Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China
and Anthony? What had become of that dashing British lieutenant,
Milton Raynard?
Peter arose hastily from bed, and examined a pale and gaunt countenance
in the small mirror above the wash-stand. Dark lines had come under
his eyes, and the deep-blue pupils seemed to kindle with a peculiar
brilliancy. He had seen that look in other eyes, and another fragment
of the dream came back to him. He licked his dry lips, tasting a
flavor not unlike that of opium fresh from the poppy, and of almonds.
He filled the wash-basin with cold water, took a long breath, and
immersed his face for a half minute. Gasping, he came out of it with
pink starting into his cheeks, and his mental faculties somewhat better
organized.
When he emerged from his stateroom, attired in a fresh white uniform,
with his gold-and-white cap set at a jaunty angle on his head, he
looked like a different man. His skin was glowing, and a youthful
heart was sending recuperative tingles all over his body.
Peter took a turn about the promenade deck in search of Anthony, and
was hailed by his room-boy, who had some mail for him.
He dropped these missives absently into his pocket, made further
inquiries, and learned that Anthony and the Misses Whipple had come to
the steamer shortly before sunrise in the launch belonging to the river
gunboat _Madrusa_.
Then he knocked at Anthony's door. A tired snore, emanating from the
transom, broke into a sleepy complaint.
The door opened; Anthony stared at him as if in the presence of a
ghost. "Great Scott! I thought you were dead!" He rubbed his eyes to
accelerate wakefulness.
Peter chuckled. "What happened? Both girls safe?"
"How did you get here alive?"
"I came down by sampan. The princess detained me."
Anthony shivered. "We thought you were with us. Somebody put out all
the lights!" He shivered again. "Raynard wanted to go back--so did I.
We didn't dare! The girls, you know." He dropped his head, as if
ashamed.
"How is Peggy?"
Anthony frowned, hesitated. "Peter, she--she thinks you're a quitter!
She thinks you ran away at the big moment!"
Peter grinned. "That can be cleared up. Did you enjoy--the game? Did
you succeed? That's all I'm worrying about."
Anthony looked at him suspiciously. "That was not a put-up job.
Why--I shot a man!" He became anxious. "Will there be a row?"
"Not a bit--if you keep your mouth shut."
"Oh, I'll do that! But that dead Chink! Ugh!"
"Forget him," advised Peter cheerfully. "I still don't know what Peggy
had to say."
"What do you mean?" Anthony gave him a blank stare.
"Does she think----"
A light of understanding came into Anthony's clear gray eyes. "Oh, I
made a little mistake," he confessed weakly. "It--it isn't Peggy; it's
Helen! We're engaged! You see, Helen is such a--a quiet and reserved
sort of girl. Just my kind! Peggy--well, you know, I decided she was
a little too--too wild!"
A long, low gray launch was chugging alongside when Peter made his way
back to the promenade-deck. At the upper extremity of the
companion-ladder which reached down to the river's surface was standing
a slim and youthful figure in blue, with wisps of golden hair flying
about in the soft spring breeze.
She leaned anxiously and expectantly over the rail as a tall and
commanding young man in the white uniform of his majesty's naval
service climbed up eagerly toward her. The young officer leaped
gracefully over the rail, seized both hands of the girl, and his eyes
were shining.
Peter's deep-blue eyes unaccountably took on an expression of moist
sadness; yet he was grinning.
He climbed up to the boat-deck, unlocked the wireless room, and for the
first time recalled the mail in his hip-pocket. Leisurely he scanned
the post-cards first, highly colored ones, which had been forwarded
from the San Francisco Marconi office, emanating from friends scattered
in many parts of the world. One was from Alaska; another from
Calcutta, India, from that splendid fellow, Captain Bobbie MacLaurin.
He opened the letter, and his eyes fell upon familiar handwriting. He
suddenly felt shocked; the sentences began swimming. The letter was
from Eileen, dated Nanking. Words stood out whimsically, like thoughts
assailing a tired brain, clamoring for recognition.
... You are the stubbornest man! ... Do you imagine I ever cared for
that puppy? Why, Peter--why didn't you wait? I'd have scratched his
eyes out! Of course, he kissed me! But the point is, my dear, I
didn't realize until it was all over.... I suppose I should have
jumped into the ocean when you left me so angrily. But I didn't. I
came to China on the _Empress of Japan_. I am now at the Bridge Hotel,
in Nanking, on my way to Ching-Fu, where you may find me. Just to show
you that I can have adventures, too!
"Great guns!" said Peter. He wondered if he could catch the Nanking
express; there was a Chinese steamer leaving Nanking for up-river
to-morrow noon.
There was a humble voice at his elbow. A deck-boy was grinning
dreamily at him; a queer flicker darted across his green eyes, vanished.
"Jen!" exclaimed Peter, glimpsing an abbreviated pigtail.
"Aie!" said the deck-boy.
"The man from the Jen Kee Road place!"
The deck-steward seemed puzzled. "My no savvy," he said. His look
became dreamy again, reminiscent.
"But you can speak English as well as 'pidgin,'" declared Peter,
frowning. "You did last night!"
"My savvy 'pidgin,'" said Jen brightly. "China allatime funny place!
China no can savvy allatime funny people! Funny!"
"What's that?" snapped Peter. He was baffled and angry. Had Jen
played the leading part in the mysterious and grim comedy of last
night, or was he only a work coolie, a deck-steward, harmless,
innocuous, babbling happily in his limited knowledge of a strange
language?
The deck-boy was pointing up-river with a long, yellow finger.
Peter stared. And he saw nothing, nothing but a great red sun with its
lower half enveloped in a glowing pool of green and red smoke into
which arose the black spars of ships from all over the world.
CHAPTER IX
The sky was clearing. Rain had ceased dripping from the bulging black
clouds, and a slender rod of golden sunlight pierced through and marked
a path upon the red bricks of the inn courtyard. Hazy in the
green-and-purple distance could be glimpsed the yellow withers of the
western range. Cooking smells, the sour odor of fish-and-rice chow,
were wafted from the braziers of village housewives.
Peter loafed against a spruce post, and moodily contemplated the
stamping animals in the enclosure. His hat was in his hand, and the
mountain breeze assailed his blond hair, which, rumpled and curly, gave
him something of the appearance of a satyr at ease. He was worried.
He had, an hour before, come to Ching-Fu from the boat; and Eileen had
left Ching-Fu for a trip to Kialang-Hien, a village of the third order
some fifty _li_ distant, the morning before. Whether to follow or wait
was the question.
Somewhere afield a valiant bronze gong called infidels to the feet of
an insufferable clay god.
Peter's flow of thought was interrupted. Unnoticed a girl--at first
glance the virtuous daughter of a mandarin--was approaching. Her
abruptness and her appearance caught him so completely off guard that
he held his breath and stared at her rather wildly. And she in turn,
as if fascinated, stared back as wildly at him.
His first guess was inaccurate. She was no mandarin's daughter, this
one. She was young and exquisitely slim, with wisdom and sadness
written upon her colorless face, and he was informed by a single glance
at her exploring bright eyes and the straightness of her fine black
brows, that she was half-breed, Eurasian.
Those shining eyes, not unlike twin jade beads, were sparkling. Her
lips were thin and as red as betel. Her garb was satin, bright with
gold filigree and flashing gems; and her dainty feet were disfigured
rather than adorned by bright-red sandals. Her feet, however, were not
the "feet of the lily," for the lithe grace of her stride was ample
proof that they had not been bound.
The dying sun outlined through the folds of her bizarre garment ankles
straight, slender, and probably naked.
Rosy color moved swiftly into her satiny complexion while, with a
pretty, inquisitive frown, she scrutinized him; and then, with a flick
of her black eyelashes, she ran toward the arched doorway, leaving
Peter to ponder, and scratch his blond head, and demand amazing
explanations of himself.
It was a dominating trait in Peter never to lose time securing
information that was interesting to him; but the old proprietor, with
his wise and varnished smile, could vouchsafe very little of
consequence.
The young woman, he admitted, was named Naradia. She was accompanied
by her husband, a young Chinese of high birth, who manifested no more
signs of activity to an outward world than a baffling secretness.
The two of them had arrived from down-river on a sailing junk the week
before. The husband's name was Meng, he believed, and since he had
come, the old man declared, many strange and warlike faces had
mysteriously appeared in Ching-Fu.
Such visitors were not uncommon in the villages which bordered the
merchants' trail, from the Yangtze to the Irriwaddi, but Peter's
interest was kindled. As he made off in the direction of the most
reliable village mule-seller, he decided that the secretive young
bridegroom, Meng, might be worth cultivating.
From a soft-tongued and hardened swindler Peter procured a mule, and
arranged to have the animal in the caravansary at daybreak. It was his
intention to start for Kialang in search of Eileen with the first
tender glow of dawn.
After dining he waited in the compound for a glimpse of the mysterious
Meng, or his ravishing bride, Naradia. Unsuccessful, he returned to
his room. His Chinese valet was brewing jasmin-tea when Peter opened
and shut the bedroom door. His pajamas were neatly laid out upon his
couch, and the rugs were neatly furled back. He detected the acrid and
pleasing odor of incense as he crossed the room.
The boy glanced up meekly from the charcoal brazier. "Wanchee tea now?"
"Yes." Peter slipped out of his tunic.
The boy dropped on his knees to unlace Peter's boots.
Peter lighted a cigarette, stretched himself out upon the rugs, and the
boy brought him a steaming cup.
"Wake me--daylight--sure," cautioned Peter, lifting the cup.
"_Tsao_," murmured the boy.
When the boy was gone Peter removed the automatic from his raincoat
pocket. The metal glittered pleasantly in the yellow light from the
suspended lamp. The cup of tea had served to waken him. He released
the cartridge clip from the automatic's handle and stared thoughtfully
at the glowing lead balls.
He became conscious of a sound, alien and untimely. The door was
rattling softly. He studied it with interest; the wooden handle was
turning slowly, first to the right, then to the left.
The phenomenon puzzled him. His eyes were sparkling a little as he
quietly restored the clip of cartridges.
Creeping to the hinged side of the door, he waited, breathing silently.
With a squeak the door swung in quickly. A lean, yellow hand, gripping
a nickel-plated pistol, was thrust inside.
Peter shot three times directly through the wood panel.
The white pistol thudded to the planks, while the yellow hand seemed to
be jerked backward by an electric force. Soft footsteps retreated.
Peter jerked open the door and stepped out.
The corridor was empty. Some few feet toward the stairway an oiled
wick, jutting from a tiny bronze cup which was bracketed to a
scantling, burned and sputtered.