The Manchu Skull

by Emile C. Tepperman

  King stared at her almost suspiciously. “Do you mean to say that the Sung Tong is holding your brother a prisoner—here in New York?”

  “I don't know where, but I know he's a prisoner. They brought me a letter from him to prove it.”

  “All right,” said King. “Go on! What happened when you brought the hatbox to On Long Sin's office?”

  “I've told you.”

  He smiled faintly and shook his head. “You haven't told me everything. You haven't told me about the rubies.”

  Roxanna Moore looked utterly blank. “What rubies?”

  Silently he took the pigeon-blood ruby from his pocket and held it up. “Haven't you seen this before? With a hundred and six like it?”

  She shook her head. “It's beautiful. But this is the first time I've seen it.”

  King sighed. “Those rubies were hidden in the Manchu skull. There is a cunning receptacle in it. The rubies came in the skull.”

  She stared at him, aghast. “You. . . you think I'm lying to you?”

  “I don't know what to think,” he said wearily. “But if your story is true, I'll help you. Come with me.”

  He helped her out of the car, and picked up the hatbox. Then he guided her to a doorway a few feet back.

  “This is my office,” he told her. “It's the only place in New York where you'll be safe tonight. The Sung Tong is after your life.”

  King's office was a small street-front store. The glass window and the glass panel of the door were protected by heavy steel-wire grating. The glass itself was bullet proof. On the window there appeared Chinese lettering, and alongside it, the same words in English:

  CHRISTOPHER KING

  Resident Buyer

  Of

  ORIENTAL ANTIQUES

  King opened the door and led her inside. He went to the back of the office and placed the hatbox with the Manchu skull in the wall safe.

  He saw Roxanna watching him. “What are you going to do?” she asked in a small voice.

  “I'm going to check on your story,” he informed her. “If it's true that your brother is a prisoner of the Sung Tong, I'll find him for you. And incidentally, I intend to find the murderer of On Long Sin!”'

  He swung the safe door closed and twirled the dial. “Stay right here,” he told Roxanna. “You'll be as safe here as in a fortress. Open for no one—no one at all. Understand?”

  She nodded. “But why should you do all this for me? I'm a stranger to you. Because of me, you've made enemies of the powerful Sung Tong. They'll kill you on sight—”

  He smiled. “I was in a pretty tight place when you appeared with your coupe. I'm grateful for that.”

  Suddenly there were tears in the eyes of Roxanna Moore. “I'm afraid—for you. A Mongolian fortuneteller read my palm in Shanghai just before I embarked. He said that I would bring death wherever I went. I laughed at him then. But so many men have died tonight. And now you're going—”

  He stroked her hair. “Don't worry. The Left-handed Swordsman is pretty hard to kill. I think you've told me the truth, Roxanna. I'll find your brother for you.”

  He pulled down the Venetian blinds over the window, so that no one could look in. Then he left her and went out, setting the double locks on the door so that they clicked shut behind him.

  He got into Roxanna's coupe and drove it around the block. It was a rented Drive-Yourself car. But the hatchet men of the Sung Tong would recognize it, and he didn't want it in front of his office as a signpost for them.

  He left the car and walked slowly back to Pell Street.

  CHAPTER IV. THE VENERABLE LEADER!

  PELL STREET was still ominously quiet. The neon sign in front of the Far Long Sin Restaurant was once more alight, but the street lamp opposite had not been repaired. Also, there were lights in the Sung Tong building.

  King twirled his cane as he approached the Sung Tong headquarters. His muscles were taut and ready. He saw a small group of the big, raw-boned hatchet men in front of the building entrance. They spotted him at the same time.

  Their hands slid into their sleeves, where they kept the long, hungry knives.

  King came to a stop, facing them.

  “I wish to speak with the Venerable Leader of the Sung Tong,” he said in Cantonese. “I have the Manchu skull. If you kill me now, the skull will be lost to you forever.”

  The hatchet men shuffled uncertainly. They glanced at each other.

  At last one of them said: “Wait here! Do not go away, King san.”

  He turned and disappeared into the building. The others watched King impassively, beady eyes fastened upon him, hands still hidden in their sleeves.

  The man was not gone more than two minutes. He appeared in the doorway and said: “Enter, King san. But the Venerable Leader instructs me to say that you enter without the protection of the Sung Tong's hospitality. You may not enjoy the privileges of an invited guest.”

  King smiled tightly. “I understand. If I were to have the privileges of an invited guest, the tong would be obligated to see that I departed in safety.”

  “You know our customs as well as we ourselves, King san!”

  the Chinese murmured. “We honor you for a brave man. And we are sorry that you are coming to your death! But first, since you ask it, you shall be allowed to speak with the Venerable Leader.”

  King shrugged. He twirled the cane, and mounted the steps. He passed between the tense and silent hatchet men, and stepped into the hallway of the Sung Tong building.

  At once the hatchet men came in behind him. The door closed.

  King followed his guide down a carpeted hallway. He was conscious of the hatchet men close behind him.

  At the end of the hallway, the guide pulled aside a rich Bokhara tapestry which covered a doorway. He stepped aside and motioned with his hand.

  King stepped past him into the audience room of the Sung Tong.

  His feet sank deep into the thick-napped Afghanistan rug which covered the entire floor. His nostrils dilated with the odor of incense from two braziers on either side of a high ceremonial chair in the center of the room, where sat the Venerable Leader of the Sung Tong, clad in a long silken gown of purest white, and a black skullcap.

  King stopped stock-still just within the room, staring with narrowed eyes at this powerful chief of the Sung Tong.

  “Pu Yee!” he exclaimed.

  The venerable old curio importer was hardly recognizable now, attired in the rich ceremonial vestments.

  “My heart is very heavy, King san,” he said in Cantonese, “that you come now as an enemy of the Sung Tong. I cherished you always as a friend. I tried to warn you, hoping that you would go back, and not mix yourself with the affairs of the tong.”

  King came forward slowly, until he was less than ten feet from Pu Yee. The hatchet men moved up quickly, and ranged themselves on either side of him, as if to prevent him from doing harm to their leader. Their slant eyes were fixed upon the sword-cane in King's hand. They knew how swiftly it could flick out of the scabbard and strike. Their hands came out of their sleeves with knives. They would make sure that no harm came to their chief.

  BUT Pu Yee smiled sadly and motioned to them to do nothing.

  “It is written that you must die, King san. You have killed men of the Sung Tong. The honor of the society demands your life. But out of friendship, I will hear what you wish to say.”

  “Thank you,” said King. He stood stiff as a ramrod before the old man, his eyes cold and hard. “Since it is to be war, Pu Yee, I will state my message quickly. I have the Mahchu skull in my possession. You are holding here as a hostage, a boy—Daniel Moore. I will give you the Manchu skull in return for his life and for a promise that you will molest neither him nor his sister.”

  A queer light flickered in Pu Yee's eyes. “And for yourself? You ask nothing for yourself?”

  King smiled crookedly. “I will take care of myself.”

  “I would rather,” said Pu Yee, “that it was your own life, Ki
ng san, for which you bargained.”

  “I do not bargain for that which is my own,” King told him coldly. “If I die, then I do not deserve to live.”

  Pu Yee regarded him thoughtfully. “You are a very brave man, King san. You are the very model of what our sacred Kung-Fu-Tze would have called a superior man. I will be grieved when you are dead. Believe me, I shall be very sad.”

  King shifted impatiently. “What is your answer to my proposition? I offer you the Manchu skull for the lives of Roxanna Moore and her brother.”

  “The girl must also give us the Sung Dynasty rubies. That is part of the price for her life. She has brought much grief to the Sung Tong, and she must pay a high price. It is true that we compelled her to smuggle the Manchu skull. But she took advantage of that to bring the rubies through the customs, hidden in the skull. Those rubies were stolen from an honorable mandarin family who are Sung Tong brothers. She must return them or pay for them.”

  “Roxanna Moore hasn't got the rubies,” King said levelly. “She didn't know they were in the skull. It was On Long Sin who did that, on his own hook. He must have had a confederate in Shanghai, who put the rubies in the skull. When Roxanna brought the skull to On Long Sin, someone else put out the lights, killed On Long Sin and took the rubies. The murderer dropped one of them out in the alley, so that suspicion would fall on Roxanna. She—”

  He was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

  “He speaks the truth, Venerable Leader!”

  King turned, and saw the fat Fung Tze standing in the doorway.

  Fung Tze was sweating just a little as he came into the room. He had a leather-covered book in his hand. The edges of the pages were gilt.

  “When we moved the furniture from the room where On Long Sin was killed, I found his diary in the desk.”

  He opened the book, revealing thick Chinese heiroglyphics covering the pages.

  “On Long Sin writes here that the girl knew nothing of the rubies. He says that he did not plan to smuggle them in the skull, but that he received word from Shanghai that they would be in the receptacle. I read no further, but came here quickly—”

  Pu Yee snatched the book from him. “It is impossible. No one else could have killed On Long Sin but the girl. Unless—” His eyes rested on Fung Tze, but he did not finish the sentence.

  Fung Tze drew himself up proudly. “I have always served the Sung Tong loyally!”

  Pu Yee read hastily in the book. His face showed nothing. In a moment he looked up, and sighed.

  “I am sorry, King san, but this changes nothing. We must be paid for those rubies—or the girl and her brother will die.”

  “In that case,” said King, “there's no use wasting time!”

  He slashed down with his cane at the nearest hatchet man, crashing the ferrule against the fellow's skull. Then he leaped forward before the others could bring their knives into play, and seized old Pu Yee by the arm. He yanked the old man from the chair, twisted his arm behind him, then swiveled around, facing Fung Tze and the hatchet men. Pu Yee's body was now a shield for King against thrown knives.

  King did not exert pressure against Pu Yee's arm. He merely held him motionless. With his left hand, he flipped the cane so that the scabbard fell away, leaving the blade naked and ready. He placed the point of the rapier against Pu Yee's side.

  “Now we can bargain again,” he said calmly.

  “Your life, Pu Yee, for the life of Daniel Moore. Order him released at once.”

  The hatchet men were crouching, with knives gripped by the blades, ready to throw if they got a chance. Fung Tze's hand stole into his pocket and came out with a gun. But he did not raise it, for it would have been impossible to hit King without striking Pu Yee.

  PU YEE stood calmly with King's blade at his side. “It seems,” he said sadly, “that superior force must have its way. The young man shall be released—”

  His quiet tone was so deceptive that King was almost lulled into a false sense of security. He was almost unprepared for the swift and deadly jujitsu trick which the old man attempted.

  Pu Yee twisted like a contortionist, throwing the weight of his body away from the arm lock, at the same time bringing his free hand around in a savage blow aimed at the side of King's neck.

  That blow, with the edge of the hand, has been known to kill a man. King had seen it done. One who was not familiar with that trick might not have understood the danger. But King knew.

  He bent his head down, burying his neck, so that the edge of Pu Yee's stiff hand struck the top of his head instead. He dared not let go of Pu Yee, for that would mean an avalanche of knives from the hatchet men. So he kept his grip on the old man's arm, and dropped to the floor, dragging Pu Yee with him. He wound his arm around Pu Yee's waist and lifted him over his shoulder, keeping the bulk of his body between himself and the knife men.

  Pu Yee squirmed and clawed, struggling madly. King saw the knife men spreading out in a circle to come at him from all sides. He held the clawing, scratching old man on his shoulder, and began to back swiftly toward the door behind the chair. He did not know where it would lead, but he had no choice.

  “Kill him!” screamed Pu Yee. “Do not let him escape—”

  And then something happened—something which brought a sudden hush as of death upon the room.

  A cascade of lustrous, pigeon-blood rubies began to pour down upon the thick-napped Afghanistan rug.

  They were falling from somewhere beneath the ceremonial robe of Pu Yee!

  The tong knife men stopped still in their stride. Fung Tze uttered a low gasp. The eyes of all the yellow men became suddenly veiled and ominous.

  King breathed a little sigh. Slowly, he allowed the suddenly quiet Pu Yee to slide down from his shoulder. Then he went across the room, past the frozen tong men, and picked up the scabbard from the floor. No one stopped him. No one looked at him. All eyes were focused in silent and dreadful condemnation upon the Venerable Leader of the Sung Tong.

  It was Fung Tze who spoke first.

  “King san, the Sung Tong owes you apology and reparation. We never thought that our own Venerable Leader had the rubies which we demanded of you. We never thought—that Pu Yee would be a traitor to the tong!”

  King sheathed his sword. He smiled grimly. He looked at old Pu Yee, who stood silent and motionless, with the resigned, fatalistic look of the Orient upon his parchmentlike face.

  “It was Pu Yee,” said King, “who engineered the smuggling of the rubies in the Manchu skull. It was he who entered the office and killed On Long Sin. When he left the restaurant, he saw me coming up Pell Street and attempted to turn me back, knowing that I would complicate things.”

  Pu Yee bowed his head. “It is all true. I saw a vision of wealth and power. With the Sung Dynasty rubies, I could have gone to another land and set myself up as a prosperous mandarin. I could have lived a life of ease.”

  Fung Tze motioned to two of the hatchet men. They stepped forward and ranged themselves on either side of Pu Yee. The old man raised his head.

  “I am ready!”

  Slowly, with the two executioners at his side, he marched out of the room.

  “What are you going to do with him?” King asked Fung Tze.

  The fat Chinaman looked away. “Do not ask, King san.

  The Sung Tong has its own mode of punishment for traitors. It were better that you did not know. I shall order that the boy, Daniel Moore, be freed. These rubies—they are yours for the price which On Long Sin set: one hundred thousand dollars.”

  King nodded. He took the money out of his wallet and handed it over. The hatchet men, at a nod from Fung Tze, began to pick up the scattered rubies.

  “Get them ready,” said King. “I'll be back to pick them up in twenty minutes—and to get Daniel Moore. I'll have the Manchu skull with me. It's yours.”

  He started for the door. “Where do you go, King san?”

  Fung Tze inquired. At the door, King turned and grinned slowly. “There's
a black-haired girl in my office who thinks she's a jinx. I'm on my way to tell her different!”

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: c87c4e7a-b38a-4dd0-8969-33005e8e8e49

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 2.9.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.67, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Emile C. Tepperman

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