The Yellow Snake Page 16

  “You are Major Spedwell?” she said, and it was surprising how hoarse her voice was.

  He was taken aback for the moment.

  “I am Major Spedwell, yes,” he said. “You have a good memory, young lady.”

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “In a safe place. And you needn’t be scared; no harm is coming to you. I have been guilty of a good many things”—he hesitated—“from manslaughter to forgery, but I haven’t got so far down in the mud that I’d allow Fing-Su to hurt you. You’re here as a hostage.”

  “To what?” she demanded.

  “To fortune.” His quick smile held no humour in it. “You know all about it, young lady—Fing-Su wants a certain share from Clifford Lynne. I think he has already discussed the matter with you. You see, that share certificate is rather an important matter to us.”

  “And you think that Mr Lynne will give it to you in exchange for—me?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” said Spedwell, with a curious glance at the girl’s wet hair. “We’re doing a little banditti work: you’re held for ransom.”

  Her lips curled.

  “Your friend has evidently a very high opinion of Mr Lynne’s chivalry,” she said.

  “Or his love,” was Spedwell’s quiet reply. “Fing-Su thinks that Clifford Lynne is crazy about you, and will part without a squeal.”

  “Then I’m happy to think that Fing-Su will have a shock,” she said. “Mr Lynne and I do not love each other; and as to marriage, there is no longer any need for–-“

  On the point of betraying the return of Joe Bray, she stopped herself.

  “No need for the marriage now that old Joe’s alive, eh? Oh, yes, I know,” he said. He had a smile that came and went with incredible rapidity. “In fact, we all know. But Clifford Lynne is fond of you; I agree with Fing-Su.”

  It was useless to pursue this topic. She asked where she was.

  “In Peckham. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. If you managed to away from here any policeman would tell you. This is one of the change rooms that the girl explosive workers used in the war. It isn’t very cosy, but it is the best we could do,” he said. “Believe me, Miss Bray, there is nothing to fear. I’m the only person with a key to this building, and you are as safe as though you were in your own room at Sunni Lodge.”

  “You’re not going to leave me here, Major?” She purposely used the title, but he was not made uncomfortable by this s reminder of a more honourable past. Rather, he divined her intention.

  “I hope you’re going to be sensible, young lady,” he said.. “If you are going to appeal to my manhood and all that sort of stuff, and the fact that I’ve held the King’s commission, you can save yourself the effort. My skin is pretty thick—I was kicked out of the Army for forgery, and I’ve got to the point where I can’t be ashamed of myself.”

  “That is a long way, Major,” she said quietly.

  “Rather a long way,” he admitted. “The only thing I can promise you is that no harm will come to you—while I am alive,” he added, and somehow she believed him.

  He closed the door, locked it, and went out at the back of the building to where his car was waiting. Fing-Su was in his office on Tower Hill when Spedwell arrived, an impatient, worried man, for so far he had not heard that the girl had been safely conveyed to the factory, a somewhat difficult undertaking in broad daylight.

  “Yes, she’s there all right,” said Spedwell moodily, and took a cigar from an open box on the table, bit off the end and lit it. “How long do you expect to keep her?”

  Fing-Su spread out his long, thin palms.

  “How long will Mr Clifford Lynne keep me waiting?” he asked. And then: “How is the detective?”

  “Nearly dead,” was the laconic reply. “But I think he’ll recover. There was nearly a hanging for you and me in that alone, Fing-Su.”

  The Chinaman’s face had gone grey.

  “Dead?” he said huskily. “I told them to–-“

  “You told them to knock him out. They pretty well knocked him out of life,” said the other in his brief, direct way. “A detective-sergeant isn’t a very important person, but killing him would be one of those little errors which upset big enterprises. There will be hell to pay as soon as this man is reported missing, because they will naturally turn to you and to me for information.”

  “What was he doing?” demanded the other.

  “Shadowing Miss Bray—as I warned you. The only thing we could do is to put him on the ship. Unfortunately we dare not move him. Perhaps we could take him later—you could hold him in one of your towns until the affair blew over.”

  He picked up a paperweight from the table and his attention seemed to be concentrated upon the many-sided crystal.

  “You’ll have no other passengers, will you?”

  “I may go,” said the other carelessly. “And of course you will go also.”

  “Aren’t you waiting for Clifford Lynne’s share?”

  Fing-Su shrugged his shoulders.

  “That will be in the hands of my agent tomorrow,” he said confidently. “Naturally I shall not appear in the transaction. If am on the high seas they cannot connect me.”

  Major Spedwell laughed harshly.

  “Won’t Miss Bray connect you? Won’t Stephen Narth?”

  Fing-Su shook his head.

  “Not after tonight,” he said in a low voice, and the dark-faced man bit his lip thoughtfully.

  “After tonight?” What would be his own status—after tonight? He knew the man he was dealing with. Fing-Su was a good paymaster, but that was where his virtues ended. And he had had several unintentional hints that he had ceased to find favour in the eyes of his employer—certain intonations of voice, a look he had intercepted between Fing-Su and his yellow assistants. Major Spedwell was a shrewd, discerning man, keenly sensitive to atmosphere.

  “And Leggat?” he asked.

  “Leggat can go to the devil; I am finished with him. I always knew the man was untrustworthy. We have taken a lot of trouble to prove the obvious.”

  “Are you asking him to attend Lodge tonight?” demanded Spedwell.

  “No,” was the short reply.

  Then, as if he realized that his brusqueness might arouse the other’s suspicion:

  “Leggat is no longer useful; he is a drunkard, and therefore dangerous. You, my dear Major, are indispensable. I do not know what I should do without you. Have you finished your little land mine?”

  He was trying to be pleasant, and the Major was not deceived.

  “Ah! what a conception!” said Fing-Su, rolling his dark eyes in a transport of admiration. “You are a genius! I could not dispense with such a lieutenant.”

  Spedwell knew well enough that there was nothing especially ingenious about his land mine—which was a time-bomb on a large scale and detonated when one acid ate through a leaden partition and mingled with another. It was an instrument of warfare familiar enough to military engineers. But Fing-Su’s flattery set his mind working.

  Major Spedwell had a little flat in Bloomsbury. He was by education an engineer, by choice an artillerist. But none of his attainments approached his natural gift of instinct. His mind was waving red flags; he knew that a tremendous change in his fortunes was imminent, and he was satisfied that that change was for the worse.

  In the few hours he had at his disposal before he must dress and meet Stephen Narth he took a pencil and paper and systematically and thoroughly set down all the possibilities, and sought for a remedy. And there was gradually evolved in his kinky mind something which, if not a remedy, was an escape for one person at least; possibly—here he naturally included himself—for two.

  He burnt the paper in the grate, went into the little room that he used as a workshop, and for an hour laboured at top speed. At half past six he carried out to the street an oblong box and a heavy kitbag, put them tenderly in the car well and drove to Ratcliffe Highway. Threading the narrow lanes that lead to the river, h
e came to the water’s edge and was fortunate to find a boatman, who, for a consideration, rowed him out to one of two black steamers lying at anchor in the Pool. A Chinaman with an inscrutable face hailed him from the gangway, and would have carried the bag on board for him, only the Major declined.

  The ship carried a black captain and purser, the latter a good-humoured man whose life Spedwell had once saved. It was a lucky day for many people when the Major had stood between Fing-Su’s wrath and this Negro officer, for the Kroo folk have a peculiar loyalty of their own. He sent for the purser as soon as he reached the deck.

  “You needn’t tell Fing-Su I’ve been aboard,” he said. “I’ve got something I want to take out with me to the coast.”

  “Are you coming too, Major?” asked the purser.

  “I may come; I don’t know. The point is, I don’t want anybody to know I’ve got these things on board.”

  The purser took him to a large cabin on the well deck.

  “How long have you been using this for passenger accommodation?” asked the Major with a frown.

  “Never used it before,” said the man, “but Fing-Su has given orders that it has to be got ready for a passenger.”

  “Not for him—he has the captain’s cabin. Who is going this trip?”

  But here the purser could not help him. He could, however, indicate a place of storage for the thing which Spedwell carried. It was a small black chest with two hasps and padlocks, and very carefully the visitor deposited his treasure on the deck.

  “I’ll go along and get the padlocks for you, Major,” said the officer, and disappeared.

  This absence was very necessary to Major Spedwell, for he had certain delicate adjustments to make before the purser returned with the locks and keys. The little box had to be packed about with square brown cakes, which he took from his bag. He found some difficulty in fitting them in the space, but he had finished his work and had closed down the lid before the black officer returned with the locks in his hand.

  Spedwell straightened himself up and dusted his knees.

  “Now listen, Haki—who works your wireless?”

  “Either me or one of my Chink boys. I’ve got the instrument in my cabin. Why?”

  Spedwell handed him the key of the chest.

  “Put that in your pocket and never let it leave you. If you get a radio from me which says ‘All well,’ take the stuff out of the box and chuck it overboard. You’ll probably get the message before you leave the Channel. You’ll remember?”

  Haki nodded, his eyes round with wonder.

  “I don’t get the idea,” he said, “but I’ll do what you tell me, Major. Are you smuggling something?”

  But Spedwell had no further information to give. He did not tell the man that in certain eventualities another radio would reach him; there was time enough when the crisis arose.

  “But suppose you make this trip with us?” persisted the Negro.

  “In that case,” said Spedwell, with a twisted smile, “I’ll be able to whisper the message in your ear—if I’m travelling alive!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Joe Bray arrived in Clarges Street shortly after ten, for rainclouds had hastened the hour of darkness and had made possible an earlier move from Sunningdale. He was charged with suppressed excitement, for the night promised an adventure, and adventure was the breath of old Joe Bray’s nostrils.

  “Great idea of yours, Cliff, coming in the back way through the garage so that nobody could see me,” he said.

  “I could have saved you the trouble,” said Clifford. “Fing-Su knows you’re alive.”

  Joe Bray’s face fell. The news robbed him of half his mystery.

  “I have a man in Narth’s office, a fellow named Perkins,” explained Clifford. “It took me more time than money to suborn him, because he’s one of the loyal kind. Did the detectives arrive?”

  Joe nodded.

  “A bit disappointing they was, Cliff,” he complained; “just ordinary people like you and me. You’d never think they was detectives.”

  “That seems an asset,” said Clifford, and after a moment’s thought: “Did you get into touch with Joan?”

  Old Joe shook his head.

  “You told me not to,” he said virtuously.

  “You don’t even know whether she’s come back?” He sighed. “I’m not very much worried about her, because Scotland Yard has put a man to shadow her. He’ll probably report later.”

  “How did you get Scotland Yard into this, Cliff?” asked the big man curiously. “And if they’re in, why don’t they pinch Fing-Su?”

  “Because they haven’t sufficient evidence to pinch anybody,” said Clifford shortly.

  He was beginning to feel the strain of this battle with the invisible forces of the Chinaman.

  “You’ll be able to satisfy your curiosity about Scotland Yard. It’s quite an unromantic place. Superintendent Willing is calling tonight and is going with us down-river. Can you swim, Joe?”

  “Anything that’s manly I can do,” said Joe emphatically. “Get out of your head, Cliff, that I’m a back number. There’s I nothing that ever walked in trousers that could get me hollering for mother. A man of fifty is in the prime of life, as I’ve often said.”

  Superintendent Willing arrived soon after—a thin, cadaverous man with a mordant sense of humour and a low opinion of humanity. In some respects he was nearer to the typical idea of Joe Bray’s imagination than the three men he had met earlier in the evening, for the superintendent spoke little and conveyed an impression of infallibility.

  “You know we searched the Umgeni this morning? She’s due out tonight.”

  Clifford nodded.

  “There was nothing in the shape of contraband. Perhaps they’re going to send it by the Umveli—that’s the sister ship. They’re lying side by side in the Pool. But she’s not due to sail for a month, and she goes to Newcastle first. Have you seen anything of my man, Long—the fellow I put to trail Miss Bray?” And when Clifford shook his head: “I thought he might have reported to you. He’s probably gone back to Sunningdale with her. Now, Mr Lynne, what is the business end of this Chink’s operations?”

  “Fing-Su? So far as I can gather, his idea is to create a new dynasty in China! Before he can bring that into being he would in the ordinary course of events have to fight the various mercenary generals who have sliced up the country between them, but I rather imagine he has found the easier way. Every general in China has his price—always remember that the Chinese have no patriotism; are unconscious of any sentiment for the soil that produced them. Their politics are immediate and local. Most of them aren’t aware that Mongolia has become a Russian province. The generals are bandits on the grand scale, and battles are decided by the timely desertions of armies. Strategy in China means getting the best price for treachery and keeping your plans dark until the last minute.”

  “And Narth—he’s rather a puzzle to me,” said Willing. “I can’t see what value he can be to Fing-Su and his crowd. The man is no genius, and certainly no fighter.”

  “Narth is very useful; make no mistake about that. Although he is practically bankrupt, he knows the City intimately—by which I mean that when it comes to a question of negotiating dollars against lives, there won’t be a better man in the City of London than Stephen Narth. He is personally acquainted with the great financial groups; he has the very knowledge which Fing-Su lacks. If Fing-Su succeeds there will be some valuable concessions to be had—Narth is to be the broker! At present he is a doubtful proposition, and Fing knows it. The money he has borrowed from our Chinese friend doesn’t give Fing-Su the grip on him that he imagines. Stephen has got to be clamped to the Joyful Hands with bonds of steel. Perhaps the mumbory-jumbory of the initiation service might hold him—but I doubt it.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “It’s time we made a move,” he said. “I have arranged for an electric launch to meet us at Wapping. Have you a gun?”

  “Don’
t want it,” rsaid the superintendent cheerfully. “I’ve a walking-cane that’s got a kick in it and makes no noise. But I think the evening is going to be wasted. I’ve searched the Umgeni–-“

  “I’m not going to look at the Umgeni,” interrupted Cliff grimly. “Her sister ship’s lying alongside–-“

  “But she doesn’t sail for a month.”

  “On the contrary,” said Cliff, “she sails tonight.”

  The superintendent laughed.

  “You know very little about ships,” he said. “She’ll be held up at the mouth of the river and her papers searched, and unless they are in order she’ll not leave the Thames River.”

  “They will be in order,” said Clifford cryptically.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  To the artist the Pool of London has a peculiar beauty of its own. Here lie the great ocean-going steamers, and along this watery highway passes the traffic of half a world. It is a place of soft tones, on a fine evening; a nocturne of greys and blues and russet reds. It is a veritable pool of romance even in the drab days of winter, when the stained hulls and the grime-coated funnels come slowly out of sunny seas to rest on these mud-coloured waters.

  On a dark and rainy summer evening, with an unaccountable northerner to chill the bones of those adventurers who set forth upon the surface of the river, the Pool has little attraction. Clifford found his big electric launch waiting at the greasy flight of stairs, and slipping under the stern of a Norwegian timber ship, he steered to the middle of the river. A police skiff came out of the darkness, challenged them and was satisfied, and followed in their wake. The tide was running in and was favourable to their enterprise, for they could afford to go half-speed.

  Clifford’s scheme was to find a hiding-place on board the ship, and if they were undetected to go down-river with the ship to Gravesend, where the ship would be held up to take on a pilot and for the examination of papers, before being allowed to proceed on her voyage. If they were discovered, Willing had the necessary authority to account for their presence and to conduct an eleventh-hour search for forbidden exports.

  There were ships to left and right of them, some silent and dark, save for their riding lamps, others ablaze with lights and noisy with the rattle and whine of donkey engines as they unloaded into lighters with the aid of great branch lamps swung over the side. A belated pleasure craft passed them, a glittering palace of a thing, from which came the strains of a wheezy band.