RGL e-Book Cover 2019©
RGL e-Book Cover 2019©
Argosy, 19 December 1931, with "Connor Takes Charge"
To manage a Far East business in spite of Chinese intrigues takes both courage and brains; and Vincent Connor's friends never guessed he had either.
CONNOR was well aware of the rather oblique directions in which news travels, particularly in China; a thousand miles away from a given point, one may know better what is going on than persons there. He was not surprised, therefore, when the blow fell.
He was lunching, after a morning's work-out at polo, with a light-headed, giddy young British attaché just down from Mukden, full of Manchurian news and anxious to show off how much he knew. To him, as to every one else in Tientsin, Connor was a pleasant but negligible fellow who had inherited vast commercial interests in China, enjoyed life, and was not to be taken seriously.
"I say, aren't there Connor interests down in Yunnan?" he asked abruptly.
"Rather!" Connor chuckled. "Tin mine at Muling, various things in Yunnan City, and so on. Why?"
"Better sell out," said the other, wagging his head sagely. "Can't say anything, you know; but the jolly old province is in for a hot time. Mark my words, some of these days we'll wake up to see it grabbed by the frog-eaters."
"So?" queried Connor, his eyes narrowing slightly. "If France did seize Yunnan, your tight little isle would let out a wild roar, and the rooster would drop the corncob."
"Never heard of a corncob," said the other. "London's in a bad way; coalition government and what not. Deuced bad way! Can't let out any roars. Besides, who knows? Tit for tat, and all that sort of thing. Sell out your Yunnan interests, old chap."
Three drinks later, Connor returned cautiously to the subject, and his guest thawed a bit. A deft query pried loose a pearl of information.
"You'll see a devilish clever chappie bob up in the south one day. He was in Mukden a fortnight ago. A remarkable fellow and all that, name of Wang Yin. Oxford and Sorbonne; been in Russia a year or so."
At this instant the British consul sauntered over to their table, and Connor's source of information was immediately frozen.
Although he had two horses entered in the afternoon racing, Connor chucked the events, turned over his box to friends, and drove back to the city. He did not go to his office, but direct to the Tientsin Club, where he dispatched several telegrams, and after calling various numbers, at length tracked down the man he wanted—Severn, the Australian distance flyer, who had landed three days previously in the Taku River after a flight from Seattle to Japan, and who was bound for Australia. He spoke rapidly, and Severn assented.
"I'll be over in twenty minutes, Connor. Come to your room? Right."
Connor hung up, lit a cigarette, and stared at the map on his room wall.
MORE than mere money was at stake now, and he realized it with
startled alarm. Connor was one of the many white men in China who
sincerely admired the old nation, who had been fighting to save
it from anarchy and worse, and who saw themselves slowly defeated
by greed and selfish ambition. No one knew or dreamed of Connor's
interest, however, except two or three Chinese who could be
trusted.
"Mm! This Wang Yin was in Mukden; some sort of a deal was made with the British," he reflected, and gazed at the map thoughtfully.
North and South China were as usual at handgrips. Manchuria, where one or two alleged Japanese spies had just been shot, was under the threat of seizure by Japan. Yunnan, off to the south and with French influence predominant and upholding its grim old governor in power, enjoyed peace; though war was just across its borders. Indo-China was seething with revolt against the French, while Burma had just been in open rebellion against Britain.
And England herself was in the throes of financial and political crisis—an emergency which, some said, meant the end of the Crimson Empire. No, the British Lion was in no position to roar if the French seized Yunnan and added it to their colonial empire. Already they held it in a tight commercial grip.
A telegram arrived, a tremendously long telegram. It was in Chinese, and it was also in code. The signature told Connor that it had come from old Chang, who had been his father's partner, and who, from his retirement in Shanghai, kept in close touch with all the affairs of China. He settled down to decode it, for Connor spoke and wrote Chinese more fluently than the majority of the yellow race themselves; it was a long task, however, and he was still working at it when Severn arrived—a tall, rangy, sandy-haired man of thirty.
Connor set out cigarettes and a drink, and settled down.
"Severn, I want to get down to Yunnan City," he said abruptly. "In a straight line, it's about a thousand miles. By way of the coast, it's an impossibility; I want to get there as quickly as possible, a non-stop flight. There's a good landing field at Cheng-tu, about halfway, if you have to make a stop."
"A thousand miles?" said Severn cheerfully. "Can do—rather, could do if necessary, old chap. I'd like to oblige, but I've made my plans to go by way of Shanghai and Hongkong, and then down to Saigon—"
"Change them," broke in Connor, and pushed across the table a check he had previously filled out. The airman glanced at it, picked it up and inspected it a second time, and looked up amazedly at his host.
"Can do?" asked Connor dryly. "It would mean leaving here in the morning, and keeping my identity secret. I don't want a soul to know that I'm going. When I get there, I'll leave you immediately. You can make up your own yarn to account for it."
"To-morrow morning before daylight, eh?" Severn squinted down at the check, then glanced at his watch. He folded the check across, slowly, then thrust it into his pocket and reached for his drink. "Can do. How!"
TEN minutes later Connor, alone once more, resumed his work on
the telegram. A slow whistle broke from him as he realized its
import, but not until he had finished the last phrase did he pick
up the translated sheet and give it his full attention. Then he
realized how shrewdly he had acted in making his deal with Severn
at the first possible moment. The message made clear to him an
appalling situation:
Total disaster threatens house of Han. No action possible as storm will break within week. Our friends in Yunnanfu are dead. Only Sung remains, hiding at Hei Lung. Communications dead. Person about whom you inquire undoubtedly agent for French interests planning extensive outbreak. Governor Yuan will ascend dragon, but blind and deaf. Am helpless.
Connor translated this still further in his own mind, as he read it over. Governor Yuan, war-lord of Yunnan, was an able and honest ruler; he was doomed to death and would listen to no warnings. Wang Yin was the center of everything; he probably planned some revolutionary outbreak designed to give the French a pretext to move in. Those with whom old Chang were in touch down there had been wiped out, and the one remaining person, Sung, was hiding. Hei Lung undoubtedly meant the Hei Lung or Black Dragon temple, a famous place just outside of Yunnan City. The plot would burst in a week's time or less, and from it would come the ruin of all China.
"So there's the game—as much of it as Chang can tell me, at least!" thought Connor, laying down the paper. "A thousand miles; well, Severn could make it by to-morrow night, for that Albatross of his is a devil for speed, and if not forced down he could manage it easily. There's a good landing field at Yunnan, too. All right. Get there, look up this chap Sung, and go to work. And now for camouflage!"
He called up his office, arranged for cashier's checks in a large amount to be sent over to him, checks good at the Banque Industrielle branch in Yunnan, and then packed his belongings for the trip.
At four o'clock he reached the Jockey Club, sauntered into his own box, and was warmly congratulated. His horse had won the Peking Plate twenty minutes before. Connor fell into light- hearted chatter with his friends. He was leaving in the morning for Peiping to get hold of some antique bronzes recently brought to light there, he said; and knowing grins went around.
"Poor Connor!" observed one lady, sotto voce, to a visitor from Hongkong. "A charming fellow, but he has no sense of business at all. He says he just buys anything that is thrown at him—does not know what to do with his money!"
AT ten thirty the next night Connor secured a room at the Terminus Hotel, in Yunnan City.
All the excitement and publicity centered about Severn, who had landed unheralded and unexpected. His passenger had no difficulty in slipping away with his bag and getting a car into the city, and as his papers were quite in order, he aroused only a superficial curiosity. No one here knew Connor personally. The wealthy idler and sportsman of Tientsin, whose father had built up a huge industrial heritage for him, was here only another foreign devil, and his name aroused no comment whatever.
After a good night's sleep Connor breakfasted and sought out the hotel manager, a polite Frenchman. He was quite the tourist, with a camera slung over his shoulder, and explained that he wanted to take pictures of the Black Dragon Temple. This was entirely natural, and the manager arranged to have a guide and horses around in twenty minutes, at a price, the temple being ten miles northeast of the city.
"Any danger from bandits?" asked Connor timorously.
The Frenchman chuckled. "M'sieu, Yunnan has no bandits! You are safe, absolutely safe."
Connor nodded and strolled out, delighted with the beauty of the city, which lay on the east side of a lake above twenty miles long, with girdling hills and mountain peaks closing the horizon. He realized that this was the practically independent capital of a huge province, with its own telegraphs, telephone and electric system, mint and arsenal, as he strolled about, finding soldiers everywhere—brown, alert, smiling men. The friendliness and hospitality of Yunnan were proverbial.
"Damned shame!" thought Connor as he returned to the hotel, to find a guide awaiting him with horses. "To ruin all this in order to let France grab off a new colonial empire! But it isn't done yet."
Connor admitted to no knowledge of Chinese, but the native guide spoke French, so all was well. They mounted and set off at a brisk pace.
THUS, an hour later they were approaching the temple in its
mountain grove of towering trees. The temple guarded the famous
Black Dragon spring, which gushed from the limestone and carried
fertility to the plain below—clear, cold mountain water. As
they dismounted before the inclosed terrace, Connor saw a monk
standing in the sunlight watching them.
He turned to the guide. "Remain here. I wish to take pictures and see the place by myself."
"But, m'soo!" protested the native volubly. "One must interpret—"
"One must obey," said Connor, his tone checking further argument. "You will be well paid none the less. I may stop here for lunch. Your business is to remain with the horses."
Leaving the astonished guide staring after him, he turned to the terrace and the entrance, where the impassive monk eyed him. Going up to the man, Connor addressed him.
"Venerable ancestor, I am named Connor. I have come from Tientsin at the bidding of one who is named Chang, I desire to see a man named Sung."
"I will see if there is any such person here," returned the priest. "Follow."
Connor was led into one of the side rooms of the central hall and bidden to wait. In five minutes he saw before him a man wearing the robes of a priest, but without the three holes burned in his shaven head that mark a Buddhist monk. The face was wrinkled, shrewd, kindly.
"Is this a miracle performed by Kwanyin?" said Sung, regarding Connor.
"No," and Connor smiled a little. "The venerable Chang told me you were here. I came. It is possible that we may do something, but I must have information from you."
"I am a relative by marriage of the honorable Chang," said the other calmly. "Let us sit down. My friends and those who managed your interests here are dead. I am alone, sought far and wide. They knew we would imperil their plans, you see. I dare not leave this roof, or be seen by any one. I can give you no help."
Connor sank into a great temple-chair of carved wood.
"Information is help," he said, seeing that the man before him was despondent and hopeless. "Tell me where to find Wang Yin, what he is like, and his plans."
"You know much already!" exclaimed Sung, starting slightly at mention of Wang's name.
Connor nodded calmly. "That is why I am here."
"You can do nothing."
"That is not for you to judge. Tell me what I seek, or I will go elsewhere."
"I will tell you; why such haste?" said Sung, and sat on a stool of porcelain. "Wang Yin is very clever, far too clever for these French agents with whom he deals. They think that he is going to break out in a revolt, destroy foreign property, probably kill a few white people, seize the palace and kill the governor. He will set himself up as ruler, and then the French will move up their troops by the railroad, capture Wang, and retire him on a pension. That is their program. They will then rule Yunnan, as they rule Annam and Tonkin."
Connor whistled softly. "I see! But Wang is too smart for them—how?"
"He has made his plans better than they know. He will seize the palace and kill the governor, yes; old Yuan means well and is honest, but refuses to listen to stories of plots. Then, instead of destroying foreign property, Wang Yin will protect it, will kill no white people."
"Oh! He'll double-cross the French, after he gets what he wants?"
"Exactly," and Sung nodded. "Instead of revolution, widespread destruction, fire, there will be only a short, savage capture of the palace. Wang will be giving orders instead of Yuan. The army will obey him, for the army obeys the paymaster. He has an administrative government ready to function immediately, even his proclamations are printed and ready for distribution."
"I see," said Connor. "Then, how will China be disrupted by his success?"
"Because Wang Yin is a communist," said Sung. "His chief men and aides here, like himself, have been trained in Russia, are backed by Russian support. Once he is in power, he is joined by the Cantonese Reds. He makes Yunnan a communistic state, threatening Burma on one flank, Indo-China on another. French and British will join hands to crush him. The most orderly and prosperous province of China will be devastated by communism, by war, by all manner of chaos, even as the north now is. Even without war, Wang Yin will institute communism here, and the result will be the same. Better to continue as we are."
"Infinitely, of course," said Connor. "When does Wang's coup take place?"
"Within the next three days."
"Shorter and shorter, eh? H'm! Is Wang himself here in Yunnanfu?"
"Yes. He uses his own name. He has rented the Evremond villa, near the lake, and is living there with certain of his aides. No women. But why do you ask? You are helpless."
Connor dropped his cigarette, leaned back in his chair.
"Venerable Sung," he said dryly, "for the past ninety years, ever since the Opium War, foreign diplomats have visualized just one way of grabbing portions of China—by intervention following the murder of missionaries or other foreign devils. It has worked like a charm, and no new process has ever been necessary. Within the past year, I myself have broken up two or three identical attempts, working along the same old lines. The innocent bystander is the main sufferer, and some foreign interest or country is the gainer. Now, my venerable friend, it does not pay to try to beat such a man as Wang Yin at his own game."
"It does not," agreed Sung mournfully. "My son was one of his aides; he is dead. My family and friends are dead. We thought that we were clever."
Connor rose. "I am not clever," he said crisply. "At all events, not clever enough to match wits with Wang Yin and on his own ground."
"Then you realize that you can do nothing?"
"Eh?" Connor smiled slightly. "Not at all. I can try to do everything, and I shall. With the proper break of luck, I may pull some of your chestnuts out of the fire. Tell me whether there is one man in Yunnan City on whom I can rely for information, help, advice. One man who will obey me and ask no questions."
Sung's wrinkled features were anxious, as he peered at Connor.
"There is one such man, yes," he said slowly. "No one knows that he was associated with me; much of our information came from him. His name is Tsing Fan, and he is a porter at the Hotel Terminus."
"Eh? A porter!" exclaimed Connor.
The other smiled slightly.
"The peacock pretends to be a sparrow, that no one may steal his feathers." Sung removed a large Buddhist rosary from about his neck and extended it. "Give him this, and he will know that you are the man. I can do no more for you."
"That is enough," said Connor, and rose.
Outside, he rejoined his guide, said curtly that he was not staying for lunch after all, and headed back for the city.
It was past noon when they reached the hotel. Connor lunched there, then spoke with the manager, asking to have the porter Tsing Fan sent to his room.
"A friend who was here recently recommended him to me," he said negligently, "and he may be of service."
"At once, m'sieu," was the response, and Connor went on to his room.
CONNOR looked curiously at the man who entered. Tsing Fan was
apparently young, very stalwart, his face keenly intelligent;
but, in the hotel uniform and cap, he looked like a fish out of
water. Tsing Fan closed the door, and spoke in French.
"You sent for me, m'sieu?"
"This unworthy little brother requested the honor of your presence," said Connor in the most formal Mandarin. The other started slightly; his eyes became alert, suspicious. "You are acquainted with the venerable Sung, I believe?"
"There is no such family, to my knowledge," said Tsing Fan. Connor laughed and pointed to the bed.
"Lift up the pillow."
Tsing Fan hesitated, then went to the bed and lifted the pillow. He saw the big rosary lying there, dropped the pillow, turned with a sharp exclamation.
"What!"
"Sit down and talk," said Connor. "I have come from Tientsin at the request of my old friend and partner, Chang. I have seen Sung. He says that you will obey me."
"That is so, heaven-born," murmured Tsing Fan, staring at him. "Connor! I know now. You are of that family in the north."
"Exactly," said Connor. "Will you help me against Wang Yin, or not?"
"This humble slave is at your command, venerable ancestor," murmured the other, dazedly. He sat down. "You have but to ask."
"You know the Evremond Villa where the man Wang lives?"
Tsing Fan looked up, and his eyes flashed.
"Yes. It is within, large grounds, above the lake."
"Guarded?"
"Men watch the grounds, yes. The servants came with Wang Yin, and are his men."
"How many?"
"Two or three. I cannot say certainly."
"The villa has a telephone?"
"Yes."
Connor regarded the man intently. "When one treads upon the tiger's tail," he said in the familiar locution, "it is necessary to step swiftly. Wang Yin is undoubtedly on his guard against any sort of attack. He is too clever to be met with guile. Am I right?"
Tsing Fan assented. "He watches the foreign colony closely. By this time he must know of your arrival. I myself heard you came with Severn."
"Are you willing to go with me to-night to his villa?"
"Of course!" The dark, oblique eyes flashed again. "What will you do there?"
"I do not know," said Connor frankly. "It depends on what turns up when I talk with him. His men are armed?"
Tsing Fan laughed bitterly. "Have not our friends and relatives been killed like flies in the past two weeks? They are killers, all of them. I have talked with merchants who went to that villa. They say every one who comes is searched for arms."
Connor's eyes narrowed. "So? Valuable news. Have you other clothes than those you wear now?"
"I have nothing, excellency," said the other. "I am a house- boy, a pewter. I play the part. I live up under the eaves with two others in the same room. Thus, I have never been suspected of being other than I seem."
"Very well," said Connor. "Have you a knife?"
"Yes."
"Bring it. Be here at eight o'clock to-night."
"Very well," said Tsing Fan composedly. "You bear the rosary of Sung; therefore you are to be obeyed in all things. But I tell you that we cannot enter that villa unseen. We could not get past the gates."
"We shall not enter unseen," and Connor smiled. "There are plenty of rent-cars here? Pick the best automobile you can find, hire it for an hour, and have it here at eight. That is all. Here is money."
Tsing Fan departed. Connor sallied forth, engaged a guide at the hotel entrance, and set out for the bazaars. There, through the guide, he purchased an outfit of the finest Soochow silk, such as a wealthy Chinese gentleman might wear; he was outrageously cheated, but he dared not let any one guess that he spoke the language himself. A coolie was engaged to carry the parcels, lest the guide lose face, and so Connor came back to the hotel, with the afternoon largely spent.
HE remained in his room until dinner time, then descended and
dined in leisurely manner, and learned that Severn had taken off
successfully that morning to continue his flight to Saigon.
Returning to his room, he took a brief-case from his bag, emptied
out the papers it contained, and in their place put a slender
whalebone slung shot. A knock sounded at his door. It was
precisely eight o'clock as Tsing Fan entered.
Connor pointed to the outfit on the bed.
"Get into them. Where's your knife?"
He whistled softly as Tsing Fan produced a wickedly curved blade, thin and razor-edged. Connor tucked it into the brief-case and buckled the latter shut. Then, taking one of his own engraved cards, he went to the writing desk and sat down. Beneath his name he wrote in English:
Bringing letters from Mukden. Also Yao Erh Sze of Canton. Urgent. Confidential.
Pocketing the card, he rose and surveyed Tsing Fan, who
grinned widely in his new outfit, and looked vastly different.
Connor dived into his bag and produced his make-up box.
"You need a few marks of age, my friend, and a mustache. I can provide them in a few moments." As he provided them, he went on talking. "I have been thinking just what I should do, were I in Wang Yin's place and occupying that villa, and receiving callers.
"Now, here are your orders! You are to say and do nothing, except to say that you are a friend of mine and bear certain proposals from the Canton government, supplementing my own proposals. Don't say this unless forced. Your all-important task is to watch me. After I have opened this brief-case, be ready. When I put my hand inside it—switch off the lights. Then seize your knife from inside the case and if anybody comes into the room—get him. Is that quite clear?"
"Very well," said Tsing Fan, with a nod. "Suppose your mind is changed after you get there?"
"Then I'll give you a shake of the head—no!" exclaimed Connor. "In that case, I'll not open the brief case at all, which is better still. But time yourself carefully, and don't jump for the electric switch until my hand slides into the case. There's your mustache. Take a look at yourself and let's go. If the hotel people wonder who the strange Chinaman is, no matter. The car is waiting? Tell the driver to go to some tea-house here. Once we're away from the hotel, direct him to the villa."
Together they descended the stairs and passed out of the hotel. A battered Mercedes was waiting in front, with a French driver. Tsing Fan gave him an address, and changed it a moment later, once they were off.
Connor could not but admire the blind and implicit manner in which Tsing Fan had obeyed him, without asking explanations, without protests. Knowing that their driver could neither hear nor understand, he touched the other's knee and spoke quietly in Mandarin.
"You are thinking that it is strange I have not told you what I mean to do?" He felt Tsing Fan start at these words, and laughed softly. "My friend, it is simply that I do not know. I gamble everything on what turns up at the moment. We may go to disaster; certainly we go to danger; but what we do is not for ourselves."
"Thank you," said Tsing Fan. "It is for the millions of people around us; I quite understand, my friend."
In his tone was a certain dignity which impressed Connor, as they relied along.
SOON they were out of the brilliantly lighted streets, passing
through tree-shaded avenues of the residential quarter built up
by the foreign element; the walls, high hedges, stout gates,
bespoke French influence. The car turned in before two high iron
gates, blocked to a height of six feet with plates of sheet-iron,
and the driver honked insistently. The gates were opened enough
to give exit to a native, who barked a question. Connor leaned
from the window and beckoned, holding out his card.
"Take this to your master," he said, "and admit us promptly."
Within the grounds showed the lights of a house. The man took the card and passed it to another inside the gates. The French driver talked to himself, with frequent curses on the insolence of the yellow race. After a moment a bell jingled and the native threw open the gates, gesturing them to pass on.
"Am I to wait, messieurs?" asked the driver.
"No. This is all we require," said Connor. "We shall walk back—perhaps."
They drew up beneath a porte-cochère; this villa, it appeared, was a pretentious place, at least on the outside, though it did not seem a large building. A light flashed out overhead, and a black-clad Chinese appeared and bowed slightly.
"My master will receive you at once, gentlemen," he said in perfect French. "Follow me, if you please. Do you wish to see him in company, or separately?"
Connor had anticipated this query, which indicated success. Two callers would be received with more suspicion than one, unless their business was plausible.
"We have letters to present that mention us both, in regard to certain matters," he responded. "When these have been attended to, my business with him is confidential—as, I believe, is that of M. Yao, here."
"He will be at liberty in a moment, and requests that you wait here," and the servant showed them into a small and rather tawdry salon, then closed the door and went on down the hall.
Coming to another door, the servant knocked, then entered.
This room was a combination of library and office. A large, flat-topped desk held neat piles of papers and documents, a telephone, a radio receiving set. The room was brilliantly illumined by an electric luster in the ceiling. About the walls stood bookcases, half hidden by large maps outspread and pinned in place. Two chairs stood by the desk.
At the desk sat a man, with Connor's card lying before him. He was of medium height and build and wore loose English tweeds. His hands were large, powerful, with square-ended fingers. His face was delicately outlined and unimpressive, until one observed the heavy brow and piercing eyes; those eyes were cold, unwinking, reptilian, in their deadly regards.
"Well?" he said curtly.
"They have certain mutual business," said the servant, "but each one desires to see you in private, afterward. The son of Han, I do not know. The foreign devil is the same who arrived here last night by air. He carries a portfolio."
"Yes, these men must always carry their papers in something," said Wang Yin, his lip curling in disdain. "Search them. If they carry any weapon, detain them and advise me. If not, admit them at once."
His hand went out to three push-buttons set in a holder on the desk. He touched one and looked up. A picture between two bookcases, on the opposite wall, slid away to reveal the face of a man in the opening.
"Close the opening," said Wang Yin, "unless I signal you. In that case, be ready to shoot if necessary."
The picture slid back into place. A moment later there was a knock at the door, and Connor and Tsing Fan were shown into the room. They had been searched. Wang Yin rose and bowed.
"Come in, gentlemen," he said, and motioned to the two chairs. "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Connor. I have been expecting you ever since your visit with Mr. Sung this morning."
CONNOR gave no sign of his startled surprise at these words. He was prepared for Wang Yin's perfect mastery of English, for his shrewdness, for his enmity—but he was not prepared to find his business with Sung known to this man.
He bowed slightly and advanced to the desk, laid down the brief case, and with a smiling word of thanks accepted a cigar from the box Wang Yin extended. Tsing Fan refused, and seated himself.
Wang Yin spun a lighter and Connor accepted it.
"So you keep an eye on Sung, do you?" he asked pleasantly.
Wang Yin nodded, and selected a cigar for himself.
"Naturally," he rejoined. "I am curious to know why you saw him before you saw me, if you come from Mukden. You have references, no doubt."
"Yes." Connor rose and stepped to the desk, and started to unbuckle the brief case. Wang Yin had resumed his chair, almost beside him there. "Certain British officials asked me to see you—but I presume you had best see the letters first."
"By all means," said Wang Yin dryly.
Connor was not anxious for any verbal sparring. He was only too well aware that a word too much, an incautious phrase, would spoil everything; also, there was the subconscious influence, the telepathy, which would certainly give Wang Yin warning within another moment or two.
So, laying down his cigar, he opened the brief case and thrust in his hand as though to bring out his papers. He saw Tsing Fan calmly leave his chair and start toward the wall switch. Wang Yin caught the movement, and sent a glance at the Chinese.
Connor caught out the slung shot and struck, swift as a flash. Wang Yin's fingers had almost reached the three push-buttons on the desk; they fell limp and then trailed off the polished wood and fell, as Wang's head sagged forward. At the same instant the room was plunged into darkness.
For a moment Connor held his breath, listening, then he relaxed.
"All right; switch 'em on," he said. "He was reaching for those push-buttons. No doubt he meant to signal whomever was watching the room."
"He who treads on the tiger's tail," said Tsing Fan with a chuckle, "does well not to neglect precautions. We took the chance; it is well."
The lights clicked on again.
Connor looked distastefully at the man he had struck down; such a blow smacked of treachery, and revolted him. Yet he knew it had been vitally necessary. In no other manner could he have done his work—and he was striking, not for himself, but to destroy the tentacles that threatened to grip the uncounted thousands of yellow men in a clenching grapple of death and ruin.
"Empty his pockets, take him over into the corner and tie him up," he ordered. "Make some sort of a gag, too, that will keep him from shouting."
"And the knife? Is it not better?" Tsing Fan, holding his wickedly carved blade, made an eager gesture.
Connor frowned. "We are not murderers. Do as I say."
Tsing Fan lifted the senseless Wang Yin from the chair. Connor reached out for the papers piled so neatly on the desk—and at this instant the telephone rang.
THE two men exchanged one startled look. Then Connor dropped
into the chair and put out his hand to the combined receiver and
mouthpiece on its rack. In their brief conversation he had noted
the voice of Wang Yin; despite his perfect English, the man spoke
with the peculiar singing note of the upper-class Chinese, the
soft modulation of voice that denoted one accustomed to speaking
pure Mandarin.
"Hello!" he said in English, aping that voice so far as he could.
"This is your servant Lung speaking," came the reply in the same language.
Connor perceived instantly that luck was with him. Evidently Wang Yin used English wherever possible, as in Yunnan City it was seldom spoken.
"The secretary of the governor is here at my house," went on Lung. "He is ready to use the poison to-morrow at noon. I called you to make certain—"
"One moment," said Connor.
In a flash he perceived the chance that was given him, and fought for self-control. So grim old Governor Yuan was to be poisoned—the coup was set for the morrow! Everything else was swept overboard. Connor realized now with full force that he must act in Chinese fashion, with supreme disregard for anything except the winning of the game.
"Lung!" he said, carefully imitating the intonation and the English accent of Wang Yin. "I have just learned that his secretary is playing us false. He has already betrayed us. Have him killed at once, instantly!"
"It will be done, master," came the response.
Connor thrilled exultantly—this man suspected nothing.
"Warn the others that they are to be seized at midnight," went on Connor. Glancing up, he saw the eyes of Tsing Fan fixed upon him, startled, distended. Evidently Tsing Fan understood English. "Troops are being moved out. We are unable to strike now. The traitor has given a list of names, most of us are known. Warn every one to leave the city within half an hour. Go to Wuting- chow, and I will be there to-morrow night."
"As ordered, master," came the emotionless response. Evidently, the men who served Wang Yin were surprised at nothing. "Shall the man be killed slowly?"
"No. Waste no time."
Connor laid the instrument on its rack and drew a deep breath.
"You understood?"
"Yes. I speak English," said Tsing Fan quietly.
"The governor's secretary was to poison Yuan at noon to- morrow."
Comprehension flashed in the dark, oblique eyes.
"And you have ordered him killed!" Tsing Fan broke into a laugh; the laugh of the Chinese, to whom a touch of cruelty appeals strongly. "Excellent! And the others will flee?"
"This man Lung suspected nothing," said Connor. "We have the chance to destroy the whole plot at one blow, from the inside."
Tsing Fan bent over the figure of Wang Yin and completed his task. Rising, he placed on the desk the articles taken from Wang Yin's pockets; money, a few letters, nothing else. Connor placed the letters aside, with the other papers on the desk, which he swiftly gathered together.
The telephone rang again, and he picked up the instrument.
"Hello!"
"Master, this is Yo Chow!" came at thin voice in Chinese. "Lung sent me word—I wish to know whether it is true! If there has been some mistake—"
"The only mistake is your folly in not obeying instantly," said Connor, and gave Tsing Fan a grin.
"Very well. Forgive me, master."
Connor replaced the instrument with a chuckle. He turned his attention to the drawers of the desk, glancing through the papers there, and adding some to the pile set aside.
Tsing Fan, meantime, went to the walls and inspected them narrowly.
"This house," he observed, "belonged to the French collector of customs who killed himself last year. He was a great scoundrel; he took bribes, kept many women, was said to have had secret hiding places in the house."
Connor paid no attention, for he had come upon a number of letters and documents bearing the Soviet symbol, though written in Russian, of which he knew very little. He drew the brief case to him and began to cram these and the other papers into it.
Tsing Fan came to the picture high on the wall between the two bookcases, opposite the desk. It was a small French color-print, set in a frame without glass. Tsing Fan touched it, and found it did not move. He examined it more carefully, and perceived that it was solid in the wall, apparently. He tapped it sharply with his fingers, then again. His knife flashed up and he drove it into the center of the picture with all his force.
Connor looked up, startled; a frightful sound had burst upon the room, like the gasping groan of a dying man. He saw the long knife of Tsing Fan still fixed firmly in the picture, then Tsing pointed to it with an exultant word. Connor saw something dark appear on the surface of the picture, spread upon it, then drip down the wall in a steady red smear.
"He heard me tap, put down his ear to listen—and that was all," said Tsing Fan. "The picture is on a panel of wood."
Reaching up, he made an effort, and the knife came away in his hand with a rush of blood.
"The devil!" exclaimed Connor, starting to his feet. His forgotten cigar was burning the desk-edge, the varnish smelling evilly. "Tsing, we've done the job; now to get out of here. Not a sign of any weapon in the desk, unfortunately. Can we reach Governor Yuan by telephone?"
"No," said Tsing Fan. "He is old style and refuses to have telephones in the palace. We must get out by carving a way with the knife, I think."
Connor nodded. "Looks like it." He buckled shut his bulging brief case and caught up the slung shot. "All right, let's go."
Tsing Fan drew open the door, which opened into the room. The lighted hallway outside was empty, but the two men stared in abrupt dismay and consternation; the doorway opening was completely closed by a steel grille.
CONNOR closed the door swiftly, quietly.
"There's been no alarm," he said. "Probably this was some gadget devised by Wang Yin to keep any one from leaving the room except at his signal. Try the windows."
Tsing Fan pulled back one of the heavy draperies cloaking the windows, then let it fall again.
"Barred on the outside," he said briefly.
"Stand by, then. See what happens." Connor went to the desk and pressed the three push-buttons, one after the other.
A click sounded from the wall. The split panel with its picture moved aside, to let a small deluge of blood down the wall; the skull of a Chinese showed in the opening, motionless. Tsing Fan went to the door, opened it slightly.
"The steel is gone!" he exclaimed. "Come quickly!"
One of those three buttons had released the sliding grille outside. Another had slid away the wall panel. But the third—
Connor stepped to the door and switched off the light in the room. With brief case and slung shot, he followed Tsing Fan out into the hall, and closed the door. No one was in sight. For an instant, Connor felt the heart-leap of victory. Already Tsing Fan was at the door opening on the porte-cochère, plucking at it—but vainly.
"Locked!" he exclaimed.
And at this instant, the house was plunged into darkness. A thin, shrill cry filled the air; Connor felt the reverberation of naked feet thudding on the hall floor. He threw himself sidewise. Something struck him with fearful force and hurled him headlong, the brief case flying from his grip. It was gone. A figure stumbled over him, a shrill voice cried out. Then Connor was up, on his feet, lashing out blindly with the slung shot. There was a tremendous crash of bursting glass from the door.
The third push-button had brought the avalanche upon them!
A body struck against Connor, gripped him; the slung shot cracked home, there was a scream, he was free again. A terrific uproar was going up all around. Recollecting that there had been side doors from the hall, Connor groped for one, found it, swung it open—and the ray of an electric torch picked him up as he was closing it. There was an instant yell. Bodies came crashing against the door. They were after him, had seen him.
He released the door abruptly. It flew back against him, hurled him against the wall, concealed him perfectly, as men hurtled into the room. Chinese voices filled his ears. The torch ray stabbed about. Then, suddenly as it had gone off, the house light was switched on again. From somewhere lifted a thin, piercing, metallic voice screaming in rage. Connor knew instinctively it was the voice of Wang Yin.
The din quieted. Connor heard the men around him ebb out of the room.
"Both of them gone!" cried a voice that pierced him. "Fools—outside! Comb every inch of the compound and find them! Do not hesitate to shoot."
Wang Yin was in charge, then. Connor gently shoved the door, and discovered that he was in the same salon where they had waited when they had first come in. The room blazed with light. So Tsing had escaped! That was what the bursting glass had meant—he must have gained the gardens outside.
The door closed, Connor snapped off the lights, crossed hastily to the one window, and drew the curtain aside. An iron grille on the far side of the glass greeted him, and he let the drapery fall again. Even if Tsing Fan had got away, the brief case with its precious freight was gone. Failure weighed heavily upon him. After all, he should have let Tsing put a knife into Wang Yin when they had him. Nothing else would insure the destruction of the man's infernal schemes.
What to do now? Connor thought swiftly, desperately. They were all outside seeking Tsing Fan—ah! Audacity, the one thing they would never expect; and why not? He had bungled things miserably. Why not seize the chance to repair everything? Wang Yin would have found the brief case, would of course take it back into his workroom—
HIS brain thus racing, Connor darted across to the door,
opened it, looked out. By the shattered entrance door, now ajar,
sprawled the black-clad figure of one of the servants, eloquent
testimony that Tsing Fan's knife had found one mark, at least. No
one else. The hall was empty. His brief case was gone, of
course.
Connor turned toward the room he had so lately left, slung shot in hand. A sudden outburst of voices welled up from outside, instinct with savage ferocity. He came to the office door, and found that the steel grille was not in place.
"We have found him!" came a voice from outside. "We have him, master!"
Another instant and they would be back in the house. Tsing Fan was lost, then. Connor flung open the door before him and darted into Wang Yin's office, slamming the door again.
Wang Yin was not here. Save for the crown of the dead Chinaman in the wall aperture, the room was empty. Nor was there any sign of the brief case.
From the hall sounded the thudding of feet, the shrill sound of excited voices. Battling down his keen dismay, Connor remembered the accident that had saved him, and with two quick strides was behind the door, where it would open against him. A hand rattled the knob, shoved the door partly open.
"He is dead?" asked the voice of Wang Yin. "I see that he is. By the ten hells! This man has no mustache."
"Here is a false one that we found in the hall, master," said another.
The telephone rang stridently, insistently.
"Take his body into another room. Search it and bring me whatever you find," said Wang Yin hastily. He entered the room, slammed the door shut, leaped to the desk and seized the telephone. "Hello!" he said in English.
Tsing Fan dead, then!
Connor took a step forward, then another. Wang Yin leaned over the desk, back to him, and emitted a sudden blasting torrent of oaths. He was just learning about the orders that had been issued in his name, evidently. He had laid an automatic pistol on the desk when he seized the instrument.
"Wait a minute—wait!" he exclaimed. "There is something wrong—"
Connor shoved a thumb into his back.
"Drop it!" he commanded. "Hands up—quick, you devil!"
Wang Yin twisted about, caught a glimpse of Connor's face, and without hesitation dropped the instrument and lifted his arms, his features contorted with fury and dismay.
"Don't try any tricks or you'll stop hot lead," said Connor, and reaching past him, took the automatic from the desk. It was loaded, the safety catch off. He stepped back a pace and grinned cheerfully at the reptilian ferocity of the other man's expression.
"Now put the telephone on the rack—quick, damn you!"
Connor's eyes hardened. Wang Yin reached out and replaced the instrument, staring fixedly at Connor. The latter backed around to the other side of the desk.
"Where's my brief case?" he demanded. The yellow man looked blank.
"Whose game are you playing, Mr. Connor?" he asked slowly. Connor ignored the question and glanced around. No sign of the brief case anywhere. Wang Yin had not brought it back into the room with him—perhaps he did not realize its importance. Across those venomous saffron features flitted a swift glance of understanding.
"Oh!" said Wang Yin. "I see now. It was you who gave those orders they just called me about—I suppose Lung telephoned me and you were clever enough—yes, yes! You're no fool. And the man with you, pretending to be from the Canton government—just who was he, if you please?"
"You might find that out for yourself," said Connor crisply, "since you've killed him."
"As you thought you had killed me, eh?" Wang Yin lifted a hand to his head, his eyes flitting about the room. "Well, you fooled me; I admit it freely. Still I must insist that you assuage my curiosity. Where did you learn so much? Who sent you?"
DESPERATELY, Connor cursed the lost brief case. He dared not
mention it again lest Wang Yin discover its import; without it,
however, now that Tsing Fan was dead, he did not want to leave
here. Then Wang Yin started violently, and his eyes widened.
"So—my papers—everything! You foreign devil, who sent you here?"
"China," said Connor calmly. "Your whole scheme is known, Wang. You expected to double-cross the French—"
A spasm of frightful and unutterable rage contorted the yellow features.
"So that's it—I might have known! Those cursed French devils—ah! I was warned not to trust them! I might have known they merely waited a chance of betraying me somehow! Where are my papers gone? Spy! Assassin! Where are they?"
Suddenly Connor sensed something amiss—felt the intangible yet powerful flow of thought from the other man. Wang Yin was sparring for time, was deliberately play-acting a role, for some reason. And he remembered the hole in the wall. With a swift feeling almost of panic, he stepped aside, glanced up at the aperture. The head of the dead man was no longer there.
"Hands up, Wang!" he exclaimed, lifting the pistol. "Go to the door—there'll be a pistol in your back now, not my thumb! And if any one shoots me, my finger will contract on the trigger. Step out! You'll take me out of here, anyhow, papers or no papers."
He strode around the desk as he spoke, grim purpose in his eyes, half wishing that Wang Yin would give him an excuse to fire. The other man read his look aright, and without protest turned and raised his hands and went to the door. Connor thrust the pistol-muzzle into the yellow man's back and reached around him, opening the door an inch.
"Pull it open yourself and march to the entrance!"
They stepped out into the hall. No one was in sight except one of the black-clad servants, by the outer door. He straightened up, staring at them.
"Be silent, or your master dies!" Connor spat at him viciously. "If we—"
Connor heard nothing, caught no glimpse of the man who had appeared behind him in the hall, was given no warning whatever; all his attention was fastened upon the servant by the door. A hand reached around from behind him, struck his wrist a smart blow, and at the same instant a crashing impact came against his skull.
The pistol fell from his hand, unfired, as he crumpled up.
WHEN Connor regained his senses, his head was aching badly and
he had an egg-sized lump over one ear. Also, his wrists were
handcuffed together.
He lifted his head and stared around. He was in a corner of Wang Yin's office; Wang sat at the desk, speaking rapidly into the telephone. Two of the black-clad servants stood beside the desk; beside them dangled a half-inch line, depending from a stout hook in the ceiling. Another guard stood over Connor, and seeing the latter move, thrust a rifle-butt into his ribs as a significant hint to be quiet.
"And get here as quickly as you can, Lung!" Wang Yin was saying. "No help for the damage that is already done; we must guard against further harm. It's midnight now, so make haste."
Midnight! Then he must have been unconscious for a considerable time, thought Conner dully. He was aware that Wang Yin had left the telephone and was standing looking down at him, but cared not. The pain in his head was intolerable, and a deeper hurt ached within him. He had failed, miserably and totally. All that he had accomplished was the death of Tsing Fan. If he had given the latter his way, Wang would now be dead and the game won, but his inhibitions had overpowered him.
The two guards leaned over, seized him by the arms, jerked him to his feet. Wang Yin regarded him coldly, calmly.
"I ask you for the last time, my friend: Where are the documents you took?"
Connor was bewildered.
"How do I know?" he rejoined hopelessly. Wang leaned forward, struck him across the face.
"You will soon remember, then! You hid them somewhere. When you have hung for an hour and your body is disjointed, perhaps your memory will waken, eh? String him up."
That blow in the face wakened Con-nor, lashed him to action. His wrists were bound, his arms held—but his foot flashed out in a swift kick that caught Wang Yin under the chin and knocked him sprawling. Instantly Connor was seized and held motionless. With a scream of rage, Wang struggled to his feet, one hand at his throat, then got himself under control and made a gesture.
One of Connor's hands was freed from the handcuffs, he was forced to stand on a chair, and about his free wrist was bound the cord. The chair was withdrawn and he was left hanging by the right arm, his feet well off the floor. One of the servants appeared with an iron weight. This, by means of a cord, was attached to his left ankle, and he spun about slowly in the air, his distended eyes vainly seeking some aid, some release from the weight. Soon, he realized, his arm and leg would be out of the socket, his body disjointed.
"You will remember, yes?" said Wang Yin, regarding him with a thin smile. "After an hour, it will be the other arm and leg, my friend. Oh, yes, I think you will remember."
Taunting, jeering cruelly, he forgot the lesson just given him and came close. Connor spun slowly about—then his left arm whipped out. The handcuffs on his wrist slapped across the face of Wang Yin, and Connor laughed as the infuriated man staggered back.
At this instant came the bursting crack of a pistol shot, outside.
A yell followed, then another—wild, shrill screams instinct with alarm and terror. Wang Yin stood as though paralyzed, in the act of wiping the blood from his cut face; he turned toward the door, listening, thunderstruck. One of the three servants darted out of the room with a cry of inquiry. As he passed through, the door, there came a shot in the hall and the man pitched forward.
Wang Yin leaped into life, uttered a hoarse cry, hurled himself at the desk, trying to reach the spring that would close the sliding door of steel bars.
He was a fraction of an instant too slow.
Connor, literally being torn asunder, racked with spasmodic agony as his muscles slowly gave under the strain, glimpsed a rush of figures in the hall. Three of them came hurtling into the room. Then the steel grille clanged into place, one of the servants slammed the door.
A shot burst out, and another. One of the three uniformed figures was down under the knife of a servant. The other, pistol out, shot the other servant, but pitched forward as the weapon in Wang Yin's hand exploded. The third intruder, who had stumbled and fallen headlong, came to his feet just as Connor, slowly revolving on his cord, turned about and came face to face with him.
This third figure was Tsing Fan.
Connor saw it happen, all in the veriest fraction of a moment, as he slowly spun, helpless. Tsing Fan uprose like a ghost, and the pistol in his hand jerked sharply, twice. To the reports, Wang Yin whirled, flung out his arms, stood there for an instant with the utter ferocity of a wild beast in his face, his eyes blazing hatred and venom. Then, a rush of blood coming from his lips, the life fled out of his eyes and he collapsed.
Tsing Fan leaped to the desk, slashed at the cord with his knife, and Connor, with a sense of blessed relief, felt himself caught and lowered. A moment later, the weight cut from his left leg, he dropped into a chair and stared at the man before him. From the door came a frantic, insistent hammering and pounding. The uniformed Chinese, having finished his opponent, flung open the door, and Tsing Fan put out a hand to the push-buttons and released the steel grille. Figures came bursting into the room.
"You!" Connor gripped the hand of Tsing Fan as the latter came to him again. "Is it real? They said—you were killed in the garden."
"It was one of our men there, spying," said Tsing Fan. "I had posted him there—had not told you. He was the only one I could depend on, and—well, what matter? Your brief case struck me in the darkness. I seized it and got outside. He helped me get away, but they caught him before he could follow over the wall. I went straight to the governor's palace and laid everything before Yuan. He is here, himself."
There was a sudden silence.
Connor looked up, and from the pictures he had seen, recognized the grim old governor who had held Yunnan so firmly in his grip during the years of chaos. Yuan reached out a hand to him and gripped Connor's fingers.
"My friend," said Yuan, "I owe you and others a great deal, but my chief debt is to you. With the documents you obtained, Yunnan is safe from any foreign domination; I have evidence that will hold these vultures back from further attempts."
The impulsive, hearty grip wrenched Connor's arm. A spasm of pain shot through him, and his head fell forward. But, as his eyes closed, there was a smile upon his lips.
The game was won.