The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  On the handkerchief which had rested against Noah’s face appeared only a faint grayish-brown stain. “Who cleaned the wound?” demanded Cube, straightening abruptly.

  “No one,” she responded. “Dr. Mitchell said that Mr. Lacey must have suffered from a form of pernicious anemia. He had practically no blood. That is strange, too, for until just a few days ago Mr. Lacey possessed a rather florid complexion. He drank a good deal, you know, although the only time I saw him intoxicated in the slightest perceptible degree was after this weakness had come to him.”

  “When did you first notice the difference in his complexion and strength?”

  “Last Wednesday, a week ago tomorrow. Until that morning he had been vigorous for a man of his age. All in one night he seemed to wilt. The color left his face and he began drinking constantly to keep himself up. I tried to get him to consult a physician but he absolutely refused, telling me that no American doctor could help him. But you are more interested now in other things. Here is the chair against which he fell.”

  She indicated one of three slim mahogany chairs standing before the long telephone table. On the sharp corner of a seat a grayish-brown stain showed above the polished surface. Cube pursed his lips thoughtfully. He could not dispute the girl’s statements, for a single glance showed him that the angle of wood fitted exactly the wound which had caused Lacey’s death. Oddly enough, however, the stain no more resembled blood than did the clotted moisture gathered upon Lacey’s temple. Cube studied it a moment with his hand lens, then taking a pen-knife and sheet of white paper from his pocket he scraped away with extreme care a tiny portion of the stain, placed it on the paper and folded the latter into compact shape.

  At this moment the coroner arrived, accompanied by Dr. Mitchell and Inspector Harris. Cube was forced to suspend his own activities while the others retraced his steps. At first, when he made known his identity as nephew of the dead man, the coroner stared suspiciously at him—evidently filing away a mental note to question Cube exhaustively at some later time. After full consideration of apparent factors, though, he expressed himself satisfied that Noah’s death had been a regrettable accident. “I’ll have to hold an inquest this afternoon,” he said at last, “but it will be nothing much more than a matter of form. Dr. Mitchell states that Mr. Lacey was known to have had fainting spells. Undoubtedly one of these overtook him.”

  Five minutes after the others had left, Cube turned directly to Irene Jeffries. “Now I am ready to have you tell me why you believe my uncle was murdered,” he said.

  Without comment she walked to the telephone table, lifted one of the instruments, and handed him a folded sheet of paper which had been concealed there. He opened it and read the following curious statement:

  “I am convinced that I have but a few days to live. I am being murdered by members of the T’ao tong. Noah Lacey.”

  “There have been Chinese about this place ever since I came!” Irene whispered, glancing involuntarily over her shoulder as she spoke.

  “Chinese!” echoed Cube, his mind reverting instantly to the tentative theory which he had mentioned to Guest.

  “Yes!” she affirmed. “Twice I—I saw them inside this house! Kohler Andrews shot at one but did not hit him. Each time the man escaped, and none of us could discover how he had gained entrance. Mr. Lacey feared them. Somehow he had incurred their enmity. From hints he dropped at one time or another I believe they were trying to get something which he possessed, something he valued more highly even than his life. He never told me anything concerning its nature, but did show me at one time a pink scrap of paper which had been glued against the surface of the hidden door to his suite of rooms. Mr. Lacey took the paper, and I did not get a very good look at the single character upon it. It was a Chinese ideograph, however, one which resembled a turkey track to which were appended several rings and scrolls. I think it must have had something to do with this tong he mentions, for at the time it seemed to disturb him tremendously. He made all of us take revolvers, and come with him while he scoured every nook and corner of the house. We found no signs of intruders. For days thereafter, though, Mr. Lacey seemed to be waiting, waiting for something to happen. He strapped a pistol holster about his waist, and wore it even when he went to bed.”

  Cube’s eyes were enigmatic as he turned toward the telephone table. “Which of these instruments will give me an outside wire?” he asked.

  “The one furthest to the left.”

  Lifting the receiver then Cube Lacey called his own office and spoke long and earnestly to Sherrod Guest. Though he little imagined any such horrible contingency connected with the errand, he was sending his comrade and associate to almost certain doom.

  One minute after he replaced the receiver the back basement door of an apartment just outside the wall of Brick Knob opened, and a Chinaman appeared, to glance hurriedly about and then hasten to a point two blocks distant. There at the curb a low-slung roadster awaited.

  Chapter V

  Sherrod Guest’s initial smile of satisfaction and intensified interest changed into seriousness as he heard the commission given him by Lacey, “Go down into Chinatown and discover all there is to be learned concerning the T’ao tong. Those are the chaps we’re after, it seems.”

  As a reporter Guest once had invaded the queer district centering about Twenty-second and Archer Avenues, in search of material and photographs for an article on Chinese music. Unacquainted with the language and all forms of Oriental belief, he had been forced to confess failure on the assignment. Now he boarded a street car with little expectation of success. For a white man, the job of learning anything pertaining to yellow men’s secrets always is made next to impossible. He knew only enough of tongs, their methods and activities, to realize that a westerner would find out just exactly what the Chinese wished him to know, and not a whit more.

  He sought first the bland, educated Sam Lee Moy—known as “king of Chinatown,” and an oily politician who grafted both from his own countrymen and from the furtive, white-faced individuals who came regularly to pay over their dollars for small tins of a commodity practically unobtainable elsewhere in the city. As usual he was pacing slowly back and forth before the shops and tenements of his small domain, watchful for strangers, though seeming to beam good-nature and fellow-ship toward all who passed. Guest hailed him, and with cynical recognition of Moy’s proclivities, pressed a folded two-dollar bill into the yellow palm. Moy glanced at it, and smiled.

  “For some it is a symbol of bad luck,” he commented unctuously, “but not for me. You are the one who three years ago wished to see some of the instruments for music-making of my countrymen?”

  “Yes, you remember me all right,” replied Guest, nodding. “I’m not musically inclined today, though. I’d like to have a chat with you in private, Sam. I’m after a little information, and there are more of those little bad luck omens for you if you can tell me what I want to know.”

  Moy bowed. “I have a room up here,” he answered, indicating a narrow doorway behind which greasy stairs led upward into unlighted obscurity. As Guest strode ahead, it was noticeable that Moy lingered the fraction of a second to make a curious sign with his fingers in the direction of a squatting loafer who sat smoking in front of a wholesale grocery several houses distant. The loafer immediately rose to his feet and shuffled away.

  Guest ushered himself into the bare, barn-like room overhead, but refused the mat offered him by Moy. “No, it’ll only take a minute,” he said. “I want to know just a little about these tong societies you fellows have. What is the T’ao tong, and where can I get in touch with one of the head members in Chicago?”

  Moy’s eyes narrowed slightly, yet the cheerful expression of his features did not alter in perceptible degree. “Tong?” he murmured, as if at a loss for Guest’s meaning.

  “Yes, the secret societies, I mean. Particularly the T’ao bunch.”

  Moy seemed to ruminate. “There are many tongs in old China,” he admitted, at las
t. “I know of them, of course, in a general way, for some have branches in San Francisco and elsewhere. You know, however, that I was born in Canada, and never have worn the queue. For that reason I have not become a member of any such order. As a matter of fact I don’t believe many of the Chinese in this neighborhood have any affiliations with the big societies.”

  Guest waved his hand. “Oh, never mind the bunk, Sam,” he begged. “I can get all that stuff out of books. You haven’t been with these chaps all your life and failed to learn the general stuff I want to know. Just tell me something about the T’ao tong, and we won’t waste time with the others. I have some business to transact with them, and I don’t find them in the ’phone directory.”

  Moy’s brows wrinkled. “It is strange,” he muttered. “I know of the Wah Pu, and the Dragon, and—Really, so far as I know there is no organization by the name you give either here or in China. Gladly would I earn more of your good money, but—”

  An idea seemed to occur to him. “It comes to mind,” he added, measuring the palm of one hand against that of the other, “that there is one old and very wise man back here who might be able to tell you what you wish to know. Charlie Sing can be approached at any time, for his years rest upon him too heavily to allow him to walk out upon the streets. Come, I shall show you the way.”

  Guest acquiesced readily. He knew that among these Chinese any white man seeking information is regarded with deep suspicion. Lengths of red tape have to be unrolled before even the simplest question receives a straightforward answer. Probably Moy wished to divide responsibility, or perhaps this was his indirect method of introducing Guest to the very man whom he was seeking. The latter estimate seemed more probable. Guest took a chance upon it and rewarded Moy with another bill, which was received with profuse thanks—albeit the shadow of a more sinister expression lurked behind the urbane mask of the Oriental.

  They did not retrace their steps to the street. Moy led the way backward from the staircase through a musty, unlighted corridor smelling of Chinese onions, and stale smoke of punk. The way elbowed twice, bringing them to a succession of unmarked, dingy doors. Moy opened one of these, turning immediately inside to descend wooden stairs built in a crooked spiral. For the first time a qualm of apprehension attacked Guest, but the cold touch of an automatic in jacket pocket reassured him. He went on, following the shadowy form of his guide. The dank smell of earth mingled now with odors of humanity. Guest knew that they were below street level, in some sort of basement.

  At the bottom of the stairs a single candle guttered in drafts from three corridors. Moy stopped. “Follow this hallway to the end!” he directed. “Take the candle, for there are two stairs down which you might stumble. It is better that I do not go with you to Charley Sing, but those you will find in that last chamber will direct you.” Presently, with a bow and final smile, in which Guest imagined he detected an odd glint of malignity, Moy was gone. With a shrug for the fears which crowded upon him, Guest took up the candle in his left hand, and grasping the pistol in his pocket with the right, stepped forward into the designated corridor.

  No warning came to him, the springing of the trap was accomplished with silent swiftness. All at once a heavy, swathing cloth descended over head and shoulders, extinguishing the candle and enveloping Guest in musty-smelling, suffocating folds. He tried to yank out the pistol, but with practiced dexterity a rope was wound tightly about his arms, pinioning them to his sides. A hand reached up from somewhere and yanked away the automatic, which exploded once, fruitlessly. Another loop tightened about his ankles. Helpless, he toppled into the arms of his captors.

  Chapter VI

  Both Irene Jeffries and Cube Lacey were present at the inquest. Kohler Andrews and his wife—the latter a dull, large woman apparently honest enough, but knowing little or nothing save what her husband told her—also were summoned and questioned perfunctorily. It developed that the two had served Noah Lacey for eighteen years, that they regarded him as a generous employer, though one given to many cranky notions. Andrews testified that his master long had left the routine portions of his business in the hands of a business manager, Nathan Hardy by name. Andrews—whose name originally had been Politsky—believed that Hardy had bought out a one-third interest. The fact was corroborated later by Hardy himself.

  Noah Lacey never had cared much for the pursuit of money-making. After establishing on a firmer basis his inherited business, he devoted himself, except for eight or ten hours a week, to the artistic side of pottery and ceramics. He had studied abroad, and traveled in the Orient where he had picked up some of the beautiful specimens of fictile art which now decorated his home. He had made much pottery himself, possessing a complete and extensive laboratory in the basement of his house. According to Andrews, however, he had ordered the latter for many years to smash up almost every jar, vase, or completed specimen. “And some of them was worth lots of money, to!” concluded Andrews.

  “How do you know?” flashed Cube Lacey, who had been studying the man’s iron visage. It had seemed that a momentary flash of apprehension—quite as if Andrews had let slip something he had not intended to mention—had come and gone in the witness’s face. Inspector Harris and all the rest turned to regard Cube coldly.

  “I fail to see where that question is at all pertinent,” rebuked the coroner. “You will kindly not interrupt again, Mr. Lacey.”

  Cube nodded resignedly. The inquest proceeded, unearthing nothing incompatible with the theory of death by accident, until Cube himself was called. He told of his relationship to the dead man, of his visit on the previous day, and then presented to the coroner the note which Lacey evidently had written only a short time before his death. Cube had considered it his duty to bring forth this piece of evidence, but it received little attention. Noah Lacey was characterized as a man given to delusions. When Cube attempted to mention the fact that Chinese intruders twice had been seen inside the house despite all precautions against their entry, the fact was waved aside.

  “Before we place any particular value upon that,” replied the coroner, “we must remember that Mr. Lacey continually kept art objects—vases, rugs and other valuable specimens easily transported by thieves—to the value of more than one hundred thousand dollars in the house all the time. I scarcely wonder that he had all these elaborate precautions, or that he was troubled by Chinese thieves. Undoubtedly Chinese not only would appreciate these things most fully, but they would have a ready market, right at hand.”

  The verdict was predestined. Noah Lacey had died through an accident resulting from a fainting spell brought on by poor health. Of all those present outside of Irene Jeffries and Cube, Inspector Harris was the only one who lingered five minutes after the verdict had been given.

  He drew aside Irene and chatted with her a short time, ending by laughing and patting her upon the shoulder in fatherly fashion. Instantly, Cube conceived a dislike for the detective, whose eight years of seniority did not give him any great right to act thus toward a very pretty girl. Cube had considered it his duty to protect Irene, but—well, Harris was different!

  One curious fact in respect to the inquest recurred to Cube later. They had not asked Irene Jeffries a single question! Grimly he smiled at this evidence of inefficiency. In a conscientious manner he had endeavored to put forward all the facts in his possession because he did not feel like assuming the whole burden of responsibility. Now, the law had divorced itself definitely from the case, scoffing at the possibility of crime. If Cube and Sherrod Guest could prove that a murder had been committed, and catch the guilty parties, the affair would prove indeed to be the big, spectacular case for which they had hoped!

  Harris confirmed this in parting. He stopped a moment at the door. “I’ve just placed you, Lacey,” he observed, smiling condescendingly. “You’re the young chap who’s running that new detective agency with Sherrod Guest, eh? Well, take a tip from an old timer. Be content with the dough the old bird leaves you. Don’t waste time trying to ma
ke a mystery out of an open-and-shut case.” He nodded affably, and disappeared.

  * * * *

  Cube lacey was under no delusion regarding a possible share in the wealth left by Noah Lacey. He had been offered such a chance and had declined it. Without doubt Irene Jeffries would inherit; at any rate Cube refused to worry over the matter.

  Irene broached the matter of staying longer, as soon as they were alone. “You—won’t need me any more now, will you?” she asked, rather timidly.

  “Need you?” echoed Cube, mystified. “Oh no, I see what you mean. You won’t want to remain in this house over night, naturally. I’ll stay on. There are a few things I want to examine this evening—the workshop downstairs, and so on. If you have a place in the city to which you can go, I’ll expect you in the morning.”

  She glanced at him peculiarly. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” she countered. “I—well, since you’re here, there really isn’t any use my coming back, unless you—”

  A light dawned upon Cube. She imagined that he naturally would inherit the house and everything, and that her connection with Noah Lacey was ended! Of course he knew nothing of the circumstances under which she had become his ward, yet Noah Lacey undoubtedly had remembered her handsomely, as he had no other apparent beneficiaries. When his lawyers brought forward his will this would be settled. In the meantime he had no intention of assuming the slightest air of proprietorship.

  “Nothing doing, Ir—hm, Miss Jeffries!” he smiled. “Really, as you ought to know, I’m just in this as a matter of business speculation. I am out to make a name for myself, if possible, and bring to justice the men responsible for my uncle’s death. But you’re the boss, of course.”