Barton stopped in surprise, dubiously surveying the two Orientals; but almost before he had time to say Jack Robinson, Tsung, with a few quick words in Chinese to Fu, whipped out a great foreign-looking military revolver, and pointed it straight at him.
“ Honourable Barton, you will thrust your hands far above your head. You are just in time.”
Barton, bewildered by this unexpected display of hostility, hesitated, then suddenly shot his hands ceilingward. Both hands in the air, he turned and gazed toward the gloriously clad Chan Fu; and his voice was vibrant with scorn.
‘Well, you crooked Chinese traitor!” he ripped out. “So — so you were trying to double-cross me on that red ticket, eh? That’s really funny.”
Fu, obviously ill at ease, made no retort, only speaking in Chinese to Tsung. Whereupon Tsung turned furiously toward the reporter.
Out with it now!” he snarled. “Out with it, sir, and be quick about it! The other half of that red ticket you brought up to Professor Fu’s.”
Barton smiled bitterly. “I’m not just ready to give up that half-ticket,” he announced coolly. “It contains half of a poem that interested me. Something about some coins of Confucius.”
The very mention of the words seemed to work Tsung into a fury. “Search him, Fu,” he commanded the other. “Take it from him at once.”
“Wait, gentlemen,” Barton cautioned suddenly, as Fu started reluctantly toward him. “You have the upper hand of me. I can’t stand out against you. If that half-poem” — it was doubtful whether they could detect the sneer in his voice as he spoke — ”is of any value to you, you are welcome to it. But it’s not on my person. And only on one condition will I tell you exactly where it is. Is that a fair bargain?”
The Chinese professor spoke up eagerly. “Where — where is it?”
Barton ignored him utterly. He continued to address his words towards the squat Oriental who kept the military revolver trained on him. “How about it, honourable Tsung?”
“What is your condition?” the other hit out savagely.
“Simply this,” insisted Barton, flicking away with his toe a tuft of the hair from the mattress. “My curiosity is aroused to such an extent as to how you succeeded in killing that interview with Frangenac to-day, that I’d give anything to know just how it was done. I only want to know what is the meaning of Ling, Frangenac, Savegeau and Tsung.” He paused. “I am no longer with the Dispatch. I am now with the Sun.”
The Chinese prime minister bit his lip eagerly. “You will tell me where the other half of that poem is, if I answer your simple question?”
Barton nodded emphatically. “Absolutely.”
Tsung, without even allowing the barrel of his revolver to waver a second of arc, spoke quickly to Fu in Chinese. The Chinese professor answered him quickly in the same tongue, evidently urging him to do something, for he nodded his head energetically toward Barton and swept his long-sleeved arm about the room.
Tsung at once turned his attention to the newspaper reporter. “That — that is all you wish to know?” he asked cautiously. “And you will immediately disclose the whereabouts of that other half of the poem?”
“I’ll tell you exactly to a dot where it is.” And Barton looked him straight in the eyes.
“Very well then, my friend,” the Chinese minister remarked quietly, “you shall have the little information you want. But remember — you are to return the favour. That is understood?”
CHAPTER XLI
THE TURN OF THE TABLES
BARTON, hands upraised, nodded, whereupon Tsung spoke, scratching his chin doubtfully.
“You are a young man,” he observed sagely. “Yet you have heard, perhaps, of the — the — Boxer uprising in China in 1900?”
“The great uprising against the white foreigners?” Barton replied. He nodded slowly, “Indeed, yes.”
“But you are young, as I say,” continued the other, biting his lip, “and you do not know all the things of that day. In fact, my friend, there was a white man — a man of your own race — who trained and led those people of my country who endeavoured to throw off the hateful foreign yoke. This man was a deserter from the guard around the French legation at Peking. His desertion to the Boxer forces brought invaluable technical military secrets that helped that uprising tremendously. If that Boxer movement had gone through successfully, he would have held a great office in China; but it would have been at the expense of the blood of hundreds of his own race.” Tsung paused. “But when Peking fell before the combined forces of your English, French, Russian and German troops, and the Boxers were driven into the mountains, this Captain Napoleon Savegeau was carried with them with a dum-dum bullet in his knee. And that renegade to his race, that traitor to his colour, was — ”
“Frangenac, city editor of the Dispatch,” put in Barton, with a long-drawn-out whistle. “Good God! but I always wondered who he was and where he had come from.” He looked the other over admiringly. “No wonder you had the goods on him, honourable Tsung. He couldn’t have found a spot on the globe to lay his head in peace, if the world knew that he led the Boxers against his own people. The dog! He — ”
“Allow me to interrupt,” said Professor Fu quietly. “You were, I believe, to establish for us the location of that half-ticket. We are now patiently waiting for you to fulfil your end of the agreement.”
“Gladly,” Barton acquiesced, with a free-and-easy laugh. “The other half of that paper, dear Professor Fu, is out in Bentleyville, Ohio, in the smoking ruins of a baggage car. It has been reduced to a delicate black ash in the wreck of the Washington Flyer. I refer you to the late extras, now on the streets.” He watched the others with curiosity, wondering what effect this bombshell would have upon them.
Its effect was magical. Both men started as though struck with the lash of a whip. Tsung started at him, his face for a moment the picture of defeat. “You lie, you dog!” he snarled. He turned angrily to Fu. “Fu, search him. This play has gone far enough. It was a trick — nothing more. I was a fool to have listened to him in the first place. Go through every pocket, Fu.”
The tall Chinese professor shuffled forward as though not particularly liking his job. He approached Barton, whose hands were still upraised, and inserted his long, lean, yellow talons first into the latter’s breast pocket. Barton submitted meekly to it until Fu began to unbutton his vest; then he suddenly lowered his hands, and with a mighty shove sent the Chinese professor spinning across the room straight into the stomach of Tsung, who was watching operations with the revolver tilted slightly downward.
The latter, his equilibrium upset by the hurtling weight of his companion, staggered back against the wall, putting out one hand wildly to steady himself. But like a flash Barton cleared the room in three great leaps, one which was over the body of Fu, who lay flat on his stomach trying to get up, and shot out his clenched fist straight to the prime minister’s jaw. A second later his fingers closed about the barrel of the gun — and the tables began to turn.
Tsung, with a mighty oath in English, strange to say, lurched at the young man with his yellow fist, still keeping his grip on the handle of the revolver. Barton dodged, and wrenched and tugged at the barrel, trying to wrest the weapon from the hand of the Chinaman. Together they reeled around the floor, tugging, panting, sweating, cursing; and all the while Fu was trying, groaning, to get to his feet. Suddenly, in the struggle, the revolver went off. Barton, his opponent’s wrist pinioned under his own elbow, pushing out with his other hand, heard the ping of the bullet and a faint clattering noise; but all his attention was riveted on the work in hand. With a last mighty twist, in which the Chinese prime minister cried out in pain, the revolver came away in Barton’s hand, barrel first, and he sprang to the clear just in time to dodge the infuriated Fu, who had struggled to his feet and was coming wildly at him, his blackened teeth gleaming in the lamplight.
In a jiffy Barton inverted the gun. “Stop, gentlemen!” he puffed. “Stop — or I’ll shoot — a
s sure as there’s a heaven — for Christians.”
Fu stopped dead in his tracks. His knees seemed to quaver under him. His long arms gesticulated wildly. “See, I have stopped!” he squealed, panic-stricken. “I have stopped! I have stopped! I have stopped!”
Tsung, at the back of him, thrust his own hands to the ceiling. It was plain that he knew the game had completely turned, and saw that further resistance was useless. He spoke to the other sparingly in Chinese, and Fu ceased his excited snivelling.
“Right about face — both of you,” snapped Barton. “Quick — faces toward the rear wall.” He pointed at the wall with his free hand.
Tsung, bitterness in his face, turned with hands upraised. Fu, apparently too scared to act on his own initiative, turned too, following the example of the short, squat Chinese minister. Then Barton found himself master of the situation, both Celestials with their backs to him, their hands in full sight.
“Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, laughing hysterically, “but I would love to play a certain game we boys used to play on the farm! It’s played with the human toe and — ” He stopped, his words trailing away, his lower jaw falling open.
He was looking down at the floor, near the wall. He recalled, as he stared downward, the metallic ping of the bullet which had escaped from the weapon during the struggle, and now for the first time he saw what that bullet’s mark had been. The lead missile had pierced the yellow bowl on the floor, and had splintered it into a dozen jagged pieces. But a peculiar condition of that bowl now showed up under the smoking light from the oil lamp above his head.
Protruding from the rough edge of almost every one of the jagged fragments was a coin, round and massive. Some stuck all the way out; on others, only the tips peeped forth from the clayish composition. But the portions that were exposed showed the glint of gold — old gold, greenish gold, Chinese gold! For a long minute Barton remained staring downward, his eyes popping out of his head. Then he suddenly pulled himself together.
“Forward, march, gentlemen, clear to the wall,” he ordered hurriedly. He stooped down and began loading the jagged fragments into his pockets. “I’ll have to bid farewell to you both in a minute, but when I go I’m thinking I’ll be pulling out with the Twelve Golden Coins of Confucius!”
CHAPTER XLII
A MATTER OF HIGH SPEED
WITH the pockets of his newly-pressed dress-suit bulging to almost bursting with the fragments of the yellow bowl, Barton, never allowing the revolver to waver from the backs of the two stolid Orientals, backed slowly from the place. Reaching the front door of the shop he swung it open, and in a flash slammed it shut, snapping the key in the lock. He jerked the key from the keyhole and ran swiftly and happily down the dark street toward the waiting taxi.
Passing a sewer inlet, he ran out to the kerb and dropped the key down the broad mouth. As he flew on toward the stationary vehicle, he heard back of him at Sam Toy’s shop a furious pounding on the doors and windows, but he ran on.
The taxicab driver was just emerging from the door of the saloon, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Taxi!” panted Barton. “Sun office — Market Street — drive like hell!”
The driver hesitated. “But — but I just brought two gents to that there laundry back there. They ain’t paid their bill yet. And they told me to wait.”
Nervously Barton jerked out his roll of money. He tore off a crisp five. “There’s their money,” he lied gracefully. “They told me they weren’t coming. Now hop up and put me at the Sun office as fast as your old tank can go.”
The driver at the sight of the bill smiled a broad Irish smile. He grabbed it, and with one curious look back toward the shop from which came sounds like the beating of fists on the windows and door panels, he grinned and climbed into the seat of his machine. And as Barton closed the door with a slam he shot off with a lurch that threw his lone passenger flat against the cold cushions.
Around to Wells Street he flew, over the bridge that covered a dark gap through which spat numberless red and green lights from the masts of moored vessels, and on to Madison Street he turned sharply, and with a grinding and shrieking of the brakes stopped dead in front of the Sun office.
Barton was out on the running-board before it had come to a stop. “Wait here,” he told the chauffeur, and with a bound was up the outer steps of the newspaper office. Up the inside stairs he went four at a time, and racing past the open door of the city room, hurled himself against the ground-glass panels of Britton’s office, through which the light showed. He jerked open the door and shot through the tiny anteroom, empty at this hour of night, and flung open the door of the private office inside.
Britton, his finger on the electric switch, stood near the wall with his hat and gloves on. His cane lay across the table, and his flat-top desk was all in order. It was plain that he was just leaving for home.
“I got ‘em, Mr. Britton!” shouted Barton excitedly. “The whole twelve of ‘em — the Coins of Confucius.” He pointed to the big vault in the corner of the room. “But for God’s sake, man, lock ‘em up at once — without delay! They’re the biggest things in the history of China. They — ”
He stopped. One by one he hurriedly turned the pockets of his suit inside out, dumping forth the jagged fragments of heavy yellow pottery. From one of the pieces a coin dislodged itself and rolled off the table to Britton’s feet. The older man stooped dumbly down and picked it up, studying it bewilderedly under the bright light above his head.
“Man, man!” he ejaculated slowly. “How — how did you do it? Where did you get ‘em? What was — ”
“Never mind now, Mr. Britton,” broke in the other hastily. “Don’t stop to examine ‘em — to count ‘em — or anything. Get every one into that vault with three inches of cold steel on the outside of them. I’m off now.” He broke one of the fragments on the table with a sharp rap, and slipped the freed disc of gold into his vest pocket. “I’ll keep this one for the time being.”
Britton, galvanised into sudden action at the younger man’s tense attitude, peeled off his tan gloves, tossed his brown derby hat in the corner, and a second later was standing in front of the big vault, with the massive doors swung open, depositing the jagged fragments of pottery in a steel drawer at the rear. Barton was already at the door.
“Wait for me until I come back,” he shot out. “Can’t stop now. Things are breaking fast. But don’t open that vault for anyone in God’s kingdom — whatever you do,” and he was gone.
Down the stairs he ran, leaving the dumbfounded Britton standing in front of the vault scratching his head. Into the waiting taxicab Barton bounded. “Hotel Rydenour,” he snapped. “And speed — speed — make speed.”
The cab shot eastward and was soon on Michigan Avenue, In front of the Rydenour, Barton climbed out. He gazed down Congress Street, and a short distance off spied the opening of an alley-way that led into the back of the building. So he leaned over close to the driver’s ear.
“Run your machine over to that alley-way,” he instructed, “and be ready to make the quickest journey of your life. Never mind expense. You’re getting double pay, my man. And I pay the fines.”
And he was in the hotel and scurrying through the lobby.
The elevator boy whisked him to the fifteenth floor, and the moment the car descended, Barton dived through the door that marked Suite 15 B, and reaching the dark window that led out to the fire-escape, was down it and into Suite 14 B before twenty seconds had elapsed. He ran lightly down the corridor and pounded wildly on the door that marked Suite 14 B. The maid answered it, but he shoved her aside and pushed his way into the room.
Over in the great chair under the lamp, her chin in her hands, sat the Princess O Lyra Seng, the picture of unhappiness. The moment Barton appeared in front of her she sprang up, her eyes glowing with a strange light — the light of surprise, of welcome.
“You — you — came back?” she breathed. “And why — ”
Barton strode quickly over to her. He took her two slim hands in his.
“Princess, I must say quickly what I am going to say. When last I saw honourable Tsung, I left him locked in a Chinese laundry where he was trying to get his fingers on the Twelve Coins of Confucius. Any second he will arrive here. But I have those coins — all of them. Think of it, Princess. It sounds unbelievable, but I cannot stop now to explain. You must just believe me, that’s all.
“To-day I told you I loved you. I love you more as every minute passes. Your every action has shown me that you care for me in the one way that really counts. So shall we make a grotesque mistake by parting to-night, never to meet again? Or shall we do what God intended those to do — who — who — have discovered each other? Perhaps my words sound as though I am crazy. Perhaps I am dreaming it all. But I am going ahead with my question — no matter what happens. I want to marry you not to-morrow — not next week — not some day when it will be hopelessly impossible — but to-night — right now — when it is possible. An hour from now and it will be too late. You must think quickly, Princess. Remember — I have the Twelve Coins of Confucius.”
He drew from his vest pocket the one greenish disc he had kept possession of, and held it in front of her eyes. “No matter what happens, this — the other eleven, too — will go back to the Emperor of China — to the nation itself. But I want something bigger and better than those. I — I want to steal the Emperor’s daughter.” He looked down at her. “What is your answer, O Lyra? It must come quick — or never!”
Her eyes wide with astonishment, perhaps instinctive awe, she gazed at the greenish gold coin in his fingers. “It — it — it is of the Twelve!” she breathed. “Oh, I can’t comprehend — as yet! But it is one of them — that I have seen so often with my own eyes in the palace.” She turned her face up to his, and her eyes beamed with pride — pride of him. “I am so — so glad you came back. When you go, then I realise suddenly that O Lyra Seng have make mistake of her life. I know then that I like more than to love — I like to marry with you. I do not know how you get these twelve historical coins, and I do not ask; I only believe you.
Sing Sing Nights Page 21