CONQUEST
Lhassa Camber sailed for Saigon two weeks after Barthélemy embarked on
the _Cambodia_, there being only a fortnightly service between Bangkok
and the capital of Cochin China.
As the boat carried her out upon the gulf she gazed across the glassy
purple at the island of Koh si Chang, bulking somberly above the
sea-line. In the dusk it resembled a dark mausoleum, and was, to her,
symbolical. Behind, buried in the Heavenly-Royal City, was a key to the
secret that had drawn her to Asia, but from the old quest had arisen a
new purpose, just as a soul rises from the discarded husk.
The Gulf of Siam ... Cambodia Point ... then the lighthouse of Cap
St.-Jacques burning white against an azure sky.
"Little Paris of the East": thus Saigon, with its opera and sidewalk
cafés, has been designated. Lhassa, her imagination freshly colored
by the unique splendors of Bangkok, was unimpressed as the ship came
into her berth at a dock swarming with Europeans. Nor was her interest
quickened when she was rickshawed through a rather drab Chinese quarter
and along an avenue patterned after a Paris boulevard. Saigon, she
decided, had not the mellow charm of a continental city nor the allure
of the average tropical port. It was ... Saigon.
At the hotel she found a note; the expected note:
My dear Miss Camber:
May I have the pleasure of your company for dinner at eight o'clock
to-night? If this hour is not convenient or you have a previous
engagement call me at the offices of the Saigon-Siamese Trading
Company.
Sincerely,
STEPHEN CONQUEST.
She considered the terse wording, the even, regular handwriting, and
the name, and concluded that Mr. Stephen Conquest was a very efficient,
deliberate Britisher. If he was this type, she thought, it was singular
that he and Barthélemy were intimate friends....
She had heard that social Saigon frequented the hotels and cafés at
night, and so she dressed for dinner accordingly. A gown of deep
magenta, striking in its utter simplicity; a daring shade that subdued
rather than challenged the russet tone in her hair. Silver-gray
stockings; silver slippers.
The hands of her clock indicated precisely eight o'clock when a
"boy" brought word that Mr. Conquest was waiting. She smiled at this
further proof of his exactitude, and quickly finished her toilette:
she was eager to hear why Barthélemy had not met her and what he had
accomplished.
If she was surprised at the appearance of the man who was waiting in
the close, dim writing-room she did not betray it. "_Donatello_, the
Marble Faun," she thought; she asked:
"Shall we sit here a moment?"
"It will be cooler outside," he suggested.
They moved to the café, on a terrace facing the street, and took a
table near the inclosing rail. She studied him openly.
"I'm sure you didn't write that note," she told him at length.
He smiled--a queer smile that quivered at one corner of his mouth,
whimsical and melancholy.
"No, I didn't; one of the secretaries did."
He seemed to accept without surprise the fact that she was able to
discriminate between himself and the perfunctory note. It irritated
her, and she contemplated his cuffs with disapproval: they were
more than an inch too long. Otherwise, his dress, the conventional
dinner-suit of the tropics, was faultless. In fact, she decided, he was
too perfect. When she looked at his face she had the impression that
she had seen it done in plaster in some gallery in Florence or Rome: it
had the beauty and regularity of features typical of Italian sculpture.
His coloring helped the illusion. Indeed, it was incredible that one
could remain so white in a tropical climate. Beneath the pallor his
skin glowed, as though it had absorbed the glare instead of burning.
"_Donatello_," she thought again; "or Shelley."
"I had a letter from Remy this morning," he informed her. "He said to
impress upon you how much he regrets that he can't be here, but, you
know, an army man----"
"Where is he?" she interposed.
"Up beyond Siem-Reap." A "boy" came ... went. Then----"He's been
appointed _agent française_ at some God-forgotten village on the
Mekong," Conquest explained.
"Siem-Reap," she echoed. "That is near Angkor, isn't it?" He started to
speak but she went on. "What did Captain Barthélemy tell you? I mean,
about the--the affair that brought me here."
He passed cigarettes; took one himself. She observed that his cigarette
case was ornamented with an exquisitely wrought figure in gold. The
richness of it, the perfection, was in keeping with the man.
"He knew very little," he replied. "He told me he received a message
from you a night or so after leaving Bangkok, in which you said
that something had happened, and to watch a man who wore, or had
worn, a blue slendong. Also you asked him to keep this fellow under
surveillance after reaching Saigon but to say nothing to the police.
As Remy had to go immediately to his new post, he sent the wireless
informing you that I would meet you; then, when he arrived here, he
asked me to keep my finger on the slendong chap; also to place myself
at your disposal. Which I'm delighted to do."
"You are kind," she put in.
"I assure you"--with his smile of mingled whimsy and melancholy--"my
time is of no value at present. I'm on a leave of absence, so to speak;
you see, I come up from my sago plantation very rarely, and while I'm
here I do nothing but amuse myself. I only hope I can be of service.
Thus far I haven't learned anything except that this man in question
calls himself Garon and is staying in Cholon."
"Don't belittle that knowledge," she said. "It is precisely what I want
to know. I'm sure you will forgive me for the trouble and inconvenience
I've caused when I tell you how serious this matter is. Captain
Barthélemy and I noticed the man of the blue slendong in Singapore and
remarked upon his appearance. Captain Barthélemy thought he resembled
some one whom he had known in--in Saigon, I believe. Later, while I
was visiting in Bangkok with Dr. Garth, a friend of the family, we saw
him again, and I noticed that he was a hunchback. That very night the
doctor was"--she hesitated--"was murdered. I found him when I returned
to the villa. He ... he had.... The details are frightful, but you must
know them: he had been strangled with a blue slendong."
She paused, frowning at the people in the café. How superficial they
looked, in their starched linens and elaborate gowns! And yet, she
repented, they could not share a tragedy unknown to them.
"It is strange," she resumed, "how one will instinctively connect two
remotely related incidents, isn't it? There is no logical reason why I
should suspect a man of murder simply because he happened to be wearing
a blue slendong and an identical article was found about--was found at
the place of the crime. There must be hundreds of blue slendongs. Yet I
felt ... well, perhaps it was intuition. I had an impulse, and I obeyed
it. I always do. Impulses are truer than logic. One of the doctor's
servants disappeared the night he was--was killed. This servant--boy I
should say--was a Eurasian and had been with Dr. Garth from boyhood.
The police believed him guilty. So I kept silent."
As she spoke her gaze wandered to the street. Swinging lamps made
incandescent bubbles against the sky, and beneath them floated oily,
perspiring faces, drifting by endlessly like leaves on a slow, black
tide. Frenchmen in huge topees, gaunt, sunburnt foresters from Annam
and Tongking, slouching troopers and carelessly uniformed officers;
barefooted, bare-breasted natives, Annamite _tirailleurs_ in khaki
and brass-spiked helmets, noiseless _pousse-pousse_ coolies, and
women, white and brown, whose powdered cheeks were sweat-streaked.
They repelled her, these faces: the line of blood was as clearly drawn
as the rail that separated her from the street where they surged by,
leaving the hot air quivering with the odors of stale cigarettes, of
liquor, and of cheap powders and perfumes. She had always felt removed
from the multitude, but never so completely, so appallingly, as now.
The man across the table, with his immaculate apparel, his flawless
pallor, seemed to share her segregation, and her attitude toward him
warmed.
"Any one of those out there," she continued, indicating the flood of
faces, "would have done the obvious thing: they would have told of
having seen the man of the blue slendong. But the very idea suffocated
me. Suffocated; do you understand? Police courts; conventional justice!
To me it was an opportunity. It was Romance. So I let them hunt for
Domingo, the Eurasian, while I started upon my tremendous adventure.
I believed the slendong man still in Bangkok.... You said he called
himself Garon, didn't you?... So the next day I sent my boy to the
hotels to inquire if any one fitting his description could be located.
Manuel got a clue at the Oriental. A man, hunchbacked and wearing a
blue slendong, had been stopping there, but he had left for Saigon the
night before. As there was only one ship that had sailed for Saigon the
previous night, I realized he, Garon, was on the same boat as Captain
Barthélemy. So I sent the message, and"--a shrug--"I am here."
"But," inquired the man, "what reason, what motive, had this chap, if
he killed your friend?"
She gazed at him critically.
"I suppose you will laugh, but ... no, I don't believe you will." She
leaned toward him, smiling slightly. "I believe Garon is in some way
associated with that almost mythical creature, the Black Parrot--he may
even be the Parrot."
He, too, smiled. "The Black Parrot! Why?"
"You probably heard that the Emerald Buddha was stolen from the king's
_wat_ in Bangkok; you did, of course, didn't you? Well, it disappeared
the night Dr. Garth was--was murdered. The doctor had many priceless
antiques and curios in his home, rare Buddhas and collections of jewels
with a romantic history. The Black Parrot, as you know, is reputed to
be a thief who steals just such things and sells them to unscrupulous
collectors. Why not suppose, then, that the Black Parrot or one of his
band stole the Emerald Buddha? And, again binding together two remotely
related incidents, why not suppose also that the same person came to
the doctor's villa with the intention of robbing him?"
"Was anything stolen?"
"An inventory of his collections was found, and, according to it,
nothing was missing. However, something may have prevented the thief
from carrying out his intention--my return for instance. Oh, there are
many excuses for a hurried flight!"
Conquest continued to smile. "Then you really believe this Garon is the
notorious Black Parrot?"
"Or one of his associates. Why not?" The rattle of dishes and
silverware announced the approach of their "boy." "He was in Bangkok
when the Emerald Buddha was stolen," she went on, "and he left
immediately afterward. I had hoped, and still hope, that Captain
Barthélemy could help me. I said, you remember, that he mentioned a
resemblance when he saw Garon in Singapore. Did he speak of it to you?"
Conquest nodded. "He said Garon looked like a garroter who was sent to
Cayenne, a chap called Letourneau."
"Letourneau? In Bangkok he told me the name of the man Garon
resembled; Letourneau doesn't sound like it."
"Yes, that's the name. At Remy's suggestion I made a few discreet
inquiries and learned that this Letourneau was one of the first
convicts to escape after Le Perroquet Noir was guillotined. You've
heard the story of the execution of the Black Parrot, I dare say."
"Yes. Then----" She halted; caught her breath sharply. "Dr. Garth was
strangled," she said, "and Letourneau is a...."
"On the surface it's significant enough," he agreed. "But we don't know
that Garon is Letourneau: he merely _resembles_ him."
"Nevertheless, it strengthens my theory. The Buddha, the doctor's
collections, the slendong, all, point to the Black Parrot or an agent.
Don't you see?"
"I see, yes. But what can we do to prove this theory? Inform the police
and let them arrest----"
"No, no!" she broke in. "It is my opportunity; I refuse to surrender
it!"
She said it vehemently, and a flush crept into her olive pallor. She
was conscious of Conquest's appraising look, a look that swept her
from the casque of copperish hair to the silver-cloth girdle. A vague
resentment tempered her ardor.
"Magnificent!" she heard him murmur under his breath. Then he spoke
aloud. "Did you ever read 'Freya of the Seven Isles?' Or don't you care
for Conrad?"
The word "magnificent" suggested to her a particularly well bred
animal. It acted as a challenge.
"Oh, I know what you think!" she flared. "It seems ridiculous to you
that I, a woman, should have come from Bangkok on a mission like
this! How utterly masculine! A woman must have no purpose except to
make herself attractive; if she assumes any other she is an Amazon! A
purpose! Why, think of death closing down upon a body that was given
as a means of achievement and not to be developed for personal vanity!
Think of it! The prospect of leaving only a memory of beauty appalls
me! Personality, an individual's contribution to the world through
accomplishment, is the quality that time transmutes from age to age."
She leaned nearer him, a glow in the dark splendor of her eyes.
"It seems a small thing, a ridiculous thing, what I am trying to do.
Catch a thief! A little cruel, isn't it? But ambition is essentially
cruel. After all, thieves have the same fundamental emotions as we, but
with a flaw somewhere. Too, what I intend to do seems like attempting
to destroy Romance. One must take a small step first. Indeed, if it
were not for the glamour of Romance my first step would be reduced to
the ugly level of a police-court affair. But Romance saves it, makes it
seem as though I were exploring some dark, unknown continent. Romance!
Do you understand? Or, like the rest, do you consider me a sort of
sexless creature, afflicted with a fever whose only cure is a home and
a hearthstone and some man to bore me through the winter evenings?"
His gray eyes met hers across the table, and she thought she glimpsed a
responsive gleam in them. That whimsical, melancholy smile twisted the
corner of his mouth.
"Does it matter what I think as an individual?" he queried. "Or do you
merely wish some one to approve your philosophy?"
"Does it need approval?"
"No, it's far too splendid."
She knew he was not flattering her; she sensed a sympathy of ideas
between Conquest and herself. Ideas, she repeated, not ideals. There
was something disturbing in his character, an indefinable element that
she ... distrusted or disliked? Whatever it was, it warned her against
intimacy.
"Far too splendid!" he repeated. "Romance! Unknown continents! I hope
you'll let me voyage with you. What is your next step?"
"My plans are indefinite. You said that Garon was staying in--where was
it?"
"Cholon. He's at the house of a wealthy Chinese merchant. Cholon, you
know, is the Chinese city--about three miles from Saigon proper."
"Who traced him there? You?"
"No. But I've been more or less keeping my finger on him. You see, when
Remy received your message on the boat, he cultivated Garon. Garon
said he was a bird collector. When they arrived here Remy suggested
that he occupy his quarters instead of going to a hotel, as he had to
leave immediately for his new post. But Garon declined. While in the
custom-house Remy saw one of his _tirailleurs_, so he instructed the
fellow to follow Garon and report where he went. That night he was
informed that Garon had gone to the house of a certain merchant--I
forget the name now--in Cholon. Remy came to me the next morning, and
I sent my cleverest boy to shadow him. He's been into the city twice,
each time to visit a tailor on the Rue Catinat, and almost every night
he goes to Lily Wun's.
"Lily Wun's?"
"Yes, a place kept by a Eurasian woman. She deals in wines, poppy
treacle, and other things. The élite of Saigon patronize Lily."
"Élite?"--a shade of irony in the tone.
"Of course. About one third of the population use opium or some other
narcotic. Don't look shocked. The other two thirds drink themselves to
death. What is the difference if the same end is achieved?"
As he spoke she caught a glitter in his eyes, cold as Iceland spar. He
could be cruel, she decided. A dreamer? Yes--but of a type that could
divert men to his purpose, making opportunities of their failures, or,
inspired by his illusions, sacrifice them pitilessly to his gain.
"Does Garon go there for drugs?" she asked.
"Obviously."
She was silent for a moment, then pressed:
"Do you know this Lily Wun?"
He smiled. "Every one in Saigon does."
A twinge of suspicion made her scrutinize him carefully. No, his eyes
were too clear....
"Can she be trusted?" she pursued.
"If your price is higher than the other chap's. But I wouldn't----"
"You wouldn't what? Go to Lily Wun's? Why?"
"No. I didn't know you intended to go."
"I do."
"Alone?" Then he added, "I dare not offer my protection; but my
company?"
"You may go--on one condition."
"Yes?"
"You must--well, obey me"--smiling.
"Agreed. But what do you expect to find?"
She counter-questioned, "Are you sure Garon goes there for _drugs_?"
"What else?"
"If, as you say, every one knows this Lily Wun, wouldn't you, provided
you were--well, what I suspect Garon to be; wouldn't you cultivate her
under those circumstances? And you said she could be bought."
"When do you want to go? To-morrow night?"
"Yes."
"You aren't afraid?"
She smiled tolerantly. "Of you?"
He laughed. "What will you do there? Question Lily?"
"Let the occasion care for itself."
"Excellent. Incidentally, I presumed to get tickets for the opera
to-night. Do you care to go? It's 'The Barber of Seville.'"
Her impulse was to refuse, but she reconsidered. There was a complexity
in his nature that challenged her, two elements of character that
offered a contrast as striking as his pallor and his dead-black hair.
* * * * *
Late that night, after the opera, she lay in the gloom of her room
and thought of Stephen Conquest. During the performance his cuffs
had slipped back and shown her rings of livid gray about his wrists.
Scars. As she saw them she had a fantastic picture: fire and smoke of
the Inquisition, and a tormented figure gyved to the wall ... Stephen
Conquest: a silken envelop for emotions that threatened their frail
prison ... Stephen Conquest....
She fell asleep and dreamed of grim monks and wavering candles; dreamed
of a white face in a black cell.
2
In a tropical climate it is considered the height of folly, even bad
form, for one to exert himself during the midday heat. Therefore, the
shops and business houses of Saigon close between eleven and two with
true Latin regard for form when it is consistent with comfort. In the
silken hours following this siesta social Saigon emerges, driving up
and down the wide avenues or gathering over _piquantes-grenadines_ at
the open-air cafés on the Rue Catinat and the Boulevard Bonnard.
Lhassa, having spent the day indoors, motored to Cholon in the late
afternoon, arriving just before sunset. In the half-tone of early night
the Chinese city had a pleasantly wicked atmosphere: narrow streets
where roofs met overhead; gay booths and shops; and endless processions
of yellow mortals. She searched the colorful throng for a familiar
hunched figure; saw no one who even resembled him.
When she returned to the hotel she dined alone on the terrace and
studied the other patrons. The men, the majority plethoric, genially
intoxicated individuals, were too eager to smile. They interpreted for
her the spirit of Saigon: luxurious looseness. She attributed this
condition to the laxity of the average Frenchman, in what he considers
exile, who forgets that one may be indiscreet in Paris without being
indecent but that it is difficult in the tropics.
She perceived in Conquest a type that noticed clothes, and she had,
therefore, gowned herself with more care than usual. Gray suède
slippers, gray silk stockings, a gray chiffon dress, and a black
leghorn hat with burnt-orange roses about the crown. The burnt-orange
roses were like a flash of her temperament: a touch of defiance in an
otherwise subdued symphony.
The meal over, she went to her room. There she debated the question
of instructing her "boy" to follow and wait outside Lily Wun's, but
finally decided she was capable of meeting any emergency. So she draped
a veil about her hat, placed a small black automatic in her purse, and
sat down to wait.
Conquest arrived at the appointed time, immaculately clad. As he
greeted her she caught in his eyes a sharp wistfulness, almost hunger,
that sent a momentary dread over her.
"Something unfortunate has occurred," he announced as they left the
hotel in a motor-car; he was driving.
"Garon has disappeared?"--intuitively.
He glanced at her. "Well, rather. Last night he left the house
in Cholon, got in a car, and was driven off. Keo-lin--that's my
boy--couldn't find any vehicle swift enough to follow, so he waited for
Garon to return. But Garon hasn't--that is, he hadn't the last I heard,
which was just before dark. I'm deucedly sorry."
"Please don't apologize," she begged. "You have been too great a help
for that. Anyhow, I feel quite optimistic. If, as you believe, Garon
takes drugs, then sooner or later he'll go to Lily Wun's, and we can
pick up his trail again--if we don't find a clue to-night."
He gave her a frankly admiring look. "You remind me of a woman I once
saw in the jungle."
"An Amazon?"--ironically.
"No, a figure carved on a wall. She was one of those ancient queens of
the Golden Chersonese; a god's consort; Indra's. I discovered her in
a temple up beyond Laos-land, a forgotten empress looking down from a
slab of sandstone upon the desolation of a forgotten temple. She was a
carving, part of a bas-relief, a creature cold to the touch; yet she
filled the temple with her presence; filled it with fire. It seemed as
though the sculptor who did her had trapped her spirit in the stone.
The flesh was dead, but the woman was there. She will be there--on
and on, age after age, even after those ruins are buried. Savants of
another century will unearth her. She will never die, not even when
the stone crumbles. She has something of the immortal Ayesha in her, a
spirit that is Art itself...."
A soft laugh. "You see," he explained, "I paint and model a bit, and
frequently my enthusiasm slips the leash. But Beauty is a lustrum for
man's sins. Beauty and Art and Romance: the Trinity. Prophets talk
much of reincarnation, of the Law of Karma, of metempsychosis. And
yet----Have you ever entered some strange port--at dawn, say--and seen
masts and sails, roofs and cathedral towers, playing like rainbow
colors in a mist; have you ever seen that and felt an intimacy with it,
a familiarity that almost frightened you?... Reincarnation? No. It's
the spirit of Art, ancient as Life, that instantly recognizes Beauty; a
spirit that belongs to no individual body but that looks, with varying
degrees of vision, from all eyes."
He paused; the motor-car was purring eastward across the city. There
was a somber quality in what he said, a quality almost tragic, that
depressed her. His profile, burningly white, seemed to cauterize the
darkness.
"Romance," he resumed whimsically, "is the deceptive one of the
Trinity. I think of it as feminine. Why? Perhaps because it possesses
men and leads them to the corners of the earth. Mountain, jungle, sea,
city, and ruin; it lures them to all of these. But it ever evades.
Romance, the beautiful illusion. _Lord Jim_ sought it--you've read
'Lord Jim,' of course. And see what he found: he passed 'under a cloud,
inscrutable ... forgotten, unforgiven.' Oh, I know it from memory!
By Jove, the more I think of that beggar the more I'm convinced he's
a great conception! Fancy that young fool giving up his life for an
illusion! Not a woman, that illusion--thank God! It's the obvious thing
to die for a woman--but an illusion...."
He chuckled. "Romance. It tyrannizes men, but the majority won't
admit it. Yes, it's a tyrant. For instance. I have a sago plantation
at Kawaras. Instead of regarding it as a prosaic place of business,
I think of it as my kingdom. It is, after a fashion, for I'm white
rajah there. Although I give the Government a percentage of my profit
in return for protection, and am under certain agreements with them,
I control the territory. A sort of miniature North Borneo Company
or Sarawak. There's a disgruntled Malay sultan who lives in state
near the plantation, and I rather wish he'd start a row--instead of
being gratified that he's peaceful! Absurd, isn't it? Yet it would be
sumptuous. Native troops; war proas; a British gunboat. I can picture
you in a setting of that sort; yes, I can clearly vizualize you ...
ranee of Kawaras."
"Ranee of Kawaras," she repeated, almost believing that a boy sat
beside her, telling of his dreams of treasure and fabulous kingdoms.
"Is that an offer?" She regretted it the instant it was spoken;
wondered why she had said it.
He laughed--a sound that the hot wind snatched from his lips and flung
behind.
"It may have been!"
The atmosphere suddenly became taut, like gauze stretched tight upon a
loom. She felt that another word would rend the fabric. The throb of
the motor was a warning drum-beat. But Conquest did not speak; they
rode in silence through tepid darkness.
Their destination was what appeared to be a huge, rambling villa
surrounded by palms and plumed bamboo. A solitary lamp glowed on
the portico; lights peeped from the chinks of blinds. Despite these
evidences of occupancy it seemed to house only a great stillness. When
they got out, a white-liveried Annamite, materializing from within,
took charge of the automobile.
"This was once the residence of an important government official,"
Conquest told her as they crossed the veranda, "who was so deeply
in debt to Lily that he was forced to give up his home as partial
payment."
Before they entered Lhassa dropped her veil. A cold nausea traveled
over her in waves. It was not the result of fear but aversion. The
sensation recalled a late afternoon in Tokio, when she visited the
Yoshiwara.
Within, the silence took on a velvet heaviness, and a pungent fragrance
as of burning aloes clung to the air. A "boy" slipped out noiselessly
from behind brown curtains. Conquest moved forward to meet him,
speaking in a whisper, then motioned to Lhassa, who had remained by the
door.
Draperies parted and rustled together behind them. A yellow-shaded lamp
revealed a room with many curtained recesses. Dragons were lacquered in
gold upon black panels. They were led to a small apartment which, like
the larger room, was black-paneled and dragon-lacquered. In the center
stood a tea-table and chairs; and a brass bowl on a stand sent up a
bluish coil of incense. Half-drawn curtains hinted at a shadowy alcove.
The pulse in Lhassa's throat began throbbing as Conquest seated her,
and the "boy" went out, softly closing the door. There was in the room,
in the house, an air of luxurious evil that seemed to soil her; the
incense, a jasmine odor, was suffocating.
"Do you regret coming?" he asked, gray eyes searching her.
"I shall be glad to breathe clean air again," was her answer. "Did you
tell the boy to send Lily Wun?"
"No. Before I do that we must have something to drink. It is necessary
to--to preserve our face, as the Chinese say. They mix an excellent
cocktail here, called the 'green dragon's breath.'"
She surveyed him doubtfully.
"Do you come often?"
He smiled. "As often as business necessitates."
"Business?"
"Yes. I have a lot of Chinos employed at Kawaras, some doing clerical
work, others at the godowns--warehouses, you know. I have to keep them
supplied with opium."
That rather shocked her sense of moral justice. "You encourage vice?"
"No, I recognize it. The Chinos wouldn't stay if they didn't have
their pipe of 'black smoke.' Furthermore, if I didn't sell it to them,
some profiteer would; so you see, paradoxical as it may seem, I am a
benefactor."
As he spoke he changed, in her eyes, as subtly, as inexplicably, as a
chemical darkens under the magic of a foreign fluid. His pallor was
gray, unnatural. "The Marble Faun," crept into her mind. The thought
frightened her, and she said hurriedly:
"What about the administration? Does it sanction Lily Wun and her
establishment?"
He smiled again. The whimsical expression seemed to melt his features
into a more human mold.
"Undoubtedly it considers Lily's business highly profitable."
"Is French colonial policy so corrupt?"
"You are too severe. Vice is an accepted unit of every large
organization; it's corrupt only when it's unlicensed. And, you know,
you can't build a Utopia so near the equator."
Again that grayness came over his face. It appalled her, and she
welcomed the entrance of a "boy" bearing a tray. Conquest spoke a
few words in what she imagined was a Chinese dialect, and the "boy"
withdrew as quietly as he had come.
"Lily will be here shortly," he announced. "I think she'll be less
suspicious if I question her. May I?"
"Of course."
A moment later the door opened to admit a woman; a sultry creature,
tawny as a leopard. Libidinous eyes looked out from a mask of white
enamel.
"You wish to see me, monsieur?"
Conquest did not rise. "Yes. A matter of confidential information."
As Lhassa gazed at Lily Wun she thought again of the Yoshiwara: the
Eurasian's face was smooth as a doll's, yet old, old as iniquity.
"I want to know something about a man with whom I intend to do
business," Conquest went on. "I understand he comes here frequently.
He's a hunchback; name's Garon. Do you know him?"
Lhassa imagined that the woman smiled faintly.
"I do not discuss my patrons, monsieur," she replied. But she made no
move to go.
"Then he _is_ a patron?"
"He is here often," she admitted.
"For the 'black smoke'?"
"Did I say that, monsieur?"
"But you don't deny it?"
"You talk like a gendarme"--her eyes narrowing to black slits. "He
comes to my house, to one of my rooms, to meet a friend. How do I know
what he does?"
"You know what you sell him."
A shrug. "Nothing--except a drink now and then. But he pays for the use
of the room."
"And what of his friend? A lady?"
"No."
He smiled. "Good. We're progressing. Do you know anything about this
Garon? Anything--interesting?"
"No."
"You were never curious enough to listen outside the door--or have one
of your boys?"
"Certainly not."
"But"--still smiling--"you might allow one of your regular patrons do
so if Monsieur Garon comes to-night?"
"He will not be here to-night," she snapped. "Why do you ask these
questions, monsieur? Am I a criminal? What do you want?"
Before Conquest could answer, Lhassa spoke.
"How do you know he isn't coming to-night? Did he tell you he wasn't?"
The narrow eyes focused upon her. "No."
Lhassa grasped at a possibility. "Then some one else did? Some one who
left a message for him? The man whom he meets here, perhaps?"
The Eurasian opened her mouth but shut it quickly and turned as if to
go.
"I will pay for the information," Lhassa announced.
The woman faced about slowly. "How much?"
"Fifty piasters."
"Twenty-five," Conquest corrected hastily.
Lily Wun smiled at him contemptuously. "Fifty," she agreed.
Lhassa nodded. "What was the message?"
"It was sealed----"
"But you opened it and read it," interposed Conquest.
Again the contemptuous smile; she addressed Lhassa.
"It was written in ideographs. It spoke of a consignment of tea that
had been received, and said that before this shipment was disposed of
the writer would notify those interested. That was all. It was not
signed."
"Who brought it?" Lhassa probed.
"A merchant from Cap St.-Jacques. He is called Ong-Yoi. He told me that
a man, a man whose name he did not give, had paid him to bring the
message, and that the boy of Monsieur Garon would call for it in the
morning."
"Is the man who sent the note the one whom Monsieur Garon frequently
meets here?"
The Eurasian shrugged. "How can I say? Monsieur Garon's friend has not
come to-night."
"What is his name, this friend?"
"I do not know, madame."
Lhassa was certain the woman was lying, but instead of pressing the
question she said:
"But you know the address of the merchant of Cap St.-Jacques? Ong-Yoi;
is that the name?"
"Yes. I know his address."
Conquest drew out pencil and envelop. "What is it?"
Lily Wun told him, adding, "That is all I know."
Lhassa paid her, and, without another word, she went out.
"You should have made her show you the message"; thus Conquest.
"But I couldn't have read it. Anyhow, I don't believe the content of
the note half as important as the address of the man who brought it,"
she confided. "Now we----"
"Suppose you tell me when we're outside?" he interrupted.
She perceived the wisdom of this advice and pretended to sip the
cocktail--a green liquid that tasted like sweetened varnish. Presently,
when he had drained his glass, she suggested that they leave.
"Now, proceed," he instructed as the motor-car whirled them away from
the huge, rambling house.
She drew in quantities of cleansing air before she spoke.
"As I said, I believe the address of the man who brought the message
more valuable to us than the message itself. It's possible that from
him we may learn the identity of the sender--and that might lead to
many discoveries--Garon, for instance."
"You mean, you propose to go to Cap St.-Jacques and hunt up this
Ong-Yoi, or whatever his name is?"
"Yes."
"Cap St.-Jacques is about forty-eight miles down the river. Why not,
instead of making that trip, let me have Keo-lin watch at Lily Wun's
and follow Garon's boy?"
"Why not do both?"
"By Jove! You're determined to get at the bottom of this affair! If
you insist on going to Cap St.-Jacques, then let me take you on my
steam-yacht. I came up on her from Kawaras. We could make the run down
the river in about four hours. I'd suggest turning the entire matter
over to me, but you wouldn't listen to that, I know."
"No, I wouldn't. But"--a pause--"I may accept your offer to take me."
"Excellent. If we leave about three o'clock in the afternoon we'll
reach Cap St.-Jacques at dusk." And he added, "We'd get back to Saigon
before midnight."
She realized that what she proposed to do was indiscreet if not
improper. But it was not her nature to allow convention to interfere
with opportunity. And she did not doubt her ability to take care of
herself; nor did she question the impulse that had led Conquest to make
the offer. He was an anomaly. She sensed something lacking in him,
some moral element that as yet she was unable to define. At times it
flashed close to the surface, like a scaly body in a woodland pool.
But it was too remote, too elusive, to cause her more than vague
apprehension.
When they reached the hotel he refused her invitation to sit on the
terrace for a while. There was reticence in his manner, a strange
eagerness to get away, that was contradicted by a devouring look; and
it came to her suddenly that he was deliberately forcing himself to
leave against his desire. In a flash of intuition she saw he was
afraid ... of her. The revelation was like the touch of fog. He said
good night perfunctorily; extended his hand. The cuff slipped back....
"Handcuffs," he said, gazing at his wrists. "Prometheus bound."
As he raised his eyes she caught a gleam cold as frost; it hurt her.
She could say nothing. He turned quickly; went.
Handcuffs. She repeated that as she ascended to her room. Again, as on
the previous night, she felt hot torment in Stephen Conquest; again she
felt oppressed by shadowy, cowled figures.
3
In the morning Lhassa decided to write to Captain Barthélemy and tell
him of her progress. Not knowing his address, she telephoned the
offices of the Saigon-Siamese Trading Company to inquire of Conquest.
But she was informed that he was not in nor likely to be before noon.
She then telephoned the Caserne d'Infanterie Coloniale; was given the
chief of information.
Could he tell her the name of the post to which Captain Remy Barthélemy
had been transferred? she asked.
Barthélemy? the chief of information repeated the name. Did the madame
know his----the voice stopped; pronounced the name again. Oh, Captain
Barthélemy! Ah, yes! Was she a friend of Monsieur le Capitaine?
She replied that she was.
And a new-comer to Saigon--yes?
Puzzled, she affirmed.
Ah, yes! Well, he did not remember the name of the post now. These
Asiatic names! _Mon Dieu!_ His assistant, who was out at present, had
the key to the drawer where the records were kept. Would the madame
pardon this unavoidable circumstance? And would she give him her name?
He would get the information as soon as possible and call.
She told him her name and address, and, still puzzled, hung up. The
courtesy of the chief of information was unusual in a land where
the average official has liver trouble and a hundred other tropical
complaints.
After an hour she abandoned waiting. She had some shopping to do.
As she was leaving the hotel she was accosted from behind by a little,
red-faced, mustached officer, who lifted his helmet and stood rigidly
at attention as he addressed her.
"Miss Camber? Will you pardon me? I just inquired for you. May I detain
you a moment? I am the chief of information.... Yes.... Will you sit? I
shall be brief."
He was a rather ridiculous figure, with his red face, his long mustache
and tight-fitting uniform, she thought.
"Being a man of some delicacy," he resumed, "I deemed it better to call
in person instead of telephoning. Do I understand that you are an old
friend of Monsieur le Capitaine Barthélemy?"
A vague fear cast its shadow upon her. "Why, yes," she answered. "Not
exactly an old friend, but----"
"You knew him in France? Yes?"
"No. I met him in Singapore and----But why do you ask?"
An exaggerated gesture. "A matter of delicacy! No offense,
mademoiselle! There has been an unfortunate occurrence, a----"
He paused; made another gesture. "Regrettable, mademoiselle,
very.... A good officer and a gentleman.... You see--pardon my
brusqueness--Captain Barthélemy took his life about two weeks ago."
He seemed disappointed that she did not swoon. The vague fear had
become substantial; she felt as though a tangible weight pressed
against her breast. She groped for words, deserted by her usual poise.
"Two weeks!" she echoed. "After he returned?"
"No, mademoiselle, on the way. The circumstances are
somewhat--nebulous--yes, nebulous! It occurred while the ship was in
port. Let me think--at Kep, I believe. No one knows how it happened.
He told one of the crew he wished to go ashore--it was night, I
believe--and went to his cabin. When he did not return some one was
sent after him--and he was--er--gone. His clothing was there--the
garments he had discarded--but...." Another gesture. His face had grown
redder, and he appeared quite excited. "The porthole, mademoiselle....
The only way.... Oh, yes; large enough. There was no letter--nothing
except his clothing."
The dull heaviness in her breast had grown. Barthélemy--dead! A sharp
desolation swept over her; receded; left an insidious deposit. She saw
in fancy Conquest's gray eyes.
"Being a man of some delicacy," the little officer was saying, "I
hesitated telling you over the wire. It is indeed regrettable. A good
soldier; a gentleman.... I sympathize, mademoiselle. Is there anything
I can do?"
"No," she told him, recovering her poise. "You are very considerate; I
appreciate it."
"It is nothing," he assured her. "Some delicacy, you understand.... A
daughter in France--yes, Paris.... _Ah, mon Dieu!_ Paris!..."
Bowing, he made his departure, a very straight and ridiculous little
figure. Lhassa was possessed of a crazy desire to laugh as she watched
him go through the doorway.
She returned to her room. There, sinking into a chair, she surrendered
to a host of questions; venomous questions that flashed in and out of
her mind; that pricked here and there and left itching vaccinations.
Barthélemy--a suicide. She did not believe it. Conquest; her wireless
from Bangkok. Suicide? No--murder. In some way Garon had intercepted
her message and killed Barthélemy. Conquest was an accomplice,
a----Fantastic; it couldn't be. Yet, if there were no conspiracy,
why did Conquest wish her to believe that Barthélemy had been sent
to a post in the interior? What an elaborate scheme! She remembered,
suddenly, all that Conquest had told her about Garon and the house in
Cholon; remembered Lily Wun's; remembered his offer to take her to Cap
St.-Jacques. What a web!
She sat there, reviewing the last few days. She saw everything clearly
now. It was fantastic--but true. Garon had strangled Dr. Garth; Garon
alias Letourneau, the garroter. He had stolen the Emerald Buddha. He
had learned of her message and killed Barthélemy. Then he had conspired
with Conquest to meet her and discover what she knew. Garon was the
Black Parrot. Or Conquest. Or perhaps neither. Tools.
She rose and walked to the window; walked back; resumed her seat. She
could believe Garon guilty of almost anything because he was, after
a fashion, unreal; indeed, he was so shadowy a personality that at
times she doubted his existence. But it was not so easy to associate
Conquest, a man of flesh and blood, with a fabulous band of criminals.
Yet unquestionably he was involved. Now, in the light of this new
development, countless little incidents recurred to strengthen her
suspicion.
She glanced at her watch. After eleven. At two thirty he would call to
take her to the quay. She should summon the police and have them at the
hotel to meet him. But she would do nothing of the sort. Thus far she
had ridden alone, and alone she intended to continue. Police! Something
she had said a day or so before flung back to her: "If it were not for
the glamour of Romance, my first step would be reduced to the ugly
level of a police-court affair." No, not the police. There was a more
finished way. She wondered if she dared try it. Perhaps Conquest had
planned to hold her prisoner at Cap St.-Jacques or take her out to sea.
Absurd. But the whole affair was more or less absurd. She must think,
consider well.
At the end of half an hour she had decided, and she sent for Manuel,
her "boy." A few minutes later he was in her room.
"Manuel, I am going down the river this afternoon with Mr. Conquest,"
she told him. "Remember that name, Conquest--Stephen Conquest. His
headquarters, here in the city, are at the Saigon-Siamese Trading
Company, on the Quai François Garnier. Remember that, too. We are bound
for Cap St.-Jacques. I should be back by midnight; however, I may be
delayed. If I'm not here by two o'clock--no, three; if I'm not here by
three and you haven't heard from me, go to the police and tell them
what I've told you.
"Meanwhile, I want you to be in front of the hotel, in a car, at two
thirty this afternoon, and follow me when I leave. Get the name of the
yacht and her place of mooring. After that, do whatever you wish until
seven o'clock, then return to the hotel, for I may call...."
As the door closed behind the Filipino she sank into a chair,
shuddering. First, Dr. Garth, then Barthélemy! Two within one month!
And such a month! She saw it as a pattern of brutal hues: the white
glare of the days, the poignant grays and purples of the nights; and
woven into this fabric, vanishing and reappearing at intervals, the
blue slendong. It seemed invisibly bound about her, drawing her on;
drawing her toward a revelation that she sensed with growing fear.
Another shudder. She looked down at her gray morning-dress. The ghastly
ashen shade depressed her. She must change. The gown of dull bronze
crêpe. Bronze belonged to her mood.
4
Lhassa felt nervous when she descended to meet Stephen Conquest, but
the sight of him gave her assurance. Indeed, it was incredible, she
thought, that he was involved in the elaborate deception that had been
exposed to her, and she wondered for a moment if she had not imagined
the conversation with the chief of information. However, all doubt was
dispelled by the recollections that were seared upon her mind.
They did not go directly to the river, but drove by a roundabout
way, which puzzled and vaguely disturbed her. Conquest was even more
talkative than usual, and as he chatted she sat and studied his long,
thin profile. Flawless in form. But there was a blemish within. She
turned this realization over in her mind with increasing dismay.
Although she had known it, instinctively, from the first, the proof
shocked her. Irrelevantly, she thought of an instance packed away in
the subconscious: One late afternoon in Washington, when ice lay pale
on the pavements and the lamps were frosty moons in the dusk, several
boys passed, their faces fine and unspoiled. And, as they passed, one
of them cursed vilely. And because she was only a little girl, she
went home and prayed for him.... Queer that she should remember that
now. Yet, somehow, Stephen Conquest reminded her of that boy with the
unspoiled face and the evil tongue. Depression settled upon her, stayed
until the river-front was reached.
Conquest's yacht was a slim sea-hound gleaming white with a coat of new
paint, a craft much larger than she had imagined.
"A thousand tons," he told her as they went aboard. "Notice her
name," he added, smiling, "I called her after Conrad's _Narcissus_.
There"--indicating a swarthy uniformed man near the wheel-house--"there
is the _Nigger_. I found him in Macao. He'd lost everything but his
certificate of navigation. I got all my crew by picking up derelicts.
It's a sort of game, a god's game. Not all human wreckage is wormwood;
often only the bark is rotten. And they're faithful, faithful as dogs."
"But," she questioned, "aren't you afraid that some day they may turn
and bite you?"
"No, I have more faith in driftwood than in the finished product from
the mills. Their sense of appreciation is more highly developed. Please
understand, I'm not a benefactor: I demand an equal measure of service
for all that I give. I don't pity these men; I merely realize their
value." A pause, then: "Would you like to go over the ship?..."
The _Narcissus_ was perfectly equipped, and immaculate from bow
to stern. Adjoining the dining-saloon was a sea-parlor with green
hangings, a deep, soft rug to match, and many bookcases. The cabins
were white-enameled and brass-finished. He took her into all but one,
which he explained, whimsically, was Bluebeard's. She wondered why he
did not show it to her, and decided he was deliberately trying to make
her inquisitive. However, her curiosity was not so easily smothered,
and when they moved on her mind held a picture of the unopened door.
The muffled sound of bells and a faint vibration announced that they
were under way, and an involuntary dread ran through her. She wondered,
with a sharp wrench of doubt, if she had acted wisely. However, she
realized it was too late for regret now. But, she asked herself, did
she regret coming? In all probability the trip would be uneventful, and
she would return knowing little if any more than before. If anything
did happen----Well, this was a desperate venture.
They returned to the deck and established themselves under the awning
aft, she on a wicker _chaise-longue_ and he in a Singapore chair.
Clammy heat steamed up from the river, beat down from the sky. It
crippled her thoughts and quivered before her in visible waves.
Conquest seemed out of focus, a pale blur in the blue incandescence.
When he offered her cigarettes she observed the gold-wrought figure on
his case; remembered, indolently, that she had noticed it before.
"It's copied from an ancient relief," he said perceiving her interest.
She took the case and studied the design. It was a woman unclothed
but for an elaborate girdle, many necklaces and bracelets, and a
three-coned tiara; a figure so finely wrought that each feature was
distinct.
"It represents an Apsara or celestial courtesan," he explained. "The
Khmers immortalized them in bas-relief on the walls of Angkor. However,
the original of this one isn't at Angkor, but in a temple in the Shan
States. There's a story connected with it that I'll tell you some time.
You remember the stone woman I spoke of the other night? This is a
replica made from a photograph; the work was done by an old goldsmith
in Bangkok."
At the mention of Bangkok her attention was drawn abruptly from the
case to its owner.
"You've been in Bangkok?"
He nodded.
She was at the point of inquiring if his visit was recent when she
realized the question would be too pointed; instead, she said:
"Tell me something of Angkor."
"Angkor," he mused, gazing at the figure on the cigarette-case. "Stone
cobras and mournful silence. And bats; one can never forget the bats.
I went through Angkor Wat one night, and the creatures terrified me,
wheeling and flapping about like the spirits of _Dracula's_ Un-dead...."
She half closed her eyes as he talked, her thoughts upon Bangkok
instead of Angkor. When was he in the Siamese capital? she wondered.
Why? Perhaps he was there on his yacht the night Dr. Garth was
murdered. But that did not seem logical, for if he was why did Garon
leave on the packet? No, he was not an actual actor in the Bangkok
affair, but he was concerned indirectly. He, Stephen Conquest ...
_Donatello_.... The heat destroyed the coherence of her thoughts;
fragments drifted in utter languor. He who sat opposite her, talking
of the relics of an ancient culture, was a criminal. She repeated that
with languid dismay. Fantastic. Bizarre. An illusion of the heat,
the dreadful heat. What a frightful place in which to live! A clammy
moisture seemed to congeal about her: she gazed out from a gelatinous
prison at the incredible rogue who talked on....
Toward late afternoon, when the blue mountains of Annam lifted their
peaks against an angry sky, a feeling of uneasiness stole over her. She
grew restless; suggested they go up in the bow. Dusk had lowered its
gauze, and phosphorus embroidered a luminous net around the yacht.
Presently a gong, luxuriously soft, sounded somewhere amidships.
"I have a boy who prepares dishes worthy of a calif's chef," Conquest
informed her, "so I planned to dine on the _Narcissus_ instead of at
Cap St.-Jacques. We'll not be there for an hour yet."
Lhassa welcomed the diversion.... A Chino served, his straw sandals
whispering mysteriously. Although the food was excellent, she had no
appetite. She felt excited, felt that she was on the threshold of a
tremendous adventure.
After the meal, Conquest paused in the sea-parlor and took a
paper-bound volume from one of the bookcases.
"In this old geographical journal are some excellent views of Angkor
Thom," he said. "Would you care to look at them while I find out where
we are?"
Not wishing to betray her nervousness, she took the journal and turned
the pages with assumed interest. Conquest approached a speaking-tube,
and after a brief conversation reported that they would reach Cap
St.-Jacques shortly. Relieved, she closed the magazine.
"Shall we go on deck?"
"Yes--but first, I have a surprise. If you'd really like to explore the
mystery of Bluebeard's cabin you may."
A sudden inexplicable fear tightened her throat.
"Bluebeard's cabin," she repeated. "That sounds unpleasant."
He laughed; his expression was cryptic. "Oh, I've covered all the
heads!"
She grimaced; hesitated; followed him into the passage to the cabins,
her finger-tips grown cold. The sound of the turning key rasped
loudly in the narrow alley. It startled her; left her angry at her
nervousness. Conquest opened the door and switched on a light, then
stepped aside with that cryptic expression.
At first she saw only a white state-room with a wardrobe-trunk pushed
against the wall and several bags and boxes on the floor. Then,
suddenly, with an ultra-clarity born of suspense, she perceived that
the baggage was her own.
She stared, the iciness creeping up from her fingers and touching her
heart. The drumming of her pulse was so loud that she imagined it was
audible to the man. She stood motionless.
The sudden remembrance of Manuel broke the temporary paralysis, gave
her the power to turn and face Conquest.
"This is preposterous," she heard herself saying in a voice cold as
sleet. "Preposterous. I...."
She broke off, sweeping across the cabin to the open port. The dark
shimmer of water stretched away to a cluster of lights and a black
promontory. As she looked, a tremulous antenna flickered out from the
lighthouse, was absorbed in inky-purple gloom. The pygmy flash gave an
added somberness to the scene. It was an evanescent gleam of hope in a
black and threatening world.
At the sound of Conquest's step she turned.
"It would be untruthful to say I'm sorry," he commenced. "You forced
this upon me----"
"Don't explain," she interrupted. "Tell me where we are going."
He smiled, gesturing extravagantly toward the porthole.
"Out there among the stars. You wish romance--adventure. Very well. I
shall play at being a god."
He shrugged; walked to the door; paused.
"I suppose," he said, "you think your Filipino boy will report your
absence. But he won't; I've taken steps to prevent it."
The announcement bred a momentary panic. When it passed, she thrilled
with a sudden consciousness of power.
"You are very thorough"--with a cold, scornful smile. "You even
remember my clothes. I suppose I should be afraid. But I'm not. Nor
have I any desire to escape. I suspected you might do something like
this, something utterly fantastic. You see, to-day I discovered that
Captain Barthélemy--what shall I say?--took his life?... I should
detest and loathe you; instead I pity you. In doing this preposterous
thing you've given me an opportunity. For the first time in my life I
have something to do--something to do; do you understand? And perhaps
I'll succeed; perhaps I'll find the Black Parrot; who knows? No, I'm
not afraid. You can be cruel--but not to me. You know why. You need not
guard me. I sha'n't try to get away--at least, not at present. But when
I'm ready to go I shall, yes, whether you believe it or not."
They faced each other across the cabin, her eyes smoldering with
purpose, his coldly mocking. The tableau was brief. With a faint smile
he stepped outside and closed the door.
She felt vaguely disappointed.
5
A moment after Conquest departed she placed the key on the inside
of the door and locked it. Then she flung herself on the berth, not
knowing whether to laugh or cry. She did neither, but crouched there,
staring ahead with unseeing eyes, a suggestion of the leopard in her
pose. Resentment against Conquest burned in her. She wanted to hurt
him, to bruise his flawless face. Her rage, reflex of fright, was so
acute that it nauseated her.
Gradually the flame of fury died. From the ashes rose a fierce desire
for companionship. Profound isolation bore down upon her. Alone.
Always alone. The macaw, the brilliant bird, flying from place to
place, free as the wind and as lonely!
She rose abruptly, closing her mind to these thoughts. From her purse
she took her automatic, stared at it. How could that small, gleaming
cylinder destroy life? She shuddered, slipped the weapon under the
mattress.
A cool breeze and a gentle heave told her the yacht was now on the open
sea and prompted her to look out of the port. A yellow moon peered
above the sea-line, flaking a weird path across the water. Behind,
the promontory of Cap St.-Jacques lay dark against the stars. The
night with its blacks, its purples, and its amber moon settled into a
pattern--the pattern of shifting, changing colors that had woven about
her in Bangkok, and, like a magic carpet, swept her to Saigon. She
was its central design, a figure woven into it securely with the blue
slendong. And it was carrying her on and on, out of her world and into
a region remote from fact.