THE FOURTH CASH
In complete silence Kilgour straightened, produced a heavy Webley automatic from a back pocket, and followed Captain North, who had already made his way into the corridor from which the dog had appeared.
Long before he halted at the second door to the right North’s nostrils had recognized a musty, sweet odor which sent cold little impulses shooting down between his shoulder blades.
The Venetian blinds of the room were closed, but sunlight beating through them with a steady yellow glare wrought zebra-like stripes across the center of the little library floor.
“My God,” said Kilgour softly while the taller intruder’s eyes tested the shadows. Only when reassured that the room was otherwise deserted did North turn his gaze on the body.
Simeon K. Greenway lay in a wide pool of blood. He had been a large, flabbily fat man with a round head which was almost completely devoid of hair. In life his cheeks would probably have been floridly red, but now they had turned a ghastly yellow-green hue save where the stripes of sunlight gilded them.
Neither North nor Kilgour said anything for several moments, but stood in the doorway, their eyes riveted on a small bronze disk protruding from between the stained and gold-inlaid teeth of the dead man. Before North plucked it out he knew it was another T’ang cash.
Apparently the murdered shipping agent had received some inkling of his doom, for on one side a little teak-wood table lay overturned, scattering a smoking set which had spread a small snowstorm of tobacco flakes over the dull blue tiles.
What next caught North’s attention was the fact that a Chinese dagger, which probably had done duty as a paper-knife, lay beside Greenway’s hand, further attesting his futile efforts at self-defense. The right hand’s forefinger, however, had done a curious thing: it had wetted itself with blood and had scrawled in shaky letters two words that seemed to spell:
That some time had elapsed since the soul of Simeon K. Greenway had sped off into the unfathomable darkness, North could tell by glancing into those vacant yellowish eyes which stared so fixedly at the ceiling.
“Score three for the T’ang cash distributor,” Kilgour remarked, while North bent to examine a small revolver which lay almost between the dead man’s feet. How very tall those worn soles looked—the rest of the body lay so uncannily flat!
“Well, what do you make of it?” the Englishman demanded as puzzled lines puckered his ruddy face. “Think it’s a bit of Sam Steel’s work?”
“Can’t tell till we take a look at this revolver. There are a few fingerprints on it.”
“Fingerprints!” Kilgour revealed how badly frayed his nerves were becoming. “Fingerprints in Shanghai! That detective streak of yours again! You act as if we’d a complete Bertillon file and a criminological laboratory to use.”
“Don’t need much of a laboratory for this sort of a job, Bruce,” was North’s patient explanation.
A fresh problem had appeared. Why had Greenway been murdered? Certainly the killing argued that dissension must have arisen in the enemy ranks or that a third element must have entered the problem. Who would be back of that third element? There suddenly occurred to him his curious conversation with General Steel. Plainly enough the adventurer had hinted at wheels within wheels. Was Wu Feng-pei playing a deep game, perhaps deluding Wang Kung with fair words long enough to lead him to ruin and then to turn on Yuan, weakest of the three tuchuns?
He was recalled to the present when the puppy, having entered the room, commenced to whimper disconsolately.
“Well, Hugh, I fancy you’ll want to quiz that groom.”
“Yes, I think he—” The words died on North’s lips, for a light knock had sounded at the front door.
“Stay in here and stand ready,” the Intelligence Captain directed, and strode out into the front room to find standing on the top step of the worn stone staircase none other than the suave and elegant Mr. Chang Ya-chang! Just the faintest expression of surprise crossed the Manchu’s features when the American’s tall and supple figure loomed up in the doorway.
“Why, if it isn’t Captain North,” he remarked in his usual high-pitched tones. “What a coincidence! It appears that Shanghai is not such a large city, after all.”
Equally controlled was the Intelligence Captain—though his ideas were undergoing a period of violent readjustment.
“I had no idea Mr. Greenway was a mutual friend,” Chang began when North beckoned him inside. “I have an appointment with him.”
“Then you will be disappointed, Mr. Chang.”
Mr. Chang Ya-chang’s heavy blue-black eyebrows rose just a trifle. “Disappointed, Captain? I do not understand.”
“Mr. Greenway is dead.” North hurled his dart and watched for a reaction. “He has been murdered.”
“How very distressing. His many friends will be overwhelmed.”
North could have cursed when not the least change of expression altered the Celestial’s features, though he sensed unerringly that the other was fighting down some unrecognizable emotion. Yes, veins on his high parchment-yellow forehead were throbbing wildly, and a glitter shone at the back of Chang Ya-chang’s eyes when North went on:
“To discuss what was the appointment made, Mr. Chang?”
It was as though invisible eyelids had been pulled down, the Celestial’s eyes became so blank and lifeless.
“Do you inquire officially?”
“Yes. I want direct and truthful answers, please.” As though he would get them!
“I do not know,” Chang declared. “When I returned to my home I found a note from Mr. Greenway. He informed me he had something of importance to tell me.”
“So,” North’s mind registered several items, “Chang lands, Greenway sends for him right away. Important news of some kind. But someone kills Greenway before he can talk.”
More quicksands were appearing in every direction—he must use care and more care.
“Then you have absolutely no idea what Mr. Greenway wanted to see you about?”
“Absolutely none. I have not seen him in a week,” the Manchu declared.
“Did you have business dealings together?”
“No, Captain, I am a scholar of no importance—I have no business.”
“You have not been here before today?” North persisted.
Almost jeering was Chang’s reply. “Of course not. I fear you are needlessly suspicious, Captain North. But no doubt it is your business to be so.”
At that moment Kilgour appeared. He nodded curtly to the Manchu, who bowed in silent greeting before he said, “Is it permitted to view the remains of my friend?”
“It is not,” came North’s prompt reply.
Mr. Chang bowed again and said, “Then if there is nothing I can do to help the ends of justice I can only inadequately express heartfelt grief. Have I your permission to go?”
“Yes,” North said in an inflectionless voice, “unless Mr. Kilgour wants you.”
“Nothing now, Mr. Chang. You can go.”
“Good-day, gentlemen.” Clutching a smart gray felt hat over his stomach, the Chinese bowed a third time and unhurriedly descended the steps into the court.
What had Chang Ya-chang wanted with this shady shipping agent? Had he come to confer on the arms shipment or to warn Greenway of a danger that had already struck?
“I think we had better talk to the mafoo.” North indicated the old man below, who was still cleaning the saddles with such patience as is only possessed by those to whom time means nothing.
When the white men had descended to the court the groom got up after carefully depositing his work on a blanket. “Yes, Marster?”
“Suppose you do the talking, Kilgour,” the Intelligence Captain suggested. He wanted to be free to concentrate solely on the old fellow’s replies.
The Englishman briefly displayed a police badge and began kindly enough. “Me policeeman. You answer question plenty quick and plenty right. Savvy?”
Fear crept into the old man’s eyes, and he began to tremble gently. “My no savvy nothing,” he quavered. “My sit here woik—woik allee time.”
“How long you be here?”
“B’long seven o’clock, Marster; clean Marster Gleenway room, make bed, clean ever’thing.”
A string of firecrackers ignited in an alley behind the house rent the air with staccato reports while North quickly calculated that if the old mafoo was telling the truth he must have been up long before the docking of the Kiangsu. Great God! Could it be possible that less than four hours had elapsed since he had walked down the gangplank and onto the passenger pontoons fringing the Bund?
Kilgour had pulled off his sun helmet and began absently to mop its lining while he talked.
“You work for Mr. Greenway long time?”
“Two year, Marster.”
“That’s lucky,” was Kilgour’s aside. “The old lad ought to know the late lamented’s friends. Who come here today?”
“Letterman eight-thirty; Flenchman nine o’clock.”
At these words North’s fading hopes suddenly brightened.
“What Frenchman?”
“Ol’ man, glasses—walk likee this.” The groom got up and gave an imitation of an old man walking with a stick.
“What him name?”
“No savvy sure, my think Marster Jun-ho. Mebbe yes, mebbe no.”
Junot! Poor Trenchard had certainly sent his message to good purpose. Neither white man betrayed a fraction of their elation.
“Go on,” the Englishman said, and replaced his sun helmet.
“Marster Jun-ho no b’long long.”
“How long?”
“No savvy, mebbe five, mebbe ten minute. Then come Manchu fellah.”
Details of the sunlit courtyard faded before North’s eyes so intently was he drinking in the wrinkled old mafoo’s words.
“Him same Manchu man just gone?”
“Allee samee.”
Kilgour’s eyes lit with suppressed excitement and sought North’s; then he went on, “You hear pistol gun go bang?”
“No, Marster. Muchee fiahclackah. Chinee holiday—no heah.”
“Anybody else come?”
“Then come solja fellah. ’Leven o’clock—mebbe later.”
“What him look like?”
“Him big fellah, gleen clo’es. Him b’long longer.”
“What your name?”
“Sing Ah, Marster. My no savvy nothing more.”
“All right, stay here.” Whereat the bent figure in patched blue cottons placidly picked up his saddle soap and went back to work.
Kilgour went out to call the police, and North made his way back up the stairs. So, then, the phantom-like Monsieur Junot of Trenchard’s report did exist! He, Chang, Ya-chang, and Steel had all interviewed the shady shipping agent, and, very probably, one of them had shot and killed him.
“And now let’s see,” North muttered to himself, “if we possibly can learn which of these bright lads did the job.”
He drew out a pad and on it jotted down the hour of each suspect’s visit. Mr. Junot had been there at a quarter of nine; Mr. Chang at half-past ten; and the mercenary general must have made his call there around a quarter-past eleven. It was now half-past twelve, and by rough calculation Greenway had been dead at least an hour. He had thought as much on noting how the blood on those dull blue tiles had already begun to coagulate.
He suddenly found himself yearning for a decently equipped laboratory. Probably there were a dozen cogent clues scattered about this dingy little apartment. If only that sad-looking puppy could talk!