG
[Illustration: "'Thank you for coming up,' said Cunningham. 'It makes me
feel that you trust me.'"]
THE
PAGAN MADONNA
BY
HAROLD MacGRATH
FRONTISPIECE
BY
W. H. D. KOERNER
GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO 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 of
those whose lives are bound by neighbourly interests. Imaginatively, you
never seek what lies under a gorgeous sunset; you are never stirred by any
longing to investigate the ends of rainbows. You are more concerned by
what your neighbour does every day than by what he might do if he were
suddenly spun, whirled, jolted out of his poky orbit. The blank door of an
empty house never intrigues you; you enter blind alleys without thrilling
in the least; you hear a cry in the night and impute it to some marauding
tom. Lord, what a life!
And yet every move you make is governed by Chance--the Blind Madonna of
the Pagan, as that great adventurer, Stevenson, called it. You never
stop to consider that it is only by chance that you leave home and arrive
at the office alive--millions and millions of you--poor old
stick-in-the-muds! Because this or that hasn't happened to you, you
can'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 walk
alone! So sheer off--this is not for you.
But to you, fenced in by circumstance, walls of breathless brick and
stone, suffocating with longing, you whose thought springs ever toward the
gorgeous sunset and the ends of rainbows; who fly in dreams across the
golden south seas to the far countries, you whose imagination transforms
every ratty old square-rigger that pokes down the bay into a Spanish
galleon--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 Chinaman
in all Shanghai last April. The Blind Madonna flung him into a great game
and immediately cast him out of it, giving him never an inkling of what
the 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 if
slightly, and receded, like a wave on the beach, without his knowing in
the least what had energized it in his direction. During lulls, for years
to come, Ling Foo's consciousness would strive to press behind the wall
for a key to the riddle; for years to come he would be searching the
International Bund, Nanking Road, Broadway and Bubbling Well roads for the
young woman with the wonderful ruddy hair and the man who walked with the
sluing 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! The
fire in those dark eyes and the silk on that tongue! Always that face
would 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 million
variations of Buddha offered no such countenance; so his recollection
would always be tinged with a restless sense of dissatisfaction.
There were other faces in the picture, but with the exception of the
woman'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, penetrating
rain, beat down from the Yellow Sea, its insensate fury clearing the
highways of all save belated labourers and 'ricksha boys. Along the
Chinese Bund the sampans huddled even more closely together, and rocked
and creaked and complained. The inscrutable countenance of the average
Chinaman is the result of five thousand years of misery. It was a night
for hand warmers--little jigsawed brass receptacles filled with smoldering
punk or charcoal, which you carried in your sleeves and hugged if you
happened to be a Chinaman, as Ling Foo was.
He was a merchant. He sold furs, curios, table linen, embroideries. His
shop was out on the Woosung Road. He did not sit on his stool or in his
alcove and wait for customers. He made packs of his merchandise and
canvassed the hotels in the morning, from floor to floor, from room to
room. His curios, however, he left in the shop. That was his lure to bring
his hotel customers round in the afternoon, when there were generally
additional profits and no commissions. This, of course, had been the
_modus operandi_ in the happy days before 1914, when white men began the
slaughter of white men. Nowadays Ling Foo was off to the Astor House the
moment he had news of a ship dropping anchor off the bar twelve miles down
the Whangpoo River. The hour no longer mattered; the point was to beat his
competitors 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 the
modern town, having spent twelve years in San Francisco, he was not
heavily barnacled with tradition. He was shrewd, a suave bargainer, and
as 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 be
wasting his time to wait for such passengers as came ashore. They would be
tired and hungry and uncomfortable. So at seven o'clock he lit a piece of
punk, 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 since
five in the afternoon. He would be cold and wet and hungry when he reached
his shop.
Outside he called to a disconsolate 'ricksha boy, and a moment later
rattled across the bridge that spans the Soochow Creek. Even the Sikh
policeman had taken to cover. When he finally arrived home he was drenched
from his cap button to the wooden soles of his shoes. He unlocked the shop
door, entered, flung the pack on the floor, and turned on the electric
light. 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 alcove
behind his till, smoking his metal pipe. Two or three puffs, then he would
empty 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 violently
and a man lurched in, hatless and apparently drunk--a white man.
But instantly Ling Foo saw that the man was not drunk. Blood was streaming
down his face, which was gray with terror and agony. The man made a
desperate effort to save himself from falling, and dragged a pile of
embroidered jackets to the floor as he went down.
Ling Foo did not stir. It was not possible for him to move. The suddenness
of 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 see
what had become of the man; the counter intervened. A tingle ran through
Ling Foo's body, and he knew that his brain had gained control of his body
again. But before this brain could telegraph to his legs three men rushed
into the shop. A bubble of sound came into Ling Foo's throat--one of those
calls for help that fear smothers.
The three men disappeared instantly below the counter rim. Silence, except
for the voices of the rain and the wind. Ling Foo, tensely, even
painfully alive now, waited. He was afraid, and it was perfectly logical
fear. Perhaps they had not noticed him in the alcove. So he waited for
this fantastic drama to end.
The three men rose in unison. Ling Foo saw that they were carrying the
fourth between them. The man who carried the head and shoulders of the
victim--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 stepped
round the counter in time to see the night absorb the back of the man who
limped. He tried to recall the face of the man, but could not. His initial
terror had drawn for him three white patches where faces should have
been.
For several minutes Ling Foo stared at the oblong blackness; then with a
hysterical gurgle he ran to the door, slammed and bolted it, and leaned
against the jamb, sick and faint, yet oddly relieved. He would not now
have to account to the police for the body of an unknown white man.
A queer business. Nothing exciting ever happened along this part of
Woosung Road. What he had witnessed--it still wasn't quite
believable--belonged to the water front. Things happened there, for these
white sailors were a wild lot.
When the vertigo went out of his legs, Ling Foo cat-stepped over to the
scattered embroidered jackets and began mechanically to replace them on
the counter--all but two, for these were speckled with blood. He
contemplated them for a space, and at last picked them up daintily and
tossed them into a far corner. When the blood dried he would wash them out
himself.
But there was that darkening stain on the floor. That would have to be
washed out at once or it would be crying up to him eternally and recasting
the tragic picture. So he entered the rear of the shop and summoned his
wife. Meekly she obeyed his order and scrubbed the stain. Her beady little
black eyes were so tightly lodged in her head that it was not possible for
her to elevate her brows in surprise. But she knew that this stain was
blood.
Ling Foo solemnly waved her aside when the task was done, and she
slip-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! He
rocked slightly as he smoked. Three pipefuls were reduced to ashes; then
he wriggled off the cushion, picked up his cash counter and began
slithering the buttons back and forth; not because there were any profits
or losses that day, but because it gave a welcome turn to his thoughts.
The storm raged outside. Occasionally he felt the floor shudder. The
windows ran thickly with rain. The door rattled. It was as if all objects
inanimate were demanding freedom from bolts and nails. With the tip of his
long, slender finger Ling Foo moved the buttons. He counted what his
profits would be in Manchurian sables; in the two Ming vases that had come
in mysteriously from Kiao-chau--German loot from Peking; counted his
former profits in snuff bottles, and so on.
The door rattled furiously.
Ling Foo could consider himself as tolerably wealthy. Some day, when this
great turmoil among the whites subsided, he would move to South China and
grow little red oranges and melons, and there would be a nook in the
gardens where he could sit with the perfume of jasmine swimming over and
about 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. That
was the first impression. But as he stared he saw a man's fury destroy the
boyish stamp--gestures that demanded admission.
But Ling Foo shook his head with equal emphasis. He would not go near that
door 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 little
chill on his spine, remarked that the visitor limped.
So! This would be the man who had carried the bloody head and shoulders of
the unknown.
Oriental curiosity blazed up and over Ling Foo's distaste. What was it all
about? Why had the limping man returned and demanded entrance? What had
they done with the body? Pearls! The thought struck him as a blow. He
began to understand something of the episode. Pearls! The beaten man had
heard that sometimes Ling Foo of Woosung Road dealt in pearls without
being overcurious. A falling out among thieves, and one had tried to
betray his confederates, paying grimly for it. Pearls!
He trotted down to the door and peered into the night, but he could see
nothing. He wished now that he had purchased those window curtains such as
the white merchants used over on the Bund. Every move he made could be
seen 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 have
returned had he found the pearls on his moribund partner. That was sound
reasoning. Ling Foo's heart contracted, then expanded and began to beat
like a bird's wing. In here somewhere--on the floor!
He turned away from the door without haste. His Oriental mind worked
quickly and smoothly. He would tramp back and forth the length of the shop
as if musing, but neither nook nor crevice should escape his eye. He was
heir to these pearls. Slue-Foot--for so Ling Foo named his visitor--would
not dare molest him, since he, Ling Foo, could go to the authorities and
state that murder had been done. Those tiger eyes in a boy's face! His
spine grew cold.
Nevertheless, he set about his game. With his hands in his sleeves, his
chin down, he paced the passage between the two counters. As he turned for
the fifth journey a red-and-blue flash struck his eye. The flash came from
the far corner of the shop, from the foot of the gunpowder-blue temple
vase. Diamonds--not pearls but diamonds! Russian loot!
Ling Foo pressed down his excitement and slowly approached the vase. A
necklace! He gave the object a slight kick, which sent it rattling toward
the door to the rear. He resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the
necklace he gave it another kick. At length the necklace was at the
threshold. Ling Foo approached the light and shut it off. Next he opened
the door and kicked the necklace across the threshold. Diamonds--thirty
or forty of them on a string.
The room in the rear was divided into workshop and storeroom. The living
rooms were above. His wife was squatted on the floor in an unlittered
corner mending a ceremonial robe of his. She was always in this room at
night when Ling Foo was in the shop.
He ignored her and carried his prize to a lapidary's bench. He perched
himself on a stool and reached for his magnifying glass. A queer little
hiss broke through his lips. Cut-glass beads, patently Occidental, and
here in Shanghai practically worthless!
In his passion of disappointment he executed a gesture as if to hurl the
beads 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 had
missed the object; some nook or corner had escaped him. In the morning he
would examine every inch of the floor. White men did not kill each other
for a string of glass beads.
He stirred the beads about on his palm, and presently swung them under the
droplight. Beautifully cut, small and large beads alternating, and on the
smaller a graven letter he could not decipher. He observed some dark
specks, and scrutinized them under the magnifying glass. Blood! His
Oriental mind groped hopelessly. Blood! He could make nothing of it. A
murderous quarrel over such as these!
For a long time Ling Foo sat on his stool, the image of Buddha
contemplating the way. Outside the storm carried on vigorously, sending
rattles into casements and shudders into doors. The wifely needle, a
thread of silver fire, shuttled back and forth in the heavy brocade silk.
Glass beads! Trumpery! Ling Foo slid off the stool and shuffled back into
the shop for his metal pipe.
Having pushed Ling Foo into this blind alley, out of which he was shortly
to emerge, none the wiser, the Pagan Madonna swooped down upon the young
woman with the ruddy hair and touched her with the impelling finger.