“You’re not going to sidetrack me with your personalities,” said Clifford. “You’re a wicked old man!”
“Artful,” murmured Joe, “not wicked. It’s like this–-“
He stopped, evidently expecting an interruption, and, when it did not come, was at some loss to proceed.
“I’ve had a lot of disappointments in my life, young lady,” he began oracularly. “Take Fing-Su! What I’ve done for that boy nobody knows except me and him. And when Cliff told me what sort of a feller he was, you could have knocked me down with a feather! I’ve been kind and generous to that pup, I admit it…”
As he rambled on, the girl’s brain grew more active. Joe Bray alive, meant the end of all Stephen Narth’s plans—how would it affect her, she wondered. She recognized with a feeling of dismay that the reason for the marriage had disappeared, and was painfully startled to discover that there was any cause for unhappiness in this development.
Her eyes met Clifford Lynne’s and fell; for it was as though in that brief glance he had read her thoughts.
“…When I realized what I’d done I said to him, ‘Cliff, I’m sorry.’ Did I or did I not, Cliff? I said, ‘If I’d known what I know now, I’d never have parted with them shares.’ Did I or did I not, Cliff? To think that that dog—I might even call him worse if you wasn’t here, young lady—should get these silly and wicked ideas into his head!”
Joan was beginning to understand now. “A romance-hound,” Clifford had called the old man, and she saw now the ponderous diplomacy which had produced this present condition of affairs. Joe had invented his own death in order to ensure the alliance of the man he loved with a member of his family, and it was a little pathetic to think that even ‘the family’ was largely a figment of his imagination. He had known Stephen Narth as a name and had been his almoner. He must have heard of Stephen’s daughters, but of Joan’s existence it was fairly certain he had been completely ignorant.
“Does Mr Narth know you’re–-” She hesitated to say ‘alive’ and substituted “back in England?”
Joe shook his head, and it was Clifford who answered.
“No, Narth mustn’t know. I’m keeping Joe down here for a day or two until things develop. And most of all, Joan, Fing-Su mustn’t know. That credulous native has accepted the news of Joe’s death without question. For the moment he is concentrating his efforts upon securing the one founders’ share which will give him control of the company.”
“Would it actually give him that control?” she asked, in surprise.
He nodded.
“It sounds absurd but it is a fact,” he said gravely. “If Fing-Su could get that share, he would be able to kick me out, take complete control of the company, and although, of course, he would be liable at law to deal fairly with the ordinary shareholders, in fact he could divert a sum of ten million pounds to his own purpose.”
She shook her head helplessly.
“But surely it is impossible for him to buy that extra share—isn’t it, Clifford?”
He nodded.
“There is only one method by which Fing-Su could get control,” he said slowly, “and I’m hoping that he doesn’t realize what that is.”
He offered no further explanation. Soon after, he disappeared into the kitchen to brew coffee, and the girl was left alone with the big man—an experience which promised considerable embarrassment, for Joe got up and closed the door carefully behind his partner.
“How do you like him?” he asked in a hoarse whisper as he settled himself again in his chair.
It was an awkward question to answer.
“He’s very nice,” she said—ineffectively, she thought.
“Ye-es.” Joe Bray scratched his chin. “He’s a good scout, Cliff. A bit hard on other people, but a good fellow.” He beamed at her. “So you’re one of us—that’s fine! You’re the kind of girl I’d have picked. What’s the others like?”
She was spared the embarrassment of an answer, for he continued:
“Yes, Cliff’s hard! A little drop of gin never did nobody any harm, you take it from me, miss. It’s good for the kidneys, for one thing. But Cliff’s pussyfoot—well, not exactly pussyfoot, you understand, but he doesn’t like seeing bottles around.”
She gathered that such a sight was not altogether objectionable to Joe Bray.
“Yes, I’m glad he picked you–”
“To be exact, Mr Bray, I picked him,” she said, half laughing, and he opened his pale eyes wider.
“Did you? Did you? Well, he’s not a bad fellow. Too quick with his gun, but that’s youth, always wanting to be killin’ somethin’. You’ll have a lot of children, I’ve no doubt, miss?”
At this moment came a very welcome Clifford Lynne, carrying a brand-new silver tray laden with brand-new silver coffee-pot and cups. He put the tray upon the table, and he had hardly taken his hand away when there was a faint click. The sound was so close upon the noise made by the setting tray that Joan scarcely noticed it. She saw Cliff look towards the shuttered windows and put up his finger, signalling silence.
“What’s that, Cliff?” The old man looked up quickly with a startled expression.
Clifford drew back the curtain, and for the first time the girl saw the steel-shuttered windows, each of which had as ornament a long oval boss.
“Don’t talk!” he whispered, and reaching out his hand switched off the light.
The room was now in complete darkness, but suddenly she saw, in the place where one of the bosses had been, a narrow opening, as Clifford Lynne took the cover from the loophole.
The moon had risen, and through the slit he could survey the bare space before the house. Nobody was in sight, and with his eyes glued to the loophole he waited. Presently his patience was rewarded. A dark figure was moving in the cover of the trees and making a circuit towards the house. Presently he saw another, and then a third, and even as he looked a head rose within a few inches of him. Evidently the man had been crouching under the window. In the light of the moon the watcher saw the round, almost shaven head, the broad nose and high cheekbones of a Chinese coolie. In one hand he carried a small package fastened by string to his wrist; the other held a sickle-shaped hook.
He reached up with this, caught the iron guttering and, with an extraordinary exhibition of strength which at other times would have excited Lynne’s admiration, drew himself up to the roof. Clifford waited till the dangling feet had disappeared from view, and passed silently to the rear of the cottage and out into the open. As he did so, he saw a glint of steel in the moonlight that shone upon the belt of firs. Here, the tree-fellers had been busy all day, and the stumps of pines showed whitely in the moonlight. But the trees still grew thickly some fifty yards from the cottage.
The cottage was surrounded; nevertheless, he did not hesitate, but, keeping in the cover of the outhouse, he reached a point where the roof line was visible. He had hardly reached his post when he saw a head come up over the roof-tree and presently, clear in the moonlight he saw the Chinaman walking swiftly towards the square-shaped chimney.
He had again fitted his silencer to the nozzle of his pistol.
Plop!
The man on the roof staggered, swayed a little, and then came slipping and sliding down the close-set slates and fell with a groan almost at his feet. He heard a twitter of excitement from the concealed watchers in the trees; saw somebody come running out of cover, and fired. Instantly there was a scamper to safety. Clifford Lynne’s prowess as a shot was no secret to these men.
Still he waited, expecting an attack to develop. And then, from the far end of the drive, he heard the splutter of a motor-lorry being started, the grind of gears and the whine of the machine as it moved off. It was the shrill jabber of some belated passenger who had jumped aboard as the trolley was moving which satisfied Clifford that the attackers had been called off, and he turned his attention to the motionless figure that lay on the ground.
Going inside, he called Joe, and the two men carried
the wounded man into the kitchen.
“Fing-Su brought them down in a motor-lorry,” he said. (He afterwards discovered that the vehicle was a motor-bus which was used at the Peckham factory to convey workers into the country.)
“Is he dead?” asked Joe.
Clifford shook his head.
“No; the bullet hit him just above the knee, that is the only injury,” he said as he wrapped a towel about the wound. “The fall from the roof knocked him out. O man!” he called in the dialect as the coolie opened his eyes and began to glare from one to the other.
“I am killed!” gasped the man, his face puckering fearfully as he recognized Lynne.
“Who brought you here?”
“None! I came of my own wish,” said the native, and Clifford grinned unpleasantly.
“Soon,” he said, “I will take you into the wood and I will light a little fire on your face and you will talk, my friend. But for a while you will stay here with Shi-su-ling.”
He gave the native name of the helpless Joe Bray, and it was not a particularly flattering one.
Going back to the girl, he expected to find her in a state of agitation and was agreeably disappointed. But she knew that something was wrong and guessed that that something was a natural sequel to the knife-throwing incident earlier in the evening.
“Yes,” nodded Cliff, “it was a Chinaman who wanted to get even with me. I think I’d better cut out the coffee and take you home. They have gone now,” he added incautiously.
“They? How many were there?” she asked.
There was nothing to be gained by deceiving her. Rather, he thought, she had better know the full extent of the peril.
“Probably more than a dozen were in the attack, and what they expected to get I don’t know.”
“You,” she said significantly, and he nodded.
“I rather fancy I was the booty,” he said. “The important fact is that they are gone and there is nothing more to fear.”
He was examining her face, and she had the sensation that he was making a final appraisement of her character.
“But first I will say something that is certain to alarm you,” he said. “There is nothing to be gained by beating about the bush. Fing-Su will stop at nothing, as I know. If he gets the idea into his thick head that I am fond of you—as I am—he may shift his attentions to you. Does that frighten you?”
She shook her head.
“Probably because I’m deficient in imagination,” she said, “but I’m not frightened.”
He opened a steel cupboard in one corner of the sitting-room and took out a round black object, the size of a large plum.
“I want you to keep to your house and not go out after dark,” he said. “Also, I wish you to put this ball somewhere in your bedroom where you can reach it easily. If there is trouble of any kind, throw it out of the window—it isn’t very heavy.”
She smiled.
“Is it a bomb?”
“In the ordinary sense, no. It would do you a bit of damage if it burst close to you, and I’m not suggesting you should keep it under your pillow. In the daytime lock it away in a drawer; at night keep it where it can be reached. You’re scared,” he accused.
“No, I’m not,” she protested indignantly. “But you’ll admit you are doing your best to frighten me!”
He patted her on the shoulder.
“Will anything happen tonight?” she asked, as she took the object in her hand and put it very carefully into her bag.
He hesitated.
“I don’t think so. Fing-Su is neither a quick nor a thorough worker.”
She looked round for Joe Bray as he escorted her to the door.
“I wanted to say goodnight–-“
“Joe is busy,” he said. “You’ll see enough of the old devil—too much. Don’t forget this, though: Joe doesn’t know the meaning of fear. He’s a moral coward and he’s foolish, but I’ve seen him tackle five hundred howling fanatics with a broken rifle and a clasp-knife.”
They walked swiftly down the drive, Clifford sweeping the gravel with his hand-lamp, and presently saw the heavy tracks of the motor-lorry that led to the road and turned in the direction of London. When they were within sight of Sunni Lodge he stopped.
“Just show me the room where you sleep. Is it visible from here?”
She pointed.
“On the top floor, eh?” he said, relieved. “What is the next room—the one with the white curtains?”
“That’s the kitchen-maid’s room,” she explained. “At least, it is the room where the kitchen-maid sleeps when we have one. At present we’re two servants short at the Lodge.”
He made a swift survey of the house and was less satisfied. It was easy, he saw, to reach even the top floor, for Sunni Lodge was one of those queer dwellings which artistic architects love to design. There was a small stone balcony here, a turret there, and crowning danger of all, a long iron rain-pipe that ran from roof to ground.
He waited until the door was closed and went hurriedly back to the cottage. Joe was sitting in the kitchen smoking his pipe and exchanging bitter words in Chinese with the wounded man.
“You won’t get this bird to talk,” said Joe disgustedly, “but I know him, his name’s Ku-t’chan. He used to be a worker in the Fu-Weng store. I recognized him at once. It’s a curious thing about me, Cliff,” he said complacently, “that I never forget a face. I’ve got a memory like one of them cash registers you see in stores. The minute I see this feller, I said ‘I know you, my lad; you’re Ku-t’chan,’ and he didn’t deny it. It’s no good questioning him, Cliff, he’s as mum as a dead fish.”
“You can go back to your book, Joe,” said Clifford curtly and shut the kitchen door upon his partner, taking his place in the chair.
“Now, Ku-t’chan, or whatever your name is, speak and speak quickly, because in four hours there will be light,” he said. “And it is not good that anyone should see me burying a Chinaman in the wood. And buried you will be.”
“Master,” said the frightened man, “why should you kill me?”
“Because,” said Clifford carefully, “if I let you live and you tell the magistrate that I laid fire on you, it would put me to shame.”
In a quarter of an hour Ku-t’chan told all he knew, which was not a great deal, but was more than enough for Clifford Lynne’s peace of mind.
He made the man comfortable for the night, well assured that after his betrayal he would not attempt to escape, and went in to Joe. The fat man looked up as he entered.
“Going out?” he asked, aggrieved. “What’s the idea, Cliff? I got a lot to talk about.”
“Keep your eye on that man. It is unlikely that he’ll give you any trouble,” said Clifford rapidly. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, but probably before daylight. You know how to turn that couch into a bed if you want to sleep?”
“The point is–-” began the justly incensed Joe.
Before he could deliver his point, Clifford Lynne was gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Stephen Narth and the girls would not be back before three. The first inclination Joan had was to await their return before going to bed, but she realized that, whatever romance the night held, whatever bizarre adventures might come to her between Sunni Lodge and the Slaters’ Cottage, and however tremendous the revelations of the night had been, she was responsible for the smooth running of Stephen Narth’s household, and although she did not expect to sleep, she went upstairs to bed.
There were three servants sleeping at the back of the house. The butler had part of the suite over the garage which was intended for the chauffeur, and was practically cut off from the house. Although he was middle-aged and lethargic, she was glad to know that he was on hand, for in spite of her protestations she was a little fearful.
She left the light in the hall, and for once did not extinguish the lamp on either of the landings. Her window curtains were drawn, her bed made ready, and she was suddenly and desperately tired; yet s
he sat for half an hour on the bed without undressing, until she rose, impatient with herself, and began slowly to disrobe. She turned out the light and for half an hour lay vainly endeavouring to subdue her thoughts to a level which made sleep possible. The house was full of strange noises. It seemed to her imagination that she could hear an excited whispering of voices on the landing above. Once a floorboard creaked and she sat up in a fright.
It was then that she remembered the black, plum-shaped ball that Clifford had given her, and, rising, she turned on the light and, taking it from her bag, put it on the table by the side of her bed. The knowledge that somewhere at hand was that strong, quiet man, brought ease to her mind, and presently she found herself sinking into the languor of sleep…
There was somebody in the next room; she found herself sitting up in bed with this conviction, her face damp with fear. There it was again—the soft swish of a body brushing against the thin wall, and a faint grinding sound as though the intruder had moved a table. She knew the table; it was near the bed, a little rickety, bamboo-covered piece of furniture which, with a cheap wardrobe and a lumpy bed, constituted the furniture of the servant’s room.
Stealing out of bed, she turned on the light and tiptoed to the door, listening. There was no sound; it must have been the disordered fancies of a dream.
There was only one possible thing for her to do. She must satisfy herself that the room was empty. Turning the key, she pulled open the door and shrank back with a scream.
Standing square in the doorway was a big, uncouth shape, bare to the waist, his huge arms dangling. She stared for a second into the black slant eyes, and then with a scream reeled back. Before she could understand what had happened, he had leapt at her, one brawny arm encircling her, the other covering her mouth. Struggling frantically she saw over his shoulder another and yet a third man appear. And then, too late, she remembered the bomb. It was impossible to wrench herself free from that steel grip that held her. One of the men whipped off a blanket from the bed, spread it roughly on the floor; the man who held her muttered something, and the third of the Chinamen wound a thick silk handkerchief round and round her mouth. And then the arm about her suddenly relaxed.
The Yellow Snake Page 10