Students of life have noticed constantly that moral distinctions are
not matters of principle but of certain peremptory rules found on nice
calculations of the social mind. In the field of crime, responsibility
is most often calculated, not upon the crime itself, but upon how the
thing is done.
In Askatoon, no one would have been greatly shocked if, when Orlando
Guise and Joel Mazarine met at the railway-station or in the main
street, Orlando had killed Mazarine.
Mazarine would have been dead in either case; and he would have been
killed by another hand in either case; but the attitude of the public
would not have been the same in either case. The public would have
considered the killing of Mazarine before the eyes of the world as
justifiable homicide; its dislike of the man would have induced it to
add the word justifiable.
But that Joel Mazarine should be killed by night without an audience,
secretly--however righteously--shocked the people of Askatoon.
Had they seen the thing done, there would have been sensation, but
no mystery; but night, secrecy, distance, mystery, all begot, not a
reaction in Mazarine’s favour, but a protest against the thing being
done under cover, as it were, unhelped by popular observation. Also, to
the Askatoon mind, that one man should kill another in open quarrel was
courageous, or might be courageous,--but for one man to kill another,
whoever that other was, in a hidden way, was a barbarian business.
It seemed impossible to have any doubt as to who killed the man, though
Orlando had not waited a moment after the body had been brought to
Tralee, but had gone straight to the police, and told what had happened,
so far as he knew it. He stated the exact facts.
The insurance man, Scarsdale, would not open his mouth until the
inquest, which took place on the afternoon after the crime had been
committed. It was held at Tralee. Great crowds surrounded the house, but
only a few found entrance to the inquest room.
Immediately on opening the inquest, Orlando was called to tell his
story. Every eye was fixed upon him intently; every ear was strained as
he described his coming upon the isolated wagon and the dead man with
the reins in his hands. It is hard to say if all believed his story, but
the Coroner did, and Burlingame, his lawyer, also did.
Burlingame was present, not to defend Orlando, because it was not
a trial, but to watch his interests in the face of staggering
circumstantial evidence. To Burlingame’s mind Orlando was not the man to
kill another by strangling him to death. It was not in keeping with his
character. It was too aboriginal.
The Coroner believed the story solely because Orlando’s frankness and
straightforwardness filled him with confidence. Also men of rude sense,
like Jonas Billings, were willing to take bets, five to one, that
Orlando was innocent.
The Young Doctor had not an instant’s doubt, but he could not at first
fix his suspicions in a likely quarter. He had examined the body, and
there were no marks save bruises at the throat. In his evidence he said
that enormous strength of hands had been necessary to kill so quickly,
for it was clear the attack was so overpowering that there was little
struggle.
The Coroner here interposed a question as to whether it would have
been possible for anyone but a man to commit the crime. At his words
everybody moved impatiently. It was certain he was referring to the
absent wife. The idea of Louise committing such a crime, or being able
to commit it, was ridiculous. The Coroner presently stated that he
had only asked the question so as to remove this possibility from
consideration.
The Young Doctor immediately said that probably no woman in the
hemisphere could have committed the crime, which needed enormous
strength of hands.
The Coroner looked round the room. “The widow, Mrs. Mazarine, is not
here?” he said questioningly.
Nolan Doyle interposed. “Mrs. Mazarine is at my ranch. She came there
yesterday evening at eight o’clock and remained with my wife and myself
until twelve o’clock. The murder was committed before twelve o’clock.
Mrs. Mazarine does not even know that her husband is dead. She is not
well to-day, and we have kept the knowledge from her.”
“Is she under medical care?” asked the Coroner. Nolan Doyle nodded
towards the Young Doctor, who said: “I saw Mrs. Mazarine at the house
of Mr. Doyle last evening between the hours of eight and ten o’clock.
To-day at noon also I visited her. She has a slight illness, and is not
fit to take part in these proceedings.”
At this point, Scarsdale, who had come upon Orlando and the dead man
at the Cross Trails the night before, told his story. He did it with
evident reluctance.
He spoke with hesitation, yet firmly and straightforwardly. He described
how he saw Orlando climb down from the wagon where the dead man was. He
added, however, that he had seen no struggle of any kind, though he
had seen Orlando close to the corpse. Questioned by the Coroner, he
described the scenes between Orlando and Mazarine in the main street
of Askatoon and at the railway-station, both of which he had seen. He
repeated Orlando’s threat to Mazarine.
He was pressed as to whether Orlando showed agitation at the Cross
Trails. He replied that Orlando seemed stunned but not agitated.
He was asked whether Orlando had shown the greater agitation at the
Cross Trails or in the town when he threatened Mazarine. The answer was
that he showed agitation only in the town. He was asked to repeat what
Orlando had said to him. This he did accurately.
He was then asked by counsel whether he had arrived at any conclusion,
when at the Cross Trails or afterwards, as to who committed the crime;
but the Coroner would not permit the question. The Coroner added that
it was only the duty of the witness to state what he had seen. Opinions
were not permissible as evidence. The facts were in possession of the
Court, and the Court could form its own judgment.
It was clear to everyone that the jury must return a verdict of wilful
murder, and it was equally clear that the evidence was sufficient to fix
suspicion upon Orlando, which must lead to his arrest. Two constables
were in close attendance, and were ready to take charge of the man who,
above all others, or so it was thought, had most reason to wish Mazarine
out of the way. Indeed, Orlando had resigned himself to the situation,
having realized how all the evidence was against him.
Recalling Orlando, the Coroner asked if it was the case that the death
of Mazarine might be an advantage to him in any way. Orlando replied
that it might be an advantage to him, but he was not sure. He added,
however, that if, as the Coroner seemed to suggest, he himself was under
suspicion, it ought to appear to all that to have murdered Mazarine in
the circumstances would have put in jeopardy any possible advantage.
That seemed logical enough, but it was presently pointed out to the
Coroner that the same consideration had existed when Orlando had
threatened Mazarine in the streets of Askatoon.
Presently the Coroner said: “There’s a half-breed woman and a Chinaman,
servants of the late Mr. Mazarine. Have the woman called.”
It was at this moment that the Young Doctor and Orlando also were
suddenly seized with a suspicion of their own. Orlando remembered how
Mazarine had horsewhipped and maltreated Li Choo. The Young Doctor fixed
his eyes intently on the body, and presently went to it again, raised
the beard and looked at the neck. Coming back to his place, he nodded
to himself. He had a clue. Now he understood about the enormous strength
which had killed Mazarine practically without a struggle. He had noticed
more than once the sinewy fingers of the Chinaman. As the inquest went
on, he had again and again looked at the hands and arms of Orlando, and
it had seemed impossible that, strong as he was, his fingers had the
particular strength which could have done this thing.
The Coroner stood waiting for Rada to come, when suddenly the door
opened and a Chinaman entered--one of the two who had appeared so
strangely on the scene the day before. He advanced to the Coroner with
both hands loosely hanging in the great sleeves of his blue padded coat,
his eyes blinking slowly underneath the brown forehead and the little
black skullcap, and after making salutation with his arms, in curious,
monotonous English with a quaint accent he said:
“Li Choo--Li Choo--he speak. He have to say. He send.”
Holding up a piece of paper, he handed it to the Coroner and then stood
blinking and immobile.
A few moments afterwards, the Coroner said: “I have received this
note from Li Choo the Chinaman, sometime employed by the deceased Joel
Mazarine. I will read it to you.” Slowly he read:
“I say gloddam. That Orlando he not kill Mazaline. I say gloddam
Mazaline. That Mazaline he Chlistian. He says Chlist his brother. Chlist
not save him when Li Choo’s fingers had Mazaline’s thloat. That gloddam
Mazaline I kill. That Mazaline kicked me, hit me with whip; where he
kick, I sick all time. I not sleep no more since then. That Louise, it
no good she stay with Mazaline. Confucius speak like this: ‘Young woman
go to young man; young bird is for green leaves, not dry branch.’
That Louise good woman; that Orlando hell-fellow good. I kill
Mazaline--gloddam, with my hands I kill. You want know all why Li Choo
kill? You want kill Li Choo? You come!”
As the Coroner stopped reading, amid gasps of excitement, the Chinaman
who had brought the notewith brown skin polished like a kettle,
expressionless, save for the twinkling mystery of the brown eyesmade
three motions of obeisance up and down with his hands clasped in the
great sleeves, and then said:
“He not come you; you come him. He gleat man. He speak all--come. I show
where.”
“Where is he?” asked the Coroner.
The Chinaman did not reply for a moment. Then he said: “He sacrifice
before you take him. He gleat man--come.” He slip-slopped towards the
door as though confident he would be followed.
Two minutes afterwards the Coroner, Orlando, the Young Doctor, Nolan
Doyle and the rest stood at the low doorway of what looked like a great
grave. It was, however, a big root-house used for storing vegetables in
the winter-time. It had not been used since Mazarine arrived at Tralee.
Into this place, nor far from the house, Li Choo and his two fellow
countrymen had gone the day before, when Mazarine, in his rage, had
come forth with the horsewhip to punish the “Chinky,” as Li Choo was
familiarly known on the ranch.
As they arrived at the vault-like place in the ground, which would hold
many tons of roots, another Chinaman came to the doorway. He was one
of the two who, in their sudden coming and going, had seemed like magic
people to Mazarine the day before. He made upward and downward motions
of respect with clasped hands in the blue sleeves, and presently, in
perfect English, he said:
“In one minute Li Choo will receive you. It is the moment of sacrifice.
You wish him to die for the death of Mazarine. So be it. It is right
for him to die. You will hang him; that is your law. He will not prevent
you. He has told the truth, but he is making the sacrifice. When that is
done you will enter and take him to prison.”
The two constables standing beside the Coroner made a move forward, as
though to show they meant to enforce the law without any palaver.
The Chinaman raised the palms of both hands at them. “Not yet,” he said.
Then he looked at the Coroner. “You are master. Will you not prevent
them?”
The Coroner motioned the constables back. “All right,” he said. “You
seem to speak good English.”
“I come from England-from Oxford University,” answered the Chinaman with
dignity. “I have learned English for many years. I am the son of
Duke Ki. I came to see my uncle, the brother of Duke Ki. He is making
sacrifice before you take him.”
“Well, I’m blasted,” said Jonas Billings from the crowd. “Chinese dukes,
eh! What’s it all about?”
“Reg’lar hocus-pocus,” remarked the vagabond brother of Rigby the
chemist.
At that moment little coloured lights suddenly showed in the darkness
of the root-house, and there was the tinkling of a bell. Then a voice
seemed calling, but softly, with a long, monotonous, thrilling note.
“Many may not come,” said the Chinaman at the door to the Coroner, as he
turned and entered the low doorway.
A minute afterwards the two constables held back the crowd from the
doorway of the root-house, from the threshold of which a few wooden
steps descended to the ground inside.
A strange sight greeted the eyes of those permitted to enter.
The root-house had been transformed. What had been a semi-underground
place composed of scantlings, branches of trees and mother earth, with
a kind of vaulted roof, had been made into a sort of Chinese temple. All
round the walls were hung curtains of black and yellow, decorated with
dragons in gold, and above, suspended by cords at the four corners, was
a rug or banner of white ornamented with a great tortoise--the sacred
animal of Chinese religion--with gold eyes and claws. All round the side
of the room were set coloured lights, shaded and dim. Coming from
the bright outer sunlight, the place in its shadowed state seemed
half-sepulchral.
When the Coroner, Orlando, the Young Doctor and the others had
accustomed themselves to the dimness, they saw at the end of the
chamber--for such, in effect, it had been made with its trappings and
decorations--a figure seated upon the ground. Near by the figure,
on either hand, there were standards bearing banners, and the staffs
holding the banners were, bound in white silk, with long streamers
hanging down. Half enclosing the banners were fanlike screens. Along the
walls also were flags with toothed edges. The figure was seated on a mat
of fine bamboo in the midst of this strange scheme of decoration. Behind
him, and drawn straight across the chamber, was a sheet of fine white
cloth, embroidered with strange designs. He was clothed in a rich jacket
of blue, and a pair of sandal-like shoes was placed neatly in front of
the bamboo mat. On either side and in front of all, raised a little from
the ground, were bowls or calabashes containing fruit, grain and dried
and pickled meats. It was all orderly, circumspect, weird, and even
stately though the place was small. Finally, in front of the motionless
figure was a tiny brazier in which was a small fire.
Before the spectators had taken in the whole picture, the Chinaman who
had entered with them came and stood on the right of the space occupied
by the mat, near to the banners and the screens, and under a yellow
light which hung from the vaulted roof.
The figure on the fine bamboo mat was Li Choo, but not the Li Choo
which Tralee and Askatoon had known. He was seated with legs crossed
in Oriental fashion and with head slightly bowed. His face was calm and
dignified. It had an impassiveness which made an interminable distance
between him and those who had till now looked upon him as a poor
Chinky, doing a roustabout’s work on a ranch, the handy-man, the
Jack-of-all-trades. Yet in spite of the menial work which he had done,
it was now to be seen that the despised Li Choo had still lived his
own life, removed by centuries and innumerable leagues from his daily
slavery.
As they looked at him, brooding, immobile, strange, he lifted his head,
and the excessive brightness of his black eyes struck with a sense of
awe all who saw. It was absurd that Li Choo, the hireling, “Yellowphiz,”
as he had also been called, should here command a situation with the
authority of one who ruled.
Presently he spoke, not in broken English, but in Chinese. It was
interpreted by the Chinaman standing on the right by the screens, in
well cadenced, cultured English.
“I have to tell you,” said Li Choo--the other’s voice repeated the words
after him--“that I am the son of greatness, of a ruler in my own land.
It was by the Yang-tze-kiang, and there were riches and pleasant things
in the days of my youth. In the hunt, at the tavern, I was first amongst
them all. I had great strength. I once killed a bear with my bare hands.
My hands had fame.
“I had office in the city where my cousin ruled. He was a bad man, and
was soon forgotten, though his children mourn for him as is the custom.
I killed him. He gave counsel concerning the city when there was war,
but his counsel was that of a traitor, and the city was lost. Now
behold, it is written that he who has given counsel about the country or
its capital should perish with it when it comes into peril. He would not
die--so I killed him; but not before he had heaped upon me baseness and
shame. So I killed him.
“Yet it is written that when a minister kills his ruler, all who are in
office with him shall without mercy kill him who did the deed. That is
the law. It was the word of the Son of Heaven that this should be.
But those who were in office with me would not kill me, because they
approved of what I did. Yet they must kill me, since it was the law.
What was there to do but in the night to flee, so that they who should
kill me might not obey the law? Had I remained, and they had not obeyed
the law, they also would have been slain.”
He paused for a moment and then went on. “So I fled, and it is many
years since by the Yang-tze-kiang I killed my ruler and saved my
friends. Yet I had not been faithful to the ancient law, and so through
the long years I have done low work among a low people. This was for
atonement, for long ago by the Yang-tzekiang I should have died, and
behold, I have lived until now. To save my friends from the pain of
killing me I fled and lived; but at last here at this place I said to
myself that I must die. So, secretly, I made this cellar into a temple.
“That was a year ago, and I sent to my brother the Duke Ki to speak to
him what was in my mind, so that he might send my kinsmen to me, that
when I came to die, it should be after the manner ordained by the Son of
Heaven; that my body should be clothed according to the ancient rites by
my own people, my mouth filled with rice, and the meats, and grains and
fruits of sacrifice be placed on a mat at the east of my body when I
died; that the curtain should be hung before my corpse; that I should be
laid upon a mat of fine bamboo, and dressed, and prepared for my grave,
and put into a noble coffin as becomes a superior man. Did not the Son
of Heaven say that we speak of the end of a superior man, but we speak
of the death of a small man? I was a superior man, but I have lived as a
small man these many days; and now, behold, I am drawing near to my end
as a superior man.
“I wished that nothing should be forgotten; that all should be done when
I, of the house of the Duke Ki, came to my superior end. So, these my
kinsmen came, these of my family, to be with me at my going, to call
my spirit back from the roof-top with face turned to the north, to
leap before my death-mat, to wail and bare the shoulders and bind the
sackcloth about the head.
“I have served among the low people doing low things, and now I would
die, but in the correct way. Once to the listeners Confucius said: ‘The
great mountain must crumble; the strong beam must break; the wise man
must wither away like a plant.’ So it is. It is my duty to go to my end,
for the time is far spent, and I should do what my friends must have
done had I stayed in my ancestral city.”
Again he paused, and now he rocked his body backwards and forwards for
a moment; then presently he continued: “Yet I would not go without doing
good. There should be some act among the low people by which I should be
remembered. So, once again, I killed a man. He could not withstand the
strength of my fingers--they were like steel upon his throat. As a young
man my fingers were like those of three men.
“Shall a man treat his wife as she, Louise, was treated? Shall a man
raise his hand against his wife, and live? also, was he to live--the low
man--that struck a high man like me with his hands, with the whip, with
his feet, stamping upon me on the ground? Was that to be, and he live?
Were the young that should have but one nest to be parted, to have
only sorrow, if Joel lived? So I killed him with my hands” (he slightly
raised his clasped hands, as though to emphasize what he said, but the
gesture was grave and quiet)”--so I killed him, and so I must die.
“It was the duty of my friends to kill me by the Yang-tze-kiang. It is
your duty, you of the low people, to kill me who has killed a low man;
but my friends by the Yang-tze-kiang were glad that the ruler died, and
you of the low people are glad that Joel is dead. Yet it is your duty to
kill me.... But it shall not be.”
He quickly reached out his hands and drew the burning brazier close to
his feet; then, suddenly, from a sleeve of his robe he took a little box
of the sacred tortoise-shell, pressed his lips to it, opened it, poured
its contents upon the flame, leaned over with his face close to the
brazier and inhaled the little puff of smoke that came from it.
So for a few seconds--and then he raised himself and sat still with eyes
closed and hands clasped in his long sleeves. Presently his head fell
forward on his breast.
A pungent smell passed through the chamber. It produced for the moment
dizziness in all present. Then the sensation cleared away. The Chinaman
at the right of Li Choo looked steadfastly at him; then, all at once,
he bared his shoulders and quickly bound a piece of sackcloth round his
head. This done, he raised his voice and cried out with a monotonous
ululation, and at once a second voice cried out in a long wailing call.
Outside Li Choo’s kinsman, with his face turned to the north, was
calling his spirit back, though he knew it would not come.
At the first sound of the voice crying outside, the Chinaman beside Li
Choo leaped thrice in front of the brazier, the mat and the moveless
body.
At that moment the Young Doctor came forward. He who had leaped stood
between him and the body of Li Choo.
“You must not come. Li Choo, the superior man, is dead,” he protested.
“I am a doctor,” was the reply. “If he is dead, the law will not touch
him, and you shall be alone with him, but the law must know that he is
dead. That is the way that prevails among the ‘low people,’” he added
ironically.
The Chinaman stood aside, and the Young Doctor stooped, felt the pulse,
touched the heart and lifted up the head and looked into Li Choo’s
sightless eyes.
“He is dead,” he said, and he came back again to the Coroner and the
others. “Let’s get out of this,” he added. “He is beyond our reach now.
No need for an inquest here. He has killed himself.” Then he caught
Orlando’s hand in a warm grip.
As they left the chamber, the kinsman of Li Choo was gently laying the
body down upon the bamboo mat. At the doorway the other son of the Duke
Ki was still monotonously calling back the departed spirit.
The inquest on Joel Mazarine was ended presently, and Nolan Doyle and
the Young Doctor set out to tell Louise that a “low man,” once her
husband, had paid a high price for all that he had bought of the fruits
of life out of due season.