Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China
Anthony. His eyes were half shut. He seemed desperately sleepy, and
gibbering as if in a dream.
Peter turned savagely upon the girl. She seemed to cower away from
him, half lifting her hands as though in fear that he would strike her.
"Romola! Damn you----"
"Peter, I--I----" Her faint voice trickled off into a sigh of anguish.
"Drugs?" he demanded.
She shook her head anxiously.
"No, no. I--I----"
"What have you done to these people? What have you----"
She lifted up her head imperiously. "You are forgetting----" she began.
He had the fingers of her left hand between his, crushing them. She
dropped her head. Her fine lips were quivering. "What am I
forgetting?"
Anthony had grasped his elbow. "It's not right, Moore; not right to
talk to the princess like this. She's really noble. She's fine!"
"You're drunk, Anthony!"
"No, no, no," he babbled. "Sleepy; that's all. Oh, that wine!
Perfectly fine! Makes you feel like climbing a moonbeam!"
"So it appears. Where are the girls?"
"Over here. Say--say, Moore, when does the fight start? I--I'm just
itching to get at somebody!"
"You'll have your chance in a moment. And it isn't in fun.
Understand?"
"Of course I understand! Isn't my gun loaded with bullets? Are we in
a trap?"
"We are! And according to my calculations there's exactly one way out.
I think you and the girls will have no difficulty in breaking through.
Make a dash for it. Run for all you're worth!"
"Hold on there," remonstrated Anthony, as his eyes lost a trifle of
their sleepy look. "What's to become of you? Going to make a break
for it, too?"
Peter shook his head. "It's me they're after. I can look out for
myself, Anthony; this business isn't quite a novelty in my line. You
must get out--and get quick!"
"And leave you behind? Not Anthony! I stick!"
Anthony was flashing a length of highly polished gunmetal in his fist.
Romola with a trembling hand was applying a taper to the other candles.
Peter, observing that the twins were, to all appearances, sound asleep,
approached her.
She paused in her work, holding the taper above her head, so that its
gaunt rays flickered on his face. "Because you loved me so?"
Her shoulders drooped, and her head rolled backward slightly, as though
she were very tired. She nipped her lower lip between pearl-white
teeth.
"Because I love you so?" she repeated dully.
"In some respects," he said bitterly, "you are like a certain snake in
India. You can't lock those damned snakes up! They can always find a
tiny hole, a slit in the cage, and--out they slip!"
"Ah, Peter----" Romola dropped the taper to the bronze altar, where it
flickered a moment and went out. She fondled his reluctant hand
between cold fingers. Her face became utterly miserable, and there
were sparkling tears in her eyes. "My heart is your heart. I have
given my love to you. I would give my life for you!"
He drew away from her slowly, turning his head to avoid the anguish in
her eyes.
He went on briskly: "If my death is arranged for to-night----"
He stopped to watch her. She was fumbling at her waist. A little
silver of light appeared. The thing was a slim stiletto. Her teeth
were clicking as she extended the handle toward him. Their eyes met.
In hers was shining a brute command. In his slowly came shock,
amazement. She placed her fingers slowly over her heart; her hand
slipped down and fell again at her side.
"There!" she murmured.
"Is--is my end so close?" he whispered.
She nodded slowly. "You are in great danger. This may be your final
opportunity. See? I am offering no resistance. Why--why do you
hesitate?"
With the tiny blade lying like a flame of pure silver across the palm
of his hand, Peter experienced a moment troubled and exceedingly
awkward. That threat, perhaps, was hardly more than the spilling out
of bitterness which she had created in him.
In silence he handed the thing back to her almost furtively; and she
accepted it without removing her shining gaze from his. Somehow she
seemed to have come out victorious in a conflict that had had nothing
to do with knives, with broken promises. And with the restoration of
the dagger the spell seemed to be swept aside.
Turning abruptly, with a slight straightening of his shoulders, he
walked away from her.
Anthony was like a guardian angel, a statue gravely symbolic of
protection, standing over the golden heads, with the revolver dangling
from his hand and shooting out metallic gleams. Their eyes were
tightly closed; the twins were sleeping as if drugged.
They heard a low, hushed scream.
"Peter--_ni kan_!"
Peter turned quickly, searching both entrances. At first he was
conscious of no intrusion. Then a yellow face, long, narrow, with a
stub of purple-black hair protruding behind, and which for a moment he
took to be a part of the curtain, slowly withdrew, arising
upward--vanishing!
The phantom was not unlike the wisps of yellow smoke from a green-wood
fire, despatched by a lazy dawn wind. The face of Jen, the deck
steward!
CHAPTER VII
Apparently Anthony had not observed this specter.
Peter seized his arm, the left one. "We must start. Wake them up."
Anthony shook a nervous negative. "I've tried. That wine!"
"_Arracka_. Comes from Java. Tastes like May wine, and is stronger
than cognac." He was tilting Peggy's chin, shaking her head. No
response. He tried the same experiment with Helen, and begot identical
results.
Romola Borria had vanished.
Peter stepped out first, supporting his limp freight with his left arm,
and in his right brandishing a revolver. He hoped it wouldn't be
necessary and he was sure that underneath the splendid varnish of
Anthony's fine bravado larked the belief that this entire evening was
nothing more than an exciting romantic game.
In the pinch, would Anthony react after the fashion of
heroes-to-the-manner-born, or would the sight and smell of blood, if it
Was written that blood be shed, unnerve him, make him out to be what he
was at heart, the secretary of a prosperous and peaceful plow company?
On his part, Anthony was still babbling incoherently but earnestly,
impressing upon Peter the undeniable virtues of the golden wine. He
was not prepared, although the nickeled revolver still flashed in his
unoccupied hand, for the tumultuous event which was being shaped for
the two of them around the corner.
They did not attain the outer door. Out of the drab recesses leaped
dusky shadows. There seemed to be a large number of jostling men;
perhaps only three or four were at hand by actual count; the
insufficient lighting and their shocking and determined appearance lent
them plurality.
A sparkling flame roared from the hand of the foremost of these before
Peter could bring his hand out of his pocket.
Anthony's nickeled revolver went off twice, from his hip, and the giant
faltered, going back shapelessly among the shadows from which he had
emerged.
Peter's original scheme to hack a way through the line underwent hasty
revision. Escape would have to be made by different channels, and his
only choice was the device nearest at hand. It was a long chance, an
aimless one, perhaps, fraught with new, dangers and complications. But
he did not hesitate.
Beating off a hand that pawed for his shoulder, he flung open the door
which faced the dwelling's entrance, and pushed the reluctant Anthony
inside.
Peter locked the door, throwing a bench across it for temporary
barricade, then lit candles, wondering if any one would have had enough
foresight to disconnect the aerial wires. He dropped his burden to the
divan against the side wall, and examined Anthony, who had gone very
pale. He was shaking, and his gray eyes seemed to have climbed half
way out of his head. He propped Peggy tenderly beside her sister, and
laid an unsteady hand upon Peter's shoulder. He seemed to be fighting
down a very definite fear.
Peter was backing toward the apparatus. "Watch the door. If any one
tries to break in, shoot straight at the sound! You're not hurt, are
you? Did that fellow get you?"
Anthony shivered all over. "Christ!" he muttered. His lips were
white. "That man! I shot him! He's dead! Dead!"
"And we are still alive," said Peter quietly.
He sat down at the instrument table, fixed silvery disks to his ears,
twanged the detector wire and made a few quick alterations in
connections. Fortunately his inspection of the equipment earlier in
the day had given him a grasp of its arrangement. In an instant he had
the tuner adjusted, was listening, with those keen ears of his focussed
for the ethereal voices which might be abroad at this untimely hour.
Distant splashes of heat lightning occurred faintly, like the quivering
of sensitive metal.
Casting a glance over his shoulder, to make sure that Anthony was
following instructions, he rearranged levers and lowered the heavy
switch which drew upon the storage batteries underneath the table.
He tapped the large brass key experimentally. A hissing blue spark
lighted up the walls and his features in a ghostly glow. Tightening
the vibrator at the terminus of the rubber-covered coil, he spelled out
an inquiry in the International Code. Any station within hearing would
answer that call.
He wondered if the Shanghai station was closed up for the night, or if
by any chance his assistant on the _King of Asia_ would be on the job.
Peter waited for several anxious moments, with no sound in the
telephones other than the faint spattering of the lightning down the
coast. Then his inquiry was given a response, startlingly harsh and
close.
The station might have been across the street, the signals were beating
in his ears so loudly. The operator was having some difficulty
adjusting his spark; it was rough, ragged, like the drumming of
hailstones on a metal roof.
A series of test letters followed, exasperatingly slow.
"V--V--V--V---- What station is that? This is the _Madrusa_."
Peter hesitated, although interference was unlikely. He felt
tremendously relieved. The _Madrusa's_ rough spark meant more to him
than help close by. He knew the _Madrusa_ well; a gray, swift gunboat,
lying close to the water, whose purpose was to sweep the lower
Whang-poo and Yangtze clear of pirates. She could spit streams of
bullets for hours without let-up. And the knowledge of her closeness
to this death-trap keyed him up, not entirely because she was manned by
British sailors who would rather fight than eat. His hand reached out
for the key.
"Who is on watch? This is Peter Moore. That you, Johnny Driggs?"
If the man at the _Madrusa's_ key did happen to be Jonathan Driggs, he
could afford to breathe more easily. Driggs was another man who had
found in China the irresistible attraction, and who for some years had
sat behind the radio machines of many ships that plied these yellow
waters.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" roared the _Madrusa's_ spark. "Where are you? What
are you doing up at this time of night playing with a baby coil?"
For the next three minutes the spitting blue spark flared and jumped as
Peter spelled out his plight. He sketched their predicament by
abbreviated code, and he impressed upon his friend the necessity for
utter secrecy, hoping that the night had no other ears.
"Damn it!" replied the quick fingers of the gunboat's operator. "Damn
it! But I can't get shore leave! Impossible--you can guess why! Our
gunnery officer, Lieutenant Milton Raynard, is jumping to go! He'll
fetch you five or six sailors. He knows the lay of the land, and I've
sketched him a map of the locality from your description. Cinch!
They'll be off at once, soon as they can get the engine started in the