Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China
"I, too, studied to your honorable craft, my son. But it was denied
me. Buddha decreed that I should preach his doctrines. It is my life
to bring a little hope, a little gladness into the hearts----"
"You stand there and tell me that you know the code?" cried the
white-faced man shrilly.
"Such was my good fortune," Peter replied gravely.
"Well, I believe you're a dam' liar, you Chink!" scoffed the other, who
was swinging in nervousness or irritation from side to side.
Peter shrugged his shoulders, and permitted his gaze to fondle the
monstrous transmission coil.
"I'll show you!" railed the man. "I'll give you a free chance, I will!
Now, listen to me. Tell me what I say." He pursed his lips and
whistled a series of staccato dots and dashes.
"What you have said," replied Peter in a deep voice, "is true, O high
one!"
"What did I say?"
"You said: 'China, it is the hell-hole of the world!' Do I speak the
truth?"
Peter thought that this crazy man--whose name had formerly been
Harrison--was preparing to leap at him. But Harrison only sprang to
his side and seized his hands in a clammy, excited grip. Tears of an
exultant origin glittered in the man's eyes, now luminous.
"You stay with me, do you hear?" he babbled. "You stay here. I'll
make it worth your while! I'll see you have money. I'll see----"
"But I have no need of money, O high one!" interrupted Peter in a
somewhat resentful tone, striving to mask his eagerness.
"You stay!" cried Harrison.
"Lotus eater!" Peter said, knowing his ground perfectly.
"What if I am?" demanded Harrison defiantly. "So are you! So are we
all! So is everybody who lives in this rotten country!"
"To the sick, all are sick," Peter quoted sorrowfully.
"Rot! As long as I must have opium, there's nothing more to be said.
Now, I pry my eyes open with matches to stay awake. With you here----"
His thin voice trailed off. He had confessed what Peter already knew.
It was the blurted confession, and the blurted plea, of a mind that was
half consumed by drugs. A diseased mind which spoke the naked truth,
which caught at no deception, which was tormented by its own gnawings
and cravings to such an extent that it had lost the function of
suspecting. Suspicion of a low, distorted sort might come later; but
at its present ebb this mind was far too greedy to gain its own small
ends to grope beyond.
The lids of Harrison's smoldering eyes drew down, and they were blue, a
sickly, pallid blue. With their descent his face became a death-mask.
But Peter knew from many an observation that such signs were deceptive;
knew that opium was a powerful and sustaining drug; knew that Harrison,
while weak and stupid and raving, was very much alive!
"There is little work to be done," went on the thin voice. "Only at
night. Say you will stay with me!" he pleaded.
Peter permitted himself to frown, as if he had reached a negative
decision. Harrison, torn by desire, flung himself down on his ragged
knees, and sobbed on Peter's hand. Peter pushed him away loathfully.
"What is my task?"
Harrison sank back on his heels, oblivious of the wet streak which ran
down from his eyes on either side of his thin, sharp nose, and delved
nervously into his pocket. He withdrew a lump of black gum, about the
size of a black walnut, broke off a fragment with his finger-nails, and
masticated it slowly. He smirked sagely.
"He won't care. Why should he care?"
"Who, my son?"
"That man--that man who owns Len Yang, and me, and these rat-eaters.
All _he_ wants is results."
"Ah, yes. He owns other mines?"
"What does _he_ care about the mines? Of course he directs the other
mines by wireless. He owns a sixth of the world. _He_ does. He is
rich. Rich! You and I are poor fools. He gives me opium"--Harrison
glared and gulped--"and he does not ask questions."
"Wise men learn without asking questions, my son," said Peter gravely.
"Certainly they do! He knows everything, and he never asks a question.
Not a one! He answers them, _he_ does!"
"You have asked him questions?"
"I? Humph! What an innocent fool you are, in spite of that gold on
your collar! Have I seen him to ask questions?"
"That is what I meant."
"Not I. He is no fool. You may be the Gray Dragon for all of me. No
one in Len Yang sees him. No one dares! It is death to see that man!
Didn't I try? But only once!"
"You did try?"
"That was enough. I got as far as the first step of the ivory palace.
Some one clubbed me! I was sick. I thought I was going to die! There
is a scar on my neck. It never seems to heal!"
The senile whine trailed off into a thin, abusive whimper. His bony
jaws moved slowly and meditatively. He went on:
"He is crazy, too. Women! Beautiful women for the mines!
Men--men--men everywhere know the price he will pay. In pure silver!"
"He pays well, my son?"
"A thousand taels, if he is satisfied. That is where this hole got its
name. You know the name--the City of Stolen Lives? It should be the
City of Lost Hope. For none ever leave. The mines swallow them up.
What becomes of them?"
"Ah! What does become of the stolen lives?"
The sunken eyes stared playfully at him. "What is a thousand taels to
him? He is rich, I tell you! They say his cellar is filled with
gold--pure gold; that his rooms and halls run and drip with gold, just
as his rat-eaters run and drip with the cinnabar poison. And the
wireless--he has stations, and this is the best. Mine is the best. I
see to that, let me tell you!"
"To be sure!"
"These hunters, these men who know his price for beautiful women--he
will have none other--and who are paid a thousand taels----"
"Where did you say these stations are?"
"In all parts. There is a station in Afghanistan, between Kabul and
Jalalabad, and one in Bengal, in the Khasi Hills, and another in
northern Szechwan Province, and one in Siam, on the Bang Pakong
River----"
"A station on the Bang Pakong?"
"Yes, I tell you. All over. These hunters find a woman, a lovely
girl; and they must describe their prize in a few words. He is sly!
The fewer the better. If the words appeal to him, he has me tell them
to come. Lucky devils! A thousand taels to the lucky devils! Some
day I myself may become a hunter."
"It is tempting," agreed Peter. "But why does he want beautiful young
girls for his mine, my son?"
Harrison ignored the question.
"To-night I will listen. You can watch me. Then you can see how
simple it is. It is time."
Peter was aware that the door had opened and closed behind his back,
and now he heard the faint scraping of a sandaled foot, heavy with the
red slime. A Chinese, in the severe black of an attendant, stood
looking down at him distrustfully. His eyebrows were shaved, and a
mustache drooped down to his sharp, flat chin like sea-weed.
He asked Harrison a sharp question in a dialect that smacked of the
guttural Tibetan.
"He wants to know where you came from," translated Harrison irritably.
"From Wenchow. A mandarin. He should know."
The man in severe black bowed respectfully, and Peter looked at him
frigidly.
Harrison slipped the Murdock receivers over his ears, and his voice
went on in a weak, garrulous and meaningless whimper.
"Static--static--static. It is horrible to-night. I cannot hear these
fellows. Ah! Afghanistan has nothing, nor Bengal. Hey, you fool, I
cannot hear this fellow in Szechwan. He has a message. Yes, you, I
cannot hear him. Not a word! He is faint, like a bad whisper. They
will beat me again if I cannot hear!"
He tried again, forcing the rubber knobs against his ears until they
seemed to sink into his head.
"Have you good hearing?"
"I will try," said Peter.
"Then sit here. You must hear him, or we will both be beaten. This
fellow goes straight to _him_."
Peter slipped into the vacated chair and strapped down the receivers.
A long, faint whisper, as indistinguishable as the lisp of leaves on a
distant hill, trickled into his ears. Ordinarily he would have given
up such a station in disgust, and waited for the air to clear. Now he
wanted to establish his ability, to demonstrate the acuteness of
hearing for which he was famous.
Behind him the black-garbed attendant muttered, and Peter scowled at
him to be silent.
With deftness that might have surprised that wretch, Harrison, had his
wits been more alert, he raised and closed switches for transmission,
and rapped out in a quick, professional "O.K."
He cocked his head to one side, as he always did when listening to
far-away signals, and a pad and pencil were slid under his hand.
The world and its noises and the tense, eager figures behind him,
retreated and became nothing. In all eternity there was but one
thing--the message from the whispering Szechwan station.
His pencil trailed lightly, without a sound, across the smooth paper.
A message for L. Y. An American girl. Brown hair. Eyes with the
moon's mystery. Lips like a new-born rose. Enchantingly young.
The blood boiled into Peter's brain, and the pencil slipped from
fingers that were like ice. There was only one girl in the world who
answered to that description. Eileen Lorimer! She had been captured
again, and brought back to China!
He grabbed for the paper. It was gone. Gone, too, was the
black-garbed attendant, hastening to his master.
Harrison was pawing his shoulder with a skinny, white hand, and making
noises in his throat.
"You lucky fool! He'll give you _cumshaw_. God, you have sharp ears!
Only one man I ever knew had such sharp ears. He always gives
_cumshaw_. _Na-mien-pu-liao-pa_! You must divide with me. That is
only fair. But--what difference? Here you can enter, but you can
never leave. You have no use for silver. I have."
The face of Eileen Lorimer swam out of Peter's crazed mind. Miss Vost,
that lovely innocent-eyed creature, fitted the same description!
Peter stared stupidly at the massive transmission key, and disdained a
reply. Miss Vost--and the red mines! He shuddered.
Harrison was whining again at his ear. "He says yes. Yes! Tell that
fellow yes, and be quick. The Gray Dragon will give him an extra
thousand taels for haste. Oh, the lucky fool! Two thousand taels!
Tell him, or shall I?"
How could Peter say no? The ghastly white face was staring at him
suspiciously now.
While he hesitated Harrison pushed him aside, and his fingers flew up
and down on the black rubber knob. "Yes--yes--yes. Send her in a
hurry. A thousand taels bonus. The lucky devil!"
Out of Peter's anguish came but one solution, and that vague and
indecisive. He must wait and watch for Miss Vost, and take what
drastic measures he could devise to recapture her when the time came.
The pallid lips trembled again at his ear. "Here! You must divide
with me. A bag of silver. _Yin_! A bag of it! Listen to the chink
of it!"
Peter seized the yellow pouch and thrust it under his silken blouse.
He was beginning to realize that he had been exceptionally lucky in
catching the signals of the Szechwan station. He was vastly more
important now than this wretch who plucked at his arm.
"Give me my half!" whined Harrison.
Peter doubled his fist.
"Give me my half!" Harrison clung to his arm and shook him irritably.
Peter hit him squarely in the mouth.
CHAPTER XVIII
As night melted into day and day was swallowed up by night, the problem
which confronted Peter took on more serious and baffling proportions.
His hope of entering the ivory palace was dismissed. It was imperative
for him to give up the idea of entering, of piercing the lines of armed
guards and reaching the room where the master of the City of Stolen