Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China
he asked himself whether it was fair to carry the flirtation any
further with the girl snuggled beside him. He knew that the hearts of
Oriental girls open somewhat more widely to the touch of affection than
their Western sisters. And it was not in the nature of women of the
East to indulge extensively in the Western form of idle flirtation.
The lowering of the eyelids, the flickering of a smile, had meaning and
depth in this land.
Was this girl flirting with him, or was hers a deeper interest? That
was the question! He took the latter view.
And because he knew, from his own experience, that the hearts of lovers
sometimes break at parting, he finally relinquished the cool, small
hands and thrust his own deep into his pockets.
There was no good reason, apart from his own selfishness, why he should
give a pang of any form to the trustful young heart which fluttered so
close at his side.
"Where does your aged grandmother live, small one?" he asked her
briskly, in the most unsentimental tones imaginable.
"I have the address here, _birahi_," she replied, diving into her satin
blouse and producing a slip of rice paper upon which was scrawled a
number of dead-black symbols of the Chinese written language.
"A rickshaw man can find the place, of course," he said. "Now, look
into my eyes, small one, and listen to what I say."
"I listen closely, _birahi_," said the small one.
"I want you to stop calling me _birahi_. I am not your love, can never
be your love, nor can you ever be mine."
"But why, _bi_--my brave one?"
"Because--because, I am a wicked one, an _orang gila_, a destroyer of
good, a man of no heart, or worse, a black one."
"Oh, Allah, what lies!" giggled the maid.
"Yes, and a liar, too," declared Peter venomously, permitting his fair
features to darken with the blackest of looks. Was she flirting with
him? "A man who never told the truth in his life. A bad, bad man," he
finished lamely.
"But why are you telling such things to me, my brave one?" came the
provocative answer.
She _was_ flirting with him.
Nevertheless, he merely grunted and relapsed again into the form of
meditative lethargy which of late had grown habitual if not popular
with him.
A little after noon the train thundered into the narrow, dirty streets
of China's most flourishing city, geographically, the New Orleans of
the Celestial Empire; namely, Canton, on the Pearl River.
As Peter and his somewhat amused young charge emerged into the street
he cast a furtive glance back toward the station, and was dumfounded to
glimpse, not two yards away, the man with the red, deeply marked face.
His blue eyes were ablaze, and he advanced upon Peter threateningly.
It was a situation demanding decisive, direct action. Peter, hastily
instructing the girl to hold two rickshaws, leaped at his pursuer with
doubled fists, even as the man delved significantly into his hip-pocket.
Peter let him have it squarely on the blunt nub of his red jaw, aiming
as he sprang.
His antagonist went down in a cursing heap, sprawling back with the
look in his washed-out eyes of a steer which has been hit squarely in
the center of the brow.
He fell back on his hands and lay still, dazed, muttering, and
struggling to regain the use of his members.
Before he could recover Peter was up and away, springing lightly into
the rickshaw. They turned and darted up one narrow, dirty alley into a
narrower and dirtier one, the two coolies shouting in blasphemous
chorus to clear the way as they advanced.
After a quarter of an hour of twisting and splashing and turning, the
coolies stopped in front of a shop of clay-blue stone.
Paying off the coolies, Peter entered, holding the door for the girl,
and sliding the bolt as he closed it after her.
He found himself in the presence of a very old, very yellow, and very
wrinkled Chinese woman, who smiled upon the two of them perplexedly,
nodding and smirking, as her frizzled white pigtail flopped and
fluttered about in the clutter on the shelves behind her.
It was a shop for an antique collector to discover, gorged with objects
of bronze, of carved sandalwood, of teak, grotesque and very old, of
shining red and blue and yellow beads, of old gold and old silver.
On the low, narrow counter she had placed a shallow red tray filled
with pearls; imitations, no doubt, but exquisite, perfect, of all
shapes; bulbular, pear, button, and of most enticing colors.
But the small girl was babbling, and a look of the most profound
surprise came slowly into the old woman's face. A little pearl-like
tear sparkled in either of her old eyes, and she gathered this
cherished grand-daughter from far away Macassar into her thin arms.
At that sight Peter felt himself out of place, an intruder, an
interloper. The scene was not meant for his eyes. He was an alien in
a strange land.
As he hesitated, conjuring up words of parting with his little friend,
he gasped. Peering through the thick window-pane in the door was the
red-faced man, and his look sent a curdle of fear into Peter's brave
heart. Would he shoot through the pane?
The girl, too, saw. She chattered a long moment to her wrinkled
grandmother, and this latter leaped to the door and shot a second
strong bolt. She pointed excitedly to a rear door, low and green, set
deep in the blue stone.
Peter leaped toward it. Half opening this, he saw a tiny garden
surrounded by low, gray walls. He paused. The maid from Macassar was
behind him. She followed him out and closed the door.
"_Birahi_," she said in her tinkling voice, and with gravity far in
advance of her summers, "we must part now--forever?"
He nodded, as he searched the wall for a likely place to jump. "It is
the penalty of friendship, _birahi_. You do not mind if I call you
_birahi_ in our last moment together?"
"No. No."
"I am curious, so curious, my brave one, about the red-faced man, and
the one with the black coat. But we women are meant for silence.
_Birahi_, I have played no part--I have been like a dead lily--a
burden. Perhaps, if you are in great danger----"
"I am in great danger, small one. The red toad wants my life, and you
must detain him."
"I will talk to him! But the others, the black-coated one--what of
them? They would like the feel of your blood on their hands, too!"
Peter nodded anxiously. He was thinking of Romola Borria.
"I will do anything," declared the maid from Macassar patiently.
"Has your grandmother a sampan, a trustworthy coolie?"
"Aie, _birahi_! She is rich!"
"Then have that coolie be at the Hong Kong landing stage with his
sampan at midnight. Have him wait until morning. If I do not come by
dawn he will return immediately to Canton. By dawn, if I am not there,
it will mean----"
"Death?" The small voice was tremulous.
Peter nodded.
"If the _fokie_ returns with that message, you will write a short
note----"
"To one you love?"
"To one I love. In America. The name is Eileen Lorimer; the address,
Pasadena, California. You will say simply, 'Peter Moore is dead.'"
"Ah! I must not say that. It will break her heart! But you must go
now, my brave one. I will talk to the red toad!"
The green door closed softly; and Peter was left to work out the
problem of his escape, which he did in an exceedingly short space of
time. Even as he took the fence in a single bound he fancied he could
hear the panting of the red-faced man at his heels.
He found himself in a crooked alleyway, which forked out of sight at a
near-by bend. Speeding to this point, he came out upon a somewhat
broader thoroughfare. He looked hastily for a rickshaw but none was in
sight.
So he ran blindly on, resorting at intervals to his old trick of
doubling back, to confuse his pursuers. He did this so well that
before long he had lost his sense of direction, and the sun having gone
from the sight of man behind a mass of dark and portentous clouds.
At length he came to the City of the Dead, and sped on past the
ivy-covered wall, circling, doubling back, and giving what pursuit
there might have been a most tortuous trail to follow.
He was hooted at and jeered at by coolies and shrieking children, but
he ran on, putting the miles behind him, and finally dropped into a
slow trot, breathing like a spent race-horse.
At the pottery field he found a rickshaw, estimated that he still had
time to spare to make the Hong Kong train, and was driven to the
station. Dead or alive, he had promised to deliver himself to Romola
Borria at the Hong Kong Hotel at seven.
Visions of the malignant face of his red-featured enemy were constantly
in his mind.
But he breathed more easily as the train chugged out of the grim, gray
station. He sank back in the seat, letting his thoughts wander where
they would, and beginning to feel, as the miles were unspun, that he
was at least one jump ahead of the red death which had threatened him
since his departure from the friendly shelter of the _Persian Gulf_.
CHAPTER XII
The shadows were lengthening, the sky was of a deeper and vaster blue,
when the train came to a creaking stop in the Kowloon Station.
Peter emerged, scanning the passengers warily, but catching not a
glimpse of his red-faced enemy. What did that one have in store for
him now? This chase was becoming a game of hide-and-seek. But in Hong
Kong he would feel safer. Hong Kong was a haunt of civilized men and
of able Sikh policemen, who detested the yellow men of China.
He took the ferry-boat across the bay to the city, which rose tier upon
tier of white from the purple water; and he made his way afoot to the
American consulate.
With auspicious celerity the sad-eyed clerk bowed him into the presence
of an elderly gentleman with white side whiskers and an inveterate
habit of stroking a long and angular nose.
This personage permitted his shrewd, grave eyes to take in Peter from
his blond hair to his tan walking shoes, and with a respectful mien
Peter prepared his wits for a sharp and digging cross-examination.
"I have been advised," began the American consul, giving to Peter's
blue eyes a look of curiosity in which was mingled not a little
unconcealed admiration, as he might have looked upon the person of
Pancho Villa, had that other miscreant stepped into his gloomy
office--"I have been advised," he repeated importantly, "by the
commander of the auxiliary cruiser _Buffalo_ that you contemplated a
visit to Hong Kong."
He sank back and stared, and it took Peter several moments to become
aware that the content of the remark was not nearly so important as its
pronunciation. The remark was somewhat obvious. The American consul
desired Peter to make the opening.
Peter inclined his head as he slowly digested the statement.
"I was told by Commander Eckles to report to you," he replied
respectfully, "for orders."
The American consul laid his hands firmly upon the edge of the mahogany
desk.
"My orders, Mr. Moore, are that you leave China immediately. I
trust----"
"Why?" said Peter in a dry voice.
"That is a matter which, unfortunately, I cannot discuss with you. The
order comes, I am permitted to inform you, from the highest of
diplomatic quarters. To be exact, from Peking, and from the American
ambassador, to be more specific."
It was crystal clear to Peter that the American consul was not
cognizant of what might be behind those orders from the American
ambassador; yet his face, for all of its diplomatic masking, told Peter
plainly that the American consul was not entirely averse to learning.
"Have I been interfering with the lawful pursuits of the Chinese
Empire?" he inquired ironically.
The American consul stroked his long nose pensively.