The Chinaman Reappears
We did not speak for a moment. Bartley's statement had been so
unexpected that I saw a rather questioning look pass over Ranville's
face. Though I had been surprised to discover that the man who had
looked through the library window was the gardener, yet I had not
thought there was anything suspicious in his action. His explanation,
that he had seen the light in the building and had gone to see who was
within, had sounded reasonable. The dull, stolid type of man he was
seemed to make it impossible there could be any real motive in his
trying to escape.
A look at both Bartley and Ranville told me they had a different
opinion. That the gardener had been asked by the Chinaman who had
visited us to take one of the small caskets from the library was a
rather startling piece of information. Perhaps it was even more—that
bit of luck which Bartley said might lead to the solving of the
mystery. Just as I was about to say this, Ranville spoke:
“Looks to me as though we had better run up to the library again.”
Bartley nodded, and as we rose to go out into the hall for our hats,
all at once the door bell rang—a long, shrill ring which died away,
only to be repeated. With a bound and a growl Trouble gave one leap,
waking from his sound sleep, and rushed to the hall. As I was the
closest to the front door, I went to open it, wondering who it might
be.
Pushing the growling dog behind me, I opened the door to find a
messenger boy standing there. With a half grin he extended a telegram
in my direction. I signed the book, gave the boy a tip, and brought
the yellow envelope into the house. As I glanced at it, I saw it was
addressed to Carter.
Bartley took the telegram, and after a look at the name said that he
thought he had better open it. He tore the thin paper, took out the
message and slowly read it through. As he glanced over the words, I
saw his eyebrows raise a little. Then he said, turning to us both:
“Listen to this. It will interest you.”
“Washington, D. C.
“Know nothing of man you wired about under name given. No one that
name ever connected with Embassy either here or London. Description
given does not fit any one we have information about. Am wiring San
Francisco and New York.
“Wing.”
As he finished reading it, he saw that Ranville was not familiar with
the name which was signed to the telegram, so he said:
“This is the answer to the message you told me Carter sent to his
chief in Washington. Wing is the head of the identification end of the
Secret Service. From what he says you can see they do not know your
Chinese friend.”
Ranville's face clouded for a moment. He informed us he had been of
the opinion that the oriental had told us the truth. He added, there
was only one explanation of his visit that now seemed reasonable. As
we both waited for him to tell us what he thought, he continued:
“Our Chinese gentleman must have come here more to see if we had any
suspicions of him than anything else. He had his nerve at that. He
must have known Carter is with the secret service, and that I am in
the same line myself. He was fishing for information.”
Bartley nodded, agreeing:
“You are right. But at the same time I have an idea that he came for
another reason also. It was information he wanted, but information of
another type, perhaps.”
As we both looked at him in surprise, he went on:
“There seems little doubt the story he told you regarding having an
appointment with Mr. Warren and about the ashes of Buddha were lies.
But I am half believing he did tell you the truth when he said he
found Mr. Warren dead. What he came to see you about was something
else. He knew that his appearance would be spoken about. What he
wanted to discover from you was if you had found out the real object
of his visit to the library. And that means—”
“And that means,” broke in Ranville, “the quicker we get over to the
library and take a look at that box the better.”
Bartley agreed to this and, asking me to get the car, started up the
stairs to his room saying there were several small things he wished to
take with him. By the time I had driven the car from the garage to the
side of the house Bartley and Ranville were ready and jumped in by my
side.
We said nothing on our ride. It was after twelve, a warm summer
evening with just enough moon to make the driving good. I drove at a
rather high speed, for the streets were empty, and only a few lights
were to be seen at the windows of the houses we passed. By the high
wall which ran around the Warren grounds I parked the car, and we
climbed out.
The tall iron gate was closed, though not locked. As we came up the
path, the dark mass of the house loomed up before us, silent and
without a light. The path through the trees had a silver streak of
moonlight running down its center. When we came to the hill upon which
stood the eight-sided library, I was surprised to find that the
building was dark. I whispered to Bartley that I thought the chief had
said he had left a policeman on guard, only to have Bartley answer
that the chief had decided it was no longer necessary.
The door of the library was locked, but Bartley produced from his
pocket a little steel instrument, and with the ray from the flashlight
on the lock quickly opened it. We slid into the dark room, closing the
door behind us. Bartley turned on the light, and we gave one hurried
look around the room.
I had noticed on my other visits to the library the small tables upon
which had stood three boxes. They were not the ordinary type of a box,
but very highly finished, with carvings of dragons and odd animals all
over their sides. The wood of each of them was stained dark with age
until they were almost black in color. I had noticed these three boxes
as they stood on the three tables, but I had not been interested in
them, chiefly because of the fact that I had been unable to lift the
covers.
All three of the tables, which after all were more stands than
anything else, were on the side of the desk nearest the door. Two of
them were over to the extreme left, near the bookcases, the other was
more in the center near the safe. It was to this one Bartley hastened,
it being the one the chief had mentioned over the phone. For several
moments we stood looking down at it.
The box was dingy with the years—a box three feet at least in length
and several feet high. The edges were weird dragons, the tails at the
corners making the little rests upon which the casket stood. Bartley
reached out his hand and tried to open the massive gold lock, but
without success. The casket was securely locked. He stood looking at
it for a moment, then picked it up in his two hands. I could tell by
the look he gave us that it was heavy. He placed it again on the
stand, and then glanced around the room.
As his eyes fell upon the other two caskets, he crossed the room to
look at them, we following. It needed but a glance to see that they
were alike in every particular—made of the same kind of wood, with the
identical dragons on each corner; and like the first one we had
noticed, they were also locked. After he had lifted each one he turned
to us.
“I think we had better make an effort to open that box. In a sense we
have no right to do so; but I have a keen desire to know what is
inside.”
When we returned to the first casket, he found it was not as easy to
open as perhaps he had thought. The steel instrument which he used—a
thing which would open almost any lock—in the end did its work, but
not until the lock had been wrenched away, and a portion of the
woodwork broken. Then as he threw up the lid, we came closer to see
what was within.
There was no inner cover to the box, for the wood was very thick and
another was not needed. At first glance there seemed to be nothing of
value. The top was covered with yellow sheets of straw paper, thick
heavy paper, which rustled as Bartley lifted them up. And then as he
threw the last piece of paper away, he bent over the box and gave a
little exclamation.
There seemed at first nothing to become excited over. Only a row of
small tins, placed in an orderly line and packed closely together, met
my eye—small tins, not very heavy nor large. But as Bartley pulled one
from the interior of the box, his eyes met Ranville's and the two men
nodded at the same second. Then with the bit of steel he pried off the
top of the tin, gazed for a moment at its contents, and then raised it
to his nose. One smell, and he passed the tin to me.
It was a small tin of very little weight. Its interior was filled with
a dark, thick mass, the color of dark molasses. It did not need his
words to tell me what he had found. The casket before us was filled
with similar tins, and I knew that each one of them contained, as did
the one I held in my hand, opium.
Just what we had expected to discover in the casket would have been
hard to have said. One thing was true, three very surprised men stood
looking silently at the rows of small tins within the box. Though
there were not so very many, yet it seemed to be the purest kind of
opium; and that meant they were worth a good deal of money. And then
Ranville gave a long low whistle and turned to Bartley:
“A bit odd this. Never expected to find anything like it when we came
here.”
Bartley shook his head, his eyes gravely studying the rows of tins.
Then he went over to the two other stands and returned to the great
desk with the two caskets under his arms. Without a word he started to
pick the locks of these, and after the same difficulty which he had
with the first one opened them. When they were opened, there was
another surprise for us. These two boxes were empty; they contained
nothing, not even a piece of rice paper.
Ranville, after a little start of surprise, seated himself in a chair
by the desk and very carefully began to examine the three boxes. To me
they seemed just alike—made from the same dark heavy wood with the
similar carvings. But he turned them on one end and then another,
looking them all over. On the first one, the one in which he had found
the opium, he spent the slightest time. Then as though satisfied, he
pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. For a moment he stood
looking gravely at the three caskets upon the desk, then he said:
“That first box has a little mark on it that the others do not have.”
He picked it up and showed us a narrow line which ran across the feet
of two of the dragons. The dragons' tails made the legs upon which the
casket stood, and all three boxes were similar—similar save for the
one respect; as he pointed out to us, the first box we had opened—the
one containing the opium—had the line etched deeply across two of the
dragons' legs, the other boxes did not have a mark.
He pointed it out to us, and Bartley shot a questioning look at his
face and then slowly nodded. Their eyes met, and Ranville after
another glance at the three boxes explained:
“I don't know much about this chap Warren, but I am a bit sure that
there is one thing we can agree upon. It is: he never knew what was in
that casket.”
“Then why did he have it in his library?” I shot out.
“That is what we do not know,” came the reply. “But it is absurd to
think that a man of his wealth and his position would be engaged in
smuggling opium.”
The Englishman paused as if satisfied by what he had said, and Bartley
added:
“And you can be rather sure of another thing, Ranville, Warren would
not have placed that box in such a prominent position if he had any
idea what was in it. For that matter, why were the other two boxes
empty? You have only to look at the locks to see it is very much to be
doubted if a key has ever been used on any of them.”
“But the Chinaman knew what was in the casket,” I ventured.
“Of course, he did,” Bartley commented. “And that is as mysterious as
the finding of the opium. He not only knew, but also knew there was
nothing in the other boxes.”
The two men debated for a while as to just what they had better do.
Ranville was of the opinion it might be well to call the chief and
tell what had been found. But Bartley remarked that the chief would be
in bed, and added that he would not be the man to throw any light upon
the affair. To this Ranville agreed, though he did suggest that the
chief might be able to discover from the gardener the time and place
he was to have met the Chinaman.
In the end they decided to take the box which contained the opium back
to Carter's and to say nothing about it until we had seen Niles
Patton. Patton was to arrive in the morning to set to work upon his
task of completing Warren's book. As he had been his assistant in
China, he might know something regarding the boxes. Bartley insisted
that we would discover they had just been brought by Warren on his
return from his last expedition.
Bartley took the box under his arm, and we left the library, first
putting out the lights. Though he had opened the door by picking the
lock, yet he had not damaged it, and we were able to lock it. Silently
we went down the path between the two hedges—a path now dark as the
moon had set.
When we reached the house, I placed the car in the garage, leaving the
dog to keep it company. Bartley and Ranville had left me at the drive,
and when I came out of the garage, I saw they had turned on the lights
in the living room. Through the wide glass window I could see Bartley
as he placed the casket on the living room table.
I stood for a moment outside the garage. It was very still. Far away
the whistle of a train rose and fell before it died away. Then save
for the low murmur of the water on the shore there was not a sound. It
was also dark; the moon had disappeared, and the few stars were hidden
by low-hanging clouds. Through the dark shadows cast by the trees I
could catch a glimpse of the street lights, but save for those the
yard was a dense shadow.
For a while I stood by the edge of the lawn, though just why I did not
go to the house would have been hard to say. The slight breeze from
the lake felt cool, and something about the darkness and the silence
appealed to me. And then, just as I was about to go up the path, there
came a sound; it was not a loud noise. Perhaps if I had not been
turned in the direction of the lake at that moment, I would not have
heard it. My ears had caught the sound of the click of an oar out on
the lake.
Rather surprised, for it was almost one o'clock, I went around the
side of the garage and stopped by the water's edge. Peering out across
the lake, I tried to discover the boat from which the sound had come.
But the darkness was too dense, and I could see but a few feet from
the shore. Then, as I listened, once again there came the click of the
oar against the oarlock. Far out on the lake some one was rowing a
boat.
It seemed rather a curious thing that any one should be out on the
lake at this time of the night. Just where they were I could not tell,
for the darkness could not be pierced, and the boat was carrying no
light. But as I caught the sound of the oars, I judged they must be
directly opposite me. And then as I listened, the sound died away, and
though I waited for some minutes longer, I did not hear it again.
When I entered the living room, Bartley commented on the length of
time it had taken me to put up the car. I told him of the boat I had
heard, but he made no reply. Perhaps he might have said something if
Ranville had not come into the room bearing three glasses for what he
called a bedtime drink. With the sober air men have when they go
through the sacred rite of a drink, we swallowed our Scotch and
decided that it was time to go to bed.
Ranville locked the front door, put down the windows, and we went up
the wide stairs to our sleeping rooms. Bartley and I had adjoining
bedrooms, and while I was undressing I wandered back and forth between
the two. Then as Bartley put out his light, I went back into my room
and at length climbed into bed.
I should have been sleepy, but as the moments went by sleep became the
last thing I desired. I tossed back and forth on the bed becoming more
wide awake every moment. In sheer disgust I tried various things which
are said to bring sleep. I counted to several hundred then closed my
eyes and tried to see the sheep jumping the fence. But as I saw no
sheep, the effort was not a success. At last in sheer disgust I rolled
over on my back and lay staring in the darkness.
It was very still. From a distance came the weird hoot of an owl. Once
a car went past in the road before the house. Then far away I heard a
clock in the village strike two. But sleep would not come. Then as
there fell an utter silence, I reached the point where every nerve was
straining, hoping for a sound. Very suddenly the sound came—causing me
to sit upright in my bed.
It was not a sound which came floating in from the open windows.
Instead, it came from the house—from below my room; a sound which
lasted but a few seconds, then died away, and silence fell again. But
when I heard it, I knew no noise of that kind should have disturbed
me, for from below I had heard the crash of a chair—a chair falling to
the floor.
Sitting tense and upright in the bed, I listened for a moment. There
came no other noise—only the soft rustling of the trees outside my
window. Slipping out of bed, I went softly across the floor and into
Bartley's room. By the side of his bed I paused. I could hear his low
breathing as I gently shook his arm to waken him. In a moment he
stirred, and when I knew he was awake, I told him what I had heard.
The next second he was out of bed.
The room was very dark, and I could not see him. But I heard him go to
his table and open a drawer. Then he came back to my side and
whispered:
“We will get Ranville. As we have to go out in the hall, make no
sound.”
The hall was very wide, and the stairs came up in a wide sweep from
the first floor. Our rooms were about half-way down the hallway, with
Ranville's at the extreme end. Bartley opened the door so silently
that I did not hear a sound; then with our hands on the wall we crept
slowly down the hall. We found Ranville's door slightly ajar, and
after we slipped into the room Bartley gently closed it.
Ranville was sleeping very soundly, and Bartley had to shake him many
times before he roused him. He woke slowly, saying something in a very
sleepy voice. Then as he became wide awake, his tone became crisp as
he wanted to know what was the matter. In a few words Bartley told him
how I had heard a chair fall over in the living room. And then through
the darkness came the eager whisper of the Englishman.
“Where did you put that box of opium?”
I heard a low chuckle from Bartley as he whispered back that it was
well hidden in his own room. Then as Ranville slid out of bed, he
asked what we should do. Bartley's answer was quick and low:
“Of course, there must have been some one down stairs when the chair
crashed. That is, unless Pelt was dreaming. Now you know professional
thieves leave the door open for a fast getaway. I am going to slide
out of your window, Ranville, along the roof of the veranda. You and
Pelt can go downstairs, first giving me a moment's start. I want to be
by the front door. When you get to the living room, try and turn on
the lights. Take your gun and your flashlight.”
Ranville went to his bureau, fumbled a moment in the dark, and came
back to our side. He said in a low voice that he had his gun and the
light. Then Bartley went over by the window. We could not see him very
clearly, only as a darker shadow against the blackness. But we heard
him as he took the screen out, and there came a soft scraping sound as
he went out on the roof. As this died away, Ranville whispered:
“Come on, Pelt,” and started for the door.
Out in the hall we paused a moment to listen, but no sound came to our
ears. With my hand against the wall I crept softly down its length
until we came to the rail of the stairs which led to the first floor.
Again we paused, but heard nothing. Then very carefully, one step at a
time, we went down the stairs, pausing at each step to listen. We
reached the bottom of the stairs without hearing anything.
The hall was very wide. On the right was the great living room, which
ran the entire length of the house. On the left was a dining room and
a small library. The living room was directly under the room in which
I slept, and the sound of the falling chair had come from there. There
was a wide double door, and I knew that the doors were open. But when,
after going very carefully down the hall, we reached the doorway, we
discovered as we put out our hands that it was closed.
This rather startled me for a second though I knew they could not be
locked; there was no kind of a lock on the door. Whoever had entered
the room had closed the doors, no doubt to prevent any sound being
heard. I felt Ranville's hand as it went searching over the surface of
the door and as it slid over my fingers. Then slowly I felt the door
open as he pushed against it—open until we were able to slip into the
room.
As we paused inside the door for a second, we saw and heard nothing.
Then at the extreme end of the room in the place where Carter had a
large cabinet, we saw the flicker of a flashlight—saw it for a moment
as it swept over the surface of the cabinet then it suddenly died
away. Some one was in the room directly across from us.
With a pressure upon my arm Ranville started around the wall to the
right; I realized he wished to get to the windows to prevent any
chance of escape. With but a second's hesitancy I went around to the
left. Carefully and very slowly, with one hand on the wall, I crept
along. I had no gun, no flashlight, and every second I was regretting
it. I could hear the figure by the cabinet as it fumbled at the glass
door, but that was all.
And then I paused stiffening to attention. Again there came the circle
of light as it played over the cabinet. And then as if roused by some
sound it began to sweep across the room. I watched the round circle of
light as it swept over chairs and tables, creeping closer and closer
to the windows. Then, as for the barest second I saw it flash over
Ranville's feet, there came his voice:
“Put up your hands or I shoot!” And as the light clicked off, I heard
the sound of running feet, and there came the sharp echo of Ranville's
gun.
The sound of the gun in the small room was deafening. For a moment
after it died away I could hear nothing else. But in that moment
Ranville must have leaped for the lights and found them, for the next
instant the room was a blaze of brightness, so much so that for a
while I could barely see. When I was able to look around the room, it
was only to see Ranville's eager face as his eyes swept every bit of
furniture. Save for myself and the Englishman the room was empty.
As we turned to glance at each other, there came the sharp bang of the
front door. All at once Trouble out in the garage began to bark—deep,
sinister barks, which became louder every second. Our eyes met, and
then we rushed out into the hall, down its length and out to the door.
Reaching it first I flung it wide and stumbled out onto the veranda.
As I reached it I heard the sound of two men—two men struggling on the
grass below.
I ran back into the hall as Ranville hurried down the veranda steps. I
was searching for the button of the porch light, and it seemed as if I
could never find it. But find it I did, gave it one push, and the next
instant the veranda was as light as day. Running out to the top of the
steps I was just in time to see Bartley coming up their length—coming
slowly and not alone.
His pajamas were stained by the dirt and the grass. In one hand was
his revolver which was shoved against the back of the man who walked
in front of him—a man who walked slowly and reluctantly, a man whose
face I could not see. He was a tall man whose hands were hidden by his
side and who wore a dark suit. For a moment I wondered who it might
be. Then there began to come a dawning recognition.
Up the steps they came, and Bartley's face was very set. At the top
step the man hesitated, only to have Bartley utter a sharp command and
push against his back with the revolver. Then as they reached my side,
the man lifted his head and looked at me. With one glance I recognized
him. There before me, his yellow face calm as if he had just come from
a pleasure trip, yet with his dark eyes flashing, was the gentleman
who had visited us a while before. The Chinaman stood before us.