upon him full-armed; and here--with the sodden, pitchy blanket of
night painting the shadows with deeper shadows, and the rain-whipped
streets deserted by everybody--was the very place where murder might
happen, had happened in the past, in Tong war and private feud--the
corner saloons with their lurking side entrances, where a man might
slip in and out like a rabbit through the tunnels of its warren; the
inky, prurient, slimy halls and areaways; the sudden, mysterious alleys
cutting edgewise into mazes of buildings; the steep cellars that yawned
like saturnine, toothless maws; the squat, moldy, turgid tenements,
with the reckless invitations of their fire escapes.
Ng Ch’u shivered. Should he turn back, make a run for his home?
And--what then?
To-morrow was another day. To-morrow the sun would shine golden and
clear. True. But to-morrow the Manchu would still be the Manchu; and Ng
Ch’u was sure of two things: that Yang Shen-hsiu would plot his speedy
death, and that, even supposing he broke the unwritten law of Pell
Street, it would be quite useless to go to the police of the red-haired
devils and ask them for protection.
For could he, the merchant, accuse the other, the great Chinese
dignitary sent to America on a diplomatic mission? And of what? What
could he say?
Could he make these foreigners believe in this tale of China, of
forty years ago? Could he tell them that he and the other had been
in love with the same girl, that she had preferred the coolie to the
aristocrat, and that the latter had sworn revenge? Could he tell them
that those had been the days directly after China’s war of eighteen
hundred and sixty against France and England, when the imperial court
had been compelled to leave Pekin and flee to Jehol, when the Summer
Palace had been taken and sacked by the barbarians, when a shameful
treaty had been forced on the Middle Kingdom, and when the Huang T’ai
Hou, the Empress, the Old Buddha, had issued an edict that, until a
“more propitious time” the lives of foreigners should be sacred in
the land of Han? Could he tell them how he had found out that the
Manchu, in a fit of rage, had murdered, and quietly buried, a British
missionary; how thus, by threatening exposure to the Pekin authorities,
he had held the whip-hand; how, discretion being the better part
of valor, he and the Moon-beam had emigrated to America; and how
now, to-day, forty years later, he had met the Manchu here, in New
York--still the same Manchu--hawkish, steely, ruthless--?
Ng Ch’u shook his head.
He could imagine what Bill Devoy, detective of Second Branch and Pell
Street specialist, would say,
“Cut it out! Ye’ve been hittin’ the old pipe too hard. What? Manchu?
Dowager Empress? Moon-beam? Missionary? Revenge? Say--ye’ve blown in
too many dimes on them--now--seven-reelers! Keep away from the movies,
Chinkie--see?”
* * * * *
Ng Ch’u shivered. He jumped sidewise rapidly as he heard a rustling
noise. Then he smiled apologetically--it had just been a dim stir of
torn bits of paper whirled about by a vagabond wind--and turned, at a
sudden right angle, toward Nag Hong Fah’s Great Chop Suey Restaurant
where it slashed the purple, trailing night with a square of yellow
light.
A minute later, his heart beating like a trip-hammer, he was up the
stairs. Two minutes later, outwardly composed, he bowed, his hands
clasped over his chest, to the company of merchants who were gathered
in the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity, some quietly smoking
or sipping tea, others gossiping, still others playing at _hsiang ch’i_
chess and _ta ma_.
The soft, gliding hum of voices, the sizzling of the opium lamps, the
sucking of boiling-hot tea drunk by compressed lips, the clicks of
the copper and ivory counters--it was all tremendously peaceful and
reassuring; and Ng Ch’u sighed contentedly as he dropped into a chair
by the side of Ching Shan, his silent partner, and began talking to him
in an undertone about a shipment of Sheba pottery which could be picked
up at a bargain in San Francisco.
Presently, business over, he asked a question.
“Brother very old and very wise,” he said, “what are the protections of
the day and the night against an evil man?”
Ching Shan was known throughout Pell Street for his stout wisdom--a
reputation which he upheld by quoting esoterically and didactically
from some hoary tome of learning, whenever asked a question, and then
reinforcing his opinion by a yet lengthier quotation from another book.
“Ng Ch’u,” he replied, “it has been reported in the Shu King that the
sage Wu once spoke as follows: ‘I have heard that the good man, doing
good, finds the day insufficient, and the night, and that the evil
man, doing evil, also finds the day insufficient, and the night.’” He
paused, looked around him, made sure that not only Ng Ch’u but also the
rest of the company were listening to him attentively, and continued:
“Yet, as to the evil man, and the good, has it not furthermore been
said that the correct doctrine of the good man is to be true to
the principles of his nature and the benevolent exercise of these
principles when dealing with others?”
“Even when dealing with evil men?” asked Ng Ch’u.
“Decidedly, little brother.”
“Ah--” smiled Ng Ch’u, “and the principle of my nature has always been
to see that I have pork with my evening rice--to bargain close and
tight--to know the worth of money--”
“Money,” said Nag Hong Fah, the restaurant proprietor, “which is the
greatest truth in the world--”
“Money,” chimed in Yung Long, the wealthy wholesale grocer, “which is
mastery and power and sway and shining achievement--”
“Money,” said Ching Shan rather severely, since he had retired from
active business affairs and was not worried by financial troubles,
“which is good only when used by a purified desire and a righteous
aim--”
“What aim more righteous,” rejoined Ng Ch’u, “than peace and happiness
and the evening rice--”
And then, quite suddenly, a hush fell over the Honorable Pavilion of
Tranquil Longevity. Tea cups were held tremblingly in mid-air. Pipes
dropped. Voices were stilled.
For there, framed in the doorway, stood three figures, lean, tall,
threatening; faces masked by black neckerchiefs; pistols held steadily
in yellow hands.
* * * * *
“Oh--Buddha!” screamed Nag Hong Fah. “The hatchetmen--the hatchetmen--”
“Silence, obese grandfather of a skillet!” said the tallest of the
three. “Silence--or--” His voice was terse and metallic; his pistol
described a significant half-circle and drew a bead on the restaurant
proprietor’s stout chest. He took a step nearer into the room, while
his two colleagues kept the company covered. “My friends,” he said, “I
have not come here to harm anybody--except--”
His eyes searched the smoke-laden room, and, as if drawn by a magnet,
Ng Ch’u rose and waddled up to him.
“Except to kill me?” he suggested meekly.
“Rightly guessed, older brother,” smiled the other. “I regret--but what
is life--eh?--and what is death? A slashing of throats! A cutting of
necks! A jolly ripping of jugular veins!” He laughed behind his mask
and drew Ng Ch’u toward him with a strong, clawlike hand.
The latter trembled like a leaf.
“Honorable killer,” he asked, “there is, I take it, no personal rancor
against me in your heart?”
“Not a breath--not an atom--not a sliver! It is a mere matter of
business!”
“You have been sent by somebody else to kill me--perhaps by--?”
“Let us name no names. I have indeed been sent by--somebody.”
Ng Ch’u looked over his shoulder at Ching Shan who sat there, very
quiet, very disinterested.
“Ching Shan,” he said, “did you not say that the correct doctrine
of the good man is to be true to his principles and the benevolent
exercise of these principles?”
“Indeed!” wonderingly.
“Ah--” gently breathed Ng Ch’u, and again he addressed the hatchetman.
“Honorable killer,” he said, “the nameless party--who sent you
here--how much did he promise you for causing my spirit to join the
spirits of my ancestors?”
“But--”
“Tell me. How much?”
“Five hundred dollars!”
Ng Ch’u smiled.
“Five hundred dollars--eh?--for killing me?” he repeated.
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the astonished hatchetman.
“Five hundred dollars--eh?--for killing me?” he re-broke into gurgling
laughter. “Correct doctrine to be true to one’s own principles!
Principles of barter and trade--my principles--the coolie’s
principles--_Ahee!--ahoo!--ahai!_ Here, hatchetman!” His voice was now
quite steady. Steady was the hand with which he drew a thick roll of
bills from his pocket. “Here are five hundred dollars--and yet another
hundred! Go! Go and kill _him_--him who sent you!”
* * * * *
And, late that night, back in his neat little flat, Ng Ch’u turned
casually to his wife.
“Moon-beam,” he said, “the little trouble has been satisfactorily
settled.” He paused, smiled. “To-morrow,” he added, “I shall eat my
evening rice from a pale-blue Suen-tih Ming bowl with red fish molded
as handles.”
“Yes, Great One,” came the Moon-beam’s calm, incurious reply.
_Short Stories_
THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND
BY
GORDON YOUNG
THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND[11]
By GORDON YOUNG
For reasons that might be called confidential, since they were known
only to Billy Rand himself and to the police, he took the tip of
a friend wise in geography and made for a speck on the map called
Ponape--a bit of an island that sticks out inconspicuously in the South
Seas.
He landed on a beach where there were some natives that he mistook for
“niggers” and a lot of Germans.
Said Billy Rand to a German trader:
“I’m travelin’ for my health and lookin’ for a quiet spot. I need rest.
This here Langar is too thrivin’ a metropolis. It reminds me of New
York.”
He looked out of the doorway to where a half dozen little trading
schooners were anchored, and at the corrugated iron warehouse; but
most particularly he looked at the two wireless masts. Those were what
reminded him of New York.
“_Ja_,” said the trader, and tipped the empty beer bottle significantly.
Billy took the hint. More beer came. Then the trader warmed up slightly
and talked.
Billy didn’t know exactly what was being said. No fortune teller had
ever warned him that he ought to study German.
The trader pointed here and there, and Billy twisted his head about
to see. Then he began to realize that the German was talking of
directions. Which way did Billy want to travel?
Billy took a chance and poked his finger in the same direction that his
nose happened to be.
The trader agreed that it was a desirable choice and put out his hand,
palm up. The sign language had never seemed so eloquent to Billy before.
That was how Billy came to be landed on the beach some two hundred
miles from Langar. The bay was pretty and the trader had given him to
understand that a missionary lived there.
But alone on the beach Billy couldn’t see anything but niggers. They
swarmed about him, grinned, looked him over curiously, fingered his
clothes, felt of him, and chattered. He wished heartily that he was
back in New York explaining to the judge just how it happened. The
trader was already standing out to sea.
The natives half carried, half dragged the squatty little man with the
dapper manner, alias Billy Rand, up the beach and through the bushes
until they came to a cleared space where there were grass houses and
women cooking.
“Just in time for dinner!” he said to himself, and nearly fainted.
Then a man came to the door of one of the grass houses. He was a
comparatively young man, fine looking--Billy thought--and not at all
like the beachcombers, missionaries and Germans with which Billy
had already become acquainted. And Billy could not imagine that
any one other than those people--beachcombers, missionaries and
Germans--would hide themselves away in such outlandish places unless
for “confidential” reasons.
“Who are you?” the man asked. It seemed to Billy that there was
something pryingly suspicious in the question.
Rapidly he hastened to assure this stranger:
“It’s all right. I came along for quiet and rest too. I know just how
you feel when a stranger comes along your trail. Now I’ve--”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the other, looking puzzled. Billy
noticed that he had brown eyes that looked almost sad.
“I’m in the same fix as you,” Billy explained vaguely.
“A missionary?” the man asked.
“Me a what!”
And Billy followed it up with a few remarks that showed he was far
from having been trained as a missionary.
The man looked relieved, though he did say quietly:
“You see, I’m a missionary. From what you said I judged that you,
too--well, I want neither a rival nor an assistant--but,” he added
quickly, “anybody else is welcome.”
Billy cast a speculative eye over the crowd of natives ringed about him.
“Say,” he confessed frankly, “I was awfully glad to see you. These
fellows had me scared stiff.”
The missionary laughed. “They can’t imagine any one being afraid of
them.”
“Ain’t they got no lookin’ glasses?” Billy demanded.
The missionary laughed again and invited him into his house.
Billy at first had a nightmarish sensation as he stepped in; lizards,
birds and things, some dried, some stuffed, some pickled in bottles,
some stuck on cards--bugs and butterflies and flying squirrels and even
some bright-scaled fish.
“Have a little drink?” asked the missionary. “And here is a pipe and
some tobacco--trade tobacco. Wretched stuff. Just make yourself at
home. And tell me, what’s going on in the world? I’ve been here four
years.”
Billy reflected that this man might be a missionary, but he was a good
judge of whiskey, though he took only a little for himself and after
filling Billy’s glass put the bottle away.
Later another drink for Billy alone was forthcoming; and he, already
wanting to stay on and on with the missionary and not wanting him to
think that he, Billy, was a murderer or something, up and told just
what he would have told the judge if he had not been able to keep just
about two jumps ahead of the detectives that were on his trail.
Billy naively explained that he wasn’t going to confess to anybody that
he had carried the money from a certain firm of paying contractors
to a certain man that could--and did--control the awarding of paving
contracts.
“An’ was it police or a woman with you?” Billy inquired pointedly,
feeling that an exchange of confidence was due.
The missionary gave him a quick glance, then smiled and said that he
was really a naturalist, but was officially a missionary because the
Germans, who owned the Carolinas, were more agreeable to missionaries
than to scientists--of other countries.
“A woman,” Billy said to himself, noticing how handsome and young the
missionary was. His name was Roscoe Tomlin.
In the next few weeks they got well acquainted. Billy helped, as the
natives did, to catch bugs and things and pickle them. He picked up a
few words of the dialect and soon had the pickaninnies taking a great
fancy to him.
Then, just as Billy was getting settled to the new life and beginning
to feel secure, a little steam yacht nosed cautiously into the mouth of
the bay.
The natives made a dash for the beach, tumbled into canoes and went
splashing out to give greetings and get presents.
Tomlin was off in the bush chasing bugs and things.
Billy, not being anxious to receive visitors himself, went near the
beach and reclined behind a convenient rock.
Presently he saw a boat dropped from the davits. People got into it.
One of them was a woman. They landed on the beach and, in about two
minutes, Billy sauntered out to make sure that she was as pretty as she
looked. The men who had rowed ashore stayed in the boat, but she got
out with a little man who had a Vandyke beard, a cap and doublebreasted
serge coat.
“No detective,” said Billy reassuringly to himself, “would attempt that
disguise.”
“Hello,” said the little fellow seeing that Billy was a white man.
Billy didn’t like his looks. Just why, he could not have told. But he
didn’t like ’em. He wasn’t frightened though--besides, she was getting
prettier and prettier at every step.
Her hair was red and her eyes were purple with fire in them; her lips
were red as a flame-tree’s flower, or maybe more red. She was slender
without being slim and moved as easily as a pandanus leaf swinging in
a little breeze. Billy was very susceptible to beauty. He would have
thrown himself face down right there on the sand for her to walk on
at the least suggestion that such an attitude would be pleasing to
her. She was young without being girlish--nor was there anything old
womanish about her. No. Billy, who was a bit hazy on historical events,
was sure that she looked exactly like those women who bowl kings off
their thrones, get men assassinated--or whatever else they want. Not
that she looked wicked. No. But--well, Billy was a long way from home
and she wore her clothes as they are worn on the Boardwalk; she carried
herself as women do on Fifth Avenue. And then she was pretty.
“Is there a man here by the name of Roscoe Tomlin?” the little man
asked, turning hard blue eyes on Billy as though he were a bum or
wastrel.
“Who’s he?” said Billy, looking innocent.
“Who are you?” the woman asked. She spoke pleasantly, encouragingly, as
though Billy interested her. He and the ladies always did get along,
anyway.
“I’m Billy Rand,” he said. “The missionary’s assistant.”
“And who is the missionary?” She asked it quickly, eagerly.
“Mr. Roscoe Tomlin,” said Billy, bowing low.
“You--you--you,” the little man stuttered angrily, “why didn’t you tell
me that when I asked you?”
“Because,” Bill answered, looking right at him, “I didn’t know the lady
was interested!”
“I’ll fix you!” the man shouted, and came toward Billy as though about
to do something he shouldn’t.
He was about Billy’s size--and Billy never ran in front of ladles, not
pretty ones at any rate.
But hostilities were suppressed peremptorily. She snapped out in a
surprised tone:
“Captain Farewell!”
The Captain stopped. Anybody would have stopped.
“That’s all right,” Billy assured her. “Us missionaries is used to such
fellers. Bad lot o’ men come to these islands--crooks and things!”
The Captain appeared to be on the verge of blowing up; but she--she did
not seem to notice. She smiled as she asked:
“Is Mr.--I mean is the Rev. Mr. Tomlin as--as pugnacious as you?”
“Him?” asked Billy. “Why, he trained me! He eats ’em alive.”
“Cannibal, eh?” said the Captain. “I told you how white men degenerated
among the natives,” he remarked to her. Then of Billy he asked, “Is
this Rev. Mr. Tomlin married or--”
He stopped right there. Billy didn’t quite know what the Captain was
driving at, but sensed enough to make him want to fight.
“Has Mr. Tomlin a wife?” she asked.
“Has he a _native_ wife?” the Captain emphasized.
“Lady,” said Billy, getting hot inside, and when he got hot inside he
was likely to be blunt in his remarks, “supposin’ some stranger come to
a friend of yours and asked are you married to a nigger!”
She flushed and caught her breath, but someway it seemed that she was
very much pleased, though she said: “You are right. I apologize. But
will you please take us to Mr. Tomlin. I am a friend--a former friend
of his.”
So Billy led them up to the house, and the natives came along
chattering and grinning and wanting to touch the woman’s clothes. Billy
warned them off repeatedly with a strange mixture of native words and
New York slang.
The Captain, speaking like a man does who has something on his mind,
asked:
“And how long have _you_ been here, Rev. Mr. Rand?”
“Me? Oh, let’s see. Two--no not quite two years. Be two years soon. A
feller sort o’ loses track of time in a place like this, you know.”
“So I would judge!” said the Captain with a strange intonation that
caused Billy some vague uneasiness.
It stood this way with Billy: The District Attorney back in New York
was after the Chief. Certain contractors lost money on a job and that
made them peevish, so they swore that they had handed out a bribe to
get the contract awarded to them. The Chief stood pat and said: “Prove
it!” Billy had carried the money. If Billy confessed, the District
Attorney had the proof. But Billy jumped. If he should be caught and
still refuse to come through with a confession, it was highly probable
that the District Attorney would pry loose some little episodes in
Billy’s past and hand him something. He would not snitch on the Chief
and as he did not like the accommodations at Sing Sing, Billy had been
ducking and dodging all over the Pacific, and the detectives--though
they had never laid eyes on him--had been stubborn and alert as ferrets
in a rabbit warren. It wasn’t that Billy had a criminal record--far
from it. But he had been in practical politics as an aid to the Chief.
This was a stubborn political fight involving some pretty big pickings,
and he had the misfortune to be a crucial witness. So Billy grew very
thoughtful at the way Captain Farwell spoke.
He led the guests into the house and had them sit down. They looked at
the bugs and pickled lizards and stuffed fish, but the woman did not
shiver.
“This has always been Roscoe’s habit,” she said.
Billy sent some of the native youngsters for green cocoanuts and poured
a drink of cool milk for the guests. The woman was eager and busy with
questions, wanting to know everything knowable about Tomlin; and the
Captain watched Billy steadily and continued remarks that made him
nervous.
Billy reflected that the Captain was not a big man in any
way--something like himself in build, only a trifle thinner--and, well,
a fight wouldn’t help much to keep him out of New York, but it would be
gratifying.
While they were talking, Tomlin came.
The natives had told him about the witch-boat--any boat, in their
minds, was driven by the devil if it did not have sails--and about the
white woman and man being in the house.
He was naturally interested. Tourists were often nosing around in
yachts, but he had never seen any before. He came over the doorway--the
doorways were built high to keep the pigs out--and said with general
friendliness:
“I hope Billy is making you comfortable.”
“Yes, Roscoe. Quite comfortable,” she said, turning her face toward him.
“You!--Lorraine--here!”
“Why, of course. How are you Roscoe? Didn’t you get my letter? This is
Captain Farwell. Mother is aboard the _Petrel_, but she isn’t well.”
Tomlin looked at the Captain and nodded, still in a daze.
From the way he looked back at Lorraine, Billy did not know whether
Tomlin had a peeve and wasn’t trying to show it, or didn’t have one and
wanted to pretend. Lorraine seemed wiser. She smiled at him in a way
that, Billy thought, ought to have made a statue come from its pedestal
and be human.
Billy recognized that four was a multitude and said:
“Captain, you just come with me, and I’ll show you a cocoanut grove or
a sunset or something.”
Lorraine frankly rewarded Billy with a smile and a glance.
The Captain hemmed and hawed, but she said as politely as though she
meant it: “Certainly Captain, we’ll excuse you. I remember you said you
wanted to see a real native village. Mr. Rand, I’m sure, will be an
excellent guide.”
“Yes,” said Tomlin, feeling no doubt that he ought to say something,
“Billy has been here only a few weeks, but he knows the natives almost
as well as I.”
Billy at once felt himself crumbling from the inside. He had counted
much on an alibi that would give him a two year residence on the island.
Lorraine seemed to realize that something was wrong. She caught Billy’s
eye, and in about the tenth part of a second, then and there with
nothing more than a sparkle of light from under her long lashes, made
an offensive and defensive alliance with him.
When they were outside the Captain said:
“How one must lose track of time here! Remarkable, isn’t it! I feel as
though I’d been here several days.”
“The cocoanuts are down this way,” said Billy, starting off.
“By the way, Rand, I don’t suppose there is any way of getting out of
this place, is there?” the Captain asked.
“How do you mean, get out?”
It was a question uppermost in Billy’s mind.
“I mean any of these islands--off like this. Just before we left Langar
I heard of a couple of detectives from New York. They have tracked
their man half way around the world, and discovered that about two
months ago--maybe a little less--he left Langar with a German trader.
The trader is out now on a trip and they’re waiting for him to come
back and tell them where he dropped this man.