Part 21

“Ah--” smiled Ng Ch’u, “and the principle of my nature has always been to see that I have pork with my evening rice--to bargain close and tight--to know the worth of money--”

“Money,” said Nag Hong Fah, the restaurant proprietor, “which is the greatest truth in the world--”

“Money,” chimed in Yung Long, the wealthy wholesale grocer, “which is mastery and power and sway and shining achievement--”

“Money,” said Ching Shan rather severely, since he had retired from active business affairs and was not worried by financial troubles, “which is good only when used by a purified desire and a righteous aim--”

“What aim more righteous,” rejoined Ng Ch’u, “than peace and happiness and the evening rice--”

And then, quite suddenly, a hush fell over the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity. Tea cups were held tremblingly in mid-air. Pipes dropped. Voices were stilled.

For there, framed in the doorway, stood three figures, lean, tall, threatening; faces masked by black neckerchiefs; pistols held steadily in yellow hands.

* * * * *

“Oh--Buddha!” screamed Nag Hong Fah. “The hatchetmen--the hatchetmen--”

“Silence, obese grandfather of a skillet!” said the tallest of the three. “Silence--or--” His voice was terse and metallic; his pistol described a significant half-circle and drew a bead on the restaurant proprietor’s stout chest. He took a step nearer into the room, while his two colleagues kept the company covered. “My friends,” he said, “I have not come here to harm anybody--except--”

His eyes searched the smoke-laden room, and, as if drawn by a magnet, Ng Ch’u rose and waddled up to him.

“Except to kill me?” he suggested meekly.

“Rightly guessed, older brother,” smiled the other. “I regret--but what is life--eh?--and what is death? A slashing of throats! A cutting of necks! A jolly ripping of jugular veins!” He laughed behind his mask and drew Ng Ch’u toward him with a strong, clawlike hand.

The latter trembled like a leaf.

“Honorable killer,” he asked, “there is, I take it, no personal rancor against me in your heart?”

“Not a breath--not an atom--not a sliver! It is a mere matter of business!”

“You have been sent by somebody else to kill me--perhaps by--?”

“Let us name no names. I have indeed been sent by--somebody.”

Ng Ch’u looked over his shoulder at Ching Shan who sat there, very quiet, very disinterested.

“Ching Shan,” he said, “did you not say that the correct doctrine of the good man is to be true to his principles and the benevolent exercise of these principles?”

“Indeed!” wonderingly.

“Ah--” gently breathed Ng Ch’u, and again he addressed the hatchetman. “Honorable killer,” he said, “the nameless party--who sent you here--how much did he promise you for causing my spirit to join the spirits of my ancestors?”

“But--”

“Tell me. How much?”

“Five hundred dollars!”

Ng Ch’u smiled.

“Five hundred dollars--eh?--for killing me?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the astonished hatchetman.

“Five hundred dollars--eh?--for killing me?” he re-broke into gurgling laughter. “Correct doctrine to be true to one’s own principles! Principles of barter and trade--my principles--the coolie’s principles--_Ahee!--ahoo!--ahai!_ Here, hatchetman!” His voice was now quite steady. Steady was the hand with which he drew a thick roll of bills from his pocket. “Here are five hundred dollars--and yet another hundred! Go! Go and kill _him_--him who sent you!”

* * * * *

And, late that night, back in his neat little flat, Ng Ch’u turned casually to his wife.

“Moon-beam,” he said, “the little trouble has been satisfactorily settled.” He paused, smiled. “To-morrow,” he added, “I shall eat my evening rice from a pale-blue Suen-tih Ming bowl with red fish molded as handles.”

“Yes, Great One,” came the Moon-beam’s calm, incurious reply.

_Short Stories_

THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND

BY

GORDON YOUNG

THE TAKING OF BILLY RAND[11]

By GORDON YOUNG

For reasons that might be called confidential, since they were known only to Billy Rand himself and to the police, he took the tip of a friend wise in geography and made for a speck on the map called Ponape--a bit of an island that sticks out inconspicuously in the South Seas.

He landed on a beach where there were some natives that he mistook for “niggers” and a lot of Germans.

Said Billy Rand to a German trader:

“I’m travelin’ for my health and lookin’ for a quiet spot. I need rest. This here Langar is too thrivin’ a metropolis. It reminds me of New York.”

He looked out of the doorway to where a half dozen little trading schooners were anchored, and at the corrugated iron warehouse; but most particularly he looked at the two wireless masts. Those were what reminded him of New York.

“_Ja_,” said the trader, and tipped the empty beer bottle significantly.

Billy took the hint. More beer came. Then the trader warmed up slightly and talked.

Billy didn’t know exactly what was being said. No fortune teller had ever warned him that he ought to study German.

The trader pointed here and there, and Billy twisted his head about to see. Then he began to realize that the German was talking of directions. Which way did Billy want to travel?

Billy took a chance and poked his finger in the same direction that his nose happened to be.

The trader agreed that it was a desirable choice and put out his hand, palm up. The sign language had never seemed so eloquent to Billy before.

That was how Billy came to be landed on the beach some two hundred miles from Langar. The bay was pretty and the trader had given him to understand that a missionary lived there.

But alone on the beach Billy couldn’t see anything but niggers. They swarmed about him, grinned, looked him over curiously, fingered his clothes, felt of him, and chattered. He wished heartily that he was back in New York explaining to the judge just how it happened. The trader was already standing out to sea.

The natives half carried, half dragged the squatty little man with the dapper manner, alias Billy Rand, up the beach and through the bushes until they came to a cleared space where there were grass houses and women cooking.

“Just in time for dinner!” he said to himself, and nearly fainted.

Then a man came to the door of one of the grass houses. He was a comparatively young man, fine looking--Billy thought--and not at all like the beachcombers, missionaries and Germans with which Billy had already become acquainted. And Billy could not imagine that any one other than those people--beachcombers, missionaries and Germans--would hide themselves away in such outlandish places unless for “confidential” reasons.

“Who are you?” the man asked. It seemed to Billy that there was something pryingly suspicious in the question.

Rapidly he hastened to assure this stranger:

“It’s all right. I came along for quiet and rest too. I know just how you feel when a stranger comes along your trail. Now I’ve--”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the other, looking puzzled. Billy noticed that he had brown eyes that looked almost sad.

“I’m in the same fix as you,” Billy explained vaguely.

“A missionary?” the man asked.

“Me a what!”

And Billy followed it up with a few remarks that showed he was far from having been trained as a missionary.

The man looked relieved, though he did say quietly:

“You see, I’m a missionary. From what you said I judged that you, too--well, I want neither a rival nor an assistant--but,” he added quickly, “anybody else is welcome.”

Billy cast a speculative eye over the crowd of natives ringed about him.

“Say,” he confessed frankly, “I was awfully glad to see you. These fellows had me scared stiff.”

The missionary laughed. “They can’t imagine any one being afraid of them.”

“Ain’t they got no lookin’ glasses?” Billy demanded.

The missionary laughed again and invited him into his house.

Billy at first had a nightmarish sensation as he stepped in; lizards, birds and things, some dried, some stuffed, some pickled in bottles, some stuck on cards--bugs and butterflies and flying squirrels and even some bright-scaled fish.

“Have a little drink?” asked the missionary. “And here is a pipe and some tobacco--trade tobacco. Wretched stuff. Just make yourself at home. And tell me, what’s going on in the world? I’ve been here four years.”

Billy reflected that this man might be a missionary, but he was a good judge of whiskey, though he took only a little for himself and after filling Billy’s glass put the bottle away.

Later another drink for Billy alone was forthcoming; and he, already wanting to stay on and on with the missionary and not wanting him to think that he, Billy, was a murderer or something, up and told just what he would have told the judge if he had not been able to keep just about two jumps ahead of the detectives that were on his trail.

Billy naively explained that he wasn’t going to confess to anybody that he had carried the money from a certain firm of paying contractors to a certain man that could--and did--control the awarding of paving contracts.

“An’ was it police or a woman with you?” Billy inquired pointedly, feeling that an exchange of confidence was due.

The missionary gave him a quick glance, then smiled and said that he was really a naturalist, but was officially a missionary because the Germans, who owned the Carolinas, were more agreeable to missionaries than to scientists--of other countries.

“A woman,” Billy said to himself, noticing how handsome and young the missionary was. His name was Roscoe Tomlin.

In the next few weeks they got well acquainted. Billy helped, as the natives did, to catch bugs and things and pickle them. He picked up a few words of the dialect and soon had the pickaninnies taking a great fancy to him.

Then, just as Billy was getting settled to the new life and beginning to feel secure, a little steam yacht nosed cautiously into the mouth of the bay.

The natives made a dash for the beach, tumbled into canoes and went splashing out to give greetings and get presents.

Tomlin was off in the bush chasing bugs and things.

Billy, not being anxious to receive visitors himself, went near the beach and reclined behind a convenient rock.

Presently he saw a boat dropped from the davits. People got into it. One of them was a woman. They landed on the beach and, in about two minutes, Billy sauntered out to make sure that she was as pretty as she looked. The men who had rowed ashore stayed in the boat, but she got out with a little man who had a Vandyke beard, a cap and doublebreasted serge coat.

“No detective,” said Billy reassuringly to himself, “would attempt that disguise.”

“Hello,” said the little fellow seeing that Billy was a white man.

Billy didn’t like his looks. Just why, he could not have told. But he didn’t like ’em. He wasn’t frightened though--besides, she was getting prettier and prettier at every step.

Her hair was red and her eyes were purple with fire in them; her lips were red as a flame-tree’s flower, or maybe more red. She was slender without being slim and moved as easily as a pandanus leaf swinging in a little breeze. Billy was very susceptible to beauty. He would have thrown himself face down right there on the sand for her to walk on at the least suggestion that such an attitude would be pleasing to her. She was young without being girlish--nor was there anything old womanish about her. No. Billy, who was a bit hazy on historical events, was sure that she looked exactly like those women who bowl kings off their thrones, get men assassinated--or whatever else they want. Not that she looked wicked. No. But--well, Billy was a long way from home and she wore her clothes as they are worn on the Boardwalk; she carried herself as women do on Fifth Avenue. And then she was pretty.

“Is there a man here by the name of Roscoe Tomlin?” the little man asked, turning hard blue eyes on Billy as though he were a bum or wastrel.

“Who’s he?” said Billy, looking innocent.

“Who are you?” the woman asked. She spoke pleasantly, encouragingly, as though Billy interested her. He and the ladies always did get along, anyway.

“I’m Billy Rand,” he said. “The missionary’s assistant.”

“And who is the missionary?” She asked it quickly, eagerly.

“Mr. Roscoe Tomlin,” said Billy, bowing low.

“You--you--you,” the little man stuttered angrily, “why didn’t you tell me that when I asked you?”

“Because,” Bill answered, looking right at him, “I didn’t know the lady was interested!”

“I’ll fix you!” the man shouted, and came toward Billy as though about to do something he shouldn’t.

He was about Billy’s size--and Billy never ran in front of ladles, not pretty ones at any rate.

But hostilities were suppressed peremptorily. She snapped out in a surprised tone:

“Captain Farewell!”

The Captain stopped. Anybody would have stopped.

“That’s all right,” Billy assured her. “Us missionaries is used to such fellers. Bad lot o’ men come to these islands--crooks and things!”

The Captain appeared to be on the verge of blowing up; but she--she did not seem to notice. She smiled as she asked:

“Is Mr.--I mean is the Rev. Mr. Tomlin as--as pugnacious as you?”

“Him?” asked Billy. “Why, he trained me! He eats ’em alive.”

“Cannibal, eh?” said the Captain. “I told you how white men degenerated among the natives,” he remarked to her. Then of Billy he asked, “Is this Rev. Mr. Tomlin married or--”

He stopped right there. Billy didn’t quite know what the Captain was driving at, but sensed enough to make him want to fight.

“Has Mr. Tomlin a wife?” she asked.

“Has he a _native_ wife?” the Captain emphasized.

“Lady,” said Billy, getting hot inside, and when he got hot inside he was likely to be blunt in his remarks, “supposin’ some stranger come to a friend of yours and asked are you married to a nigger!”

She flushed and caught her breath, but someway it seemed that she was very much pleased, though she said: “You are right. I apologize. But will you please take us to Mr. Tomlin. I am a friend--a former friend of his.”

So Billy led them up to the house, and the natives came along chattering and grinning and wanting to touch the woman’s clothes. Billy warned them off repeatedly with a strange mixture of native words and New York slang.

The Captain, speaking like a man does who has something on his mind, asked:

“And how long have _you_ been here, Rev. Mr. Rand?”

“Me? Oh, let’s see. Two--no not quite two years. Be two years soon. A feller sort o’ loses track of time in a place like this, you know.”

“So I would judge!” said the Captain with a strange intonation that caused Billy some vague uneasiness.

It stood this way with Billy: The District Attorney back in New York was after the Chief. Certain contractors lost money on a job and that made them peevish, so they swore that they had handed out a bribe to get the contract awarded to them. The Chief stood pat and said: “Prove it!” Billy had carried the money. If Billy confessed, the District Attorney had the proof. But Billy jumped. If he should be caught and still refuse to come through with a confession, it was highly probable that the District Attorney would pry loose some little episodes in Billy’s past and hand him something. He would not snitch on the Chief and as he did not like the accommodations at Sing Sing, Billy had been ducking and dodging all over the Pacific, and the detectives--though they had never laid eyes on him--had been stubborn and alert as ferrets in a rabbit warren. It wasn’t that Billy had a criminal record--far from it. But he had been in practical politics as an aid to the Chief. This was a stubborn political fight involving some pretty big pickings, and he had the misfortune to be a crucial witness. So Billy grew very thoughtful at the way Captain Farwell spoke.

He led the guests into the house and had them sit down. They looked at the bugs and pickled lizards and stuffed fish, but the woman did not shiver.

“This has always been Roscoe’s habit,” she said.

Billy sent some of the native youngsters for green cocoanuts and poured a drink of cool milk for the guests. The woman was eager and busy with questions, wanting to know everything knowable about Tomlin; and the Captain watched Billy steadily and continued remarks that made him nervous.

Billy reflected that the Captain was not a big man in any way--something like himself in build, only a trifle thinner--and, well, a fight wouldn’t help much to keep him out of New York, but it would be gratifying.

While they were talking, Tomlin came.

The natives had told him about the witch-boat--any boat, in their minds, was driven by the devil if it did not have sails--and about the white woman and man being in the house.

He was naturally interested. Tourists were often nosing around in yachts, but he had never seen any before. He came over the doorway--the doorways were built high to keep the pigs out--and said with general friendliness:

“I hope Billy is making you comfortable.”

“Yes, Roscoe. Quite comfortable,” she said, turning her face toward him.

“You!--Lorraine--here!”

“Why, of course. How are you Roscoe? Didn’t you get my letter? This is Captain Farwell. Mother is aboard the _Petrel_, but she isn’t well.”

Tomlin looked at the Captain and nodded, still in a daze.

From the way he looked back at Lorraine, Billy did not know whether Tomlin had a peeve and wasn’t trying to show it, or didn’t have one and wanted to pretend. Lorraine seemed wiser. She smiled at him in a way that, Billy thought, ought to have made a statue come from its pedestal and be human.

Billy recognized that four was a multitude and said:

“Captain, you just come with me, and I’ll show you a cocoanut grove or a sunset or something.”

Lorraine frankly rewarded Billy with a smile and a glance.

The Captain hemmed and hawed, but she said as politely as though she meant it: “Certainly Captain, we’ll excuse you. I remember you said you wanted to see a real native village. Mr. Rand, I’m sure, will be an excellent guide.”

“Yes,” said Tomlin, feeling no doubt that he ought to say something, “Billy has been here only a few weeks, but he knows the natives almost as well as I.”

Billy at once felt himself crumbling from the inside. He had counted much on an alibi that would give him a two year residence on the island.

Lorraine seemed to realize that something was wrong. She caught Billy’s eye, and in about the tenth part of a second, then and there with nothing more than a sparkle of light from under her long lashes, made an offensive and defensive alliance with him.

When they were outside the Captain said:

“How one must lose track of time here! Remarkable, isn’t it! I feel as though I’d been here several days.”

“The cocoanuts are down this way,” said Billy, starting off.

“By the way, Rand, I don’t suppose there is any way of getting out of this place, is there?” the Captain asked.

“How do you mean, get out?”

It was a question uppermost in Billy’s mind.

“I mean any of these islands--off like this. Just before we left Langar I heard of a couple of detectives from New York. They have tracked their man half way around the world, and discovered that about two months ago--maybe a little less--he left Langar with a German trader. The trader is out now on a trip and they’re waiting for him to come back and tell them where he dropped this man.

“Neither of these detectives, so I heard--the steward talked with them--has ever seen the man. But they have a good description of him, a very good description. Short inclined to be chubby--though possibly he’s thinned out some since he became a fugitive--blue eyes, dark brown hair. Somewhat resourceful, they say. Passed himself as a waiter and got passage on a government transport to Guam. Pretended to be a discharged marine at Guam and shipped with a pearl pirate for Yap. At Yap he became a planter and doubled back to Langar. They don’t know what he told the trader, but they know this trader never makes anything but little islands out of touch with the world. They figure that they have their prize this time. Haven’t seen anybody of his description, have you?”

Billy came very nearly to saying yes; but what would be the use? In normal spirits he would have told the Captain that the description fitted himself--the Captain--pretty closely. But Billy was in no mood for humor.

“I am telling you all this so that in case you ever run across the fellow you can send word to Langar. Quite a reward for him, I understand. The detectives are waiting there. They heard the _Petrel_ was cruising about, and asked the steward to notify everybody on board. They are very impatient. I am sure if they got wind of where the fellow was they would hire a schooner and go for him.”

“Can’t arrest him without the consent of German authorities, can they?” Billy inquired.

“Not properly, of course. But they can smuggle him out. Once they get their hands on him they will not stop to ask questions until they get to New York. This fellow is so resourceful and tricky that they won’t give him half a chance to make trouble for them.”

Billy did not answer. He was beginning to feel a kind of companionable sympathy for the lizards that he and Tomlin caught and smothered in chloroform before “picklin’ ’em.” No matter where he went he felt that he never appreciably increased the distance between himself and 240 Centre Street, New York--Police Headquarters.

But Billy wasn’t the only one who was having troubles. Lorraine and Tomlin came walking toward the beach, and a blind man could tell that neither of them was happy. The Captain, not being blind, appeared perky and pleased.

“Aren’t you coming to see mother?” she asked wistfully as she got into the boat. Perhaps she was too proud to ask him to come on her own account.

“To-morrow, Lorraine. To-morrow,” he said in an empty voice that showed he scarcely knew what he was saying.

“To-morrow!” she said, not without a touch of anger. Then to Billy, “Mr. Rand, will you come and have dinner with me--now!”

“I sure am delighted!” said Billy, and without looking toward the reproachful eyes of Tomlin or the glaring eyes of the Captain, he climbed into the boat, and gave all of his attention to Lorraine’s.

Billy thought the _Petrel_ was about the finest thing imaginable, all white and shiny, and he thought the dinner was too much for mere words to describe--with just himself and Lorraine at the table. The mother was not well, but she looked much worse when Lorraine said that Tomlin wouldn’t come--until to-morrow.