Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China
The ex-operator of the _Vandalia_ experienced a warm suffusion in the
vicinity of his throat. In the next breath he felt genuinely guilty.
As he looked deep into the anxious, appealing gray eyes of Miss Vost,
he cursed himself for being, or having the tendencies to be, a trifler;
and in his estimation a trifler was not far removed from the reptile
class. Yet somehow, damn it, that trip to Ching-Fu on the _Hankow_
appealed to him now as a most profitable excursion, for Ching-Fu was
only a few hundred li from Len Yang.
Something of the doughtiness of a mongoose marching into a den of
monster cobras characterized Peter Moore's intention to penetrate the
stronghold of the cinnabar king. He knew that his chances for entering
Len Yang were absurdly small. Yet the whole of the Chinese Empire was
not particularly safe for him now. The Gray Dragon had paid him the
compliment of recognizing in him an enemy. He no longer doubted
Minion's warning; the dragon of Len Yang controlled a powerful
organization. No part of China was safe. If he desired to run away
from this very actual danger in which direction could he run?
"_When menaced by danger_," runs an old Chinese proverb, "_go to the
very heart of it; there you will find safety_."
It lacked a few minutes of midnight when Peter entered the Palace bar
by the bund side. Only a few lights were burning, and the exceedingly
long teak bar--"the longest bar east of Suez"--was adorned by a few
knots of men only. Tobacco smoke was thick in the place, nearly
obscuring the doorway into the hotel lobby.
He scanned the idlers, looking for the cloth of sailormen. His quest
was ended. Bobbie MacLaurin was here, disposing of all of the imported
Scotch whiskey that came convenient to his long and muscular reach.
In a deep and sonorous voice he was pointing out to a group of
uniformed sailors, burdening his point with a club-like forefinger with
which he pounded on the edge of the teak bar, that while he rarely
drank off duty, he never drank when on. This claim Peter had reason to
know was not untrue.
The wireless operator edged his way to MacLaurin's side, and touched
his arm, making a whispered remark which the Scotchman evidently did
not comprehend. For MacLaurin wheeled on him, and bestowed upon him a
red, glassy, and hotly indignant stare.
Bobbie MacLaurin was, in the language of the sea, a whale of a man.
His head seemed unnecessarily large until you began to compare it with
his body; and his body was the despair of uniform manufacturers, who
desire above all things to make a fair percentage of profit. He was
like a living monument, two and a half hundred weight of fighting flesh
and bones, which, when all of it went into action, could better be
compared to a volcano than to a monument. Otherwise he was an
exceedingly amiable young giant.
The redness and hotness of the stare he imposed upon the friend of more
than one adventurous expedition slowly receded, leaving only the
glassiness in evidence. Bobbie fidgeted uneasily.
"Damn my hide!" he roared. "Your face is familiar! It is! It is!
Where have I seen that face before? Ah! I know now! I had a fight
with you once."
"More than once," corrected Peter Moore, grinning. "The last time was
in Panama. Remember? I tripped you up, after you knocked the wind out
of me, and you fell, clothes and all, into the Washington Hotel's
swimming tank."
"Peter Moore!" gasped Bobbie MacLaurin, and Peter Moore was smothered
in log-like arms and the fumes of considerable alcohol.
Extricating himself at length from this monstrous embrace, Peter
permitted himself to be held off at arm's length and be warmly and
loquaciously admired.
"My old side-kick of the damn old _San Felipe_!" announced Bobbie
MacLaurin to the small group of somewhat embarrassed sailors. "The
best radio man that God ever let live! He can hear a radio signal
before it's been sent. Can't you, Peter? Boys, take a long look at
the only livin' man who can fight his weight in sea serpents; the only
livin' man who ever knocked me cold, and got away with it! Boys, take
a long, lastin' look, for the pack o' you're goin' out o' that door
inside of ten counts! God bless 'um! Just look at that there Jap
get-up! Sure as God made big fish to eat the little fellows, Peter
Moore's up to some newfangled deviltry, or I'm a lobster!"
"Sh!" warned Peter Moore, conscious that in China the walls, doors,
floors, ceilings, windows, even the bartenders, have ears.
"Out with the lot of you!" barked MacLaurin. "There's big business
afoot to-night. We must be alone. Eh, Peter?"
And Peter was convinced that business could not be talked over
to-night. Of one thing only did he wish to be certain.
"You're taking the _Hankow_ up-river to-morrow?"
"That I am, Peter!"
"Then we'll take the express for Nanking to-morrow morning."
"Aye--aye! Sir!"
"We'll turn in now. Otherwise you'll look like a wreck when Miss Vost
sees you."
"Miss Vost!" exploded MacLaurin. "When did you see Miss Vost?"
"A little while ago, Bob. Shall we turn in now?"
"Miss Vost is why I'm drunk, Peter," said Bobbie MacLaurin sadly.
"So she admitted. To-morrow we'll talk her over, and other important
matters."
"As you say, Peter. I'm the brawn, but you're the brains of this
team--as always! The bunks are the order."
When Bobbie MacLaurin's not unmusical snore proceeded from the vast
bulk disposed beneath the white bedclothes, Peter Moore again descended
to the lobby, let himself into the street, and hailed a rickshaw.
The mist from the Whang-poo had changed to a slanting rain. The bund
was a ditch of clay-like mud. Each street light was a halo unto itself.
He lighted a cigarette, suffered the coolie to draw up the clammy
oilskin leg-robe to his waist, and dreamily contemplated the quagmire
that was Shanghai.
The rickshaw crossed the Soochow-Creek bridge and drew up, dripping,
under the porte-cochere of the Astor House Hotel, where a majestic
Indian door-tender emerged from the shadows, bearing a large, opened
umbrella.
Contrary to her promise Miss Vost was not waiting for his message.
However, she sent back word by the coolie, that she would dress and
come down, if he desired her to. Peter pondered a moment. A glimpse
of Miss Vost at this time of night meant nothing to him. Or was he
hungry for that glimpse? Nonsense!
He dashed off a hasty note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to
the room-boy to deliver.
He pictured her sleepy surprise as she opened it, and read:
Bobbie seems much put out. We take morning express to Nanking. Try to
make it. We'll have tea, the three of us, at Soochow.
At Soochow! There he was--at it again! A trifler.
"Damn my withered-up sense of honor, anyway!" observed Peter Moore to
himself, as he climbed into the rain-soaked rickshaw.
CHAPTER XI
With the pristine dawn, Robert MacLaurin arose from his bed like a
large, yellow mountain; for his pajamas--every square yard of
them--were of fine Canton silk, the color of the bulbous moon when it
reposes low on China's horizon.
Satisfying himself at length that the bedroom had another occupant, he
drained the contents of a fat, white water-jug, then tossed the jug
upon the incumbent of the bedroom's other bed.
At such times as this critical one, the smiling destiny which held the
fate of Peter Moore in the hollow of her precious hand was ever
watchful, and the white water-jug caromed from his peaceful figure with
no more than an unimportant thud. The jug bounded to the floor and
ended its career against the hard wall. Peter Moore sat up, rubbing
his eyes.
"Dead or alive, Peter?"
"You nearly broke my back."
"Serves you right, old slug-abed! You tucked me in last night with the
warning that we pick up the early express for Nanking."
"Quite so," admitted Peter Moore thickly. In the past two days he had
managed to set aside altogether four hours for sleep; and he felt that
way. He examined his room-mate, but was not surprised at what met his
glance.
Bobbie MacLaurin, disregarding the fact that he had not yet shaved,
looked as fresh as a rose. His endurance was like that of a range of
mountains. His sea-blue eyes were cannily clear, his complexion was
transparent and glowing. The ill effects of last night had been
absorbed with about as much apparent effort as a gigantic sponge might
display in absorbing a dewdrop.
"Chinamen's eyes and Chinamen's knives have been running through my
dreams," Peter muttered.
"Cheer up! The pirates are thick above Ichang. We'll both have our
bloody necks slit a dozen times before we make Ching-Fu." Bobbie
turned from the miniature mirror. His sea-blue eyes glared through a
white lake of lather. "Hurry up and shave, you loafer! We'll miss
that train."
"I'm not going to shave for six months!"
"Election bet?"
"When your utterly worthless life has been endangered as many times
as----"
"What you need is a drink, my lad!"
"When you have evidence that the greatest criminal-at-large wants to
have you stuck like a pig----"
MacLaurin swung his big frame about and stared. "You're not serious."
"I am referring to--a Gray Dragon. Ever hear of one?"
The razor in the large, red hand of Bobbie MacLaurin flashed. It came
away from his cheek. A broad trickle of crimson spread down the
lathered jaw, But he did not curse.
"We must hurry for that train," rumbled his big voice. "We must talk
this over. We must hurry, Peter," he said again.
Miss Amy Vost was not in evidence when the two rickshaws rattled up to
the platform of the red brick station.
"Perhaps she's waiting for us in the coach, holding seats for us,"
Peter suggested.
"Just like her," said MacLaurin. "She's a little peach!"
Peter entered the compartment first and scanned the heads. The only
tresses in evidence were the long, black, shining ones of a bejeweled
Chinese lady. The other passengers were men.
"There will be no tete-a-tete in Soochow," observed Peter Moore to his
conscience.
"I'd go to hell for that girl!" declared Bobbie MacLaurin as he sat
down at Peter's side. "Now, tell me what you were doing in that Jap
rigging. Two years, isn't it, since we were chased out of Panama City
by the _spigotties_?"
"I came over on the _Vandalia_."
"And didn't go back, I gather."
"She sailed up-river for Soo-chow yesterday. No, I won't go back.
Bobbie, I started something on that ship, and I'm on my way to
Ching-Fu--and 'way beyond Ching-Fu--to finish it."
"It will be beautifully finished, Peter! Or your name's not Moore."
"There was a girl, a beautiful girl----"
"There usually is," MacLaurin sighed.
Peter gazed bitterly at the scenery flitting evenly past the window:
groves of feathery bamboo, flaming mustard fields, exquisite gardens,
and graves--graves beyond count.
"Perhaps she is passing through the Inland Sea by now. Bobbie, I
wanted her to go home. She was--she was that kind of a girl. She
wanted to stay. Bobbie, that girl could have made a man of me!
She--she even told me she--liked me!"
"They have a way of doing that," commented Bobbie sadly.
Several miles rolled by before either of the men spoke.
"Why is Miss Vost making the trip to Ching-Fu?"
"You'll have to find that out, Peter. I was too busy letting her know
how bright my life has become since she entered it!"
The square, red jaw swung savagely toward Peter. Of a sudden the
sea-blue eyes seemed a trifle inflamed. "She's probably going to
Ching-Fu on serious business. She's like that. She's not like you!"
"What do you mean?" said Peter.
"You're going to try to break into Len Yang; that's what I mean! Some