RGL e-Book Cover 2019©
RGL e-Book Cover 2019©
Argosy, 1 August 1931, with "The Tomb-Robber"
All China was buzzing with talk about the theft of the priceless Han jades when Connor, free lance of Oriental politics, took a hand in the risky game.
CONNOR was dining with the British consul when he first heard the name. D'Estrées, the French attaché, brought up the topic.
"I understand that chap Soper has sent a lot of his stuff this way. Any one heard of it?"
A general negative, and Connor asked who Soper might be.
"He's the tomb-robber. Joined with that bandit over beyond Lu- wan, and they've been robbing all the tombs of the Han emperors. Beastly shame, I call it. China has respected those tombs for two thousand years."
"Yes," said some one, "but I hear that some marvelous loot was obtained—priceless stuff."
"Just who is this Soper?" asked Connor again. "A Chinese?"
"Nobody knows. Adventurer of some sort, perhaps Russian, perhaps English. They say he had stuff at Shanghai worth millions. Some patriotic Chinese down there have tried to buy it, I understand, but failed. Don't know why. Perhaps this chappie asked too much."
"He'd better offer it to Connor, here," said some one, amid a general laugh. "Connor has the money to buy it, and we'd all chip in and start a museum."
"Museum my eye!" said the consul. "Auction it in London- —whew! Fortunes in it. Better cast a hook out, Connor. Get hold of the stuff."
"Thanks," said Connor coolly. "I will."
To the foreign colony, at least, Connor was a pleasant but negligible quantity. He lived at the Tientsin Club; he had inherited great business interests extending over half China; he played polo and enjoyed life in a non-serious manner. Nobody, in fact, took Vincent Connor very seriously, among his social acquaintances.
There were others, however, who did. Others, who did not count in the social whirl, but who counted heavily enough in other ways. One of these was old Chang, who had been the partner of Connor's father, and who from his retirement in Shanghai kept his finger very closely upon the pulse of China. More than once, strange coincidences had occurred, and when he got home to his rooms at the club this same evening, Connor was not surprised to find upon his table a special delivery letter from Shanghai.
In the neat ideographs used by Chang was a message which Connor swiftly translated:
The despoiler of the dragon-throne has come and gone. Honorable purchase of the Han yu is refused. It would be a meritorious action were the robber to be robbed before he brings shame upon the sons of Han and sells the Lu-wan silver mines to the Roman syndicate.
Connor could picture the old man brushing these characters in
a sort of savage contempt, writing a cryptic message which,
unless Connor could read its import, would mean nothing. And if
it had not been for the conversation at dinner, Connor might have
studied it in vain.
As it was, he had the clue. Soper the mysterious was probably headed for Tientsin or might be here now, with a collection of jade from the Han tombs—and Han yu is precious stuff, since it disappeared from Chinese markets centuries ago. The final sentence, however, was rather startling. Soper, who with his bandit partner held the Lu-wan district firmly grasped, meant to use the jade to help sell the concession to the Lu-wan silver mines, among the richest in China—to the Romans! Then Connor realized that this ideograph must mean Italians. That threw a new light on the whole affair.
Here, then, was a point of departure!
HE went to his office the next morning, thoughtfully. There
was a matter under dispute with the Italian consul—a
question of arbitrary rental increases on godowns leased by the
Connor interests. Calling up the consulate, he gained a speedy
appointment and was presently on his way thither.
As with all Fascist officials, he found himself dealing with a man who was adamant, who regarded the dispute with an eye to strict justice, and who proposed an accord which Connor promptly accepted, knowing he would get nothing better. His business finished, he rose and then paused.
"By the way, we gained a concession six months ago on the two silver mines near the Yunnan border, in the Lao country. We've decided not to do anything about it at present, on account of the chaotic conditions down there, but I understand that an Italian syndicate is going into that field. We do not desire any competition, and if you can tell me the proper person to see, it would be to our mutual advantage, I'm sure."
"Yes?" The consul regarded his visitor keenly, then nodded. "I understand such a syndicate is contemplated, but I know nothing about it officially. I suspect that Cavaliere Biencamino is interested—he is in Tientsin now—and you might see him."
"Thank you," said Connor. "And his address?"
The official searched his desk, opened a notebook which had been at his elbow all the while, and found that the Cavaliere was the guest of the Italia Line agent.
Connor departed, well satisfied; a little bait had caused the hook to be taken. Now he knew the man to see—the man whom Soper would be dealing with. And he knew that Biencamino and his syndicate would have the actual, if unofficial, backing of Italy. Therefore, a good deal more than mere jade or silver concessions was at stake, and shrewd old Chang had known it all the while.
Reflection told Connor that the only means of reaching the mysterious Soper lay through this Cavaliere Biencamino and the golden bait. His concession on the two silver mines was perfectly valid, but according to Chinese law one-half the stock in the company had to be Chinese-owned; it was of course held by old Chang. Within an hour, Connor held a telegraphed agreement giving one Wang Erh Yu an option on Chang's stock at par for thirty days; he also had an option on the Connor stock, for the same period, made out to the same Mr. Wang.
"We'll have to call the old bungalow into service," he reflected, and reached for the telephone. Speaking in Chinese, he called the Italia Line, got the agent's comprador, and gave the name of Wang Erh Yu. He professed an ability to speak French, and in five minutes had hooked his fish. The Cavaliere was on the line.
"I am a retired financier of Yunnan, honorable sir," he said, "and I have just secured complete control, or an option on same, of two silver mines near the Lao district. From the Connor interests. I should like very much to have a talk with you, but unfortunately my health does not permit me to go abroad. If I might send my car for you, and if you would do me the honor or dining with me at my home, I should be very gratified. We might find the evening mutually profitable."
Biencamino hesitated. "May I call you in half an hour?"
"Certainly," said Connor, and gave the number of his own private telephone. He called in his general manager.
"In ten minutes an Italian gentleman will telephone asking about that option on the silver mines. Give him full information about Wang Erh Yu—wealthy, young, underground political connections in the south, and so forth. Make it strong."
Almost to the minute, his prediction was fulfilled. His grinning manager was telling him of the conversation, when his private telephone rang. Biencamino was on the line.
"M. Wang? I shall accept your invitation with pleasure. At what hour?"
"I'll send my car for you at a few minutes to eight, if that is convenient—"
"Thank you."
Connor chuckled and called another number—that of the so-called bungalow, in reality a viceroy's pleasure palace he had inherited from his father. He seldom used it, but the old family number one boy kept it up.
"This you, Hung?" he said. "Good. A dinner for two at eight, European style. Have all the rooms lighted and everything on display. Send the little Austin for me at seven—I'll be at the club. Serve that special Lacrimae Cristi, the Château Roger '16, and Chartreuse. And use the silver service."
For half an hour he studied a large-scale map, checked off certain properties owned or leased by the Connor interests, and then knocked off work for the day.
AT seven Connor left the Tientsin Club in the tiny car; he
was, as usual, the acme of sartorial perfection. Fifteen minutes
later, in his dressing-room at the bungalow, he underwent a
transformation. A saffron tincture subtly altered his healthy
bronze to a yellowish hue. Grease coarsened and thickened his
black hair. His wide-angled, pleasant features were deftly
altered by plugs of cotton which widened his nostrils and changed
the set of his lips; a touch or two of collodion gave his lids an
oblique effect, while his blue eyes peered forth owlishly from
behind black-rimmed spectacles. Garments of a deftly awkward cut
completed the costume of Mr. Wang Erh Yu, and he was ready when
his guest arrived.
Cavaliere Biencamino was a tall, sturdy man from the north of Italy, with crisp yellow hair, alert eyes, a heavy jaw, and an air of resolute intelligence; at all points a dangerous antagonist. He was in his early forties, spoke French fluently, and from the moment of his entry was obviously impressed by the stage set to receive him. And small wonder.
Any one would have been impressed by the luxury both Oriental and Occidental of this stone palace with beams and pillars of nanmu wood, fragrant after two hundred years. The walls were hung with silk tapestries of imperial yellow, and the floor was covered by rugs that had been part of the glories of Hang Hi's reign. The dining room glimmered with Georgian silver and the rarest glass, and the lamps on the table were of golden cloisonné from the Summer Palace; the dinner was faultless, the service was perfect.
Mr. Wang, however, scarcely tasted the food, pleading his health. He had already dined at the club, for with his facial disguise he dared take no chances. With the coffee and liqueur he broached the topic of business, and found the Cavaliere a ready listener. All Mr. Wang desired was to get rid of those silver mines without taking a loss, and for the Italian it was a profitable stroke of business. This arranged tentatively, Mr. Wang went on smoothly to what he chiefly wanted, picking up some incidental information as to the Italian syndicate.
"You would be interested, perhaps, in coal fields near Lu- wan?" he asked. "Or even in the merest of political influence in the south? My health forces me to live simply, yet I am not entirely destitute of ability to serve my friends. As you see, I live the life of a collector, surrounding myself with beautiful objects eloquent of China's past history."
As he paused, the Italian eyed him speculatively and then asked:
"Are you by any chance acquainted with a M. Rhodes, an American?"
Mr. Wang smiled, placed a cigarette between his rather full lips, and lighted it. He knew instantly that he was now on Soper's trail.
"Very well indeed," he said blandly, in singsong French which Biencamino could understand only with some, difficulty. "It was I who started him and his partner upon his very prosperous career. However," he added, "you will understand when I say that I did not then use the family name of Wang. And, in leaving the south, I also left my assumed identity behind me."
"I see," murmured the Italian thoughtfully. He eyed the cups in which the Chartreuse was served—tiny cups carven with hydra heads. He fingered his own cup. "Beautiful jade, this—I have rarely seen this yellow shade. Han jade, of course."
"You are a collector?" queried Mr. Wang.
"Well, it interests me," returned the other cautiously. "Do you happen to know of the project which M. Rhodes now has under way?"
"Unfortunately, no," said Mr. Wang. "I understand he has some fine tomb relics,"
"So I hear. Hm! There is a possibility that he may soon be in Tientsin. Would you care to meet him again?"
"With all my heart!" Mr. Wang's cordiality was by no means assumed. He now knew that Rhodes was the real name of the mysterious Soper. "If I might have the honor of arranging that he be supplied with a guest-card by the Tientsin Club—"
"Per Baccho! The very thing!" exclaimed the Italian. Then he frowned. "But I understood that no Chinese are members?"
"I will arrange it with M. Connor. You know him, perhaps? An idle young man."
The other nodded. "I've heard of him. Too much money for his own good, eh? By all means, M. Wang! This will be very good of you. Perhaps the three of us might have a talk, eh? Let me see—he gets here to-morrow night from, Shanghai—hm! Shall we say, a meeting on Friday?"
"Agreed," said Mr. Wang heartily. "Telephone me at any time as to the hour."
He saw his guest off, returned to his own identity, and got back to the club in the nick of time to join in a rubber of auction.
HE had learned a good deal: who Soper really was; that he
would arrive from Shanghai the next evening, when a China
Merchants' boat was due in; also, he was not to be the guest of
Biencamino—probably was to avoid any contact with the
Italian in public. An even more important point, perhaps; he had
learned that Cavaliere Biencamino was a collector. Although the
Italian had scarcely admitted it, the glint in his eyes had been
eloquent.
"Hm! Rhodes is bribing him with that tomb jade," thought Connor. "Something worth more than the cash sum Chang offered for the jade. Can't figure it out, but there's a fishy smell to it. Devilish fishy smell! Old Chang suspected it, but had no proof."
Neither had Connor any proof, but he meant to get it.
Having no doubt that Rhodes would jump at the chance to stop at the Tientsin Club, he arranged to have a guest-card sent out to the incoming steamer by the pilot boat, with his compliments, and then made careful arrangement at the club as to the rooms Rhodes would be given if he arrived. This done, he visited his own consulate and from the consul made guarded inquiries as to Rhodes.
"Haven't heard of the chap in a year or more," said the consul. "Bad record, though; hope he doesn't turn up here to make trouble. Eh?"
"I think he will," said Connor lazily. "Just how is he bad? I have business interests—"
"Then keep your eye peeled," came the blunt warning. "Look out for bad checks, confidence games, anything! The fellow has left a nasty trail. Don't mix up with him."
"Thanks very much," said Connor, and departed.
Rhodes had been out of sight for a year, playing the role of Soper. Now he had a big thing on hand, and would push it hard, to the exclusion of everything else; it must be big indeed, if he had turned down a flat cash offer from Chang, who was no piker. Pondering the matter, Connor reluctantly determined that only one course was open to him. Accordingly, he made inquiries as to the landing hour of the Shanghai boat, and then waited to see if the dice would fall his way. The chances were against him. However, Biencamino's eagerness at the idea of the Tientsin Club made it likely that he would send Rhodes thither. And the adventurer would possibly have the gall to accept the idea, though he must know that warnings had been broadcast against him.
AT nine that evening, Connor was strolling about the club
lobby, idly chatting with one man and another, when the dice fell
double six. A tall, lean, bronzed man entered, the boys fetching
in half a dozen suitcases and kit-bags after him. He walked to
the desk with a swift, nervous stride; Connor studied him
covertly and knew his man had come. The keen, predatory features,
the thin lips and arrogant eyes, the military swing of the
shoulders, all told their story. When the new arrival had gone to
his room, Connor sauntered over and spoke with the manager.
"Yes—Rhodes," said the latter. "He presented the card from you."
"Right. And the room?"
"As arranged, Mr. Connor."
With a nod, Connor turned away. Now to see if his calculations would come out aright!
Twenty minutes, he had told himself; he was only two minutes wrong. Eighteen minutes, indeed, after entering, Rhodes reappeared and summoned a taxicab. Connor turned to the elevator and went at once to his own room. The one which had been given Rhodes was on the same floor and only three doors away.
"He's gone to see Biencamino, of course," thought Connor, switching on his lights. "That means I've half an hour to work, perhaps more."
On his dresser lay a key, made for him the same afternoon. He picked it up, stepped out into the corridor, and a moment later paused before the door of Rhodes's room. The key fitted. As he had anticipated, the array of suitcases were all locked; he studied them, lifted them. Three were exactly alike, very heavy, and new—obviously purchased for the trip. Selecting one of these, he attacked the back of it with the razor he had brought along, and cut out a large segment.
A moment later, he was lifting out the jade of the Han emperors.
With brush and ink-slab Connor carefully sketched the proper ideograms on a sheet of paper, which he deposited inside the uppermost of the three emptied suitcases; he guessed that Rhodes could read them or have them read. The message was simple:
The imperial ancestors have taken back what was stolen from their tombs. At noon to-morrow I will telephone you.
Locking the door of Rhodes's room, he regained his own apartment, leaving the door slightly ajar. He turned back the spread of his bed, and upon the blankets laid out the jades, which he had taken from their wrappings. Here was the most magnificent lot of Han jade he had ever seen at one time—yellow, brown, black, mottled. The scarabs which had reposed on the tongues of emperors were exquisitely carved, and nearly all the larger pieces bore inscriptions; these last Connor placed in his closet.
HE was engaged in trying to sort out the various funerary
sets—the mass of jade quite covered his bed—when he
heard rapid steps in the hall. He drew the spread over the
blankets and bits of stone, and went to the door, listening.
Presently he heard a sharp cry, then a veritable explosion of
oaths. He stepped out into the hall, and saw Rhodes at the door
of his room, peering about.
"I beg your pardon," said Connor. "Anything wrong?"
"Yes! That is, no," returned Rhodes. "My room's been entered!"
"Oh, I say! Nothing's taken, I hope?"
"Everything's taken," said the other bitterly.
"Really? Here, old chap, come over to my room—Connor's the name. We'll have the club manager up and get out the police. Very efficient police here, you know. That's why we have the club in the British Concession; I'm one of the governors. Come along over."
"Connor, did you say?" Rhodes put out his hand. "I must thank you, then, for my guest-card. I'm Harrington Rhodes."
"Delighted, I'm sure." Connor flung open his door. "We'll have a drink, what? And get the manager and the police—"
"Not so fast," said Rhodes, entering. He had taken the blow like a man, and that alert, predatory face was now keen and tensed, coping with the problem. "A drink by all means, old man, but easy on the calls for aid. Nothing of much value was taken, and I'm not a bit anxious to kick up a row."
"Well, make yourself comfortable while I get a drink. Highballs?"
Rhodes nodded, and Connor went to the tantalus in the corner. He could well understand that Rhodes did not want the police brought in—indeed, he had counted upon this probability. While the man might argue his title to the jades, explanations would be unpleasant, and undue publicity might be unpleasant also; for all China of the better class resented most acutely the looting of the ancient tombs, which had somehow crept into the press.
Rhodes—or Soper—eyed his host speculatively, and sipped his drink.
"No, nothing of much value gone," he said, and smiled. His smile was unpleasant; it was not unlike a grimace. "One or two trinkets left in sight—should have known better. By the way, how did you happen to send me that card? I've never met you before, to my knowledge."
"One of my business clients, a Mr. Wang, requested it, and I was very glad to be of any service to you," explained Connor. The other nodded. "Are you just out from home?"
Rhodes smiled at that. "I've been out for a bit," he said. "No griffin, at any rate. Are you the Connor with all the up-country interests? Heard of your firm down south. You're in timber and mines rather heavily, eh?"
"More or less, yes. Other lines as well. By the way, if I can be of any service to you about here, call upon me by all means. Some fair racing to-morrow; I have a couple of entries. If you care for racing—"
"Thanks, but I'm here on business and haven't much time."
Rhodes stayed out his drink, and then departed, and Connor was forced to admire the man's coolness. Then, as he was undressing, and before he had cleared the bed, Connor suddenly paused as though something had frozen him.
On the floor just under the edge of the bed lay a mottled yellow circlet—a figure of the earth-deity, that had slipped to the floor. Connor slowly picked it up and placed it with the other jades. Had Rhodes seen it there? He decided not. The adventurer would have taken fire on the instant, would have forced a show-down.
"I want the show-down myself," thought Connor. "I'll call him to-morrow noon, play Wang Erh Yu again, and settle him."
WITH which resolution he went to bed and slept until seven,
when he arose. He carefully packed the jades in two large
suitcases of his own, called up two boys from below, and had the
grips sent off to old Chang, in Shanghai. Then he went virtuously
to breakfast.
At eleven that morning he was getting the last of his mail cleaned up when he was apprised that a Mr. Rhodes was waiting to see him. A moment later Rhodes strode into his private office, looking very fresh and fit.
"Morning, Connor!" said the adventurer cordially. "Busy?"
"Not a bit," said Connor. "How about the polo match this afternoon? We're taking on that team from the Punjab Light Horse, up from Hongkong. Should be good."
Rhodes nodded. "Thanks. Can do, perhaps. I really dropped in to ask if you'd do me a favor, old chap. I may be here for a bit, and I struck a chap this morning with two polo ponies he wants to sell. Looks like a ripping bargain, but I'm not a great judge of horseflesh, and I gather you know your way around. Besides, this chap is a Mongolian and I'm not sure of the interpreter—"
"Sure, sure!" assented Connor. "You want to watch out for these Mongols, though. Their horses are used to pasture, and go all to pieces on regular feed. Want to run out now?"
"If you like," said Rhodes. "I've a hired car waiting. This chap has his animals at a farm just outside town, and seems a suspicious sort. Regular wild animal himself."
"Some of them are," said Connor. "Be ready in half a minute."
Rhodes strolled about, glancing at the pictures on the walls, and in five minutes Connor had finished his work and was ready. The car was a powerful Daimler, with a slant-eyed driver at the wheel.
Like most of his ilk, Rhodes could be a most attractive talker when he so desired, and Connor, plying him with questions about the chaotic political condition in the south, hardly noticing whither they were going, until they were out of the city. Then, with some surprise, he recognized the road.
"You can't get far along here with a car," he exclaimed. "As I recall, it's only a hill trail after that abandoned Kwannin shrine."
"That's as far as we'll go," said Rhodes carelessly. "It's just past there—we're nearly at the shrine now."
So they were, indeed, and not having been along this way for months, Connor ventured no protest. Presently the car halted, where a washout had ended that road for automobiles, and on their left, amid its grove of trees, showed the old and ruinous shrine to Kwannin. Rhodes got out, and motioned.
"Mind walking over there?" he asked. "I'd like to take a look at it."
Connor assented; though somewhat puzzled, he had no thought of danger. They came to the shrine—a little temple of but two rooms—and on the steps, Rhodes paused. Two ragged Chinese appeared in the entrance, and Connor addressed them.
"What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you, venerable ancestor," said one, with a grin. Connor felt something touch his side, and turned. He found Rhodes there, eyes narrowed, pistol thrust against him.
"Inside, Connor," came the crackling command. "We'll do our talking there. And if you try any trouble, you'll get a bullet in your gizzard—so watch out!"
CONNOR was forced to an unwilling admiration of his host's
thoroughness and speed. The inner room of the shrine had but one
opening—the entrance door. Roofless walls rose high. Here a
cot, two stools and a light table were placed in readiness for
the guest. Connor looked at the two ragged men, whom Rhodes in
Cantonese ordered to remain at the door; they were flat-faced
Cantonese, obviously, and now each held a pistol as he lolled
there.
Rhodes dropped on a stool and faced Connor.
"Come across, now," he demanded in a tone that meant business. Connor smiled.
"In what way? And what's all this melodrama about?"
"Never mind the funny stuff; put your cards on the table," snapped Rhodes. "I saw that jade disk by your bed last night. Where's the rest of it?"
"Where you won't get it." Connor lighted a cigarette and relaxed. "Not a bit of use, Soper, not a bit! Your luck has turned against you."
"Yeah? You may change your mind." The other snarled, showing his teeth. "Where's that jade? Want me to burn your feet?"
"Wouldn't do you any good," drawled Connor. "That jade's started half across China and I couldn't get it back if I wanted to. So just dismiss that entirely. You stole it from China, and China's taken it back."
The steely, merciless eyes bored into him. Rhodes was white about the lips with rage.
"Who told you about it?"
Connor smiled. "My dear chap, who do you suppose told me about it? The same person who told me how and when you were arriving, and about the deal for the Lu-wan mines, and so on."
He read a flash of doubt in the adventurer's face. Rhodes evidently felt none too sure of Biencamino, the Italian. But his uncertainty was only for a moment.
"Impossible!"
Connor shrugged. "As you like. Now, why not look at the facts in the case? I took your jades, granted; not for myself, but for China. No one will profit by them; no one should. And the same with your mining deal. If you'll put your cards on the table, I'll do the same, and you may find it better to work with me than against me."
"You be damned!" said Rhodes. "Hm! That devil Wang is mixed up in this somehow. I knew right off there'd be trouble if a chink mixed in!"
"So you think Biencamino would not double-cross you?" inquired Connor. The other stared hard at him.
"Is that it? Then—"
"Listen to me, Rhodes, or Soper, or whatever you want to call yourself." In Connor's voice was a sudden change, a bite of authority that held the other's attention. "You've a big game on hand; I don't know all the details. However, you'll find your game spoiled. Biencamino has arranged with Wang Erh Yu to take over some mines and other properties. I can still stop that. No one else can. Tell me just what you propose. If I want to throw in with you, all right; if not, no great harm's done."
"By George, you're a cool devil!" said Rhodes. "Who'd have thought a chap like you would assay so high? But you've barged into the wrong game, Connor. Not a soul knows where you are, and—hm! Might make you pay high, one way or another, I suppose."
He puffed at his cigarette, frowned, and finally nodded.
"Let's chance it. You know about the Italian syndicate? Right. They're taking over the Lu-wan mines, true, and a lot of other properties with them. In return, I get a big price for my jades—a hundred thousand gold and some syndicate stock."
"Wait a minute," intervened Connor. "Why the jades, anyway? You could have sold 'em down in Shanghai."
Rhodes grinned at him. "Don't you know Biencamino is a collector?"
"Uh-huh. What's behind it?"
"You're devilish shrewd, Connor. That jade is a bribe that goes to London—to the greatest collection in the world. See it now?"
Connor whistled. "Lord Southdown! And he's in the cabinet—"
"Will be, next election, when they chuck out the Labor Government. Italy wants a share of the trade pickings around down south, now that the central government is about smashed. The whole thing is cut and dried, Connor. Italy takes over these holdings and goes to work. I've been working with a Chinese partner down in those parts—"
"The bandit Liu Kun?"
"Exactly. He steps in, kills a few dagoes, grabs the properties—and Italy acts. Of course, without backing, she'd be rather helpless; hence, the jades. You see? England backs her play. Concessions no end, and so forth. Inside of five years, all that raw mineral wealth along the Yunnan border will be flowing into Italy. Great idea, eh? Money in it, too."
"How much do you want?" queried Connor. The other shook his head.
"You haven't enough. I want those jades."
"No can do. What's the alternative?"
"Sorry, Connor." Rhodes rose, his face like steel. "I don't believe you for a minute. There's no alternative. Either talk, or you'll be made to talk. Biencamino hasn't double-crossed me! Make up your mind. Hand back the jade, or by the Lord I'll burn every inch of your damned carcass from toes to head! We'll be back later. And you can't bribe those men. either. They've been with me for a year, and they know better than to gyp me. Try it if you like."
With his unpleasant smile, Rhodes departed.
THE American heard the engine of the departing car, and
reflected. He had no doubt whatever that Rhodes meant his words
and would carry out his threat to the letter. Neither he nor the
Italian would for a moment believe that Connor had sent away the
jades—they had acted too swiftly for that, or so they would
think.
Remembering the personality and manner of Biencamino, Connor could realize clearly that he was destined to suffer at the hands of that gentleman. He was, in fact, in a very tight pinch. He had fallen into his own trap; now neither brains nor guile would avail him, for he was dealing with men whose hard and ruthless habitude had pierced all his stratagems like iron breaking through soft ice.
"The penalty for mistakes," he thought bitterly. "Diplomacy—save the mark!—isn't the thing here."
This was borne in upon him more fully when one of the two guards brought in some food and tea. Connor addressed him in Cantonese, and the man grinned.
"Honorable, if you attempt to bribe us, we must cut off your thumbs. That is the order."
An order that would be carried out; he could see it in the man's demeanor, and said no more.
TIME dragged. The two Cantonese remained in the outer chamber
of the shrine; from their voices, Connor concluded they were
playing some game. He was unarmed—they had swiftly frisked
him on entering the shrine. He examined the walls of the inner
chamber with a critical eye; a snail might have climbed them, but
nothing else, and they were fairly solid. That is, they seemed
fairly solid, but the stone walls of old China merely filled in
space and only carried their own weight—the principle of
structural steel buildings, without the steel, was used a good
many hundred years ago in the Middle Kingdom.
Connor saw sunlight through the rear wall, a hole the size of a walnut, and fell to work desperately. He knew that Rhodes and the Italian would not be long in getting here. So far, he concluded, Rhodes had been working alone, hoping to get back the jades at once. Even if he could get out of here, he knew, there was scant chance of escape, but he was not thinking of escape now. He was thinking of correcting his errors.
The hole grew. The ancient mortar was rotted and dead, the stones came out without too great trouble; presently he had a gap the size of his head, working only with the metal spoon that had accompanied his midday meal. He moved a stool before the hole and went back to the doorway of the outer room, cigarette in hand, and requested a light.
One of the guards accommodated him. It occurred to Connor that a thoroughgoing fictional hero would smack the man under the jaw, take his gun, and shoot the other guard; but viewed in cold blood, the plan had certain disadvantages—very practical ones. Connor hoped to gain the same end, and the gun, in a much safer manner. He knew enough of Chinese soldier-bandits to have a healthy respect for their weapons.
He loafed at the doorway, watched the guards resume their game, then went back to his own occupation. The hole was close to the floor, and swiftly increased in size. Somewhat to his own surprise, Connor presently put his foot against the edge and shoved out a square foot of the masonry. It would do now, he judged, and high time—Rhodes might be back at any moment. He looked through the hole. Outside was a drop of two feet to ground level.
Carefully moving away the bamboo stool from before the opening, Connor turned and called out in Cantonese:
"Farewell, my friends! May good luck attend you."
On his hands and knees, he stooped, thrusting himself through the opening.
And as he emerged, he heard the sound of a motor approaching.
Pistol in hand, the first Cantonese came shoving through the ragged hole. Connor's rigid hand-edge struck the under side of his wrist a blow there, even if expected, relaxes or paralyzes the fingers. The pistol fell, and catching it, Connor dragged the man on through. The second man followed, stared into the barrel of the pistol, and dropped his own automatic.
Connor laughed as he regarded the pair of them, ragged and forlorn.
"Begone, sons of turtles! And thank the gods of luck."
They shambled away, grinning in defeat as they would have grinned while slicing off his hands.
Connor, tossing the two pistols through the hole, followed them back into the chamber.
Rhodes and Cavaliere Biencamino strode rapidly up to the shrine and passed in the main entrance. Then they halted, blinking, as the command reached them.
"Hands up, gentlemen! Up—and empty, please!"
Rhodes, his keen, predatory features suddenly tensed, half lifted his hands. The Italian, with a voluble curse, shot his arms into the air. Then, desperation in his eyes, Rhodes took a catlike step behind his companion, hand diving to armpit like a snake for swiftness, gun flashing out.
Report after report crashed out within the stone walls, echoes reverberating thunderously, acrid smoke fumes drifting up. Blinded as they were in that dark chamber, the two men just in from the bright afternoon sunlight found their aim none too good. Stabbing fingers of flame shot out. Then silence, a single report, another.
Presently a figure came out of the doorway into the sunlight and halted.
Connor looked down at himself, started to brush the dirt from his white jacket, then looked out at the road's end. As he had thought, there was no driver now—Rhodes and the Italian had come alone.
"No, I'll have to walk back—wouldn't do to take the car in to town. Might be traced. As it is—the work of bandits."
He paused to light a cigarette, and smiled at sight of his trembling fingers.
"Well, my mistakes were rectified," he murmured. "And Rhodes, or Soper, made the most decided error of all. Odd! If he had only put up his bands. Well, he didn't. And his mistake was undeniably fatal. And poor Biencamino—by no means a bad sort—made the still more fatal mistake of interfering with China's destiny… I suppose now," and he glanced at the sun, "I'll miss that polo match, eh?"
And he turned toward the road. He had emerged from that chamber of death unscathed.