Chapter 4
Our rickshas padded through the gate of the wall of the Legation Quarter and turned right and then left, on Hatamen Street. It was broad like all the streets of North Chinese cities. Police with revolvers in olive drab uniforms were directing the traffic. The open fronts of shops were squares of light. The Chinese characters above their doorways were dim above them, and Hatamen Street was a river of sound. The falsetto chant of Chinese voices and Chinese laughter erased the disturbing thoughts that were in my mind. Eleanor Joyce had said that I was finished, but her voice no longer bothered me, for it was lost in that sea of other voices, in that surge of humanity about us. The smell of Chinese cooking came pleasantly to my nostrils. There was a broad tolerance emanating from that conglomeration of sounds and smells that gave me a love for the city of Peking. It was a noble city with its walls and avenues, its hidden temples and its palaces. It was a city of the imagination, a city of the spirit falling into a dreamlike ruin; falling into memories as fantastic as the figures on a Chinese scroll; always changing but never changed.
There was that realization, comforting and complete, that the high grey walls of the Tartar City were guarding us; that the pavilioned towers above the gates were staring out into the night, warding off the evil spirits from an uncertain world outside. The walls were shutting out the clamor of South China, the floods and the starvation of the Yellow River and the sinister vacancy of the mountain passes that stretched northward like huge steps, beyond the ancient Great Wall to the Mongolian Plateau. Peking was designed by its builders to resist evil fortune. Even its straightest streets had occasional eccentric curves designed to break the dangers of symmetry. The courtyards of its houses were designed so that only harmonious spirits should enter and, on the whole, everything had been done well.
For many years Jameson Best had used Peking as a starting point for his travels and had kept a small house there on one of those innumerable narrow alleys, so characteristic of this city, which are bounded by high courtyard walls, each alley so like the next as to be as indistinguishable to the stranger as the features of the Chinese race. Jameson Best’s house had once been a single courtyard in one of those labyrinthian palaces of the old regime, that had once covered several acres of ground in a series of courts and buildings and gardens. The gates and the walls leading to further courts of that old palace had been bricked up long ago, so that Jameson Best’s dwelling was securely shut off into a single unit of an entrance court with servants’ quarters, ending in a low building which was a dining room and reception room. This opened in turn into a small garden surrounded by tiled roofed buildings, containing the Major’s bedroom, his store room and his library. Our ricksha coolies shouted at some pedestrians who made way for us in the narrow alley. We jolted over ruts, the legacy of last week’s rain.
“We’ll have our drinks in the study,” Major Best said. The study was a long room with carved, painted beams supported by red wooden pillars. There were bookcases along the wall, containing a good collection of Orientalia. Some animals’ heads and several of the Major’s rifles were above the books, and also a Chinese painting on silk of a tiger—snarling and ready to spring. On the floor were several tiger skins. The Major waved me to a wicker armchair and his servant brought in a tray with whiskey and glasses. Major Best stood and lifted his highball glass. He was smiling, but those pale grey eyes of his seemed to be staring at nothing.
“Cheerio!” he said, then turned and looked about the room as though he expected to find something wrong. Apparently he did not.
“I’ve always liked this room,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered. “Snug, isn’t it?” And he glanced carefully at the paper covered windows.
I watched him, wondering why it was I did not wholly like him and why I was never comfortable with him. I attributed this uneasiness to his eyes and to the perpetual coldness of his glance. It was his eyes that made him ugly. As he stood with his back to the snarling tiger on the wall I could understand the urge that made him hunt and travel. He had the proper quietness, just the requisite coldness and just the precise physique. I reminded myself again that he would not have asked me without a definite reason. Then in the midst of sipping my whiskey I discovered that he had entirely forgotten me. He was still standing looking at the window so intently that he started when I spoke.
“I saw Miss Joyce this afternoon,” I said.
“Ah?” The Major raised his eyebrows. “Yes? But let’s not mind her now.”
I looked at the Major steadily. “I’m broad-minded, Best,” I said.
“Ah!” said the Major. “Quite! You and I have been around a bit, eh what?”
I had been around a bit, perhaps not exactly as Best’s tone suggested, but I did not tell him so. Instead I made a tactful effort to find why I was there.
“Best,” I said. “You act as though you had something on your mind. Not a guilty conscience?”
His eyes met mine frankly and accurately as though he were looking at me over the barrel of one of his rifles.
“I haven’t much conscience,” he said. “Lost it somewhere I fancy. Don’t remember when.”
I laughed and set down my glass. “Major,” I said, “you’ll be a bad hat some day.”
Major Best stepped toward me so quickly that I thought he was angry, but his intention was only to refill my glass. His voice was coldly jovial, over the swish of the soda water.
“Was a bad hat when I left the army, young fella,” he said. “Some while ago, too—that.”
It occurred to me that there is nothing in the world as bad as a well-bred Englishman but I did not explain my thought. I only wanted to find out what he wanted. Nothing more. “Well,” I said, “it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Then I knew that the amenities were over. Best sat down close beside me. He looked toward the door and back at me.
“Nelson,” he said. “There is something I want to talk about—an unpleasing sort of subject. I’ve marked you out. You don’t mind my doing that.”
“You flatter me,” I said. “I wonder why you’ve picked on me?”
The Major rested his fingers on my arm again, strong, steely fingers. Who was he, I wondered? What had his past been? Why should we two be sitting here? I remember exactly what he said because his answer was characteristic of the place and of the life we led.
“I’ll tell you why,” he said. “Because of a phrase you use. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ And it don’t matter, not a thinker’s damn. You’ve never asked me what I’m doing here. Though you’re the quiet sort, I rather believe you know your way about. You’re respected in certain quarters, more than most men. You’ve got a way with the Chinese Johnnys. You understand them better than most white men. They like you because you mind your own business. You’ve never tried to get anything from them, either their souls or their money, and that is rare, damned rare.”
“You may be right,” I said. “Miss Joyce told me I’d gone native just this afternoon.”
“Young fella,” said Major Best, “we’re talking about Chinese now. Did you ever hear,” he lowered his voice to such a soft pitch that it startled me, “of a Johnny called Wu Lo Feng?”
I searched back in my memory through a gallery of names and faces, through bits of talk I had heard of the chaotic whirl of China, where war lords and politicians had appeared and disappeared.
“I only recall him vaguely,” I said. “He’s a bandit, isn’t he? He was mentioned as being connected with the communist uprisings. He headed an outfit three years ago called the Ragged Army.”
Major Best nodded. “Quite,” he said. “This Wu is interestin’. A nice interesting history. He got swept out of a village at the tail end of Honan when he was twelve years old, into the army, and he’s been fighting ever since. The Chinese army is a toughening experience—if you live to be successful. You know his kind. One of his tricks is to blow his prisoners up.”
I lighted a cigarette. “He wouldn’t waste powder for that,” I said obtusely. The Major set me right at once.
“Not powder,” said Best softly. “Not powder. He simply sets a straw beneath his subject’s epidermis. Then everybody interested takes a blow on the straw and the prisoner blows up—quite like a balloon. You’ve heard tell of it? I didn’t believe it possible but it is. It’s very painful—and not uninteresting. I saw Wu do it myself in the mountains outside of Kalgan. The subject, Nelson, blows up like a balloon and then he bursts—my word for it. Wu blew up one of my donkey boys. Very interesting.”
“Yes?” I said. “Since you’re here I take it they didn’t operate on you, Major.”
“No,” he said. “It was only an exhibition put on for my benefit for purposes of ransom. One gets used to that sort of thing, given time to live. But this Wu is able. Away above the average, without much of the racial indirectness. Chatty—nice and chatty—but devilishly logical. I’d put him above the old Marshal of Manchuria for brains, which is in the nature of a compliment. Have another spot?”
“Thanks,” I said. “Tell me some more about Wu.” I knew that he was leading up to something. Major Best smiled and his voice made me understand that he respected Wu.
“He’s a Johnny who knows what he wants,” the Major said, “and where his bread is buttered. I know—because Wu and I did a little business once.”
“What sort of business?” I asked.
“Curio business,” said Major Best, “in a tomb. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Wu, he’s game for anything—provided it means money. And now, right now, this Wu is in Peking.” There was a forced levity in the Major’s voice, but his casual words concealed something which was unmistakably ugly.
“So he’s the one you saw?” I asked.
Major Best moved and the wicker in his chair creaked. “Righto,” he said. “I won’t forget Wu’s free. Oh no! I saw him in Brass Street this afternoon, in blue coolie clothes. He looked up as I went by. Thin, high North China face, flat nose and a little amusin’ mouth. The sort you might call a rosebud mouth, if he was white. A kissable mouth on a face like paste, not prepossessin’. Wouldn’t like it if he thought I knew him. We know too much about each other to be exactly friends.”
“What’s he doing here?” I asked. The other’s earnestness had made me interested.
“Young fella,” said Major Best, “I don’t know, but I don’t like his being here, and if you knew me better you’d know that I’m broad-minded, as a rule. I’ll know what he’s doing to-morrow. I’ve got ways of knowing.”
“Have you?” I asked.
“Laddy,” said Major Best. “Don’t ask questions. If he’s doing what I think he is, there’s where you come in.”
“Suppose I don’t want to come in,” I suggested.
Major Best smiled. “You won’t come in far,” he answered. “All I ask of you is this. Come here to see me at nine o’clock to-morrow morning. If he’s doing what I think he is, I want you to take me to Prince Tung. It might be that your friend the Prince and I could do a little business.”
Major Best was watching me with those unflickering eyes, so accurately, so intently, that I knew he was deadly serious, even if I were not able to understand the cause. Nevertheless, he had laid a number of cards frankly on the table, rather skillfully too, and I gave him credit for that. I looked at the Major; his eyes were still on me; his face was still set in those rugged conventional lines. He had confessed that he was no better than he should be, not a damaging or astonishing confession perhaps. He had tacitly confessed that he was a grave robber and he had been on the verge of confessing something else. He had spoken of means of gaining information and then he had checked himself. I looked about his room again; it was comfortable, almost luxuriously comfortable for the room of a cashiered British army officer, and I knew that Best had been cashiered because he had as good as told me so. It had seemed none of my business until then, but now I wondered how the Major made his money. He and Mr. Wu made a pretty pair; they were perfect examples of my theory that men appeared from circumstance. They were perfect patterns of characters that might be expected to rise out of the turmoil of the East, both clever, as the Major had said. Each knowing exactly what he wanted.
“Best,” I said, “I came out here to be quiet. I came out here because I didn’t do so well at home, but not because I had to. I quarrelled with a number of people, but I could go back to-morrow and be received. I tell you this in case you think I couldn’t. I have never dabbled in any transactions out here. If a Chinese bandit wants to come to Peking it’s none of my business. Let him come. If you have anything against him why don’t you go to the Chief of Police? Are you afraid of this man Wu?” Major Best shook his head slowly.
“No,” he answered. “I can look out for myself in a tight corner, thanks. You know Chinese officials. They’re as slippery as eels. I don’t want to see officials, I should want to see Prince Tung.”
“Prince Tung is a friend of mine,” I said. “I shouldn’t think of taking you there unless I know exactly what you want and you won’t tell me and that’s that, Best.”
“Quite,” the Major said. “That’s fair and square. I’ll tell you everything or nothing at nine o’clock to-morrow morning and you can make up your own mind then. I’m asking you something and giving nothing back, but I’m a sort who doesn’t forget. Will you come at nine to-morrow?”
“Yes,” I said.
The Major smiled and the watchfulness left his eyes. “Shake hands,” he said. “You’re a decent sort. Now dinner’s ready. I mustn’t keep you here too late.”