CHINESE MAGIC
Detective-Sergeant Coombes and three assistants watched the house of
Sin Sin Wa, and any one of the three would have been prepared to swear
“on the Book” that Sin Sin Wa was sleeping. But he who watches a
Chinaman watches an illusionist. He must approach his task in the
spirit of a psychical inquirer who seeks to trap a bogus medium. The
great Robert Houdin, one of the master wizards of modern times, quitted
Petrograd by two gates at the same hour according to credible
witnesses; but his performance sinks into insignificance beside that of
a Chinese predecessor who flourished under one of the Ming emperors.
The palace of this potentate was approached by gates, each having
twelve locks, and each being watched by twelve guards. Nevertheless a
distinguished member of the wizard family not only gained access to the
imperial presence but also departed again unseen by any of the guards,
and leaving all the gates locked behind him! If Detective-Sergeant
Coombes had known this story he might not have experienced such
complete confidence.
That door of Sin Sin Wa’s establishment which gave upon a little
backyard was oiled both lock and hinge so that it opened noiselessly.
Like a shadow, like a ghost, Sin Sin Wa crept forth, closing the door
behind him. He carried a sort of canvas kit-bag, so that one observing
him might have concluded that he was “moving.”
Resting his bag against the end wall, he climbed up by means of holes
in the neglected brickwork until he could peer over the top. A faint
smell of tobacco smoke greeted him: a detective was standing in the
lane below. Soundlessly, Sin Sin Wa descended again. Raising his bag he
lifted it lovingly until it rested upright upon the top of the wall and
against the side of the house. The night was dark and still. Only a
confused beating sound on the Surrey bank rose above the murmur of
sleeping London.
From the rubbish amid which he stood, Sin Sin Wa selected a piece of
rusty barrel-hoop. Cautiously he mounted upon a wooden structure built
against the end wall and raised himself upright, surveying the
prospect. Then he hurled the fragment of iron far along the lane, so
that it bounded upon a strip of corrugated roofing in a yard twice
removed from his own, and fell clattering among a neighbor’s rubbish.
A short exclamation came from the detective in the lane. He could be
heard walking swiftly away in the direction of the disturbance. And ere
he had gone six paces, Sin Sin Wa was bending like an inverted U over
the wall and was lowering his precious bag to the ground. Like a cat he
sprang across and dropped noiselessly beside it.
“Hello! Who’s there?” cried the detective, standing by the wall of the
house which Sin Sin Wa had selected as a target.
Sin Sin Wa, bag in hand, trotted, soft of foot, across the lane and
into the shadow of the dock-building. By the time that the C.I.D. man
had decided to climb up and investigate the mysterious noise, Sin Sin
Wa was on the other side of the canal and rapping gently upon the door
of Sam Tûk’s hairdressing establishment.
The door was opened so quickly as to suggest that someone had been
posted there for the purpose. Sin Sin Wa entered and the door was
closed again.
“Light, Ah Fung,” he said in Chinese. “What news?”
The boy who had admitted him took a lamp from under a sort of rough
counter and turned to Sin Sin Wa.
“George came with the boat, master, but I signalled to him that the red
policeman and the agent who has hired the end room were watching.”
“They are gone?”
“They gather men at the head depot and are searching house from house.
She who sleeps below awoke and cried out. They heard her cry.”
“George waits?”
“He waits, master. He will wait long if the gain is great.”
“Good.”
Sin Sin Wa shuffled across to the cellar stairs, followed by Ah Fung
with the lamp. He descended, and, brushing away the carefully spread
coal dust, inserted the piece of bent wire into the crevice and raised
the secret trap. Bearing his bag upon his shoulder he went down into
the tunnel.
“Reclose the door, Ah Fung,” he said softly; “and be watchful.”
As the boy replaced the stone trap, Sin Sin Wa struck a match. Then,
having the lighted match held in one hand and carrying the bag in the
other, he crept along the low passage to the door of the cache.
Dropping the smouldering match-end, he opened the door and entered that
secret warehouse for which so many people were seeking.
Seated in a cane chair by the oil-stove was the shrivelled figure of
Sam Tûk, his bald head lolling sideways so that his big horn-rimmed
spectacles resembled a figure 8. On the counter was set a ship’s
lantern. As Sin Sin Wa came in Sam Tûk slowly raised his head.
No greetings were exchanged, but Sin Sin Wa untied the neck of his
kit-bag and drew out a large wicker cage. Thereupon: “Hello! hello!”
remarked the occupant drowsily. “Number one p’lice chop lo! Sin Sin
Wa—Sin Sin....”
“Come, my Tling-a-Ling,” crooned Sin Sin Wa.
He opened the front of the cage and out stepped the raven onto his
wrist. Sin Sin Wa raised his arm and Tling-a-Ling settled himself
contentedly upon his master’s shoulder.
Placing the empty cage on the counter. Sin Sin Wa plunged his hand down
into the bag and drew out the gleaming wooden joss. This he set beside
the cage. With never a glance at the mummy figure of Sam Tûk, he walked
around the counter, raven on shoulder, and grasping the end of the
laden shelves, he pulled the last section smoothly to the left, showing
that it was attached to a sliding door. The establishments of Sin Sin
Wa were as full of surprises as a Sicilian trinketbox.
The double purpose of the timbering which had been added to this old
storage vault was now revealed. It not only served to enlarge the
store-room, but also shut off from view a second portion of the cellar,
smaller than the first, and containing appointments which indicated
that it was sometimes inhabited.
There was an oil-stove in the room, which, like that adjoining it, was
evidently unprovided with any proper means of ventilation. A
paper-shaded lamp hung from the low roof. The floor was covered with
matting, and there were arm-chairs, a divan and other items of
furniture, which had been removed from Mrs. Sin’s sanctum in the
dismantled House of a Hundred Raptures. In a recess a bed was placed,
and as Sin Sin Wa came in Mrs. Sin was standing by the bed looking down
at a woman who lay there.
Mrs. Sin wore her kimona of embroidered green silk and made a striking
picture in that sordid setting. Her black hair she had dyed a
fashionable shade of red. She glanced rapidly across her shoulder at
Sin Sin Wa—a glance of contempt with which was mingled faint distrust.
“So,” she said, in Chinese, “you have come at last.” Sin Sin Wa smiled.
“They watched the old fox,” he replied. “But their eyes were as the
eyes of the mole.”
Still aside, contemptuously, the woman regarded him, and:
“Suppose they are keener than you think?” she said. “Are you sure you
have not led them—here?”
“The snail may not pursue the hawk,” murmured Sin Sin Wa; “nor the eye
of the bat follow his flight.”
“Smartest leg,” remarked the raven.
“Yes, yes, my little friend,” crooned Sin Sin Wa, “very soon now you
shall see the paddy-fields of Ho-Nan and watch the great Yellow River
sweeping eastward to the sea.”
“Pah!” said Mrs. Sin. “Much—very much—you care about the paddy-fields
of Ho-Nan, and little, oh, very little, about the dollars and the
traffic! You have my papers?”
“All are complete. With those dollars for which I care not, a man might
buy the world—if he had but enough of the dollars. You are well known
in Poplar as ‘Mrs. Jacobs,’ and your identity is easily established—as
‘Mrs. Jacobs.’ You join the _Mahratta_ at the Albert Dock. I have
bought you a post as stewardess.”
Mrs. Sin tossed her head. “And Juan?”
“What can they prove against your Juan if _you_ are missing?”
Mrs. Sin nodded towards the bed.
With slow and shuffling steps Sin Sin Wa approached. He continued to
smile, but his glittering eye held even less of mirth than usual.
Tucking his hands into his sleeves, he stood and looked down—at Rita
Irvin.
Her face had acquired a waxen quality, but some of her delicate
coloring still lingered, lending her a ghastly and mask-like aspect.
Her nostrils and lips were blanched, however, and possessed a curiously
pinched appearance. It was impossible to detect the fact that she
breathed, and her long lashes lay motionless upon her cheeks.
Sin Sin Wa studied her silently for some time, then:
“Yes,” he murmured, “she is beautiful. But women are like adder’s eggs.
He is a fool who warms them in his bosom.” He turned his slow regard
upon Mrs. Sin. “You have stained your hair to look even as hers. It was
discreet, my wife. But one is beautiful and many-shadowed like a copper
vase, and the other is like a winter sunset on the poppy-fields. You
remind me of the angry red policeman, and I tremble.”
“Tremble as much as you like,” said Mrs. Sin scornfully, “but do
something, think; don’t leave everything to me. She screamed
tonight—and someone heard her. They are searching the river bank from
door to door.”
“Lo!” murmured Sin Sin Wa, “even this I had learned, nor failed to heed
the beating of a distant drum. And why did she scream?”
“I was—keeping her asleep; and the prick of the needle woke her.”
“_Tchée, tchée_,” crooned Sin Sin Wa, his voice sinking lower and lower
and his eye nearly closing. “But still she lives—and is beautiful.”
“Beautiful!” mocked Mrs. Sin. “A doll-woman, bloodless and nerveless!”
“So—so. Yet she, so bloodless and nerveless, unmasked the secret of
Kazmah, and she, so bloodless and nerveless, struck down—”
Mrs. Sin ground her teeth together audibly.
“Yes, yes!” she said in sibilant Chinese. “She is a robber, a thief, a
murderess.” She bent over the unconscious woman, her jewel-laden
fingers crooked and menacing. “With my bare hands I would strangle her,
but—”
“There must be no marks of violence when she is found in the river.
_Tchée, chée_—it is a pity.”
“Number one p’lice chop, lo!” croaked the raven, following this remark
with the police-whistle imitation.
Mrs. Sin turned and stared fiercely at the one-eyed bird.
“Why do you bring that evil, croaking thing here?” she demanded. “Have
we not enough risks?”
Sin Sin Wa smiled patiently.
“Too many,” he murmured. “For failure is nothing but the taking of
seven risks when six were enough. Come—let us settle our affairs. The
‘Jacobs’ account is closed, but it is only a question of hours or days
before the police learn that the wharf as well as the house belongs to
someone of that name. We have drawn our last dollar from the traffic,
my wife. Our stock we are resigned to lose. So let us settle our
affairs.”
“Smartest—smartest,” croaked Tling-a-Ling, and rattled ghostly
castanets.