The Complete Adventures of Hazard & Partridge

by Robert J. Pearsall

  Since his arrival in Ning-Po, it seemed Dr. Rambeau had really made himself useful in ameliorating the ailments of the village. It was on that humanitarian ground that the missionary urged him to stay, and at last, as was inevitable, Rambeau yielded.

  “There’s the present unrest in the village to think of, too. I wouldn’t want to leave you while that lasts,” he said with a glance toward the girl.

  Now the glance was one of hypocritical intent, as his words had been, for the missionary’s benefit. But truth is a thing that is hard to hide and I saw something in his look that he hadn’t intended. For an instant, as his eyes rested on Miss Martin, a smoldering fire leaped to the surface of them and then disappeared. It was only an instant, a glimpse, like the first warning light in a volcano’s depths, but it was enough to convince me that in any crime he had in mind the girl had her place. More, I thought it might well be that the crime was merely a short-cut to the girl.

  “I’m sure,” I put in, “Ning-Po should be grateful for your decision. By the way, I noticed that unrest you speak of—and fear, too. Mr. Martin’s been telling me about a curious superstition. You don’t suppose there’s any danger of their becoming violent under its influence?”

  “Well—” began Rambeau, doubtfully, but the missionary interrupted him with:

  “Not to be thought of. But that fear you noticed is another very foolish superstition, sir. The bustards have left the town and—”

  “They regard those birds as sacred,” Rambeau completed the missionary’s sentence, turning the matter off lightly. “When they leave it’s a sure sign of a Lolo raid—absurd, of course.”

  “Of course,” I echoed, matching his carelessness.

  But inwardly I was tingling a little. Evidence was adding itself to evidence, for there are baseless superstitions and again there are beliefs that are regarded by the foolish as superstitions until science classes them as related phenomena; it took no science to know that this latter belief, prevalent throughout the Lolo infested country of Yunnan, might easily have a sound basis in fact. The Lolos are hunters; the Chinese are not. The meat of the bustard is good eating to a savage stomach and there could be no better indication of the gathering of a large force of Lolos in the foot-hills than the disappearance from the neighborhood of those big, ungainly birds.

  “Well,” I said after a pause, “it’s all very interesting, but, come to think of it,” I went on slowly, watching Rambeau out of the corner of my eye, “you’ll soon be perfectly safe against any trouble. I forgot to mention that there’s a detachment of infantry coming this way—Chinese Republicans, you know—two companies of them. We passed them in Tung-Ho four days ago and they’re scheduled here day after tomorrow. One of their captains told me they intend to camp in the vicinity of Ning-Po indefinitely, to watch the Lolos.”

  In the middle of my speech, Rambeau’s face twitched and his eyes narrowed quickly, as if something had pricked him. It seemed impossible that the missionary shouldn’t notice this or the less perceptible change on his daughter’s face, but he was one of the blind, good men of the earth who, by their refusal to see what is under their noses, often do more harm than the purely evil. Clearly, I thought, he would do better in some other field than Ning-Po; clearly the impending trouble, whose moment for breaking I believed I had fixed by my falsehood, might be a good thing if it only opened his sealed eyes to an ugly truth.

  III

  THE DAY passed, and the night and another day. That first night in Ning-Po I slept soundly, feeling as safe as ever I allowed myself to feel since Hazard and I had set our wits against the Ko Lao Hui. But the second night, after I had gone to the room on the west side of the mission compound which Missionary Martin had assigned me, I made but a single preparation to retire—one which the constant danger in which I moved had turned into a habit. Then, after allowing my candle to burn an appropriate length of time, I extinguished it, opened my door a trifle, spread a blanket on the earth floor and lay down on it with my head half outside the door, prepared for a long vigil.

  I felt an unaccustomed lack of zest for the adventure I felt sure was ahead of me. I’ve always clung to my belief in the innate goodness of womanhood as a sort of moral life-preserver, but the last two days had seen that belief sorely strained. Impetuous as she surely was and strained to the breaking-point by the sheer unnaturalness and ennui of her life in Ning-Po, still there could be no excuse for Miss Martin if she were a partner in what I then knew to be Rambeau’s plan.

  There is, of course, no such thing as perfection of standards; human nature is as variable as the patterns on our walls and any of us may, under sufficient urge or stress, do almost anything at any time. I’ve long held that the only really bad are those who wish to hurt other human beings. But, if that is villainy, what of the man who, for gain of the gold which he was to receive no doubt after the accomplishment of the task, had agreed with the Lolos for the sale of the village of Ning-Po? What of the woman who became a party to that bargain, with the added guilt of leaving an unwarned and helpless father to an almost certain death at the hands of the marauders?

  Of Rambeau’s plan there could be no further doubt, unless I were willing to admit that events leaned more heavily than I’d ever known before on the arms of coincidence. I now had two other bits of fact to add to the chain I’d already formed—occurrences naturally consequent upon my prevarication concerning the approaching Chinese soldiery.

  Very shortly after I had let slip that misinformation setting a definite time limit on his activities, Rambeau had excused himself with the plea of a waiting Chinese patient. A little later I matched his excuse by a pretended anxiety concerning my men at the inn. Half an hour later, loitering near the village gate, I saw the thing happen that I had expected. The Lolo who had preceded me into the town and of whose association with Rambeau I already knew, mounted his pony and rode off at breakneck speed into the hills. And today, early in the afternoon, I’d seen from the village wall a clear sign of the message I felt sure the Lolo had carried from Rambeau—a high and scattered cloud of dust rising above the hills to the north, dust that I knew well was made by a long column of horsemen. Li Sing, Chang Li Pang’s understudy, had met with me at the time; he was an unusually intelligent Chinese who received well what I chose to tell him.

  Yes, Rambeau was fiendishly guilty, and the very strength of his passion for the girl, of which I’d seen many later indications, seemed to prove that she shared his guilt. For how, except by making her an accomplice and spiriting her away before the attack, could he hope to save her from the rape of the town? He must know that any promise the Lolos might make to him would be swept aside in the lust and fury of battle.

  Then there was that evident understanding between them which my later observation had only confirmed. It was but a double-edged and painful consolation to know that, on her part at least, it was not an understanding of sentiment. There was no softening in her eyes as she looked at him—rather a hardening, a look of calculation, mercenary even, as if she were driven by a desperate inner urge to an action from which she revolted.

  So my reasoning went. It seemed sound to me. I condemned myself that I couldn’t believe in it. The rule that one finds it easy to believe what one wishes to believe also works by contraries. Try as I would, and with all the evidence before me, I couldn’t put the vibrant-voiced girl with the steady if impatient eyes and the imperious carriage in such a despicable rôle.

  And yet I was sure that presently she and Rambeau would come out of their rooms on the other side of the compound and steal away in the night, before the scheduled Lolo attack—together.

  However, they couldn’t leave without my knowledge. In the Chinese language there’s no such word as “privacy” and there is small provision for it in their architecture, but it was a dark night, moonless and cloudy, and I must keep well alert.

  Probably it was because my attention was trained so absolutely on that which was outside my room that I failed to hear the beginning of
the first event of the night. All at once, however, I became conscious of a stealthy movement somewhere—a slow, snake-like gliding, as of a stripped human body wriggling over an uneven surface. I listened a moment without stirring and then smiled in the darkness.

  Another thing called for by my suspicions and the indisputable logic of events was happening. Rambeau, having bargained to deliver Ning-Po defenseless into the hands of the Lolos, was at least trying his best to fulfill his bargain. In a way it was a compliment that he thought well enough of my prowess to send an assassin against me ahead of the attack, for it could be only a would-be assassin that, having cut away the paper window that opened upon an alley outside the compound, was creeping naked and, doubtless, slippery with oil, as is the habit of the East, into my room.

  Then it was that I blessed the single precaution I’d taken. That would rid me of this intruder without the noise of a struggle. Ever so slowly the fellow let himself down to the floor. There was an almost inaudible, cat-like padding of bare feet followed by a low, animal-like cry of astonishment and pain.

  The man had, of course, stepped upon the poisoned tips of the wooden pegs with which Hazard and I always littered the floor of our sleeping places. Whether he sensed the truth, that he was about to be violently sick from them, I don’t know. Anyway, the next minute he had rushed to the window, drawn himself hastily through it and was gone.

  NOT TEN minutes afterward there came another sound—this time one I expected—the almost simultaneous opening of two doors on the opposite side of the compound. The doors were closed again, and the figures of a man and woman, darkly clad, moved like shadows against the lighter wall, toward the gate. As they passed under the light of the Chinese lanterns that hung over the gate, I saw with a sinking heart another vindication of my judgment. The man was, of course, Rambeau, and the woman Miss Martin.

  I rose and followed them quickly, but when I reached the street they were out of sight. However, my hearing again served me; they had passed into a little alley leading toward the heart of the town and I was instantly tiptoeing after them, keeping close to the fronts of the houses and utilizing for my own concealment all the sharp corners that had been devised for the confusion of evil spirits.

  Trailing is one of the several arts I’ve had occasion to practice, but they were moving very cautiously and so I had to keep very close to them. I was sure, however, that they did not hear me. Several times Rambeau stopped and looked back, but by the time he had turned his head I was flattened against a wall or in a doorway. Curiously enough, the girl neither stopped nor turned and, indeed, she seemed somewhat impatient of Rambeau’s evident fear of pursuit.

  So they led me across the little village, moving through the labyrinth of alleys like those who well know both their way and their objective. Somewhere ahead of them a dog barked mournfully. There came the sharp clatter of a watchman’s rattle, and then another and another—the sentry-calls of China. These sounds stirred a certain anger in my heart—also a certain satisfaction.

  Half-way across the village I dropped a little farther behind. Now I wasn’t afraid of losing them, for their course made their destination plain to me. Whatever their purpose, they were going straight to the yamen, the home of the mysterious effigy and the ghostly voice, around which all of Rambeau’s plot had been built.

  I had, however, another fear. As we advanced toward that yamen and the wall against which it was built, the deceptive silence, indicative of a town asleep and helpless, became disturbed by curious noises, subtle rustlings and shufflings, the undernotes of men moving stealthily and even the deeper breathings of groups of men asleep. I was afraid Rambeau would notice this, but, if he did, he must have placed his own interpretation upon it. It is true that a gathering of Lolos, closing in upon the gate and waiting for it to open, might have made some such sound.

  Now, the wall within which Ning-Po had huddled for safety some thousands of years bulked darkly ahead of us, and a little nearer rose the lower wall of the yamen compound. Still without hesitation, Rambeau and Miss Martin passed through the open gate of the yamen compound. Reflecting that there was nothing surprizing about this, for whoever controlled the village through the trick of the ghost-voice controlled the yamen, too, and could rid it of occupants and watchers at will, I followed them into the outer compound.

  Through this compound and through the second and the third they passed, with me trailing them. Finally they disappeared through an open arched doorway into what I felt must be the rear room of the yamen, the audience-chamber, the place of the miracle-working effigy of Chang Li Pang. Very cautiously, feeling my way by inches, I slipped in after them and backed against the wall to the left side of the door.

  IV

  THE ROOM was, of course, black as the pit. I stood there, my nerves highly strung, scarcely breathing and, if the truth be told, feeling queerly and rather painfully confused. Things had, so far, worked out exactly as I had planned and expected, and yet of a sudden I found myself bewildered by that very fact. I was like a student who has secured the right answer to a problem by a method which he is inwardly convinced is incorrect. This is not to say that I doubted all my reasoning, but I still did doubt, in spite of myself, that part which some illogical prompting within me made seem the most important part of all.

  That illogical doubt was still further increased by the vibrant and excited but not particularly frightened and not at all guilty note in the girl’s voice.

  “Now for your proof, Sir Romancer,” she said in a low voice.

  “I’ll give it,” said Rambeau.

  His voice was, in striking contrast to the girl’s, hoarse and strained.

  “You’ll need light, then. You said there were candles here.”

  “There are— What’s that?” Rambeau broke off, startled.

  I had not moved, astonished beyond measure as I had been at this beginning of their conversation. It must have been merely the jangling of Rambeau’s guilty nerves filling his mind with fancied danger. It could hardly be that he had heard that sound which I, who certainly have keener hearing than the average and who was listening for it besides, could barely hear—the low stirring which seemed to come from directly above us, but which was really the stirring of men on top of the village wall to the rear.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” replied the girl. “If you haven’t matches, I have.”

  Rambeau seemed to hesitate.

  “All right.”

  He fumbled in his clothes, produced and struck a match which flared up weirdly. It revealed dimly the partial outlines of himself and the girl and, back of them, so faintly that it was the mere suggestion of a shadow, a more than life-sized effigy set very close to the wall—doubtless the after-death presentment of Chang Li Pang. Rambeau stooped and began to light the candles that stood on a low table like an altar just in front of the image, and as their flames struggled up one by one I began to see things more clearly.

  I saw that the girl’s eyes were riveted, not on Rambeau, but on the effigy, whose life-like Chinese countenance, inscrutable as the night itself, began to be slowly revealed. I saw that the effigy, which I had supposed to be standing, was really sitting in a great Chinese chair, the broad back of which, six feet across, paralleled the wall. I saw also that from the polished surface of that effigy the slowly increasing candlelight was flung back in a sort of green radiance.

  As for me, with the suggestion of that green radiance upon me—what does a green polished surface always suggest in the Orient?—my breathing was now becoming very short and quick, so that I had hard work to keep it inaudible. I was tense with the mental throes of a new idea. In the fresh light of the few words I had heard pass between Rambeau and the girl I had suspected of baseness, I was swiftly, and with a sense of shame, reconstructing my ideas. Stupidly, stupidly I’d skimmed the surface of fact; I’d followed the obvious; I had not been able to imagine.

  “Oh!” cried the girl, bending toward the effigy with intense and avid curiosity. “It is
— Or is it—”

  I had not been able to imagine the depths of Rambeau’s crafty nature nor another tale than the true one of the imminent Lolo raid which he might easily frame to lure the girl that night wherever he would—a tale which he told the next moment in a single word.

  “Jade!” he cried, pretended enthusiasm struggling with caution in his voice. “Worth, as I told you, a fortune—in fact, priceless.”

  What had not that tale meant to the girl, bound to the deadly life of Ning-Po by the sordid chains of poverty—that tale of wealth unknown even to the villagers themselves, of a thing worth a king’s ransom standing there within reach, unguarded? What wonder the secret conferences, the secret glances, the fear of interference in the plan to which she had been tempted?

  “Ah!” she breathed in sheer delight, stepping closer to the effigy. “A fortune! It’s worth something just to see it.”

  Laughing a little in a half-hysterical fashion, she patted the effigy with her hands.

  “I told you you’d be glad you came,” said Rambeau stupidly, his voice husky with guilt-inspired fear, his frame trembling with some other emotion which seemed to brook repression no longer.

  “But it’s here,” Miss Martin’s voice sank discouragedly. “It’s too big to carry away. I don’t see how— You wouldn’t tell me—”

  “Ah, Sybil, no,” Rambeau rejoined hoarsely. “I didn’t tell you because— But I’ve planned a way. And it’s tonight! Tonight, Sybil!”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, recoiling from him a little. “Tonight?”

  It was plain she didn’t understand. She’d been tempted to fly with him—indeed, she was a partner in the crime of theft; but, as Rambeau suddenly began to pour out in a burning rhapsody the passion he had so long repressed, she shrank away from him and lifted up one hand in a warning gesture.