The Yellow Snake Page 18

  “Well?” he asked. “How is our squeamish friend?”

  Spedwell shook his head. He himself looked ten years older. His linen still bore the impress of a red hand.

  “Mad,” he said laconically. “I think he’s lost his reason.”

  Fing-Su leaned back in his padded chair with a tut-tut of impatience.

  “That I did not bargain for,” he said, in tones of gentle annoyance. “Who would have imagined that a full-grown man could have made such an exhibition of himself? Why, the fellow is a rank coward and outsider!”

  Spedwell did not reply. Perhaps he was wondering whether there would come a day when, for motives of expediency, he might himself lie drugged upon the marble altar whilst some initiate thrust down the fatal knife.

  “The idea was ingenious and should have had a better ending,” said Fing-Su. “Leggat was a coward and a traitor, and deserved his death. Possibly our friend Narth will take a different view when he recovers, and realizes that he has so committed himself.”

  Spedwell was eyeing him steadily.

  “You told me that the sacrifice was to be a Yun Nan man—the fellow who fell into the hands of Lynne. I hated the idea, but like a brute I agreed. God! When I saw Leggat’s face!”

  He wiped his streaming brow; his breath came more quickly.

  Fing-Su said nothing, but waited.

  “How did you get Leggat?” asked Spedwell at last.

  “He just came. We gave him a drink—he knew nothing,” said Fing-Su casually. “He had betrayed us—you know that. He’s dead and there’s an end of him. As to Narth, his life is in our hands.”.

  Spedwell, who had dropped into a chair, looked up.

  “He will have to be really mad to believe that,” he said. “As I told you before, Fing-Su, our lives are in his hands, not his in ours.”

  Fing-Su carefully scooped out the end of his cigarette, inserted another in the ebony holder and lit it before he answered.

  “Where have you put him?”

  “In the stone hut. He won’t shout any more; I’ve given him a shot of morphia. There’s only one thing to do, Fing-Su, and that is to get this man out of the country as quickly as you can. The Umveli leaves tonight; put him on board–-“

  “With the girl?”

  Spedwell’s eyes narrowed.

  “What do you mean, ‘with the girl’?” he asked. “You’re keeping her in London until Cliff Lynne gives you the share you want.”

  The Chinaman puffed thoughtfully, his low forehead creased in thought.

  “That was the original idea,” he admitted. “But so many things have happened in the past few hours…I am inclined to change my plans. We could get her to the Chinese coast and up one of the rivers without attracting any attention.” He sent a cloud of smoke to the ceiling and watched it dissolve. “She’s rather delicious,” he said.

  Major Spedwell rose, walked deliberately to the table and stood, his palms resting on its surface.

  “She’ll stay in England, Fing-Su,” he said, slowly and emphatically, and for a second their eyes met, and then the Chinaman smiled.

  “My dear Major Spedwell,” he said, “there can only be one master in any such organization as this, and that master, I beg to emphasize, is myself. If it is my wish that she should stay in England, she stays; if I desire that she should go to the coast, she goes, Is that understood?”

  So quickly did Spedwell’s hand move, that Fing-Su saw nothing but a blur of moving pink. In that fraction of a second something had appeared in Spedwell’s hand. It lay flat on the table, its black muzzle pointing to Fing-Su’s white waistcoat.

  “She stays,” said Spedwell tensely.

  The Chinaman’s face was creased and puckered for a moment with a fear which the white man had never seen before. Presently he recovered himself and forced a smile.

  “As you wish, she may stay. There is nothing to be gained by quarrelling,” he said. “Where is she now? In the factory? Go and get her.”

  Spedwell stared at this unexpected request.

  “I though you didn’t want her to know you had a hand in this,” he said.

  “It is a matter of indifference to me,” said the other. “Go bring her, please.”

  Spedwell had reached the door when he heard the soft swish of a drawer opening, and turned in a flash. A bullet seared his face and splintered the panel of the door. As his gun jerked up, he saw Fing-Su drop to the floor. For a second he hesitated, then, turning, fled into the big room from which the private office of ‘the Emperor’ led.

  It was a storehouse, piled high with bales of goods, with three narrow alleyways leading to the big doors at the end. He had only one chance. At the far end of the warehouse was the fuse-board which protected the lights in this wing of the factory. As, in response to the sound of shooting, the end door burst open, and a crowd of coolies flocked into the warehouse, he raised his automatic and fired twice. There was a splinter of marble and glass, and all the lights in the place went out.

  Leaping up, he pulled himself to the top of a bale and ran lightly along, springing from bale to packing-case, until he came within a few feet of the open door, around which a few undecided coolies were grouped. With one leap he was amongst them, his pistol blazing. They had not recovered from their astonishment when he had dived through them, sped across the dark yard and reached the top of the wall by way of the shed that Clifford Lynne had seen the night he made his unauthorized visit. Before his pursuers could reach him, he had dropped over the wall into the muddy alley and was flying for his life along the canal bank.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “There’s another door here,” said Willing suddenly.

  He was examining the wall of the inner cabin with the aid of his lamp. He pointed to an oblong aperture which apparently was fastened on the other side.

  “It is pretty useless to us,” said Clifford Lynne after a brief inspection. “We shall have to wait until somebody comes in to make the bed. If what I believe is correct, the Umveli will be dropping down the river in an hour or two. I noticed just now that all the lights are out on the other ship. Just about now they will be ringing the changes.”

  “What are they waiting for?” grumbled Joe. “Always thought they wanted a high tide to float out, and she’s running high now. And with this rain, it is dark enough to hide a Dreadnought!”

  In the door behind which they were imprisoned were a number of small air-holes, and this gave Lynne an opportunity of observing the bigger room. The men had left the bulkhead lights burning, and dimly through the small porthole which faced him he could get a view of a blurred light moving and disappearing on the well deck. From beneath their feet there came the hum and whirr of the dynamo, and whilst they were listening they heard a dull roar from over the ship’s side.

  “She’s got a full head of steam,” said Willing. “This looks as if your theory may be right, Lynne, and we are going to see something!”

  There were other evidences of activity. Above their heads they heard an insistent patter of feet, and a wailing chorus while a boat was hauled up and swung inboard.

  It was a quarter to three when they heard the clank of the anchor capstan, and almost immediately a well-known voice came to Lynne. The door of the outer cabin was flung open, and Fing-Su, in a long, fur-lined overcoat, stalked majestically into the apartment.

  “Here is your room, my young lady, and here you will stay. If you make a noise or give me any trouble or scream, I will find you a better furnished cabin!”

  It required all Clifford Lynne’s presence of mind to check the cry that came to his lips, for there had followed Fing-Su into the cabin, a pale-faced girl. She was hatless, drenched with the rain, yet her little chin was held up and there was no fear in her eyes. He groaned in his soul as he recognized Joan Bray.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  She had been awakened from an uneasy sleep by the smashing in of her door, and had submitted, with a resolution, and a calm which were inexplicable to the watchin
g Fing-Su, to be carried to the waiting car. The night was favourable to such a move; the streets were deserted, and nobody saw, in the two closed cars that moved swiftly towards Rotherhithe, anything of an unusual nature. It was not till she alighted on a deserted wharf, before she walked down the rickety stairs to the waiting boat, that she observed she had a companion in misfortune—somebody whose head was enveloped in a blanket, through which moans and whimperings were audible. She could never recall that journey from the shore to the ship. She had a vague recollection that somebody had carried her up a steep ladder and had deposited her on a wet and slippery deck, from which she rose with an effort. And then, through the rain, she had seen Fing-Su’s peering face, and found herself pushed through the door of a poorly furnished cabin.

  The Chinaman went to the door and called a name which she thought sounded like ‘Mammy!’ and presently a fat Chinese woman came waddling in, wiping her hands upon a soiled apron.

  “This is your bedroom, young miss,” said Fing-Su.

  He spun over the handle and the door moved slightly.

  “Attend, Amah!” He addressed the woman in the Honan dialect. “You will stay by this girl, and you will not let her out of your sight. If she screams you are to stop her, and if you don’t–—” He raised the walking-stick he carried threateningly, and the old woman shrank back.

  The ship was moving now; the roar of its siren broke into the night. The girl standing by the table, heard the tinkle of the telegraph and the sudden throb throb of a slowly revolving propeller. It was a nightmare; it could not be real. Yet it was true; she was on a ship moving down Thames River towards the sea and–- She shivered.

  What lay at the end of this voyage?

  And then she recalled the Major’s words, and knew that he had kept faith. The fact that they had had to break down the door proved that he had no hand in this outrage. Where was he? she wondered, and then it flashed upon her that this whimpering thing, with its head hidden in a blanket, might be he. Only for a second did the thought remain; somehow she could not imagine that hard-faced man whimpering or snivelling for mercy.

  “You stay here, missie”—it was the fat Amah, still quaking with the terror which Fing-Su had inspired, and she spoke in lisping English—“I go make your bed.”

  She opened the door wider and stepped inside, and Joan thought she heard a strange shuffling of feet, but took no notice of it until:

  “Can you put out the light?”

  She nearly swooned. It was Clifford Lynne’s voice!

  It took her a minute before she could locate the switch which controlled the light but after a while she found it near the edge of the door, and for a long time she could not control her trembling fingers sufficiently to turn the little knob. The moment the lights were extinguished somebody came swiftly to her side, a strong arm went round her shoulders, and she found herself sobbing hysterically on his breast. There was a long deep silence, broken only by her weeping, and then, anxiously:

  “I’m her only relation, Cliff,” said Joe Bray’s voice. “It’s natural an’ proper for a young gel–-“

  “Shut up!” hissed Lynne, and the humour of this exchange between one who was anxious to take Clifford’s place as comforter was almost too much for the girl.

  There came the sound of tapping on the portlight.

  “Why have you put the light out?” demanded Fing-Su’s voice.

  “The young woman is undressing,” said Cliff, speaking in the dialect and giving a fair imitation of the stout woman from Honan.

  He heard the man’s grumbling voice:

  “Why didn’t she undress in the bedroom?” But evidently Fing-Su was satisfied, and he moved off.

  Through the window Clifford could see that the ship was in the middle of the river heading downstream and going at half speed. He was puzzled as to why Fing-Su had left the girl here, in so exposed a part of the vessel, which was certain to be boarded at Gravesend not only by representatives of the Port of London, but by the pilot who was to take her out to sea. Moreover, it would be growing light in an hour, and that would make the danger of discovery all the more pressing. He heard men working outside, and after a while one of the portlights was obscured, and he guessed that they were piling deck cargo round the door.

  Their position was a precarious one, as the superintendent pointed out.

  “We should have held up Fing-Su when he opened the door,” he said, but Clifford shook his head.

  “That sounds simple, but somehow I don’t think that he will come into the cabin until the ship is well out to sea,” he said seriously. “We’re going to have trouble. Is there any chance of forcing the door?”

  Willing tried the door and shook his head.

  “It would be easy to smash the portlights,” he suggested.

  Clifford smiled in spite of himself.

  “But even you couldn’t get through the portlights, superintendent!” he said dryly.

  “We could draw attention–-“

  “Two unarmed officials would be of very little use to us. Before they could bring help, even supposing Fing-Su let them off, we should be dead. No, the only thing to do is to wait. Sooner or later they must open the door, and the moment we get Fing-Su in this cabin there will be no more trouble—except for Fing-Su!”

  Dawn was breaking, but they saw little of the blessed light of day, for bale after bale had been piled up before the deckhouse until its portholes were completely darkened. It so interfered with the ventilation that the air grew foul and breathing was difficult, a possibility which Fing-Su had probably overlooked, and they were compelled to retreat to the inner room, where the air was fresh, and here they sat as hour followed hour, listening. They heard the ship’s engines stop, and the Umveli remained stationary for the greater part of an hour; then, with a sinking of heart, they heard again the throb throb of engines, and presently the ship began to roll slightly as it came to sea.

  Evidently the bales had been placed before the portholes and door for the purpose which Clifford had guessed, for hardly had they struck the open sea when daylight appeared, and through the ventilators placed on a level with the floor came a current of sweet air.

  Food must be brought in soon, and they waited for the door to open. The old Amah had given up weeping and bemoaning her fate, and squatted now, a sullen, fatalistic figure, in one corner of the tiny cabin. The passage of time did not reconcile her to captivity. Her teeth continued to chatter, and it was she who brought about the undoing of their plan. Clifford Lynne learnt afterwards that the cook whose duty it was to bring the breakfast was her son, and it was fear for his life that made her utter a piercing scream when the key came into the lock. Before they could restrain her she had rushed out of the cabin, uttering yell after yell. Old Joe Bray darted after her, caught her round her ample waist, and covered her face with his hands. But it was too late: someone was glaring round the porthole. It was Fing-Su, and Cliff saw that he in turn had been recognized. He pulled his gun and fired twice. The glass of the porthole was shattered to splinters.

  “That’s done it!” said the detective with a growl.

  They heard a shrill whistle blow, and, glancing sideways through one of the portholes, Clifford saw armed coolies swarming out of the forecastle, buckling their revolver belts as they came. As he looked, he leapt back in time. A shot went through the second of the portholes, and a splinter of glass cut his cheek. The third port went the same way, and almost immediately three rifle barrels were thrust through. They dropped to cover under the protecting steel wall of the deckhouse, and as the guns exploded Cliff gripped the barrel nearest to him and jerked it inside. With his free hand he grabbed the girl and drew her to him.

  “Lie very quiet,” he said. “You’ll be perfectly safe–-“

  At this moment the door was flung wide, and with a scream the old Amah fled through, to everybody’s relief. A second later a black object appeared at the edge of the doorway, and even as Clifford Lynne pulled the trigger he realized that it w
as only a mophead.

  “Steady your arm, Cliff,” warned Joe Bray. He had a gun in each hand, but as yet he had not wasted a shot. “They’re drawing our fire. We’ve got no other ammunition than what’s in the gun, have we?”

  Clifford shook his head. Outside they could hear Fing-Su jabbering orders, and a lower but more authoritative voice which, Clifford guessed, was that of the captain of the ship—another Negro, Clifford was to learn, and the only other member of the ship’s company beside the purser who was not Chinese.

  The rifles were suddenly withdrawn from the broken portholes and they heard something being dragged along the deck, and the alleyway door was slammed tight.

  “Get in the inner room,” shouted Willing, and pushing the girl before him, Clifford reached sanctuary as the brass nozzle of a great hose was thrust through one of the broken portholes.

  Instantly the room hissed with the furious rush of water, and Clifford made a hasty reconnaissance. There was no outlet to the water; the ventilators would hardly drain off a gallon a minute. A second nozzle had appeared and the water was already ankle-deep. Soon it swelled over the ledge of the inner door; and by this time two more hoses were at work.

  Clifford made a rough calculation and grinned. Long before the water reached the level of the portholes something would happen. He remembered enough of his school mathematics to know that the factor of metacentric height would come into operation.

  Higher and higher the water came. Some little escaped through the ventilators and the crevices between door and doorway, but the inrush was so heavy and continuous that it was only a question of time now before Fing-Su had the fright of his life.

  “Lynne!” It was Fing-Su who was shouting. “Throw out your arms and you’ll be treated fairly. I’ll put you all ashore.”

  Clifford Lynne did not answer. He wanted one glimpse of that face, only for the fraction of a second. Suddenly, caught in the trough of a sea, the Umveli gave a great lurch to starboard and the water splashed and gurgled up to the neck of Joe Bray, who was standing by the starboard bulkhead. For a long time the vessel lay over on her side and only very slowly righted herself. The moving weight of sixty tons of water was making itself felt.