The Dragon's Claw/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
SING LEE, LAUNDRYMAN
THE Cathay was an American ship and, aboard her, McNeill soon discovered himself a comparative nonentity beside Remsden.
The collector was not only rich but evidently powerful by the deference shown him at the legation and aboard the steamer. No bribes of McNeill's were able to get him closer to Helen Remsden than six seats away at the skipper's table and Remsden evidently was not disposed to encourage communications between an Irish adventurer whom he had employed as guide and his stepdaughter, presumably his heiress.
He was courteous enough and liberal enough with offers of reward that McNeill refused, but he pooh-poohed gently McNeill's allusions to his forthcoming exploitation of certain discoveries.
"I hope you'll make a go of it, Neill," he said. "Anything that I can do—but you say you have the capital in sight. It's the concessions that are so doubtful. The Chinese government is exceedingly unreliable and the various powers are envious of each other in these matters. But I wish you the best of luck."
There was a sap-headed son of a millionaire aboard who vied with several others in paying attention to Helen, and to this vapid specimen Remsden showed evident favor, though McNeill believed Remsden had better sense than to consider that Helen would accept these attentions seriously, or that Remsden would use the young man for anything more than a catspaw—a convenient and time-serving barrier against McNeill. Being free from the Hoang Lung pursuit, as he evidently believed, Remsden had every intention of shelving every one connected with it, including McNeill.
He developed a slight illness that McNeill shrewdly suspected was assumed and took advantage of it to keep his stepdaughter in close attendance upon him, with the young millionaire as a willing aide. At Honolulu he took the enamored youth and Helen for a long ride during the wait of the steamer, and McNeill whistled for a chance alone with the girl. Moreover the words of Remsden bore some weight. McNeill had no right to court the girl unless his future was assured instead of merely being rosy-hued, as at present.
And so, in the rare moments when he had the girl alone, he did not tell her, as he had hinted at Peking, how she could repay him for bringing her safely out of danger. He was the last man to bid for a girl's love because he had done what any red-blooded man would do for a girl in peril. Mutual desire was the only thing on which to base happiness, he decided. If he could avow his love, backed by worldly wealth to attend to all her comforts, and, if she showed him his love might not be unacceptable, then he would put the matter to the test.
Meanwhile he must attend to his own affairs in San Francisco while they went to New York by the first train, leaving four hours after the Cathay docked. So, with their New York address and a snapshot taken on deck, he was reluctantly content.
But he did not fail to warn Remsden that all danger might not be over. The Chinese were clannish and the power of the Hoang Lung reached wherever chopsticks were used and punksticks burned. They had back their claw, but they had been flouted. They might seek revenge.
"Poppycock, my dear Neill," smiled Remsden. "Not in America—not nowadays. Even hatchetmen and tongs are out of date. I appreciate your anxiety for my health and that of my daughter, but once in the United States I can well take care of myself—and her. Good-by. You must let me know how you come out with your schemes. I may be able to help you over some hitch—international politics, you know. I am not without some influence in such things."
Neill McNeill had a desire to tell Remsden just what he thought of his complacent selfishness but he repressed it. The train was starting and his opportunity for a personal farewell was going a-glimmering with Remsden's purposeful chatter. The vapid heir was going on the same train, it seemed, and buzzing about Helen like a hungry bee at sunset. The girl was not of Remsden's blood, McNeill thanked Heaven. He did not think many ties bound them save the one of duty on the girl's side, duty and a certain gratitude. And so he deliberately shouldered aside the scion of wealth and won his way to a last handclasp.
"You will let me know how things go, won't you?" she asked, and there was balm in the undoubted interest she expressed. "You have our address and, perhaps, you can make the communication personal?"
There was a suggestion of a blush and a tightening grip of the hand as she said this that recompensed Neill for the immediate bustling up of Remsden and the official remorselessness of the porter who warned that the train "was just stahtin'."
McNeill took up his affairs in earnest, registering at the Palace and telephoning the members of his syndicate for appointments in a determination to be in New York within the week.
Four days went by and he had the thing well in hand. One man, who had been in the southern part of the State, remained to be seen, and the rest waited for that person's assent before going ahead with the development. McNeill had explained satisfactorily that he was persona non grata with certain elements in China and his wish not to superintend the comparatively simple problems of exploitation was willingly granted by those to whom he was the means of assured wealth.
"Fix it with Cox," they told him at a dinner at the Bohemian Club. "Convince him—you've only to show him what you showed us—and we'll get to work with the lawyers tomorrow."
They were fine fellows, these Westerners, and McNeill felt elated as he left them. He went away early, for he had an appointment with Cox out at the latter's big house at San Mateo that evening.
As he swung briskly down town to the Palace, where he had ordered a car to take him down the peninsula, he fancied, as he had fancied more than once in his four days in San Francisco, that he was being followed. Probably not by Chinamen, for he had reflected that, if the Hoang Lung had by cable got word across to their affiliations on the coast, they would be too subtle to use such palpable shadows. There were many degraded white men, chained to Chinese autocratic dispensers of the drugs they craved, who would be willing to play the spy.
It was only the working of a sixth sense developed in the wilds, but McNeill, though he could pick out no special person on the busy streets, thought enough of the hunch to slip an automatic in his pocket when he took seat in the tonneau of the big car that was soon gliding south to the fashionable suburb.
There were other cars on the road. Many they overtook, but none passed them or seemed to be trailing. Yet McNeill was keenly alive to the fact that the fat priest at Hoang Lung might smart for revenge and impart that revenge to his proselytes as a holy thing to be consummated.
He had warned Remsden. He had even warned, more carefully, Helen. They were safer in New York than he was in California, but all three were still in jeopardy. Presently the thing might die down, he thought, as long as the claw had been restored. Things changed rapidly in China. A new government might frown on even the priests of ancient religions who endangered amicable relations by murdering the subjects of a friendly and powerful country from whom a new republic might need favors.
For the present he would look out and, when he got to New York, he would safeguard Helen as closely as she would permit. McNeill had no fear of not convincing Cox as to his proposition. Then there would be a good sum coming to him immediately and, with developments, he would be a rich man.
As they crossed the San Mateo line a fog began to thicken, but the driver was used to fogs and the road; the lamps were powerful and they kept on their way, making good progress, until finally they turned in between high walls through iron gates and rolled up to Cox's ornate Italian villa.
McNeill could not have been received more cordially by a member of his own family, though this is not a good simile, for McNeill was very much alone as far as relatives went. His host's hearty manner, evident interest and keen appreciation of his doings and their financial possibilities soon put McNeill altogether at ease with the world. Only one untoward incident occurred to disturb two hours of satisfactory business talk and establishment of social relations.
Cox ordered refreshments. The butler was a Chinaman. Cox's ménage was largely Chinese, he explained, and eminently satisfactory. As a butler the man was perfect—silent, careful, deferential. Not once did he seem to glance from beneath his smooth crescent lids at master or guest while he did his serving; but, as he left the room, McNeill caught one oblique glance from those sloe-black eyes directed at him through the reflection of a mirror. The eyes seemed to appraise, to check up, to menace.
McNeill knew what strange tricks imagination plays when one allows any subject of peculiar interest to one's mental or physical welfare to once become dominant. Still he was glad to find the fog had lifted when his car was ordered and he stepped out into the quiet Californian night. Cox pressed him hard to stay until the next morning, when they would motor down together and complete the negotiations that would set McNeill free to go to New York—and Helen.
But, with the absence of the fog, the sense of danger seemed lessened. Moreover, if any was brewing, McNeill wanted to see it through. It was late and the driver started back at a good pace for the city. In less than half a mile, however, the engine began to stall and he got out for investigation. They were on the main road of the fairly populous suburb. On either side were Summer villas standing in considerable, well-tended grounds, behind walls or hedges, as the owners' fancy chose.
The chauffeur tinkered and overhauled and at last investigated the gasoline tank in default of better explanation of their trouble. He gave a sharp exclamation.
"Empty!" he said. "I told them to fill it up at the garage. We ought to have six or seven gallons and there ain't a drop."
"Did you see it filled?" asked McNeill.
"No, I didn't. But they never bunked me this way before."
"What did you do while I was with Mr. Cox?"
"Chewing the rag with his driver. They got two touring cars and a big limousine. He was in the butler's pantry. He's a Chink but he sure treated me white. I guess I'd better go back and get some gas from Mr. Cox's driver. He won't be in bed yet. Two or three gallons '11 get this boat in."
"All right," said McNeill. "Hurry!"
The man started down the road and he watched him turn into the gates of the villa. There were a few fights in the nearer houses and the sound of music came from one of them. It was all very quiet and peaceful.
Then, with a rush, they were on him. Two figures hurled themselves over the low wall to his right; he heard the swift patter of footsteps from behind as he stood at the rear of the car. Instinctively he backed up to it and felt for his pistol. The gun was gone. The Chinese butler had helped him on with his light coat and deftly lifted it.
The two assailants were coming for him, head on. Even in the uncertain light he felt sure they carried no weapons. Swiftly he reached out his long, sinewy arms, cupped a head in either palm and brought them together with a thud that dropped the two senseless in the dust of the road.
Then something flickered about his neck from behind. He knew what it was as it tightened. Some one had climbed into the tonneau and deftly slipped a bowstring about his neck. The cord tightened and sank into the flesh, beyond his power to loosen. A red glare came before him and he felt consciousness slipping away.
Then sudden relief, though he sagged to the ground even as he sucked the air into his tortured lungs. The glaring headlights of a machine dazzled him as the oncoming car jarred to a standstill a few feet away, and two men jumped out and came toward him.
"What's up, old chap?" asked one of the strangers, giving him a hand.
McNeill saw that the two whose heads he had cracked had disappeared. So had doubtless his other opponent. It was a close shave. Only for these two night birds, who had obviously been celebrating, it would have been all off with Neill McNeill.
"We ran out of gas," he said, with some difficulty, for the cord had bitten deeply. "My man went back to the house there for a supply and I had a touch of vertigo. I haven't been very well."
"Vertigo? That's a new name for it, old pal," said the second man. "I'll have to spring that on my wife. We thought we saw a couple of chaps duck out, right and left, as we came along and then we saw you fall. Maybe we had vertigo ourselves."
McNeill summoned a laugh. He was not inclined to give his confidence now that he was well out of it. His driver was coming back with the gasoline in a can.
"I'm all right now, anyway," he said. "Thanks, both of you. And here's my driver."
The two got into their car and drove off while the chauffeur replenished the tank.
"See anything of the butler?" asked McNeill, as they got ready to start.
"Met him in the garden just now. Taking a stroll with a bit of a dinky pipe. Strange lot, them Chinks."
"I thought I saw him myself," said McNeill. "If I didn't, I felt him," he reflected and picked up from the seat beside him a souvenir of the occasion. It was a slender cord of Chinese silk, flexible, singularly soft, but strong as catgut and bright yellow.