Chapter XIII

We Hear a Story—and—Discover It Is True

No one spoke for a moment. Perhaps we were all too surprised to say anything. The calmest one of all was the oriental. His black suit was rumpled and covered with dirt from the path, but his face was calm and impassive. Only the narrow eyes gave any hint of feeling, and the glare in them was not a pleasant one. Then as with a short command Bartley pushed the gun closer against the man's back, we went into the house, down the hall, and into the living room.

As we dropped into chairs, Bartley motioned to his prisoner to be seated. With a slight shrug of his shoulders the Chinaman sank into his seat. Never taking his eyes off him, Bartley walked over to the chair near the table, directly opposite. As he seated himself, the revolver in his lap, the two men eyed each other in a long questioning gaze. There seemed more curiosity in the almond-shaped eyes than fear.

With a little gesture, the Chinaman murmured:

“If it had not been for a chair—”

There came no reply from Bartley. Ranville was studying the oriental with a deliberateness which took in every feature, as though he was trying to remember if he had ever seen him in London. And then all at once the man spoke again. His voice was cool and low as if he were making a social call.

“You know I told you before that I know nothing about the murder of Mr. Warren.”

Bartley shot out but one word, “Maybe.”

Again the eyes of the two men met and for a moment their glances held. Then the Chinaman dropped his eyes to his hands. The long fingers folded and unfolded as though he were playing some game. After a silence he spoke again:

“May I ask what you plan to do with me?”

“That depends,” was Bartley's slow response.

I saw a sudden gleam of interest come into the yellow face, and then it became as impassive as before. One thing was certain: there was not a trace of fear in his manner though it seemed to me he was rather curious as to who Bartley might be. Again he looked at him, and then ventured:

“What is it you wish me to tell you?”

Bartley's voice was very impersonal as he replied:

“I am not sure I wish you to tell me anything; but if you do wish to speak, you might explain how that box of opium got into Warren's possession.”

It was not a smile that passed over the Chinaman's face, though his features did move a little. For a moment he let his head sink back against his chair and his eyes partly closed as if he was thinking. Then suddenly he sat upright and said:

“I am perfectly willing to tell you that. It is really very simple. Mr. Warren was given six boxes by a certain gentleman he met in China. They were rare and old; three were for himself; the other three he was asked to bring as a gift from this man to a friend of his in America.”

He paused as if reflecting and as he did not speak for a moment, Bartley suggested:

“And three of them contained opium.”

The Chinaman made a slight bow.

“Your wisdom is indeed great,” was the reply. “Three of them did. When they were given Mr. Warren, just as he was about to sail for America, he was told that the keys of the boxes were lost. But he was told they would be sent, and should reach him before he unpacked his goods. As they were all coming in duty free because of his scientific standing this man knew that the boxes would not be opened. So marking the three which contained opium, he simply used the scientist as the carrying agent.”

Again he paused, and we could tell that he did not care to say anything more. The story seemed logical. In the hurry and confusion of Warren's departure from China, the six boxes would not be examined very carefully. The story of the lost keys would seem so reasonable that there was not much of a chance Warren would open the boxes. His baggage would come in without examination. I could well understand how the plan to send opium in the three boxes would work. But there was something else; one of the boxes must have gone astray. And as if reading my thoughts Bartley said: “And I presume that through some accident Mr. Warren in delivering the three boxes made a mistake—sent one of the three which was given to him.”

The Chinaman simply nodded, and the thin lips shut as if he had made up his mind to talk no more. There were a number of other things we wished to know. Who was the man who had received the three boxes from Warren? And above all who was this Chinaman before us? But though Bartley did his best to have the man answer these questions, he had no success. To them all there came but a bland smile and silence.

Somewhere in the house a clock struck three, and as if realizing the hour, Bartley motioned to me and said:

“Get the chief, Pelt. Have him come up here with an officer and take this man away.”

The Chinaman gave a little start, but whatever he might have felt was not shown in his face. For a moment he studied his hands then raised his eyes and said:

“But after all I have done nothing for which I can be given to the police.”

“Breaking and entering. Attempted burglary. Possession of a dangerous weapon,” checked off Bartley's cool voice.

“So,” was the only comment.

I went out into the hall to the telephone. There was some little difficulty in getting the chief. When he did come to the phone, it was a very sleepy voice which said: “Hello.” I knew that I had dragged him out of bed. For a moment his voice showed that he did not understand what I was telling him. Then all at once the tone of sleepiness vanished, and he promised to come out as soon as possible.

When I returned to the living room, it was to find that the situation had not changed. In the chair still sat the Chinaman, his entire figure showing boredom. Across from him was Bartley, the gun in his lap, and his eyes never leaving the man across from him. Just after I had sank down into my chair, the Chinaman asked if he could smoke. As Bartley assented, Ranville took a cigarette from his case and took it over to him, striking the match for him to get his light.

The man leaned back in his chair as coolly as if he was sitting in some club. Through his narrow half-shut eyes he watched the smoke as it curled to the ceiling. But speak he did not, and the glances which he gave us all in turn were very impersonal. Though he knew what we were waiting for yet he showed no anxiety or, for that matter, not the slightest sign of interest.

At length, just when I was beginning to wonder if they would ever come, there was the sound of a car—a car which came up the drive. In a bored manner Ranville rose to his feet and went out into the hall. He returned in a second with the chief followed by one of the village policemen. The chief's hair was unbrushed and he was wearing no hat. It needed but a glance to tell that his being roused from a sound sleep had not improved his disposition.

He came into the room with the heavy swaying walk he had, but paused when he had his first glimpse of the Chinaman sitting in the chair. After a few words with Bartley he went over to the oriental and touched him on the shoulder. At the touch the Chinaman muttered something in Chinese. His eyes flared but without protest he rose and, obeying the chief's gesture, started to the door.

With a word to his policeman the chief turned to Bartley. He was informed I had given him all the information he needed. The Chinaman had been caught in the house and a charge of attempted burglary could stand on the docket. But he very strongly urged the chief to keep a careful eye on the man until he had him in jail. To this the chief grunted some reply and with revolver in hand started for the door. Reaching it he gave the Chinaman a command, and they went out with him between the chief and his policeman.

As the sound of their car died away Ranville turned to Bartley:

“Wager you a couple of pounds if they are not careful that chap never reaches the police station. He is a pretty cold proposition.”

Bartley agreed to this, and then I asked him if he believed the story the man had told. He was silent for a while as if running it over in his mind then replied:

“I think in the main he probably told the truth. Don't you, Ranville?”

Ranville admitted he thought that was so. Within certain limits the man had told the truth but not all the truth. He said that he thought his explanation as to why Warren had in his possession a box containing opium was the truth. And he agreed also that unless one wished to think the scientist was engaged in smuggling the stuff there could be no other reasonable explanation. But there were a few other things he wanted to know. First, did the Chinaman know anything about the murder? Was his story of finding the door of the library open, and then walking in and discovering Warren dead, true? If it was, he could see nothing unreasonable in the fact the man never notified the authorities that he had found a murdered man. He might be held under suspicion himself and to a Chinese mind the murder anyway was none of his affair. It was because of this, because also he had told us the story of the discovery of the body, that he had an idea the man knew nothing about the murder itself. That was his idea but after all he was not sure.

It was at this point I broke into his rather disconnected monologue to say:

“I don't think the Chinaman would ever have cut that cross in Warren's forehead.”

There came one astonished look from Bartley, and he burst out:

“What cross? What under heavens are you talking about?”

It had never dawned upon me Bartley did not know about the two faint lines which had been scratched into the dead man's forehead. And then I remembered he had read only the newspaper accounts and they had not mentioned the cross. The coroner even had not brought it to the attention of the jury. So I told him what I had found. For some reason it seemed to interest him even more than I had expected. He asked a hundred questions, and in the end became very thoughtful. At last he turned to Ranville:

“You're right,” he said. “The Chinaman never killed Warren. No man of that race I have ever known has marked his victim after death in such a manner. They will torture their victims sometimes with fiendish cruelty. They will put them to death in the most devilish and grewsome fashions, but they do not mark them in that way. You are right I guess, Ranville. It was not a crime committed by any Chinaman. It might have been a crime committed by another type of person. The sort that—”

Suddenly the telephone broke in on him with a long shrill ring, stopped for a second and then rang again. With a little look of astonishment Bartley rose from his chair and went out to answer it. We heard his voice as he talked but could not distinguish the words. When he returned to the room, there was a little grin on his face as he turned to Ranville.

“You are right once more.”

The Englishman's eyebrows lifted, and Bartley half laughed.

“The chief just called. The Chinaman got away from them. They reached the station all right but in some manner I don't just understand how it was, he managed to slip out of their grasp. He just asked me what to do.”

He paused a moment, listening to the clock which was now striking four; then he yawned and said:

“I told the chief the best thing to do was to go home and go to bed. He won't find that man to-night. I doubt if he ever finds him. And what's more, I am going myself to take the advice I gave.”

He started for the hall, and as Ranville rose, I followed his example. We locked the door and went rather wearily up the stairs. Ranville yawned a good night at our door, and a moment later I was in my bed. It had not only been an exciting night, but also a very perplexing one. For a while I tried to puzzle out the happenings of the evening. Then realizing how tired I was, I turned over and went to sleep.

It was the sun streaming through the open window which awakened me the next morning. For a while I lay thinking over the events of the night before. Then the sound of people in the room below came faintly to my ears. Rising, I took a quick shower and went down to the dining room. To my surprise, the first person I saw when I reached the door was Carter. Across the table from Bartley he was laughing at something that had been said.

He greeted me with a slap on the back, and then introduced the young man by his side—a heavy-set young man, with darkish hair, whose smile was very pleasing as he rose to answer to the name of Niles Patton. As I slipped into my seat at the breakfast table, Carter informed me he had come up on the night train, and that he had been lucky in finding that Patton was on the same train.

For a while the conversation played around many topics—a conversation in which Patton took an active part. He seemed a very likable sort of man, boyish in both looks and mannerisms. He told us that he judged it would not take him so very long to go over Warren's notes, and then began to tell us stories regarding their experience in China. Long before he had finished we had adjourned to the veranda.

When there came a lull in the conversation Ranville turned to Carter and drawled:

“Did you know that the house was broken into last night?”

Carter gave him an amazed look, and in a few words he was informed of what had taken place. Then Ranville went on to tell him of our discovery of a box of opium in Warren's library—a statement which caused Patton to give a sudden start of surprise. With a laugh the Englishman went on to tell of the story the Chinaman had told us regarding these boxes which he claimed were given to Warren.

“Did you know anything of six boxes which were given to Warren just before you sailed to America?” was the question Bartley asked Patton.

The young man turned in his chair and nodded.

“Just a little. There were six boxes, about three feet long, as I remember. Some one gave them to Warren, though who it was I do not know. I know they came along just as we were about to sail and I had to find a place for them in our baggage. Mr. Warren said they were rare examples of Chinese woodwork and seemed pleased to get them. But who gave them to him I have not the slightest idea.”

“There were six of them,” commented Ranville.

“Oh, yes,” came Patton's reply. “Six, all alike. Three of them were being brought by Mr. Warren to some one in Washington. But he never told me who it was.”

Carter, who had been listening carefully, gave a little laugh as he made his contribution to the subject.

“There is always some new plan being used to get opium into the country. The Revenue men tell me they have their troubles. But this was not so bad. Warren, of course, would bring in all of his goods without having to go through the customs. We do that always with big explorers. Those three boxes to the unknown man could have contained a good many thousands of dollars' worth of the drug. Only it seems there was a mistake, and they received one box which should have remained with Warren.”

“You are sure there is no way you can discover to whom Warren was to give those boxes, Patton?” was Bartley's question.

The young man shook his head.

“None that I know of now. Mr. Warren must have done it himself. They went down to Washington with him I know that. But what he did with them I have not the slightest idea.”

We must have talked for over an hour, for it was around ten when Patton gave a look at his watch and, rising hurriedly, said he had better be getting over to Warren's library. He added that he would spend the day in finding out just what had been done on the book, and asked the telephone address of the girl who had acted as the secretary. As he rose, Carter got up with him and said he would drive him over, first reminding him that we expected him at dinner around seven.

The two men had gone down the steps and were by the garage door when Bartley suddenly rose and, calling to Patton, went down on the lawn to his side. For a few moments the two men talked and I could tell from Bartley's manner that he was very serious. Then I saw Patton slowly nod his head, heard him say, “Yes,” and the next moment he climbed into the car, which Carter had run out of the garage. As they drove out of the yard, Bartley stood watching them and after they had turned into the road he came slowly up the steps. His face was grave and at the same time rather troubled. As I started to ask him what was the matter his expression changed. He turned to Ranville and myself and said:

“Well, what about a little golf?”