The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 15

  “Back in a minute,” he said, and crossed the courtyard to the main building where French lay.

  He was as good as his word. In less than a minute he reappeared, laughing, and waved his hand.

  “All right,” he sang out. “Climb into the saddle, Breck, and be on your way.”

  I obeyed, heart-heavy.

  IX

  Even as I clambered into the saddle, however, there came from the stables a voice that made me pause, the voice of Yu.

  “Wait a minute, master! Wait a minute!”

  I glanced around, but saw nothing of the boy. Schneider, at the words, came striding across the courtyard.

  “Who’s that?” he demanded, hand at his gun.

  “My boy Yu,” I responded. “He must have been asleep.”

  “Here I am,” said Yu’s voice.

  I looked around again at the door of the rear building, and sat petrified, staring in astonishment. Schneider’s mouth opened, stark amazement seizing him, and a terrible light of recognition blazing in his dark eyes.

  From the doorway came, not Yu, but James Sze Kohler, smiling and fingering a cigar.

  “Hello, Schneider!” he said casually. “Have you had a good time? It’s a pity that you prevailed on Breck to hand you over that formula; otherwise, you might have gone free. How’ve you been since we last met?”

  Schneider recovered from his stupefaction. He snapped an order at his two men; then, as their rifles lifted, those rifles were suddenly trained upon Schneider himself. Kohler uttered a low laugh.

  “No use, Schneider, no use at all! These are my men, you know.”

  “Kohler!” I exclaimed. “How in the name of all that’s holy did you get here?”

  Kohler glanced at me and chuckled softly.

  “My dear chap, I came all the way with you! Didn’t I make a presentable coolie, with the beard and all? Now, master, everything is ready, and we can start if you like.”

  It was the voice of Yu that issued from Kohler’s throat. He chuckled again at my look.

  “You see, Breck, I needed to be shielded and forgotten; and everything worked out very well. By the way, just how did Mr. Schneider propose to torture a woman?”

  Schneider stood there with sweat streaming out on his oily face. He knew now how he had been trapped; he perceived that his men were really Kohler’s men; and I think that in Kohler’s glance he read no mercy at all.

  At all events, before I had started to speak, a curse fell from his lips. Regardless of the two Chinese, his hand leaped to his pistol. As he jerked it forth, the rifles cracked pitilessly. Schneider spun around and fell in a heap.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Just as well,” said Kohler quietly. “Just as well. Better, perhaps, this way—since he knew the formula.”

  “Good heavens, Kohler!” I exclaimed. “You wouldn’t have murdered him merely because he had learned that secret?”

  Kohler’s eyes dwelt speculatively upon me.

  “My dear Breck,” he said, in his gentle voice, “I might not have done so, and again I might. But if he had threatened harm to Janet French, I certainly would have done so. As it is, all’s well. You’ve done your work excellently, all and more than I had counted on; I think we may say that the campaign has been very successful.”

  O’Grady, who had been staring hard at Kohler, suddenly broke into a laugh.

  “By the rock o’ Doon!” he cried out gaily. “So you’re Kohler, are you? Well, I’m out o’ this game; you’re too deep for me. Faith, if I’d guessed that the boy Yu was really James Sze Kohler—What dev’lish chances I’ve missed, what?”

  Kohler chuckled. “Exactly, my dear O’Grady! Your attention was quite centered on Mr. Breck, just as I figured. May I have the pleasure of taking you to the coast with me and sending you home to Japan?”

  O’Grady shook his head, drew a deep breath, laughed again, more freely this time.

  “Not me, thanks! No Japan for me. I’m done with sellin’ my honor among devils.”

  “Then,” suggested Kohler, “suppose we journey to the coast together—and I may find some employment for you. Would such a course appeal to you, or do you class me with devils?”

  “D’ye mean it?” cried O’Grady, his eyes widening.

  “I do,” said Kohler calmly.

  “Good! It’s agreed!” responded the Irishman promptly. “When do we start?”

  “In an hour,” said Kohler.

  At this, I intervened.

  “But see here, Kohler!” I protested. “French is in no shape to travel just yet! You’ll have to give his shoulder a chance to mend, you know! And we can’t all run off and leave him alone here with Miss French.”

  Under Kohler’s slow, sleepy smile I checked myself.

  “My dear Breck,” he replied, “I don’t intend doing anything of the kind. French remains here with his sister, until he’s able to travel. Perhaps you remember the precise matter in which I engaged your services? It was to bring French to the coast. When that is done, your present task is ended, and you begin your work on my private staff.”

  “What!” I said. “You mean that you’re going to leave me here with them, to bring them down to the coast?”

  “Exactly,” said Kohler, and chuckled. “Do you object? If so, Mr. O’Grady—”

  “Damn O’Grady!” I said hastily, “no, I’m tickled to death to stay! That is, if Miss French—”

  I broke off in some confusion, for O’Grady was laughing, and in Kohler’s eyes I read a complete understanding of all that I had not said.

  “Suppose you go in and ask Miss French for yourself,” said Kohler, amusedly.

  I did so.

  That’s why it was two months before we reached the coast again, and as everyone knows, a tremendous lot of things can happen in a period of two months. They did, at least, in my particular case; and O’Grady was best man.

  But I never saw my perfect servant, Yu, again!

  YELLOW INTRIGUE

  CHAPTER I

  The Word Hunter

  When Alan Groot hailed me, I had just been congratulating myself that I was the only white man in Cheng-tu, barring missionaries. The brief, bloodless revolution was over; I had helped engineer it, but no one knew that. Cheng-tu, and with it the whole province of Szechwan, was now solidly under the Shanghai government. Sun Yat Sen and the patriots of Young China, without firing a shot, had cut away the very heart of China from the grafting, corrupt old mandarin government in Peking.

  Our own civil and military governors were now installed in the provincial capital, Cheng-tu, and we were calmly proceeding with our share of the vast economic policy outlined for new China by Doctor Sun—a policy which will astonish the world when it has attained full publicity.

  When Groot called out, I was strolling along the wide business street inside the east gate of the city, watching the crowds. Against the huge red-and-gilt signboards flowed a varied stream of humanity—coolies, brawny river men, priests from mountain lamaseries with their rosaries and helmet hats, black-robed scholars, soldiers, peddlers from Shensi and mountaineers from the Yunchan. In the midst of the clamorous confusion, I heard a familiar voice shout my name.

  “Breck! Sam Breck! Wait a minute!”

  I halted, and turned to see Alan Groot shoving toward, me. No wonder I was astounded! The last I heard of Groot, he was an assistant professor at Berkeley—not at all the sort of man I expected to meet casually here in western China.

  Nor had he changed appreciably. He was five foot six, his face concealed behind a gray, straggling beard in sad need of trimming, and a pair of thick spectacles with large horn rims. He lived always in the past, never in the present. He was cut out for an academic life, where he could be walled in with his books out of the world, and could peacefully study and run down and transfix some hapless word or subject, until he had it feeding out of his hand.

  I will admit, however, that Alan Groot knew a lot.

  “Breck!” he exclaimed, gra
bbing my hand and shaking it heartily. “What in the name of goodness are you doing here? In a uniform, too! I thought you were out of the army?”

  “This isn’t an American uniform,” I told him.

  “Bless my soul, that’s so! What is it?”

  “Chinese. I’m a captain in the new aviation service. Didn’t you know there’s been a change of government here since last week?”

  “A—what?” He blinked rapidly at me. “You mean a revolution?”

  “Put it that way,” and I chuckled. Evidently he knew nothing about it. “I’m building the hangars and aviation field here, Groot. It’s the terminus of the new air mail and express line from Shanghai. But what on earth dragged you out of your Berkeley diggings and brought you here?”

  “Oh, my boy, I’m doing great things, great things!” He was fairly bubbling over with happiness. “I’ve accomplished some of the most astounding—but come along, quick! I have to meet a man in three minutes, at that corner shop. I’m getting a copy of the original edition of the Yuan Shi—an original, Breck! Come on; we can talk later. You’re free?”

  I was free—and I was interested. It was certain that no report had been turned in of the presence of any white man in Cheng-tu, much less a scholar and linguist like Alan Groot. Not that I suspected him, of course; but I suspected somebody. There was a nigger in the woodpile, and it was part of my business to exterminate such gentry.

  Groot was the most innocent person on God’s footstool—just the type to be used by somebody clever enough to take advantage of innocence.

  We walked along together to the corner, and entered a shop. Two men sat there. One was the proprietor, smoking in a most uninterested fashion. The other was a tall, skinny mountaineer, who had beside him a sack stuffed with old Chinese volumes. The mountaineer got one good look at me, and his eyes blinked. Otherwise, his face was absolutely impassive.

  I said nothing, and kept out of it. Groot began to bargain for the sack of books. He looked over one of them then simply quit haggling. He hauled out an astonishing lot of money and handed it over.

  “Get a coolie for me, Breck, will you?” he asked excitedly. “An original of the Yuan chronicles! My boy, my boy, this is too good to be true!”

  I stepped outside the shop, and felt the eyes of that mountaineer boring after me. I knew better than to think those volumes had turned up by any chance. They had probably been stolen from some temple, and sent here to be used in the right way.

  By great good luck, I caught sight of Lieutenant Ch’en of the yamen guard, and beckoned to him. He was a Harvard man, by the way, a good type of Young China.

  “Lieutenant, there’s something up,” I told him rapidly. “Report to the yamen that I may not be back for some time. Get a couple of men in a hurry and arrest a mountaineer who’s in this shop, a tall, skinny chap. He’s either a Chili man or a Korean in disguise. He has a Korean accent. Hold him until I get back to the yamen.”

  “Very good, sir.” Ch’en saluted and turned. He made a gesture, and two men came out of the crowd. I told him to wait until I was gone, then summoned a coolie and reentered the shop.

  The coolie took up the sack of manuscripts and Groot came out with me.

  “Where to?” I demanded.

  “Why—I’m stopping at a temple outside the city,” he responded.

  “Then we’ll go to a tea-room and talk it over.” I directed the coolie to a place not far distant, and Groot agreed without demur, except that he begged me not to lose the coolie. Ten minutes later we were sitting in a private compartment of a tea palace with the sack of books beside us and the coolie squatting outside.

  “Now,” I said, “spill it! What stirred you out of Berkeley?”

  “I’m on a year’s leave of absence, Breck,” he explained eagerly. “It seems that the Chinese Government heard of my research work; and you know how interested they are in all such things? Well, I was offered a good salary, an exceptional salary, to come to China and do some investigation along my own lines. Breck, just think of an oriental government appropriating money for such purposes, when our own government won’t spend a cent! Just compare the two!”

  “Just compare,” I said, “what our own government is spending on air service, and what the Chinese government is spending! That’s more to the point. But what Chinese government are you talking about, Groot?”

  He took off his spectacles and polished them, looking rather astonished.

  “Why, the government, of course! At Peking, you know!”

  “Oh!” I returned. “I was talking of the Shanghai government. May I inquire who conducted the negotiations with you in Berkeley?”

  “A man named Schmidts, of German extraction, I believe, but a Chinese citizen.”

  I thought so; I knew all about Schmidts. He was a prominent member of the German-Japanese group who had the poor devils in Peking under their thumbs. And Groot, like nine out of ten Americans, thought that Peking ruled all of China. Well, I had no time to spend enlightening him just yet.

  “Congratulations,” I said dryly. “What kind of research are you doing?”

  He warmed up. “My boy, I’ve just concluded an exhaustive study of the alfalfa subject—an epochal subject! You know, the alfalfa and the grape were introduced into China by General Chang K’ien, who went on a mission to Persia in 126 B.C. to procure horses for the Han emperor Wu.

  “Well, the word used in China since that time for alfalfa, that is, the Medicago sativa, has always been mu-su, and it has puzzled Sinologues as to origin. I have finally traced the term back to a lost Iranian word, which will have the general form of buksuk. When my monograph on the subject has been published, Breck, it will absolutely confound the world! Just think how far astray even men like Hirth and Giles have gone!”

  I agreed with him that it was a terrible thing.

  “For the last three weeks,” he went on eagerly, “I have been working night and day on the problem, and my manuscript is now practically finished. I only came into the city today in order to obtain this copy of the Yuan Shi, of which I was informed by friends. I hope to take up the study of Persian influences in China of the Yuan or Mongol period, and this original edition of the chronicles will be invaluable.”

  I let him talk on. While Groot had been poring over some temple library, chasing mu-su back two or three thousand years until he finally hypnotized himself into thinking he had arrived somewhere, China had been waking up. The southern and western provinces were firmly established under the Shanghai government. Peking’s old mandarins, struggling along to save their face and secretly powerless against the tide of corruption, were practically disowned by the country at large. It was war; not open war, but a submarine fight to save the oldest empire and youngest republic of Asia from the Prussianized liars whose system depended upon maintaining the Mikado as the last autocratic Caesar of the world.

  Japan, as a nation, was well enough. It was the politicians, the German-trained horde of caste, who were playing the devil with things. Politicians are the curse of every country. Japan, in the persons of her best men, wished China well; but her politicians were resolved to destroy China. And against them, like a wall, stood the enlightened, patriotic group of men who had sworn never to see their country degraded.

  “Where are you stopping?” I asked Groot, who did not realize that I was pumping him.

  “At Hsi-hsin-ho, Heart-resting-place. It’s a small temple, but goes back to the Chin dynasty; has a wonderful library. It’s about seven miles outside town—”

  “Oh, I know about it,” I responded, with some truth. I knew no good of it, either. “Did anybody give you a message to bring into town?”

  Groot, poor innocent soul, regarded me with astonishment.

  “Why, how did you guess, Breck? Yes, I brought in a note from one of the priests, who has a cousin here. Poor chap, he’s in very bad health—”

  “What’s his name?” I cut in. “The chap here in the city, I mean.”

  Groot told me. I
jotted down the name and address, together with a note to the military governor, called the tea-room proprietor and ordered the message sent to the yamen. By this time Groot suspected something was up.

  “See here, Breck, just what does all this mystery mean?”

  “No mystery,” and I grinned. “You’re in bad hands, old man, and you’d better stop over for a day or two until we get things straightened out—”

  “Stop over!” he exclaimed. “Why Breck, it’s impossible! I promised Mary I’d be back—”

  “Mary!” It was my turn to stare. “Who the devil is Mary? Are you married?”

  “Mary’s my niece—Mary Fisher. Bless my soul, didn’t I tell you she was with me? And we expected Baron Rosoff to arrive today for a week or so. You must come out and see us, Breck!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said grimly. “I will. Just at present, Groot, you’re under arrest.”

  At that, poor Groot only looked bewildered. It took me half an hour to convince him that he and Mary Fisher were up to their necks in hot water.

  CHAPTER II

  John Li Dies

  It was true that I was in charge of the aviation work here. But I was actually unattached and my own boss. Having been born a missionary’s son, and having spent my childhood in China, I knew the upcountry dialects fairly well; and consequently was putting it to use.

  There is absolutely no red tape to the Shanghai government—those chaps are doers! I was engaged as an aviator, set to work as a constructing engineer, and given a free hand as a sort of secret service emissary. I was needed badly, too. Szechwan is one of the richest provinces in the country, and Peking would leave no stone unturned to get her back.

  There was no doubt that Alan Groot was being utilized and had been utilized in a dozen ways of which he had no idea, and he was extremely shocked when I made the fact clear. He stated that he would resign his position immediately.

  “Do it,” I told him, “but that isn’t going to save your niece.”

  “Save her? From what?” he inquired.