The tomb of Ts'in
This was plausible enough. Tillizinni, at any rate, could find no
fault with the explanation. He wondered why this Chinese exquisite
should have sought him at three o’clock in the morning.
“It is very sad,” continued L’ang T’si Soo, shaking his head, “that
one so learned as his Excellency should have been cut off so
ruthlessly.”
“It is sadder to me,” said Tillizinni, “that the ‘Star above the
Yamen’ should also have been sacrificed.”
What made him say this he could not understand. There was no reason at
all why he should mention the second man.
The effect on his visitor was electrical. He rose instantly and
noiselessly from his chair, the monocle dropped from his eye, and the
eyelids lowered till the detective saw no more than two straight,
glittering slits of black.
“‘Star above the Yamen’?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”
All the suaveness, all the languid drawl had gone out of his voice: it
was harsh and metallic. The white-gloved hands were clenched till the
delicate kid was stretched to breaking point. He stood erect and
tense; there was something animal in his poise, something tigerish in
his attitude.
“What I mean,” said Tillizinni slowly, “is just this. In addition to
the Ambassador, a man was killed--shot from behind, evidently by his
confederates. As I have reconstructed the crime, the murderers were
disguised in the livery of the Embassy, and made their escape in the
confusion. ‘Star above the Yamen’ was probably killed because his
murderers desired something which he had. He has been identified by
this.”
The detective took a sheet of paper from his pocket, and handed it
across the desk to the other.
Soo looked at the Chinese characters long and earnestly.
“It is copied from the man’s _hong_, which was given to Captain Talham
this afternoon by the man himself.”
With a supreme effort T’si Soo recovered his self-possession. Without
a word he handed back the sheet, fixed his eyeglass mechanically and
relaxed into his chair.
“That is interesting,” he said calmly. “Once I knew a ‘Star above the
Yamen,’ but this is evidently another man. The characters change a
little as between North and South China, and my friend does not use
this _hong_.”
Tillizinni’s observant eye saw the tip of the visitor’s tongue pass
over the dry lips.
“Doubtless you wonder why I have come,” said the Chinaman, “and it is
only fair to you that I should explain who I am. Your companion----”
“My companion?” asked Tillizinni sharply.
“The gentleman who is waiting in the next room,” said the suave
Oriental, “until I have gone. His Excellency Ho-tao, which in our
language means the River Mandarin, or as you would call him, Captain
Talham, he would know me. I am the son of the Governor of T’si-lu: to
all intents and purposes, I am the governor.”
Tillizinni bowed.
He knew something of this man, who was educated at Oxford, rented the
most expensive of Piccadilly flats, and was reputedly wealthy.
Soo rose to go.
“I am afraid I have allowed my curiosity and my natural interest in
the fate of my countryman to trespass upon your time,” he said. “Here
is my address: if I can be of any assistance to you, please command
me.”
He put his card upon the table, and with a little bow, withdrew.
Three minutes later he was speeding eastward as fast as his car could
go. He swept round from the Embankment to Blackfriars Bridge, and
crossed the river. He alighted near the Borough.
“Wait for me!” he said briefly, and the muffled chauffeur answered in
Cantonese.
In a tiny thoroughfare leading off Southwark Street were a number of
small shops, shuttered and silent at this hour of the morning.
Soo tapped on the shutters of one. It was a gentle tattoo that he
beat, yet the door which flanked the windows was instantly opened and
he passed in. The shop was evidently a laundry, and a Chinese laundry
at that. He passed swiftly across the shop through the living-room at
the back, in which one feeble light burned, and without hesitation
turned sharply and descended the stairs which led directly from the
living-room to the cellars below.
At the bottom of the stairs was a door. Again he knocked, and again
the door was opened by a Chinaman in his shirt-sleeves.
The man removed his pipe as Soo entered, and made a profound
obeisance.
The cellar was a large one, and its walls were covered with blood-red
paper on which were painted crude, black drawings and characters
illustrating the “Song of Lament.” There was one table above which an
oil-lamp swung, and about were seated half a dozen men in various
conditions of dishabille. Despite the coldness of the night, the
cellar was uncomfortably hot, for a big charcoal brazier glowed in a
wall recess where in some forgotten age had stood a European stove.
The men rose as Soo entered, concealing their hands in their sleeves.
“Where is my brother?” asked Soo quickly.
He addressed a cadaverous old Chinaman who stood nearest the brazier.
“Lord,” said the man, “your illustrious brother has not returned.”
“Where are Yung-ti and Hop-lee?” demanded Soo.
“Lord, they have not returned,” answered the other.
Soo looked at his watch.
“Ming-ya says----” began the old man, but stopped as if he thought
better of it.
“Ming-ya says--what?” asked Soo. “Answer me, old fool, quickly!”
The old man bowed.
“The seven blessings of heaven upon your highness,” he said humbly.
“But Ming-ya says that neither Yung-ti nor Hop-lee will return.”
Ming-ya, a youthful Cantonese with the dull eye of an opium sot,
nodded.
“That is true,” he croaked hoarsely; “for these two men I heard
speaking to-night when I was taking my pipe, and they thought I could
not hear them--they go to China to-night.”
Soo waited for a time; his head sank on his chest, buried in thought.
Then his eye singled out a thoughtful face which had been turned to
him from the moment he entered. It was the face of a young man who
stood where the shadow of the lamp fell--for one side of the lamp had
been shaded so that no gleam of direct light could be detected from
the street above. With a jerk of his head Soo signed for him to
follow, and without another word the two men left the cellar, the door
closing behind them with a click.
In the shop above T’si Soo turned to his companion.
“Lo-Rang,” he said, “these two men have killed my brother--and yours,
for we of the Society of Good Intention are all brothers, having sworn
by our ancestors to keep faith. Also they have taken away a certain
paper which I sent them to get.”
The younger man inclined his head obediently.
“I sent my brother with them because I feared treachery. He it was--so
the foreigners say--who found the paper, and because they needed it
for their treachery and could get it no other way, they have killed
him.”
“Excellency,” said Lo-Rang meekly, “all this I know. Tell me what I
shall do?”
“Find those men,” said Soo, “and _shah!_”
The young man bowed reverently and turned, disappearing into the back
of the shop.
He returned with a tiny bundle of clothes, and a long, narrow-bladed
knife.
“This is the knife with which I killed a man in Hoo Sin,” he said
proudly, and Soo nodded his acknowledgment.
CHAPTER IV.
THE AMULET OF JADE.
Mr. Raymond de Costa put down his paper, and looked thoughtfully at
his son who sat opposite to him at the breakfast-table.
Gregory de Costa favoured his father in that he was below the medium
height and somewhat stout for a man of twenty-four. His complexion had
a tinge of bronze-red, which is to be found in those families which
trace back to “colour,” and, indeed, there was a history of a
mésalliance which brought wealth but an undesirable Eurasian strain
into the De Costa family. They referred to themselves as a Portuguese
house, and Portuguese they may have been originally; but generations
of De Costas had lived and died in the Madras presidency, illustrious
amongst the chee-chee folk, but unquestionably of them.
Raymond, the elder, was the richest of the De Costa clan. He was fat
and wheezy; his face was swollen with good living and
self-indulgence--for he denied himself none of the excellencies of
life. It was not an attractive face, though the two black eyes that
burned all the time as though with fever, were fascinating. They were
“seeing” eyes; they watched and absorbed all things within their
radius. They were terribly alive and eager. They seemed to denote and
indicate a separate existence to that which the gross, unshapely body
of the man enjoyed.
The elder man--he must have been sixty--raised his be-ringed hand and
gently caressed the stubble of grey moustache on his upper lip.
He was contemplating this dreadful son of his, from his sleek, shiny
head, to his sleek, shiny boots.
“Gregory,” he said after a while, “have you seen the papers this
morning?”
The younger man shook his head.
“No,” he admitted, though in the admission he knew he might earn a
reproof, for he was undergoing a course of education which included a
knowledge of the daily happenings of life.
To his surprise the inevitable lecture was not forthcoming.
Instead----
“The Chinese Ambassador was murdered last night,” said his father
softly.
Gregory stared.
There was something in the very gentleness of Raymond de Costa’s voice
which made the younger man feel uncomfortable.
“Murdered--poor devil!” he said. “Was that where you went last night?
I suppose they sent for you?”
Raymond sat upright suddenly.
“Where I went! What do you mean?” he demanded harshly. “I went
nowhere.”
“I thought I heard you come in at one o’clock,” said the youth,
reaching for an apple from the table. “I didn’t sleep too well.”
The other frowned.
“I did not come in for an excellent reason,” he said with asperity; “I
was in bed at eleven o’clock and I did not stir out of my bed until
Thomas brought my coffee this morning.”
The young man was unconvinced.
“But, governor,” he protested, “I saw Thomas with your boots, and they
were all covered with mud.”
The old man thumped the table with a snarl of anger.
“I wasn’t out of the house last night, I tell you!”
Gregory de Costa was alarmed at the storm he had brought down upon his
head.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled apologetically. “I must have dreamt it.”
“What is this about you’re not sleeping well?” demanded the other,
changing the conversation abruptly. “Are you ill?”
“Ill? No; it’s nothing! I’m just feeling a bit rotten.”
He got up from the table and walked disconsolately to the window,
gazing gloomily into the street.
“Is it that girl of yours?” asked his father with a slight smile.
“Which girl?” asked the other resentfully “Do you mean Miss Yale?”
“Who else?”
The youth was silent for a while.
“She’s not my girl by any means, governor,” he said despairingly. “I
wish to heaven she was! She treats me like dirt--absolutely like
dirt!”
Raymond de Costa smiled.
“Pretty people to treat a son of mine like dirt,” he said
disdainfully. “The mother is head over heels in debt; the girl only
looks presentable because she does a little writing. Why don’t you
make up to the mother?”
The young man turned round, his hands thrust deep into his trouser
pockets, discontent eloquently written on his face.
“The mother’s all right,” he grumbled. “I can twist Mrs. Yale round
that.” He held up a stodgy little finger. “If it was only the mother
there would be no trouble. It’s the girl.”
“Give her presents; women like that sort of thing!” suggested his
father, but the young man shook his head.
“I’ve given her----” He stopped.
“What?”
“Oh, lots of things!” said the youth vaguely. His conscience was
troubling him a little. Something was very much on his mind.