E. Hoffmann Price's Exotic Adventures Page 4

  And Marley Hampton, flushed and breathing audibly, stood at the threshold. “Get out—and stay out!” he boomed, dusting his hands. The knuckles were bleeding. “You damned fraud I’ll—”

  “That’s bad, Mr. Hampton,” reproved Ward, smiling wryly. “I believe you hit him—and with your fist.”

  “Uh—sure I did! The four-flushing scoundrel!” Hampton was too angry to know just how to tell the newcomer to mind his own business.

  And by that time Ward had edged into the suite. Win emerged from her own room and faltered a greeting. The encounter had agitated her; that was apparent.

  “What do you mean?” resumed Hampton, jerking the door shut.

  “It’s none of my business,” apologized Ward. “But you should have killed him.”

  “Uh?”

  “Yes. You’ll have to. Or he’ll do as much for you.”

  “See here—what do you know about Mahmud?”

  Ward shook his head and smiled wryly. “Nothing. Except that he’s an Arab, and you struck him. To keep his self-respect, he’ll have to kill you.” Hampton blinked and regarded his bruised fists. Then he repeated, “But I just hit him, with my hand.”

  “You might,” Ward very patiently went on, “have pulled his beard. For a moment, I’d forgotten you could have done worse.” He turned toward Win, and said, “Forgive this intrusion. I just felt I ought to warn you.”

  “Thanks!” snapped Hampton, noting Ward’s disarray. “But it looks like you’ve been smacking people around yourself.”

  “Hindus don’t count. Good night.” Mahmud was no longer in the hall. Ward went to his room feeling a bit foolish. He was still sure that Hampton simply did not understand, and could not forget that the very best people, back home, pop each other with fists and then shake hands and have a drink.

  When he entered his room, Ling Fu bowed and said, “Honorable master, this unworthy person begs leave to remind that it is not wise to walk unarmed.” He produced a .45 revolver. The weapon was freshly oiled; it testified to Ling Fu’s loving care.

  “What’s the idea?”

  “Slight bloodstains and disarranged coat,” said Ling Fu. “Pardon neglect in failing to offer necessary reminder before now. There was an Arab watching with too much interest at the bazaar?”

  “Bad guess!” Ward laughed grimly. “It was a Hindu. And he got away with Tsang Li’s gift.”

  “He will not live to enjoy it,” predicted Ling Fu. “But his days would have been less if the honorable master had been armed.”

  Ward reproved, “You know I can’t run around shooting people, even in self-defense. I’ve told you a number of times we shouldn’t be conspicuous.”

  “I am abashed,” apologized Ling Fu, without a trace of penitence. Then he said in English, “For inconspicuous obliterations, place thumbs under subject’s ears, with palms against checks. Exerting suitable pressure at base of skull frequently causes death in twenty seconds.”

  “You would be statistical!” grumbled Ward. “But show me that trick again. How do I stand?”

  “Position irrelevant.”

  The wiry little Chinese moved like a ferret. He evaded his master’s instinctive gesture of defense; nothing less than a quick shot from the revolver could have blocked him. Before Ward realized what had happened, a vise grip that exactly answered the description closed on the back of his head. The room reeled, spun dizzily; red spots blazed before Ward’s eyes, and his ears roared and buzzed as he vainly tried to shake off the practice attack. It was as though a tomcat was clinging to him—but it was deadlier than a leopard’s stroke. He made croaking sounds during that endless drop to the floor.

  And then, after an interminable period of blackness, Ling Fu’s voice reached his ears: “Three seconds very helpful, but not fatal.”

  “For a Christian Chinaman,” said Ward, “you’re a whiz.”

  And for the next half hour, they took turns practicing defense and attack. Ward was blowing like a spent horse, but Ling Fu was scarcely ruffled. The American was learning—but he still had a long way to go before he could discard the noisy and only a little more deadly weapons of his own country.

  The next morning Ward was out early. His purpose was to prowl in the bazaars, and tune in on as much native gossip as he could. The inscrutable East is garrulous in the extreme, and no one would credit him with tinder-standing the crossfire of surmise and guess and half truths in a dozen dialects. By piecing enough of them together, he could learn more than the priests of Vishnu, or the police. However they disguised themselves, their presence would be sensed and chatter would cease.

  He hardly hoped to get the image from Tsang Li. Even if that shrewd old fellow did acquire it, the price would be too high to leave any chance of taking a profit from its owners. Since Ward very definitely was not out to sell stolen goods, the compensation for wits was painfully limited.

  He had scarcely reached the lobby when he saw that Win Hampton likewise was out early. The moment she recognized him, she impulsively extended her hand, and said, “Yes. I’ve been waiting. I simply had to see you. You seem to know this country.”

  Her blue eyes were troubled, and her gay little smile was hardly more than a mask.

  “I’m flattered silly. Shall we sit here?”

  “Over in the corner would be better,” she suggested. “Just in case dad comes down.”

  That did not surprise Ward. He had purposely indicated a conspicuous seat, and her reaction gave him a hint.

  “He’s so stubborn,” she went on. “I want him to leave at once. First those Hindus—then the Arab last night—”

  “Which Hindus?” frowned Ward.

  “In Penang, a week or two ago. They had marks on their forehead—three strokes, yellow on each side, and white in the center.”

  “Like a trident?” he hazarded.

  “Of course. Does that mean something?”

  “Just a caste mark, you might call it,” evaded Ward. There was no use telling her that that was the symbol of four-armed Vishnu, who holds a conch shell, a chakra, a club, and a lotus flower; Vishnu, who some day will ride forth on Kalki, the white stallion, and with his drawn sword carve a new world out of this sorrow-laden one. “But what—”

  “Dad had a furtive-seeming talk with them, and then we came to Moulmein, of all places. And you know what happened. We’d been here only a day. And now that Arab, Mahmud—”

  “Funny,” said Ward, “how he fits in.”

  “He”—she lowered her voice—“offered to sell some temple treasure. Dad promptly called him a fraud and told him to take his trickery somewhere else. That’s nearly as I could understand. I was in my room, and Mahmud’s English was rather sketchy.”

  “And he wouldn’t deal with the Arab?”

  “Of course not! We may be tourists, but we know you can scarcely set foot in the Orient without being offered supposedly stolen or smuggled or illicit treasures. In Egypt it was scarabs taken from a Pharaoh’s tomb. Outrageous prices, and they’re invariably fakes!”

  She poured that all out in a breath, then regarded him with wide eyes. Ward was thinking fast. He wondered if she realized what she had told him.

  “Why tell me?” he queried.

  “Because—Oh, Lord. I’m worried silly, what with rioting, and your warning last night. Will you do me a favor? Talk to dad when he’s not all wrought up. I think we’re in danger of some kind. I can feel it.”

  “So can I,” was Ward’s wry response. “Score one for feminine intuition. But wouldn’t I look pretty, advising a grown man to leave Moulmein because some Hindu picked on him during a general riot, and then an Arab made him a phony proposition?” Then, suddenly, he said, “What’s your father up to? Teak? Petroleum? Plantations?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, very slowly. “We’re tourists, though he may have business in the background. But
I wish you’d join us at dinner to-night, instead of at tea. If he became acquainted with you, I know he’d have confidence in you.”

  “Such as you have?” he queried.

  She steadily regarded him for a full moment. “Exactly. Just as I have.”

  “Thanks.” Then he shook his head. “But I can’t, not to-night. Though I don’t see what I could do unless he just demanded advice. And something tells me he doesn’t often do that.”

  Win sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t blame you. And you’ve turned me down so flat, I’m just wondering—”

  “To-morrow,” Ward cut in. “Sure as death and taxes.”

  Chapter III

  Ward’s prowling along the water front, mingling with the pilgrims who thronged the stairs leading to the pagodas that crown the two highest hills in Moulmein, and poking his way through the bazaars netted him nothing but muttered contempt. There were too many towering Sikh policemen to give a riot any chance of developing.

  That evening he headed for South Pagoda Road and Tsang Li’s gilded door. Once more the bland gatekeeper admitted him to the spacious garden with its tiny bridges and pool, and the same silk-clad servant escorted him into the master’s presence.

  The interminable exchange of courtesies ended when Tsang Li said, “There is no well deep enough to hide a stolen pagoda.”

  In English, that would mean, “Vishnu’s image is entirely too hot for you to handle.” But when Ward hinted that a thousand-mile journey begins with a single step, Tsang Li became very frank.

  “Every guild, particularly that of thieves, needs a counselor and a protector. It has come to me—though I may be wrong—that the thieves of Moulmein have been warned by their advisor not to touch the treasure of Vishnu.”

  “And so, of course, they will obey?” Ward was not ironic.

  Tsang Li shrugged and smiled that vague smile which seemed to be more with his hand than his lips. “Who will pay a pension to the family of the disobedient fool? Who will defend him when he is arrested on some other charge? Who will attend his funeral, even though he dies of extreme old age? Who will send gifts for his son’s wedding?”

  And Ward’s heart sank. He knew that not one member of the Sa Tiam would touch the jewels of Vishnu, nor any part of them. He also knew why the thieves’ guild existed: by refraining from dangerous loot, they gained tolerance for minor ravages. Government is the same the world over.

  Tsang Li’s smile was kindly and regretful. He was about to call for tea, which would end the interview. Ward was murmuring compliments. The ancient Chinaman knew that even a foreign devil who could acquit himself according to the book of rites was a superior person.

  And then the sleek servant entered, begging pardon for the intrusion. “Exalted and honorable master, an Arab named Mahmud begs leave to present his respects.”

  Ward’s sharp glance and distinct interest were in violation of etiquette, but he said, “Your tea would be more savory if I took it after this visitor has departed.”

  Tsang Li’s smile was a yellow riddle. He gestured toward a teak screen paneled with dragon embroideries. Ward backed toward it; and in another moment, Mahmud entered like a striking falcon.

  He could not speak Chinese, but Tsang Li had serviceable Arabic. So Mahmud, despite his aversion to an eater of unclean pork, was somewhat mollified. Yet by Chinese standards, he was perhaps abrupt in coming to the point. Compliments exchanged, he drew a parcel from his aba and unwrapped it.

  Ward, peeping through a crack in the screen, saw four-armed Vishnu, his great emeralds and blazing rubies all splendid in the glare of the cut-crystal chandelier. Its magnificence put to shame the descriptions that had filtered from Suez to Surabaya; this could be no less than the very loot that had cost a priest’s life, and the lives of those slain in street fighting. The four arms of Vishnu seemed to menace the two who surrounded him, and Ward’s heart began hammering.

  Would Tsang Li, despite his saying about no well being deep enough for a stolen pagoda, buy the treasure? No doubt that the old Chinaman was amazed; that he had not expected this, though he may have suspected Mahmud of being Ward’s competitor.

  Ward was sweating. He could not buy from Tsang Li except at a price so high that no honest profit could be taken from returning the treasure. Neither could he seize it from Mahmud; such a breach of etiquette would follow him all over Asia. Where the Sa Tiam did not flourish, their cousins, the “Family of the Queen of Heaven,” or the deadly Ghee Moon Society did.

  But Tsang Li slowly shook his head. “Cousin of the prophet,” he said, using titles to which the Arab had no right, “and pilgrim to the holy cities, I am too poor to buy this.”

  “Only a hundred thousand rupees,” repeated Mahmud.

  Fifty thousand would have taken it. Tsang Li delicately stroked his scholarly mustache. Ward’s nails sank into his palms. Then he felt as though he had heard exalting music; that was when Tsang Li gently said, “Not at any price, O prince! Some one has deceived you. Those be not true rubies from Mogok, but balas of great beauty and little worth.”

  That was a deliberate affront, and Tsang Li had intended it as such. The Arab’s face darkened, and the muscles near his ear twitched. He was beaten. But before Ward had fairly relaxed, or Tsang Li had picked his next phrase, they were both caught off guard.

  Mahmud was quick as a striking cobra. “Ya humar! O thou pig and father of pigs and eater of pork!” His curved handjar flickered like summer lightning.

  Tsang Li’s cry ended in a futile gesture and a cough that brought up blood. Ward, kicking the screen over, was halfway across the room when servants came trooping in. One of them fired a pistol. Another ran to aid the master. They blocked Ward’s charge, but he plowed through, scattering them right and left.

  He hurled himself. Mahmud wheeled, drawing a second dagger. The first still jutted from Tsang Li’s dove-gray tunic. Crouched, teeth white in a snarl, the steel licked out—but Ward, trying to sidestep, went down when a rug slipped beneath his tread.

  The point glanced from his shoulder blade. The pain sickened him, but he knew that his wound was not bad. Teeth set, he lurched toward the window, and cleared the sill just too late to pin Mahmud to the ground.

  They raced across the garden, but the lean, unwounded Arab had the advantage. His legs were longer, and fury was driving him. Rebuffed by Hampton—rebuffed by Tsang Li—his rage had exploded. Each had affronted him, called him a fraud. Ward, desperately pursuing, understood it all: Hampton, coming to Moulmein to buy the emerald Vishnu, had unwittingly kicked the vendor out! And those men whom Win had described as being marked with the trident of Vishnu were priests, warning Hampton.

  The Arab’s stride broke as he hurdled a pond. He barely scaled the wall before Ward dropped after him, and into the street. But the half darkness was alive with moving figures. Robed men in massive turbans blossomed up like tombstones in a Moslem graveyard. Sikh policemen, cropping out of the dark alleys they had been patrolling, came forward on the run, drawn by the shrieks of Tsang Li’s gatekeeper.

  The howling Hindus swept down on Ward and the fugitive. The clamor drowned his voice. Feet belabored him; and hands probed his pockets. But before he went down, he caught a glimpse of Mahmud, darting snakelike through the press. Incredibly, the Arab had escaped!

  When the thick-headed Sikhs finally kicked things into a semblance of order, the Hindus shouted Ward down, and swore that he had been clutching the Vishnu treasure as he cleared the wall. And the bearded policemen were convinced that when Tsang Li died of his wounds, their captive would face murder charges.

  But, very oddly, the Hindus, whose incredible bungling had prevented the capture of Mahmud and the treasure, somehow vanished on the way to the station. Thus there were no witnesses against Ward when he faced the sergeant. The Hindus, having picked the wrong customer, saw no reason for bragging about it. But they would seek him privately, to redeem
their two failures.

  Chapter IV

  The police barely concealed their disappointment at not finding weapons on Ward’s person. He heard the Sikhs swearing in Punjabi that certain Hindus had accused him of having the emerald Vishnu in his possession; but from lack of complaining witnesses, the sergeant had to center on the attack on Tsang Li.

  It was a heart-breaking hour before the old Chinaman’s major-domo came to the station to exonerate Ward. His story was that a fanatic Arab had broken into an interview between the master and his American friend, and that Ward had valiantly pursued the slayer. There was not a whisper of the Vishnu loot; and since Ward himself had stoutly denied ever having seen the treasure, there was no contradiction of evidence to warrant his detention.

  The case against him slowly crumpled. The deputy commissioner, who had been routed out of his club, came into the private office, frowning and tugging his straw-colored mustache.

  “Ward,” he snapped, “we’ve watched you for the past few years, all over Malaya and Burma. We’ve never found anything wrong with you. But by some damnable coincidence, you’re always Johnny-on-the-spot when there’s trouble. Either you did have the temple loot—you and the late Tsang Li—and it was passed to a confederate, or else it’s just the skittishness of the natives doing you a blasted injustice.”

  “That’s right, sir,” was Ward’s unruffled answer. “A blasted injustice. I’d have been armed, wouldn’t I, if I’d been gunning for loot?”

  The official snorted. “That’s all, Ward. And if by any chance you are not on the level, better make good use of this fluke.”

  “Good evening, sir,” Ward said. “And thank you kindly.”

  But he knew that being exonerated did not relieve him of suspicion. Ever since his return from the Shan Hills, he’d been conspicuous by reputation, if not by sight. And official notice would play hell; he’d have a C.I.D. man on his heels from now on. That meant that if he should track down Mahmud, he’d be nailed the moment he seized the loot—and be convicted of theft, as well as of murdering the priest who had died defending the treasures of his god.