Stolen Idols

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER IV

  At half-past twelve on the following morning Mr. Peter Johnson, dressedin a blue serge suit and patent shoes--a costume which, after muchdeliberation, he deemed suitable for the enterprise on which he wasbent--mounted his two-seated car, drove through the village, exchangingpolite greetings with one or two of his recent acquaintances, and, aftera moment's wait at the lodge gates, proceeded at a subdued pace alongthe winding road which crossed the park and up through the great avenueto the front entrance of the Hall. He left his automobile in a secludedplace and found the door open as he mounted the steps. Rawson,unrecognising, stony of face and feature, took his name. A footmanrelieved him of his hat and gloves. Another subordinate, lurking in thebackground, threw open the door of the library, into which the visitorwas ushered.

  "Mr. Johnson," the man announced.

  Henry Ballaston came forward and greeted his guest with punctiliouscordiality. Then he turned to his brother who had been lounging on thehearth-rug, reading a newspaper, but who now came forward withoutstretched hand.

  "This is my brother, Sir Bertram Ballaston--Mr. Johnson, our new tenantat the Great House."

  The two men shook hands; Mr. Johnson a little formally; his host with anindifferent but pleasant courtesy. Sir Bertram had grown somewhatthinner, perhaps, during the last twelve months of ever increasingfinancial anxiety. His eyes seemed a trifle sunken and the weariness ofhis mouth was a little more pronounced. His smile, however, as heunbent, was as ingratiating as ever and his voice as insinuating.

  "I am very glad to have this opportunity of meeting you, Mr. Johnson,"he said. "You will excuse my having commissioned my brother to representthe family. I happened to be engaged for some days and we were anxiousnot to delay making your acquaintance."

  "Your brother was very welcome," was the prompt assurance. "Very kindand neighbourly of you to look me up at all. I am a complete strangerhere and, I may add, to England."

  "Indeed," Sir Bertram murmured civilly. "Might one enquire then, whilstcongratulating ourselves upon your choice, what made you select thisparticular part of the world for your abode?"

  "Every one seems to ask me that question," Mr. Johnson observed. "Iimagine there was a certain amount of chance about it. I wished tosettle down in England for a time and from all I had heard I thoughtNorfolk the most suitable locality. I went to an agent in Norwich, foundthis house at what I considered a very low rental and establishedmyself."

  "And why not indeed?" Sir Bertram demanded approvingly. "For any one whowishes to live a really retired life amongst rural surroundings a betterchoice could scarcely be made.--I am afraid, Mr. Johnson, that we cannotoffer you anything in the way of a modern aperitif. If a glass ofAmontillado sherry pleases you I think that you will find thisdrinkable. My father was reputed to be a judge."

  Rawson, who had entered with a tray, poured out three glasses from abottle reclining in a cradle, with something approaching reverence inhis manner. Mr. Johnson accepted the sherry and drank wine such as hehad never tasted before. Just as he was setting the glass down, the dooropened and Gregory entered. He came forward with all his father's gracebut a little more impetuously.

  "This is my son Gregory," Sir Bertram announced. "Mr. Johnson,Gregory--our new tenant."

  Gregory's expression, as he had advanced to meet his father's guest, hadbeen one of polite but somewhat indifferent curiosity. He suddenlystopped short, however. The light of amazed recognition flashed in hiseyes. For a brief period of time he was absolutely speechless.

  "I am happy to meet you," Mr. Johnson said.

  Gregory's hand for a moment sought his throat. The blank look ofnon-recognition in the face of this suave, smooth-faced man wasarresting. Yet such a likeness could scarcely be possible. His brain wasstill confused, afire with a surge of memories of that still, oilyriver, the merciless sun, his flesh-biting bonds; afterwards the quiet,cool warehouse, with its pungent odours, its jumble of merchandise, itssombre silences. He became suddenly conscious of his father's surprise,of Henry's questioning frown.

  "Surely," he ventured at last, "we have met before?"

  Mr. Johnson shook his head slowly.

  "Not within my recollection," he acknowledged.

  There was another, although a briefer silence, a matter now only ofseconds, but intense whilst it lasted. Gregory, looking a trifle dazed,held out his hand. His eyes, however, remained fixed upon the other'sface and the wonder had never left them.

  "So sorry to seem such an idiot," he murmured politely, "but even now Iam a little bewildered. We didn't meet fifteen months ago in China--WuLing--the firm of Johnson and Company?"

  The visitor shook his head. His smile was good-natured, but, to a keenobserver, a little sphinxlike. His eyes never wavered.

  "You are mistaking me for some one else," he said. "My name is certainlyJohnson, but it is not an uncommon one and I am quite sure that this isour first meeting."

  "It is my memory which is at fault, then," Gregory observed, relapsingwith an effort into his usual self. "Glad to welcome you here, Mr.Johnson. Rawson, am I to be allowed a glass of the sherry? Good! I needit."

  Luncheon was served with a certain measured but not ungraceful ceremony.The food was excellent and, although the fact was not alluded to, theguest of the meal, who possessed an instinctive appreciation of suchthings, realised that he was drinking cabinet hock of an almost extinctvintage. Conversation never flagged, but it was conducted upon a leveland in a spirit which were a little difficult to the visitor. There wasno attempt at humour or story telling. Even personal reminiscences andquestionings of all sorts were eschewed. There were grave remarks aboutpolitics, county affairs, the prospects of the forthcoming shootingseason. Mr. Johnson ventured to express once more his hope of renting alittle shooting himself.

  "I am afraid," his host regretted, "that such a thing is out of thequestion for the moment. The Ballaston shooting extends for somedistance in every direction, and I do not allow my tenant farmers toconcede their sporting rights. We shall, of course, be happy for you toshoot with us, whenever you feel inclined, but from the point of view ofsport I fear that you have chosen a somewhat unfavourable neighbourhood.I speak of the immediate present. In the near future there may bechanges."

  "The matter does not greatly concern me," was the equable reply. "I haveshot birds and beasts in different places, but I do not pretend to be asportsman. I shall find a great deal of occupation in my garden, incountry walks and motoring."

  "I was telling my son this morning," Sir Bertram observed, "that Iconsider our agent, Mr. Borroughes, was very much to blame for nothaving told you the inner history of the Great House before you tookit."

  "It would, perhaps, have been better," Mr. Johnson admitted. "At thesame time it would have made no difference to my plans. Were you,by-the-by, personally acquainted with my unfortunate predecessor?"

  "We had exchanged some few civilities," Sir Bertram replied. "Ouracquaintance, however, was nothing but that slight affair which existsbetween neighbours. But for the unfortunate tragedy which occurred weshould probably have become more intimate. Mr. Endacott happened to be abrother of an old friend of mine--the Comtesse de Fourgenet, who residesat the Little House. It was for that reason, I imagine, that he electedto settle down in this neighbourhood."

  "There was a niece," Mr. Johnson ventured.

  "A very charming young person," Sir Bertram conceded. "She naturallyenough left the neighbourhood very soon afterwards. I understand,however, that she is expected shortly on a visit to the Little House."

  Luncheon drew towards its close. A very wonderful port was served anddrunk, after preliminary encomiums, in respectful silence. Sir Bertramrose to his feet.

  "We shall find cigars and coffee in the library, Mr. Johnson," he said."If I cannot persuade you to drink another glass of wine we might,perhaps, rise."

  The four men left the room together. The guest of the morning, on hisway across the hall, looked about him with an interest whi
ch wasentirely genuine, for in his way he was a lover of beautiful things.Gregory drew his attention to a famous picture opposite the foot of thestaircase and detained him until they became temporarily detached fromthe others. After a casual reference, indifferently voiced, to aworld-famous old master his tone suddenly changed. It was intense,curiously vibrant.

  "I must ask you once more," he said quietly,--"I must ask you this--Mr.Johnson. Do you remember a man--a brave fellow he was--who used to tradeup the Yun-Tse River amongst the villages? Wu Ling, they called him."

  "Wu Ling?" Mr. Johnson repeated. "A Chinaman?"

  "He passed as such," Gregory admitted. "He might have been anything. Hisname even might have been Johnson."

  The tenant of the Great House smiled tolerantly.

  "Wu Ling," he commented, "is a very nice name. On the whole I prefer itto my own. Mine is and always has been Johnson--Peter Johnson--PeterJohnson of New York."

  Gregory led the way towards the library. It seemed to him that there wasnothing more to be said.

  "Sorry," he apologised. "I am pretty good at faces, as a rule, and Inever thought I could make a mistake about this one. Glad to hear youare a neighbour, Mr. Johnson. We shall find the others in here."

  He threw open the door of the library and ushered in his companion. Hisfather and uncle were talking together with their coffee cups in theirhands. They abandoned their conversation precipitately as the dooropened.

  "I was afraid," Sir Bertram said, "that Gregory was commencing to showyou the pictures. You would find that rather a lengthy undertaking."

  "An undertaking which would interest me very much," Mr. Johnsondeclared. "I understand that one day a week visitors are permitted tosee over the Hall. I shall venture to present myself with the crowd."

  "There is no necessity for you to do anything of the sort," Sir Bertramassured him. "My housekeeper will be glad to show you over at any time.Some of the paintings in the gallery are generally considered to bequite worth inspection, and our tapestries are famous. The chapel has ascreen which, personally, I think the most beautiful in Norfolk. Perhapsyou would care to see it after you have drunk your coffee."

  "I should like to very much," Mr. Johnson confessed.

  Sir Bertram remained a courteous but reserved host, Henry, withstrenuous effort, imparting now and then a note of greater intimacy tothe conversation. Gregory remained silent though restless. After theyhad finished their coffee, they glanced at some of the tapestries andSir Bertram led the way towards the chapel. They passed through thesmaller library which Henry claimed as his own.

  "This is my little sanctum," he announced. "My brother leaves mostmatters connected with the estate in my charge, and this is where I dealwith them before they pass on to Mr. Borroughes."

  The visitor looked curiously around the lofty but somewhat severeapartment, with its neatly arranged shelves of catalogues, its piles ofvolumes of reference, its letter cases and many evidences of businessdetail. An exceptionally large writing table filled the window recess,on which stood a single bronze statue, several curios, a blotter and amassive stationery rack. On the right-hand side the window panellingtook a wide, inward sweep, leaving a space, half platform, halfpedestal. In the centre stood a fine china bowl, filled with deep redroses; on either side--the Body and the Soul.

  Mr. Johnson gazed first at one of the Images, then at the other,speechless, expressionless, but absorbed. All the cynical vice andgrotesque wickedness of the one leered at him from the left-hand side ofthose drooping roses; from the right the kindly benevolent face of asaint seemed to breathe out a strange atmosphere of peace and sanctity.Mr. Johnson made no comment, attempted no criticism, yet his verysilence was in its way suggestive.

  Gregory watched him with eager interest, conscious of a surgingresurrection of certain vague, far-fetched suspicions.

  In the background Henry Ballaston, though his face showed no sign ofemotion, also watched. It was his movement which dispelled those fewseconds of paralysed silence. His voice, always a pleasant onenotwithstanding its formal note, was softer and lower even than usual,but there was a curious glint in his cold blue eyes.

  "You find our miniature Buddhas interesting, Mr. Johnson?" he asked.

  The tenant of the Great House did not at first appear to hear him. Hiseyes were fixed almost to rigidity.

  "Both here!" he muttered. "Both!"

  The effect of his exclamation was disconcerting. His three companionsclosed in a little upon him. There was something menacing about theirsilence.

  "Both?" Sir Bertram repeated at last, with the air of a puzzled man.

  Mr. Johnson appeared to awake from his lethargy.

  "Say, it seems to me," he remarked, lapsing into his first Americanism,"that those two ought to be worth a great sum of money. I've seenphotographs of them when I was travelling in the East. They were stolenfrom a temple, somewhere in China, I think it was. Miniature Buddhas,aren't they?"

  "Stolen!" Sir Bertram murmured.

  "Stolen!" Gregory echoed.

  "This is very interesting," Henry declared. "They came into ourpossession in a somewhat unusual fashion. You think that in the firstinstance they were probably stolen?"

  Mr. Johnson withdrew his eyes from them at last.

  "I should say they surely were," he agreed. "I saw a photograph of themin an American magazine about twelve months ago, with a gigantic Buddhabetween them. They were quoted as having been stolen and being for somereason or other, which I have forgotten, immensely valuable. Columns ofit there were, I remember. The young American who started out to getthem was discovered with his throat cut in the train from Pekinsouthwards. Nobody seemed to know what had become of the Images."

  There was a brief silence; a sudden, almost unaccountable lessening ofthe tension of the last few minutes. Mr. Johnson loomed no longer as asinister figure of fate.

  "The circumstances under which we came into possession of these Images,"Henry intervened, "would seem to preclude the idea of their being theones referred to in your magazine article. Still, the story isinteresting."

  Mr. Johnson turned away without further comment. The subject of theImages was exhausted. The screen in the chapel beyond was inspected.Presently he took a formal leave of his hosts.

  "We shall hope to see more of you, Mr. Johnson," Sir Bertram said, as heaccompanied him on to the terrace. "We do not entertain much at present,but my son will be giving some farewell shooting parties before hisdeparture abroad. We shall hope to number you amongst our guests."

  "Very kind of you, I am sure," Mr. Johnson replied, climbing into hiscar and thrusting in his clutch. "My visit and brief glimpse of yourtreasures has been most enjoyable. Good day, Sir Bertram. Good day,gentlemen."

  He drove off. They stood watching him pass through the iron gates intothe park. Sir Bertram waved his hand light-heartedly, but neither of theother two indulged in any farewell salute.

  "An ordinary sort of fellow, but harmless, I believe," Sir Bertrampronounced.

  "There were moments when I thought otherwise, but on the whole I aminclined to agree with you," Henry conceded, after a moment'sreflection.

  Gregory's thoughts were too confused for speech. He watched the caruntil it became a speck in the distance. Then he turned away andfollowed the others into the house.