RGL e-Book Cover 2019©
RGL e-Book Cover 2019©
Argosy, 19 September 1931, with "Diplomacy by Air"
Vincent Connor's political intrigues were so secret and successful that they puzzled all China; but this blow drove him to open and reckless action.
VINCENT CONNOR sat in the lounge of the Tientsin Club and stared dully at the telegram in his hand; the wording of it had knocked him into a chair. In more than one sense, the props were swept out from under him.
About him was the luxury of the club—uniformed boys, English and American business men nodding good morning to him, privately thinking him an idler who had inherited the Connor fortunes and was doing nothing to preserve or enlarge them. Outside was the scurry of Tientsin—Chinese voices, shrill and singsong, the rattle of trams, the honk of automobile horns. The only real thing was here in his hand.
Until now, Connor had not known just how much he depended on the old man down in the south—old Chang, his father's partner in all the great Connor interests that stretched half across China. Only Chang had known of his, Vincent Connor's, secret work; to Chang, he was no polo-playing dawdler, but a man who did things that changed the business and political life of all China. From Chang, too, had frequently come the call to action. But no more of those cryptic letters would arrive now.
Chang, on the inside of all the chaotic intrigue that had torn China asunder, was dead.
Connor stirred himself. He read the message again. Chang had been up the river at Changsha when the "red" army of General Ng Fu looted that city; he had been shot by General Ng Fu, said the wire. Chang was a British subject, too, born in Hongkong. Lifting his eyes, Connor caught sight of the British vice-consul crossing the club lobby.
"I say, Foster!" he called, maintaining his casual mask with an effort. "Have you a moment? A question of diplomatic etiquette or something. Suppose one of your Hongkong subjects were to be killed by the Chinese—"
Foster groaned. "What redress, eh? None, my dear chap, none whatever, except a claim for damages against somebody. None of these bandit generals are responsible. We can't touch 'em, and as you know, there's no central government that can touch 'em. Like your Chicago gunmen. Best way is to wait until they kill each other off, ruin the country, and let some one man rise to the top of the stew."
"No punitive measures are possible, in such a case?"
"We've no Mussolini in England, old chap. More's the pity!"
Connor sank back into his chair and lit a cigarette, thoughtfully. True, China was in total chaos. There were plenty of patriotic Chinese, anxious for good government: men of affairs, educated men—but they were lost in a country gone mad with loot and graft. Men like old Chang.
"It's every man for himself," thought Connor. His sunburned features, wide-angled and resolute, set in grim lines. A sudden flash lighted the blue eyes under his black brows. "So! Then why not buy chips in the game, eh?"
THE idea stirred in him. For months, now, he had worked
beneath the surface, had handled job after job, for the sake of
that China which had furnished his fortune and by which he now
existed. None suspected his activity, though more than one
European and Asiatic government wondered why its plans had gone
amiss. But now—well, this was something different.
Connor stirred, took his hat and stick, and went down to the general offices where the Connor interests were handled. In his own office he caught up the telephone and finally ran Bert Swann to earth. Swann was not one of the socially elect. He had drifted in from somewhere with an airplane and a load of loot—rumor said that he had been flying for one of the war lords, and being unable to get any salary, had taken the crate and skipped with it. Probable enough, too.
"Swann? Connor speaking—Vincent Connor. Met you the other day at the races."
"Oh, sure! The gilded youth. I remember now," said Swann impolitely. "How's things?"
"Fair enough. Will that air wagon of yours fly?"
"Yeah, if the sheriff's after me it will. Why?"
"Come up to the Tientsin Club and lunch with me at one. We'll talk business."
"Can do. Thanks."
CONNOR'S general manager tapped and entered, an anxious look
on his broad celestial face.
"A man is here, a Shensi man by his accent, though he can speak English. His name is Sui, but he says only that he wishes to see you privately. It is unusual, perhaps dangerous. He has the look of a rat."
Connor smiled. "The tiger does not fear rats. Let him enter."
Mr. Sui entered. He wore European clothes, and spoke perfect English. Accustomed from his boyhood to deal with Chinese, Connor read trickery and craft in the man's yellow face; a small man, with silky voice.
"You are Mr. Connor? I think I saw you at Yale, four years ago—you were graduating, and I was there for six months. I am sorry that I am not on a pleasant errand, Mr. Connor."
"Yes?" said Connor.
"You see, I represent General Ng Fu. You may have heard of him."
Connor nodded quietly. "Yes. He has gained some successes recently."
"He will gain more. He has now drawn back to Tienfu, to consolidate his conquests and reorganize his army," said Mr. Sui. "In the district which he now occupies, many of your business interests lie. There are mines, mills, and so forth. Not in your name, but owned by the companies you control."
Connor ground his cigarette in a tray, absently, and eyed the little man.
"You know a good deal about my affairs."
"I know all about them, for that is my business," said Mr. Sui complacently. "My master does not wish to disturb your commercial interests, but plans a complete industrial reorganization in his district. However, a contribution to his treasury—"
"I see, I see," and Connor smiled evenly. Either this agent knew nothing of Chang's murder, or attached no importance to it. "In plain words, blackmail and graft, eh? Well, that's the order of the day in China. What guarantee have I of your honesty?"
"I have a signed protection from General Ng Fu to give upon delivery of the money," said Sui eagerly. "This guarantees you as one of his friends and supporters. Immediately upon getting word from me, he issues protective orders to all of your business interests."
"I see." Connor looked thoughtfully at the other. "I should want to see you put your letter in the post, however—what is the sum demanded?"
"Fifty thousand dollars, gold."
"A hundred thousand Mex, eh? Do you accept checks?" asked Connor dryly.
"Of course."
"Very well," said Connor with the shrug of a man dismissing a boring piece of business. "I must do it, naturally. Hm! I'm playing polo this afternoon—dining with the Hardinges—suppose you come to the Tientsin Club at nine thirty to-night, eh? Bring your papers. How do you want the money?"
"In two checks, if you please." Sweat bedewed the yellow brow, for Mr. Sui had not anticipated so swift and easy a victory. "One for thirty thousand, one for twenty."
"Very well. At nine thirty. You'll be brought to my room at the club."
Mr. Sui departed, walking on air.
BERT SWANN turned up at the appointed time, and Connor got a
table for two in the corner of the club dining room. Swann was a
Maine man, a drawling Yankee with a twang to his tongue, with a
cold eye, a wide grin, and six feet of solid brawn.
"What do you want?" the flyer demanded bluntly. "Taxi service to Pekin?"
"No. To Tienfu," said Connor.
The other whistled softly. "Are you serious? That's inland and down south—"
"Listen, Swann—get me straight, now," and Connor met the cold eyes squarely. "I'm going to Tienfu. I want to be there before I'm expected. General Ng Fu is there, and I'm either going to shoot him or carry him off from the middle of his own army. Also, I'll have an unwilling passenger to take along. If possible, I want to leave early in the morning. There's part of the scheme on the table. What do you say?"
"Me? I say you're crazy, buddy. It just can't be done."
"Name your price. If we make a dicker, I'll let you in on the fun."
"And the firing squad, eh? All right." The cold eyes of Swann glimmered. "I guess maybe I figured you wrong, buddy. Are you hiring me or taking me in on the ground floor?"
"Suit yourself."
"All right. We're partners, and damn the money! Now give me the story."
AT nine thirty that night, Connor was in his room at the club,
with Bert Swann imbibing a long cold drink. Connor had given his
general manager certain orders that day in regard to Mr. Sui, and
knew they would be carried out to the letter.
When Sui arrived, sleek and debonair and inwardly excited, Connor introduced Swann, then seated himself at the table, opposite his yellow visitor. He produced the two checks demanded and laid them down, putting his Han jade paperweight upon them.
"I made these out to cash," Connor said amiably. "Now for your side of the pact."
Sui opened up his bulky brief case, got out Chinese writing materials and documents, and displayed a large and ornate document on red paper. It was a blank protection, signed by General Ng Fu; when Sui had filled in Connor's name, it told the world that Connor was the friend and supporter of Ng Fu and was to be treated as such.
Blandly pocketing the check for twenty thousand as his commission, Sui brushed a letter to the general inclosing the check for thirty thousand, as Connor's contribution, and giving the agreed terms—namely, that all the Connor enterprises in Ng Fu's district should be exempt from taxation or bother of any kind. He handed the letter to Connor, who, to his obvious surprise, read the characters aloud.
"Fair enough," said Connor. "I'll see that this is sent, myself, and will insure its delivery with the thirty thousand- dollar check to Ng Fu personally. Seal it. Then give me a receipt for the full fifty thousand, to go in my business records."
Sui sealed the letter and Ng Fu's check, which he was entirely willing to trust to Connor, and then wrote out the receipt demanded. The business was concluded. Buckling up his brief-case, he bowed to Connor and Swann, and then departed. Swann grinned.
"And he fell for it! Say, buddy, I got to hand it to you."
"You'd better go pound your ear," suggested Connor, "if we're to leave at six in the morning. Rain, fog, or whirlwind, we've got to go."
"We will," said Swann. "We'll have gas enough to make Tienfu, but we'll need a whole lot of luck. This is a crazy party all the way!"
"It'll have a sane ending," said Connor grimly. Chang had been more than a right-hand man to him. He had been like a benevolent old uncle; and his face loomed before Connor's eyes.
Ten minutes later his general manager called up to say that instructions had been followed. Mr. Sui had been collared on leaving the club, and was in safe keeping.
SIX in the morning saw Swann warming up his machine—a
Class A monoplane with Whirlwind engine and a gun mounted
forward. Connor arrived in his Sunbeam, and the two men with him
jerked a frightened, wailing bundle out of the car and into the
cabin of the plane.
"Our friend Sui, all complete, even to the brief-case," Connor told the aviator. "Ready? Let's go."
"High time," said Swann. "Some damned government has served notice on me that I can't leave. I dunno how they expect to keep me—"
The rest was lost in the roar of the engine.
So they circled in the sunrise, above the lazy Taku river and its shipping, and over the town and foreign concessions, and straight for the hills. After all, it was far from being so crazy as it seemed or sounded, for Sui's briefcase had yielded a recent map of Tienfu with everything pricked out in detail, including the air field General Ng Fu had constructed for his budding aerial force. And there was only a bit over five hundred miles to go, bee line.
Mr. Sui protested volubly, but nobody paid any attention to him, and he was so securely tied that he could be safely neglected.
"You've been up before?" said Bert Swann, eying this secretive partner of his curiously.
Connor smiled. "I got my pilot's license in my last year at college—that was some time ago, though. Yes, I've been up a few times since. This is a good crate."
"Fairish," admitted Swann, and plunged into a discussion of air-fighting in China.
Connor had brought a basket of lunch, little of which was wasted on the captive, though he was not allowed to suffer. Bert Swann had no map, but flew by compass alone; yet now and again he pointed out objects below—mountains, towns, rivers. Connor marveled.
"It's my job," said the flyer. "I made it my business to know China from the air. No good maps. I can fly anywhere by compass—that is, in the north. I don't know the south so well, down around Yunnan and Canton, and I haven't touched the west. But I've pulled some queer stunts around these parts!"
"You're a wonder," said Connor. The other gave him a queer look.
"So are you, for that matter. I've heard a lot about you—society bird and so on. Nobody thinks you're worth a damn, any more than the average rich youth."
"And what do you think?" queried Connor.
"Quit kidding me, buddy." Swann grinned. "We'll get on, you and I."
THE miles sped behind, with never a miss in the motor; hour
after hour sped away, while the stiff and miserable Sui begged
unavailingly for mercy and freedom. Finally Swann pointed to a
range of low hills a short distance ahead.
"There y'are. Beyond them, we'll pick up the river. Tienfu should be about thirty miles south—we're on the big bend here, you know. Ng Fu has two old Jennies, bombers. Might sell him this crate."
Connor nodded. "That's what I intend—only you'll never get any money for it."
Swann laughed gayly, and shot him an admiring glance.
"All right—you're the doctor!"
"Got any ammunition for that gun?" said Connor. "If you have, get it ready as soon as we land. Then trail along with me and see what turns up."
The other nodded.
The hills fled below and behind and they pick up the silver ribbon of the river. Swann came down to two thousand feet, glanced again at Sui's map of the city, and presently Tienfu drew into sight. The landing field, and General Ng Fu's headquarters as well, were outside the old walled town.
Presently they were over the camp and field, and their arrival created obvious excitement, until it was seen that they were descending peacefully. Connor's eyes kindled as he stared down. He knew well that he was doing an absolutely crazy thing, from all normal viewpoints, yet he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
"Good discipline," and he nodded toward the field below, which had been cleared as by magic. "Forming up in ranks—hm!"
The crowd about two airplanes had melted. The rows of tents showed precision; hospital, headquarters, ammunition and food dumps—the whole place had a very military look, by no means usual with China's bandit armies. The machine swooped, landed perfectly, and taxied to a halt before the two Jennies and their hangars.
There was no outrush of the crowd. Two officers, alone, came striding out to the plane, as Connor clambered out. One of the two stepped forward and saluted him briskly.
"I am Colonel Wang Lin, of General Ng Fu's staff," he said in English.
Connor smiled, gave his name, and then proceeded in Mandarin of the old florid style:
"Present the compliments of this unworthy slave to the great venerable ancestor, before whom the earth trembles! I have brought with me one Sui, the Tientsin agent of the lordly maternal uncle, and certain sums of money. I desire an audience—"
"Refreshment awaits you, elder cousin," returned the officer. "Also an audience. Pray come with me, and my men will refuel and condition your machine. Will your pilot accompany us?"
Connor assented, and Bert Swann, leaving helmet and leather coat, fell in with them, slamming the cabin door. Mr. Sui was left to his lamentations.
They proceeded toward headquarters—an old temple a quarter mile distant whose surrounding grove of trees had not been disturbed. Connor knew that he would have no difficulty in seeing his man. The average war lord, upon attaining power, became more invisible than the Son of Heaven, and was invariably surrounded by purchasing agents, grafters, and guards; but Ng Fu had not attained such heights, and was said to be almost democratic in his sway.
Ten minutes later, in fact, they were in his presence.
A room of the temple had been cleared, whitewashed, laid with mats. By the unglazed window was a table littered with maps and papers; behind this sat the bandit general—a man of about fifty, with heavy-lidded eyes behind thick spectacles, lines of humor about his mouth, a firm and resolute countenance. Connor would have liked him at first glance, if it had not been for—Chang.
Upon learning the identity of his visitor, Ng Fu shook hands, ordered in tea and cakes and cigarettes, and abandoned all formality.
"I have heard of you," he said in fluent Mandarin, for he was a man of education. "And you have come all this way to see me? When did you leave Tientsin? That is marvelous! What is this about my agent, the traitorous Sui?"
Connor told him, while the listening officers stared silently.
"Here is the sealed letter addressed to you, general. Have the man searched, and you will find the other check in his pocket, I presume. Here is the receipt—"
"For fifty thousand dollars," said Ng Fu, and tore open the sealed letter. He produced the check for thirty thousand. A few words to one of his officers, who left the room, and he smiled grimly at Connor. "We shall see."
Refreshments were brought in. Presently the officer returned and laid the check for twenty thousand dollars before the general, who nodded and turned to Connor.
"You did well to bring that grafting rascal to me! Your story is true. I should like to buy this airplane in which you came; it is far better than my machines. What is your price?"
Connor turned to Bert Swann, who, understood little or no Mandarin, and put the question.
"The sky's the limit, buddy," and Swann grinned. "Twenty thousand, or I'll take five."
"Twenty thousand dollars, general," Connor translated, conscious that more than one of the officers around probably understood English. "I think it is too much—"
"Not a cent too much," said Ng Fu cordially. "Here is the money." And he handed Connor the check for twenty thousand. "Now that it is all settled—"
There was a ragged discharge of rifles outside. Connor started, bewildered as he was by the crafty financial manipulation of the bandit general. The latter waved his hand amiably.
"That is nothing—only the execution of my late Tientsin agent. I am anxious to talk with you about the military situation. Here, look at this map—"
HALF an hour later, the general beamed upon his visitor. "Tell
me, were you not afraid to venture thus into my hands? Did it not
occur to you that I might hold you to ransom or kill you?"
Connor shrugged. Bert Swann, tiring of the talk, had gone forth to look after his machine and gun, and search for something solid in the way of food.
"I didn't think of that, particularly," Connor returned casually. "Would you like to inspect this airplane? It is a fighting machine, and has some interesting features."
"By all means," returned the general heartily. "One moment, until I give certain orders—we are expecting an attack at any time, you know. Have a fresh cigarette."
Connor nodded, and glanced over the map on the desk, while Ng Fu gave orders in regard to certain ammunition and supplies, now being camouflaged.
As Connor now understood, the bandit general was in a bad way. In retiring from Changsha he had broken with the main communist forces, and his district was now hemmed in by the Nationalist armies, who might be encamped around him for weeks or months, after the fashion of Chinese warfare. While Ng Fu was solidly organized, he could not remain inactive forever, and was facing hugely superior forces. His one hope was that diversions from other quarters might draw the Nationalist armies off and give him a weak point at which to strike. The enemy had a number of airplanes, whose bombs had already damaged him sadly, but he had gone in for camouflage. A shrewd fellow, Ng Fu, ahead of his comrade war lords in brains and craft.
"All ready?"
Attended by four staff officers Connor and the general walked out together, and strode over to the hangers. Again Connor was struck by the discipline prevailing; and Ng Fu pointed out that none of his men were allowed in the town, strict order being kept.
"My district is not a conquered province," he said, "but a source of revenue from well-governed people."
Connor thought of old Chang, shot down without mercy, and his lips tightened.
Coming to the field, Connor saw that Swann was at the controls, warming up his engine, which was allowed to idle as they approached. The mechanics had finished their work. With Connor beside him and the four officers following, General Ng Fu strode toward the machine, beside whose cockpit a set of steps had been placed. Just outside the rush of air from the propeller, he halted, while Connor pointed out the construction and lines of the plane. As he did so, he caught the eye of Swann and gestured slightly. The pilot donned his goggles.
Then, abruptly, Connor slipped the automatic pistol from his armpit holster and jammed it against the neck of the general.
"Tell your officers to fall back!" he exclaimed sharply. "Quick, now! One false move from you or them, and you're done for! March up those steps."
Sharp cries of dismay arose. Connor reached around his prisoner and secured Ng Fu's pistol. Shouts began to go up from every hand, as the plight of their leader was revealed; a babel of discord arose from the watching ranks. Yet it was so obvious that the general himself would catch the first reprisal, that not a shot was fired. Before the astounded, disconcerted watchers could quite realize what was happening, Connor was marching his prisoner up the steps and into the cabin of the machine. Then he slammed the door, which was self-locking.
Swann, at the forward controls, gave her the gun instantly and the engine screamed. Thirty seconds later she was off the ground. Swann turned and grinned.
"Where to, buddy?"
Connor pointed straight up.
"Get altitude and then make for Changsha."
"Got you."
The impossible had been accomplished.
GENERAL NG FU sat holding on very tightly to his chair; never
before had he been in the air, but his stolid, impassive
countenance betrayed no emotion. Swann climbed steadily into a
blue sky speckled with clouds. Presently Ng Fu had the unique
experience of looking down upon a foamy white sea of cloud and
seeing the plane's shadow there.
"Bert!" Connor lifted his voice. "Cut the gun when you get high enough. Want to talk."
Connor hitched his seat around. Ng Fu looked at the pistol, then met Connor's gaze, his sloe-black eyes hard as black jade. All of a sudden there was comparative silence, as the engine was cut down to idling.
"Ng Fu, I'm taking you to Changsha," said Connor. "And I want you to know why."
"I can guess," said the other stolidly. "How much are they paying you? I will double it."
Connor laughed harshly, disagreeably.
"You will not," he retorted. "When your army sacked Changsha, you shot a man deliberately. That man was my friend and partner, Chang Ti-shan, a man known over half of China—a good and wise man, venerated by all who knew him. Because of that act, I'm going to turn you over to the Nationalists and you can stand before a firing squad."
A startled expression leaped into the black eyes.
"What? Is this—do you believe this?"
"I received word of it yesterday. Chang was shot three day's ago."
General Ng Fu regarded him steadily for a moment, then slowly smiled.
"What you say of Chang Ti-shan is true," he rejoined. "He was my friend also; he is what Confucius called a superior man."
"And you had him shot, you devil!" said Connor.
"On the contrary. My army did not sack Changsha—that was done by the communists. I kept my troops out of the city. Word came to me that Chang Ti-shan had been seized by the communist chiefs and was to be shot. I went with my bodyguard to their headquarters and took him away in safety. That is why the armies split asunder. The Russian agents with the communist forces were very, very angry. They are not superior men, I have decided."
Connor felt as though the clouds were splitting to let him drop through.
"What?" he cried. In those impassive black eyes he read the truth. "You—can you prove this, Ng Fu?"
"Chang is down there in Tienfu at this moment. I have appointed him governor of the city."
"Good Lord!" Connor sank back, let the pistol fall. "But you must have known about the report—"
"It was good. If China thought that Chang Ti-shan had been shot, it would provoke a wave of resentment. I have found that the communists are selfish men, poor soldiers, dupes of Russian agents." Ng Fu shrugged a little. "So we decided to let the report go out."
Connor stared at his prisoner in dismay. Then, if this were true—
"Hey, buddy!" Bert Swann turned, his voice urgent. "Lock those two steel bars and do it quick! Fasten the belts—move, durn you, move! There's three crates in that cloud ahead—"
"Go on back to Tienfu," ordered Connor.
"You durn fool, jump! You'll be in Hades first thing you know!"
Connor woke up.
Two steel bars locked the chairs in position. He caught the general's safety belt and hurriedly snapped it, then his own; and just in time. The engine sputtered and roared into life.
Bullets smashed into the safety-glass of the window beside them. The three planes were from the Nationalist forces, and took the monoplane for one of Ng Fu's crates.
WHAT followed was, momentarily, a wild chaos.
Bert Swann went into a dive, with tracer bullets smoking around him—the three had caught him at a bad moment, and were out to get him. They were old DH machines, however, no match for his fast fighter, once he got into action—and Swann lost no time getting into action.
The chairs swayed dizzily, but were held fast. Out of the dive into a sharp turn, a swift upward zoom; the Hotchkiss gun burst into a quick rattle. A side-slip—
Connor now saw one of the DH machines fluttering down like a bird with a broken wing. The impassive Chinese flinched suddenly—the glass beside him leaped full of holes. Blood spurted from his arm. He made no sound, sat stolidly as ever, after that first startled jump.
Then a wild swoop, a sharp sidewise turn—directly before them showed a second DH, and Swann opened up viciously. The other machine went to pieces in mid-air. Up shot Swann, up and around; the third enemy had taken warning, however, and had straightened out in desperate, frantic flight.
"Hey, buddy!" Swann turned tensed, excited features. "I can get him—"
"No—back down!" ordered Connor.
Swann obeyed.
When General Ng Fu, one bandaged arm in an improvised sling, stepped out onto solid earth again, he was greeted by a storm of cheers and wild yells; and with reason. He was the only one of China's war lord bandits who could boast of actual air-fighting, and had a scar to show for it. And Connor, leaving the plane, saw a thin old figure in black silk garments among a crowd of officers—Chang the venerable!
HALF an hour later, Connor and Swann sat once more in
headquarters, with the general and old Chang, sipping their
tea.
Ng Fu had just torn up Connor's checks totaling fifty thousand dollars. When the general finished speaking, Connor turned with a grin to the aviator.
"Bert! He says you're offered a colonel's commission, five hundred gold a month, and the command of his air force. What say?"
"Done," said Swann delightedly.
"I'm to be his Tientsin agent—and he wants three more planes like yours. Also, he's buying yours. Five thousand cash. Suit you?"
"You bet."
Connor turned again to the general.
"He agrees, but must take me back to Tientsin in the morning, after his engine is overhauled. I'll go to work at once—you must avoid any further conflict with the Nationalists until I can get into touch with them. We'll throw you into their party."
Ng Fu chuckled.
"Yes, I think so myself," he rejoined. "Chiang Kai-shek cannot be beaten as a general. Nor can I match forces with him. But, allied with you and him and Chang Ti-shan, there is a chance—"
"For all of us," and old Chang's wrinkled features broke into a smile.
Connor wondered what they would say at the Tientsin Club—if they knew! But they never would.