“Stop when we pass the next lamp and give me a light for my pipe.”
“Why?”
“No! don't look round,” warned my companion. “I think someone is
following us. And it is always advisable to be on guard in this
neighbourhood.”
We had nearly reached the house in Wade Street, Limehouse, which my
friend used as a base for East End operations. The night was dark but
clear, and I thought that presently when dawn came it would bring a
cold, bright morning. There was no moon, and as we passed the lamp and
paused we stood in almost total darkness.
Facing in the direction of the Council School I struck a match. It
revealed my ruffianly looking companion--in whom his nearest friends
must have failed to recognize Mr. Paul Harley of Chancery Lane.
He was glancing furtively back along the street, and when a moment later
we moved on, I too, had detected the presence of a figure stumbling
toward us.
“Don't stop at the door,” whispered Harley, for our follower was only a
few yards away.
Accordingly we passed the house in which Harley had rooms, and had
proceeded some fifteen paces farther when the man who was following us
stumbled in between Harley and myself, clutching an arm of either. I
scarcely knew what to expect, but was prepared for anything, when:
“Mates!” said a man huskily. “Mates, if you know where I can get a
drink, take me there!”
Harley laughed shortly. I cannot say if he remained suspicious of the
newcomer, but for my own part I had determined after one glance at
the man that he was merely a drunken fireman newly recovered from a
prolonged debauch.
“Where 'ave yer been, old son?” growled Harley, in that wonderful
dialect of his which I had so often and so vainly sought to cultivate.
“You look as though you'd 'ad one too many already.”
“I ain't,” declared the fireman, who appeared to be in a semi-dazed
condition. “I ain't 'ad one since ten o'clock last night. It's dope
wot's got me, not rum.”
“Dope!” said Harley sharply; “been 'avin' a pipe, eh?”
“If you've got a corpse-reviver anywhere,” continued the man in that
curious, husky voice, “'ave pity on me, mate. I seen a thing to-night
wot give me the jim-jams.”
“All right, old son,” said my friend good-humouredly; “about turn! I've
got a drop in the bottle, but me an' my mate sails to-morrow, an' it's
the last.”
“Gawd bless yer!” growled the fireman; and the three of us--an odd trio,
truly--turned about, retracing our steps.
As we approached the street lamp and its light shone upon the haggard
face of the man walking between us, Harley stopped, and:
“Wot's up with yer eye?” he inquired.
He suddenly tilted the man's head upward and peered closely into one of
his eyes. I suppressed a gasp of surprise for I instantly recognized the
fireman of the Jupiter!
“Nothin' up with it, is there?” said the fireman.
“Only a lump o' mud,” growled Harley, and with a very dirty handkerchief
he pretended to remove the imaginary stain, and then, turning to me:
“Open the door, Jim,” he directed.
His examination of the man's eyes had evidently satisfied him that our
acquaintance had really been smoking opium.
We paused immediately outside the house for which we had been bound, and
as I had the key I opened the door and the three of us stepped into a
little dark room. Harley closed the door and we stumbled upstairs to a
low first-floor apartment facing the street. There was nothing in its
appointments, as revealed in the light of an oil lamp burning on the
solitary table, to distinguish it from a thousand other such apartments
which may be leased for a few shillings a week in the neighbourhood.
That adjoining might have told a different story, for it more closely
resembled an actor's dressing-room than a seaman's lodging; but the door
of this sanctum was kept scrupulously locked.
“Sit down, old son,” said my friend heartily, pushing forward an old
arm-chair. “Fetch out the grog, Jim; there's about enough for three.”
I walked to a cupboard, as the fireman sank limply down in the chair,
and took out a bottle and three glasses. When the man, who, as I could
now see quite plainly, was suffering from the after effects of opium,
had eagerly gulped the stiff drink which I handed to him, he looked
around with dim, glazed eyes, and:
“You've saved my life, mates,” he declared. “I've 'ad a 'orrible
nightmare, I 'ave--a nightmare. See?”
He fixed his eyes on me for a moment, then raised himself from his seat,
peering narrowly at me across the table.
“I seed you before, mate. Gaw, blimey! if you ain't the bloke wot
I giv'd the pigtail to! And wot laid out that blasted Chink as was
scraggin' me! Shake, mate!”
I shook hands with him, Harley eyeing me closely the while, in a
manner which told me that his quick brain had already supplied the link
connecting our doped acquaintance with my strange experience during his
absence. At the same time it occurred to me that my fireman friend
did not know that Ah Fu was dead, or he would never have broached the
subject so openly.
“That's so,” I said, and wondered if he required further information.
“It's all right, mate. I don't want to 'ear no more about blinking
pigtails--not all my life I don't,” and he sat back heavily in his chair
and stared at Harley.
“Where have you been?” inquired Harley, as if no interruption had
occurred, and then began to reload his pipe: “at Malay Jack's or at
Number Fourteen?”
“Neither of 'em!” cried the fireman, some evidence of animation
appearing in his face; “I been at Kwen Lung's.”
“In Pennyfields?”
“That's 'im, the old bloke with the big joss. I allers goes to see Ma
Lorenzo when I'm in Port o' London. I've seen 'er for the last time,
mates.”
He banged a big and dirty hand upon the table.
“Last night I see murder done, an' only that I know they wouldn't
believe me, I'd walk across to Limehouse P'lice Station presently and
put the splits on 'em, I would.”
Harley, who was seated behind the speaker, glanced at me significantly.
“Sure you wasn't dreamin'?” he inquired facetiously.
“Dreamin'!” cried the man. “Dreams don't leave no blood be'ind, do
they?”
“Blood!” I exclaimed.
“That's wot I said--blood! When I woke up this mornin' there was blood
all on that grinnin' joss--the blood wot 'ad dripped from 'er shoulders
when she fell.”
“Eh!” said Harley. “Blood on whose shoulders? Wot the 'ell are you
talkin' about, old son?”
“Ere”--the fireman turned in his chair and grasped Harley by the
arm--“listen to me, and I'll tell you somethink, I will. I'm goin' in
the Seahawk in the mornin' see? But if you want to know somethink, I'll
tell yer. Drunk or sober I bars the blasted p'lice, but if you like
to tell 'em I'll put you on somethink worth tellin'. Sure the bottle's
empty, mates?”
I caught Harley's glance and divided the remainder of the whisky evenly
between the three glasses.
“Good 'ealth,” said the fireman, and disposed of his share at a draught.
“That's bucked me up wonderful.”
He lay back in his chair and from a little tobacco-box began to fill a
short clay pipe.
“Look 'ere, mates, I'm soberin' up, like, after the smoke, an' I can
see, I can see plain, as nobody'll ever believe me. Nobody ever does,
worse luck, but 'ere goes. Pass the matches.”
He lighted his pipe, and looking about him in a sort of vaguely
aggressive way:
“Last night,” he resumed, “after I was chucked out of the Dock Gates, I
made up my mind to go and smoke a pipe with old Ma Lorenzo. Round I goes
to Pennyfields, and she don't seem glad to see me. There's nobody
there only me. Not like the old days when you 'ad to book your seat in
advance.”
He laughed gruffly.
“She didn't want to let me in at first, said they was watched, that if
a Chink 'ad an old pipe wot 'ad b'longed to 'is grandfather it was good
enough to get 'im fined fifty quid. Anyway, me bein' an old friend she
spread a mat for me and filled me a pipe. I asked after old Kwen Lung,
but, of course, 'e was out gamblin', as usual; so after old Ma Lorenzo
'ad made me comfortable an' gone out I 'ad the place to myself, and
presently I dozed off and forgot all about bloody ship's bunkers an'
nigger-drivin' Scotchmen.”
He paused and looked about him defiantly.
“I dunno 'ow long I slept,” he continued, “but some time in the night I
kind of 'alf woke up.”
At that he twisted violently in his chair and glared across at Harley:
“You been a pal to me,” he said; “but tell me I was dreamin' again and
I'll smash yer bloody face!”
He glared for a while, then addressing his narrative more particularly
to me, he resumed:
“It was a scream wot woke me--a woman's scream. I didn't sit up; I
couldn't. I never felt like it before. It was the same as bein' buried
alive, I should think. I could see an' I could 'ear, but I couldn't move
one muscle in my body. Foller me? An' wot did I see, mates, an' wot did
I 'ear? I'm goin' to tell yer. I see old Kwen Lung's daughter------”
“I didn't know 'e 'ad one,” murmured Harley.
“Then you don't know much!” shouted the fireman. “I knew years ago, but
'e kept 'er stowed away somewhere up above, an' last night was the first
time I ever see 'er. It was 'er shriek wot 'ad reached me, reached me
through the smoke. I don't take much stock in Chink gals in general, but
this one's mother was no Chink, I'll swear. She was just as pretty as a
bloomin' ivory doll, an' as little an' as white, and that old swine Kwen
Lung 'ad tore the dress off of 'er shoulders with a bloody great whip!”
Harley was leaning forward in his seat now, intent upon the man's
story, and although I could not get rid of the idea that our friend
was relating the events of a particularly unpleasant opium dream,
nevertheless I was fascinated by the strange story and by the strange
manner of its telling.
“I saw the blood drip from 'er bare shoulders, mates,” the man continued
huskily, and with his big dirty hands he strove to illustrate his words.
“An' that old yellow devil lashed an' lashed until the poor gal was past
screamin'. She just sunk down on the floor all of a 'cap, moanin' and
moanin'--Gawd! I can 'ear 'er moanin' now!”
“Meanwhile, 'ere's me with murder in me 'eart lyin' there watchin',
an' I can't speak, no! I can't even curse the yellow rat, an' I can't
move--not a 'and, not a foot! Just as she fell there right up against
the joss an' 'er blood trickled down on 'is gilded feet, old Ma Lorenzo
comes staggerin' in. I remember all this as clear as print, mates,
remember it plain, but wot 'appened next ain't so good an' clear.
Somethink seemed to bust in me 'ead. Only just before I went off, the
winder--there's only one in the room--was smashed to smithereens an'
somebody come in through it.”
“Are you sure?” said Harley eagerly. “Are you sure?”
That he was intensely absorbed in the story he revealed by a piece of
bad artistry, very rare in him. He temporarily forgot his dialect. Our
marine friend, however, was too much taken up with his own story to
notice the slip, and:
“Dead sure!” he shouted.
He suddenly twisted around in his chair.
“Tell me I was dreamin', mate,” he invited, “and if you ain't dreamin'
in 'arf a tick it won't be because I 'aven't put yer to sleep!”
“I ain't arguin', old son,” said Harley soothingly. “Get on with your
yarn.”
“Ho!” said the fireman, mollified, “so long as you ain't. Well, then,
it's all blotted out after that. Somebody come in at the winder, but 'oo
it was or wot it was I can't tell yer, not for fifty quid. When I woke
up, which is about 'arf an hour before you see me, I'm all alone--see?
There's no sign of Kwen Lung nor the gal nor old Ma Lorenzo nor anybody.
I sez to meself, wot you keep on sayin'. I sez, 'You're dreamin',
Bill.'”
“But I don't think you was,” declared Harley. “Straight I don't.”
“I know I wasn't!” roared the fireman, and banged the table lustily. “I
see 'er blood on the joss an' on the floor where she lay!”
“This morning?” I interjected.
“This mornin', in the light of the little oil lamp where old Ma Lorenzo
'ad roasted the pills! It's all still an' quiet an' I feel more dead
than alive. I'm goin' to give 'er a hail, see? When I sez to myself,
'Bill,' I sez, 'put out to sea; you're amongst Kaffirs, Bill.' It
occurred to me as old Kwen Lung might wonder 'ow much I knew. So I beat
it. But when I got in the open air I felt I'd never make my lodgin's
without a tonic. That's 'ow I come to meet you, mates.
“Listen--I'm away in the old Seahawk in the mornin', but I'll tell you
somethink. That yellow bastard killed his daughter last night! Beat 'er
to death. I see it plain. The sweetest, prettiest bit of ivory as Gawd
ever put breath into. If 'er body ain't in the river, it's in the 'ouse.
Drunk or sober, I never could stand the splits, but mates”--he stood
up, and grasping me by the arm, he drew me across the room where he also
seized Harley in his muscular grip--“mates,” he went on earnestly, “she
was the sweetest, prettiest little gal as a man ever clapped eyes on.
One of yer walk into Limehouse Station an' put the koppers wise. I'd
sleep easier at sea if I knew old Kwen Lung 'ad gone west on a bloody
rope's end.”