Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China

by George F. Worts

  CHAPTER IX

  The sky was clearing. Rain had ceased dripping from the bulging blackclouds, and a slender rod of golden sunlight pierced through and markeda path upon the red bricks of the inn courtyard. Hazy in thegreen-and-purple distance could be glimpsed the yellow withers of thewestern 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 thestamping animals in the enclosure. His hat was in his hand, and themountain breeze assailed his blond hair, which, rumpled and curly, gavehim 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 hadleft Ching-Fu for a trip to Kialang-Hien, a village of the third ordersome fifty _li_ distant, the morning before. Whether to follow or waitwas the question.

  Somewhere afield a valiant bronze gong called infidels to the feet ofan insufferable clay god.

  Peter's flow of thought was interrupted. Unnoticed a girl--at firstglance the virtuous daughter of a mandarin--was approaching. Herabruptness and her appearance caught him so completely off guard thathe 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, thisone. She was young and exquisitely slim, with wisdom and sadnesswritten upon her colorless face, and he was informed by a single glanceat her exploring bright eyes and the straightness of her fine blackbrows, that she was half-breed, Eurasian.

  Those shining eyes, not unlike twin jade beads, were sparkling. Herlips were thin and as red as betel. Her garb was satin, bright withgold filigree and flashing gems; and her dainty feet were disfiguredrather than adorned by bright-red sandals. Her feet, however, were notthe "feet of the lily," for the lithe grace of her stride was ampleproof that they had not been bound.

  The dying sun outlined through the folds of her bizarre garment anklesstraight, slender, and probably naked.

  Rosy color moved swiftly into her satiny complexion while, with apretty, inquisitive frown, she scrutinized him; and then, with a flickof her black eyelashes, she ran toward the arched doorway, leavingPeter to ponder, and scratch his blond head, and demand amazingexplanations of himself.

  It was a dominating trait in Peter never to lose time securinginformation that was interesting to him; but the old proprietor, withhis wise and varnished smile, could vouchsafe very little ofconsequence.

  The young woman, he admitted, was named Naradia. She was accompaniedby her husband, a young Chinese of high birth, who manifested no moresigns of activity to an outward world than a baffling secretness.

  The two of them had arrived from down-river on a sailing junk the weekbefore. The husband's name was Meng, he believed, and since he hadcome, the old man declared, many strange and warlike faces hadmysteriously appeared in Ching-Fu.

  Such visitors were not uncommon in the villages which bordered themerchants' trail, from the Yangtze to the Irriwaddi, but Peter'sinterest was kindled. As he made off in the direction of the mostreliable village mule-seller, he decided that the secretive youngbridegroom, Meng, might be worth cultivating.

  From a soft-tongued and hardened swindler Peter procured a mule, andarranged to have the animal in the caravansary at daybreak. It was hisintention to start for Kialang in search of Eileen with the firsttender glow of dawn.

  After dining he waited in the compound for a glimpse of the mysteriousMeng, or his ravishing bride, Naradia. Unsuccessful, he returned tohis room. His Chinese valet was brewing jasmin-tea when Peter openedand shut the bedroom door. His pajamas were neatly laid out upon hiscouch, and the rugs were neatly furled back. He detected the acrid andpleasing 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 theboy 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 raincoatpocket. The metal glittered pleasantly in the yellow light from thesuspended lamp. The cup of tea had served to waken him. He releasedthe cartridge clip from the automatic's handle and stared thoughtfullyat the glowing lead balls.

  He became conscious of a sound, alien and untimely. The door wasrattling softly. He studied it with interest; the wooden handle wasturning slowly, first to the right, then to the left.

  The phenomenon puzzled him. His eyes were sparkling a little as hequietly 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, grippinga 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 tobe 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 oiledwick, jutting from a tiny bronze cup which was bracketed to ascantling, burned and sputtered.

  Under the door across the way a thin streak of yellow light indicatedthat the mysterious young Chinese and his bride had not yet retired.

  As Peter was examining the floor for blood stains the door budgedinward sufficiently to panel the terrified face of the Eurasian girl hehad seen earlier in the evening. At sight of him she shut the doorhastily.

  Perplexed, he went to the stairway and peered into the stark blanknesswhich swam up to the third step below him. He was at a loss to accountfor the air of serenity which still dwelt in the inn. Surely the threerevolver shots had been overheard; yet the place was as silent as thegrave, and quite as ominous. Where were the servants, the caravanboys, the muleteers, the traders and merchants? He dismissed as absurdthe theory that the walls of his room were stout enough to muffle theshort-barreled blasts.

  An isolated sound, a swish of discreet garments, a prudent gratingsound, as of a window lifted or a chair moved, then came to him, andunquestionably it came from his own room.

  Peter left the staircase to its gloomy shadows.

  The room was unoccupied. Basing his next action upon sound and triedexperience, Peter put out the lamp and hazarded a glimpse out of thewindow.

  A sharp, round moon was perched high in a star-studded heaven, fairlyilluminating a muddy street and the low-thatched roofs of nearbydwellings. A horse whinnied and stamped in the enclosure, and from adistance rose the moody growl of the rapids.

  Irritated and nervous, Peter felt for the couch and sank down in theblackness, with the revolver dangling idly across one knee.

  At that instant he was thrilled to the roots of his hair by a scream,strangely muffled.

  Peter indulged in a shiver as he stole to the door on tiptoe, opened itquietly, and looked out. There was terror in that scream; it was theoutcry of a human in the clutch of real horror.

  The door across the way was slightly ajar, letting out an orangeeffulgence which lighted the boards, the opposite wall, and the grimyceiling. Indistinctly he discerned a motionless clump, and, catchingthe white flicker of steel he sprang across, wrapping his fingers abouta struggling wrist.

  Immediately the orange light was broadened, then darkened by a tallfigure, but Peter's back was turned.

  An eager sigh, as if heartfelt relief, was given out by the secondshadow.

  The knife, under Peter's pressure, dropped to his feet, and, quite surethat the time was now past to ask polite questions, Peter brought downthe butt of the revolver with a smart slap where the long black pigtailjoined a fat little head. With a throaty gurgle his victim joined theshadows of the floor.

>   A soft, white hand was laid upon Peter's right arm, and he foundhimself glaring into the blanched face of the girl Naradia. Her smallfingers hardened upon the flesh of his hand, and he was aware that shewas staring imploringly across his shoulder.

  Peter spun about and for the first time was aware of the presence ofthe indolent figure in the doorway. The glow of a cigarette was at theman's lips, but the darkness prevented scrutiny.

  The rapid procession of mysterious events had unnerved Peter. Thesilent and indolent presence of the stranger in the doorway put thespark to his long-withheld indignation. He lifted the revolver's nosemenacingly.

  The cigarette glowed a bright red, as if in amazement.

  "You," he snapped, "whoever you are--pick this man up. Carry him intomy room. And you," he added sharply to the girl, "follow him!"

  The cigarette fell to the planks, and the tall man put his heel uponit. The careless movement gave Peter his first glimpse of the man'sprofile. The man smiled faintly. He took the unconscious assailant ofNaradia by the heels and dragged him into Peter's room.