Le Page Du Pratz - "History of Louisisana"

Anna Harriette Leonowens - "The English Governess At The Siamese Court"

J. Montgomery Gambrill - "Selections From Poe"

Earle Ashley Walcott - "Blindfolded"

A  /  B  /  C  /  D  /  E  /   F  /  G  /  H  /  I  /  J  /   K  /  L  /  M  /  N  /  O   P  /  R  /  S  /  T  /  U  /  V  /  W  /  X  /  Y  /  Z

Treasure and Trouble Therewith by Geraldine Bonner

G >> Geraldine Bonner >> Treasure and Trouble Therewith







CHAPTER XXIII

THE CHINESE CHAIN


What Mark had heard was, as he had said, interesting. It had been
imparted in an interview as startling as it was unexpected, which had
taken place in his room the evening before.

He was sitting by the table reading, the radiance of a green droplight
falling over the litter of papers and across his shoulder to the page of
his book. The room, at the back of the house, had been chosen as much for
its quiet as its low rent. A few of his own possessions relieved the
ugliness of its mean furnishings, and it had acquired from his occupancy
a lived-in, comfortable look. Two windows at the back framing the night
sky were open, and the soft April air flowed in upon an atmosphere,
smoke-thickened and heated with the lamplight.

Interruptions were unusual--a call to the telephone in the lower hall, a
rare visitor, Crowder or a college friend. This was why, when a knock
fell on the door, he looked up, surprised. It was an unusual knock, soft
and low, not like the landlady's irritated summons, or Crowder's brusque
rat-tat. In answer to his "Come in," the door swung slowly back and in
the aperture appeared Fong.

He wore the Chinaman's outdoor costume, the dark, loose upper garment
fastening tight round the base of the throat, the short, wide trousers,
and on his head a black felt hat. Under the brim of this his face wore an
expression of hesitating inquiry as if he were not sure of his reception.

"Why, hello!" said Mark, dropping his book in surprise; "it's Fong!"

The old man, his hand on the doorknob, spoke with apologetic gentleness.

"I want see you, Mist Bullage--you no mind if I come in? I want see you
and talk storlies with you."

"First-rate, come ahead in and take a seat."

Closing the door noiselessly Fong moved soft-footed to a chair beside the
table. Here, taking off his hat and putting it in his lap, he fixed a
look on Burrage that might have been the deep gaze of a sage or the
vacant one of a child. The green-shaded lamp sent a bright, downward gush
of light over his legs, its mellowed upper glow shining on his forehead,
high and bare to his crown. He had the curious, sexless appearance of
elderly Chinamen; might have been, with his tapering hands, flowing coat,
and hairless face, an old, monkey-like woman.

"Well," said Mark, stretching a hand for his pipe, thinking his visitor
had come to pay a friendly call, "I'm glad to see you, Fong, and I'm
ready to talk all the storlies you want. So fire away."

Fong considered, studying his hat, then said slowly:

"You velly good man, Mist Bullage, and you lawyer. You know what to
do--I dunno no one same likey you. Miss Lolly and Miss Clist two young
ladies--not their business. And Missy Ellen"--he paused for a second and
gave a faint sigh--"Missy Ellen velly fine old lady, but no sense. My
old boss's fliends most all dead, new lawyers take care of his money.
They say to me, 'Get out, old Chinaman!' But you don't say that. So I
come to you."

Mark's hand, extended to the tobacco jar at his elbow, fell to the chair
arm; the easy good humor of his expression changed to attention.

"Oh, you've come for advice. I'll be glad to help you any way I can.
Let's hear the trouble."

Again the Chinaman considered, fingering delicately at his hatbrim.

"My old boss awful good to me. He die and no more men in the house. I
take care my boss's children--I care all ways I can. Old Chinaman can't
do much but I watch out. And one man come that I no likey. I know you
good boy, I know all the lest good boys, but Mist Mayer bad man."

"Mayer!" exclaimed Mark. "The man I met there the other night?"

"Ally samey him."

"What do you mean by 'bad'?"

"I come tell you tonight."

"You know something definite against him?"

"Yes. I find out. I try long time--one, two months--and bimeby I get
him. Then he not come for a while and I say maybe he not come any more
and I keep my mouth shut. But when you there last time he come again and
I go tell what I know."

"You've found out something that makes you think he isn't a fit person to
have in the house ?"

"Yes--I go velly careful, no one know but Chinamen. Two Chinamen help
me--one Chinaman get another Chinaman and we catch on. I no tell Miss
Lolly, she too young; I come tell you."

Mark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

"Say, Fong, I'm a little mixed up about this. Suppose you go to the
beginning and give me the whole thing. If you and this chain of China
boys have got something on Mayer I want to hear it. I'm not surprised
that you think him a 'bad man,' but I want to know why you do."

What Fong told cannot be given in his own words, recited in his pidgin
English, broken by cautions of secrecy and digressions as to the
impracticability of enlightening his young ladies. It was a story only to
be comprehended by one familiar with his peculiar phraseology, and
understanding the complex mental processes and intricate methods of his
race. Condensed and translated, it amounted to this:

From the first he had doubted and distrusted Mayer. In his dog-like
loyalty to his "old boss," his love for the children that he regarded as
his charge, he had personally studied and, through the subterranean lines
of information in Chinatown, inquired into the character and standing of
every man that entered the house. Sometimes when Mayer was there, he had
stood behind the dining-room door and listened to the conversation in the
parlor. The more he saw of the man the more his distrust grew. Asked why,
he could give no reason; he either had no power to put his intuition into
words, or--what is more probable--did not care to do so.

Two months before the present date a friend of his, member of the same
tong, was made cook in the Argonaut Hotel. This gave him the opportunity
to set in action one of those secret systems of espionage at which the
Oriental is proficient. The cook, confined to his kitchen, became a
communicating link between Fong and Jim, the room boy who attended to
Mayer's apartment. Jim, evidently paid for his services and described as
"an awful smart boy," was instructed to watch Mayer and note anything
which might throw light on his character and manner of life.

To an unsuspecting eye the result of Jim's investigations would have
seemed insignificant. That Mayer gambled and had lost heavily the three
men already knew from the gossip of Chinatown. The room boy's
information was confined to small points of personal habit and behavior.
Among Mayer's effects, concealed in the back of his closet, was a worn
and decrepit suitcase which he always carried when he went on his
business trips. These trips occurred at intervals of about six weeks, and
in his casual allusions to them to Ned Murphy and Jim himself he had
never mentioned their objective point.

It was his habit to breakfast in his room, the meal being brought up on a
tray by Jim and being paid for in cash each morning. For two and
sometimes three days before the trips, Mayer always signed a receipt for
the breakfast, but on his return he again paid in cash. Through a
bellboy, who had admitted Jim to a patronizing intimacy, the astute
Oriental had extended his field of observation. One of this boy's duties
was to carry the mail to the rooms of the guests. For some weeks after
his arrival Mayer had received almost no mail. After that letters had
come for him, but all had borne the local postmark. The boy never
remembered to have seen a letter for Mayer from New York, the city
entered on the register as his home. Through this boy Jim had also
gleaned the information that Mayer invariably paid his room rent in coin.
He had heard Ned Murphy comment on the fact.

From this scanty data Fong and his associates drew certain conclusions.
Mayer had no bank account, but he had plenty of money. Besides his way of
living, his losses at gambling proved it. His funds ran low before his
journeys out of town, suggesting that these journeys were visits to some
source of supply. Arrived thus far they decided to extend their spying.
The next time Mayer left the city Jim was paid to follow him. The room
boy waited for the familiar signs, and when one morning Mayer told him
to bring a check slip for his breakfast, went to the housekeeper and
asked for a leave of absence to visit a sick "cousin." The following day
Jim sat in the common coach, Mayer in the Pullman, of the Overland train.

Alighting at Sacramento the Chinaman followed his quarry into the
depot and saw him enter the washroom, presently to emerge dressed in
clothes he had never seen, though his study of Mayer's wardrobe had
been meticulously thorough. He noted every detail--unshined, brown,
low shoes, an overcoat faded across the shoulders, a Stetson hat with
a sweat-stained band, no collar and a flashy tie. He did not think
that anyone, unless on the watch as he was, would have recognized
Mayer thus garbed.

From there he had trailed the man to the Whatcheer House. Dodging about
outside the window he watched him register at the desk, then disappear in
the back of the office. A few minutes later Jim went in and asked the
clerk for a job. This functionary, sweeping him with a careless cast of
his eye, said they had no work for a Chinaman and went back to his
papers. During the moment of colloquy Jim had looked at the last entry in
the register open before him. Later he had written it down and Fong
handed the slip of paper to Mark. On it, in the clear round hand of the
Chinaman who goes to night school, was written "Harry Romaine,
Vancouver."

This brought Fong to the end of his discoveries. Having come upon a
matter so much more momentous than he had expected, he was baffled and
had brought his perplexities to a higher court. His Oriental subtlety had
done its part and he was now prepared to let the Occidental go on from
where he had left off. Mark inwardly thanked heaven that the old man had
come to him. It insured secrecy, meant a carrying of the investigation
to a climax and put him in a position where he could feel himself of use
to Lorry. If to the Chinaman George Alston's house was a place set apart
and sacred, it was to her undeclared lover a shrine to be kept free at
any cost from such an intruder as Mayer. It did not occur to him as
strange that Fong should have chosen him to carry on the good work. In
the astonished indignation that the story had aroused he saw nothing but
the fact that a soiled and sinister presence had entered the home of a
girl, young, ignorant and peculiarly unprotected. Neither he nor Fong
felt the almost comic unusualness of the situation--an infrequent guest
called upon by an old retainer to help run to earth another guest. As
they sat side by side at the table each saw only the fundamental
thing--from separate angles the interests of both converged to the same
central point.

At this stage Mark was unwilling to offer advice. They must know more
first, and to that end he told Fong to bring Jim to his room the
following night at eight. Meantime he would think it over and work out
some plan. The next day he sent the phone message to Crowder and that
night told him the story over dinner at Philip's Rotisserie.

It threw Crowder into tense excitement; he became the journalist on the
scent of a sensation. He was so carried away by its possibilities that he
forgot Pancha's part in the unfolding drama. It was not till they were
walking to Mark's lodging that he remembered and stopped short,
exclaiming:

"By Ginger, I'd forgotten! Another county heard from; it's coming in from
all sides."

So Pancha's experience was added to the case against Mayer, and
breasting the hills, the young men talked it over, Crowder leaping
to quick conclusions, impulsive, imagination running riot, Mark more
judicial, confining himself to what facts they had, warning against
hasty judgments. The talk finally veered to the Alston's and Mark
had a question to ask that he had not liked to put to Fong. He moved
to it warily--did Mayer go to the Alston house often, was he a
constant visitor?

"Well, I don't know how constant, but I do know he goes. I've met him
there a few times."

"He hasn't been after either of them--his name hasn't been connected
with theirs?"

"Oh, no--nothing like that. He's just one of the bunch that drops in. I
was jollying Chrystie about him the other night and she seemed to dismiss
him in an offhand sort of fashion."

"He oughtn't to go at all. He oughtn't to be allowed inside their doors."

"Right, old son. But there's no good scaring them till we know more. He
can't do them any harm."

"Harm, no. But a blackguard like that calling on those girls--it's
sickening."

"Right again, and if we get anything on him it's up to us to keep them
out of the limelight. It won't be hard. He only went to their house now
and again as he went to lots of others. If this Chinese story pans out as
promising as it looks, then we can put Lorry wise and tell her to hang
out the 'not at home' sign when Mr. Mayer comes around. But we don't want
to do that till we've good and ample reason. Lorry's the kind that always
wants a reason--especially when it comes to turning down someone she
knows. No good upsetting the girl till we've got something positive to
tell her."

Mark agreed grudgingly and then they left the Alston sisters, to work out
the best method of discovering what took Boye Mayer to Sacramento and
what he did there.

Jim proved to be a young, and as Fong had said, "awful smart boy."
Smuggled into the country in his childhood, he spoke excellent English,
interspersed with slang. He repeated his story with a Chinaman's
unimaginative exactness, not a detail changed, omitted or overemphasized.
The young men were impressed by him, intelligent, imperturbable and
self-reliant, a man admirably fitted to put in execution the move they
had decided on. This turned on his ability to insinuate himself into the
Whatcheer House and by direct observation find out the nature of the
business that required an alias and a disguise.

Jim said it could easily be done. By the payment of a small sum--five
dollars--he could induce the present room boy in the Whatcheer House to
feign illness, and be installed as a substitute. The custom among Chinese
servants when sick to fill the vacancy they leave with a friend or
"cousin" is familiar to all Californians. The housewife, finding a
strange boy in her kitchen and asking where he comes from, receives the
calm reply that the old boy is sick, and the present incumbent has been
called upon to take his place. Mayer's last visit to Sacramento had been
made three weeks previously. Arguing from past data this would place the
next one at two or three weeks from the present time. But, during the
last few days, Jim had noticed a change in the man. He had kept to his
room, been irritable and preoccupied, had asked for a railway guide and
been seen by Jim in close study of it. To wait till he made his next trip
meant running the risk of missing him. It would be wiser to go to
Sacramento and be on the spot, even if the time so spent ran to weeks.
The room boy could easily be fixed--another five dollars would do that.

So it was settled. The young men, pooling their resources, would pay
Jim's expenses, ten dollars for the room boy, and a bonus of fifty. If he
brought back important information this would be raised to a hundred.
When he came back he was to communicate with Fong, who in turn would
communicate with Mark, and a date for meeting be set. It was now Monday;
arrangements for his temporary absence from the Argonaut Hotel could be
made the next morning, and he would leave for Sacramento in the
afternoon.




CHAPTER XXIV

LOVERS AND LADIES


Mayer was putting his affairs in order, preparatory to flight. A final
interview with Chrystie would place him where he wanted to be, and that
would be followed by a visit to Sacramento and a withdrawal of what
remained of his money. He had a little over two thousand dollars left,
enough to get them to New York and keep them there for a month or so in a
good hotel. Before this would be expended he would have gained so
complete an ascendancy over her that the control of her fortune would be
in his hands. Payment of a gambling debt of three hundred and fifty
dollars--owed him now for some weeks--had been promised on the following
Monday. He would go to Sacramento on Saturday or Sunday, get this money
on his return and then all would be ready for his exit.

He went over it point by point, scanning it closely, viewing it in its
full extent, weighing, studying, determined that no detail should be
overlooked. Outwardly his serenity was unruffled; his veiled eye showed
its customary cool indifference, his manner its ironical suavity.
Inwardly he was taut as a racer, his toe to the line, waiting for the
starting signal. There were moments, pacing up and down his room, when he
felt chilled by freezing air currents, as if icebergs might have suddenly
floated down Montgomery Street and come to anchor opposite the hotel.

There were so many unexpected menaces--the man Burrage that he might run
against anywhere, Pancha, a jealous virago--nobody knew what a woman in
that state mightn't do--and Chrystie herself. In the high tension of his
nerves she was indescribably irritating, full of moods, preyed upon by
gnawings of conscience. He had already given her an outline of his plan,
tentatively suggested it--you had to suggest things tentatively to
Chrystie--drawn lightly a romantic picture of their flight on the
Overland to Reno.

They were to leave on Tuesday night, reaching Reno the next morning and
there alighting for the marriage. He had chosen the night train as the
least conspicuous. Chrystie could be shut up in a stateroom and he on
guard outside where he could keep his eye on the door--it was more like a
kidnaping than an elopement. At other times he might have laughed, but he
was far from laughing now. It wasn't someone else's distressing
predicament, it was his own.

When he had explained it he had met with one of those maddening
stupidities of hers that strained his forbearance to the breaking point.
How could she get away without Lorry knowing--Lorry always knew where she
went? She was miserable over it, sitting close against his shoulder on a
bench opposite the Greek Church.

"How about going for a few days to your friends, the Barlows, at San
Mateo?" he had said, his hand folded tight on hers.

"The Barlows!" she exclaimed. "The Barlows haven't asked me."

That was the sort of thing she was always saying and he had to answer
with patient softness.

"I know that, dear one, but why can't you tell Lorry that they have.
They're going to have a dance and a house party and they want you to
come on Tuesday and stay over till, say Thursday or Friday."

She cogitated, looking very troubled. He was becoming used to the
expression, it invariably followed his promptings to falsehood.

"I suppose I could," she murmured.

He pressed the hand tenderly.

"I don't want to urge you to do anything you don't like, but I don't see
what else there is for it. It's not really our fault that we have to run
away--it's Lorry's. You've said yourself that she'd make objections, not
to our way of doing things, but to me."

Chrystie nodded.

"She would. I'd have a fight to marry you anyway."

No one was in sight and he raised the gloved hand and pressed it to his
lips. Dropping it he purred:

"We don't want any fights. We don't want our joy marred by bickerings and
interference."

Chrystie agreed to that and then muttered in gloomy repudiation of
Lorry's prejudices:

"I don't see why she feels that way about you. Nobody else does."

"We won't bother about that. She doesn't have to love me. Perhaps later
I'll be able to prove to her that her brother-in-law isn't such a bad
chap after all." He shifted a little closer, flicking up with a
possessive finger a strand of golden hair that had fallen across her
cheek, and murmuring his instructions into the shell pink ear his hand
brushed. "You tell her you've had an invitation from the Barlows to come
down on Tuesday and stay till Friday. Say they're going to have a party.
That being the case you'll take a good-sized trunk. Give the order
yourself to the expressman and tell him to send it to the ferry and when
you get there check it to Reno. Then you leave the house in time to
catch the late afternoon train to San Mateo and as soon as you get out of
sight order your driver to take you to the ferry. You'd better cross at
once and do what waiting you'll have on the Oakland side."

"You'll be there?" she said, stirring uneasily.

"Yes, but I won't speak to you."

"Oh, dear"--it was almost a wail--"how I wish we could be married at home
like Christians!"

"My darling, my darling, don't make it any harder for me. You never
wanted anything in your life as much as I want to take your hand and call
you mine before the eyes of the whole world. But it's impossible--you
yourself were the first to say so. We don't want a family row, a scandal,
all in the papers. Love mustn't be dragged through that sort of
ignominy."

She thought so, too; she always agreed with him when he talked of love.
But he had to come down to earth and the Barlows, finding it necessary to
instruct her even in such small matters as how she was to get the letter
from them. She was simply to tell Lorry such a letter had come and she
had answered it, accepting the invitation. It was perfectly
simple--didn't she see?

She saw, her head drooped, telling Lorry about that letter which was
never to arrive and that answer which was never to be written, bringing
back the old, sick qualms. There had to be more inspiring talk of love
before she was brought up to the point where he dared to leave her, felt
his influence strong enough to last till the next meeting. He wondered
irascibly if all home-bred, nice young girls were such fools and realized
why he'd never liked them.

That same afternoon Lorry had a visitor. While Chrystie was walking home,
poised on the edge of the great exploit, at one moment seeing the tumult
left by her flight, at the next that flight, wing and wing, through the
golden future with her eagle mate, Lorry was sitting in the drawing-room
talking to Mark Burrage.

He had not told Crowder that he was going, had not decided to go till
the morning after he had seen Crowder and the two Chinamen. When they
had gone he had sat pondering, and that question which he had not liked
to ask Fong and which he had only tentatively put to his friend, rose,
insistent, demanding a more informed answer. Was this man--more than
objectionable, probably criminal--paying court to Lorry? It was a
horrible idea, that haunted him throughout the night. He recalled
Mayer's manner to her the evening of his visit, and hers to him. Not
that he thought she could have been attracted to the man; she was too
fine, her instincts too true. But on the other hand she was young, so
unlearned in the world's ways, so liable to be duped through her own
innocence. His thoughts swung like a pendulum from point of torment to
point of torment and in the morning he rose, determined on the visit. It
was to satisfy himself and if possible drop a hint of warning. He never
thought of Chrystie. She was a child and on that evening Mayer had
treated her as such, paying her only the scanty meed of attention that
politeness demanded.

When he started for the house he had entered on a new phase in his
relation to her. He was no longer the humble visitor, overawed by her
riches, but someone whose business it was to watch over and take care of
her. It bridged the gulf between them, swept away artificial
distinctions. He forgot himself, his awkwardness, how he impressed her.
These once important considerations ceased to exist and a man, concerned
about a woman, feeling his obligations to look after her, emerged from
the hobbledehoy that had once been Marquis de Lafayette Barrage.

She saw the change at the first glance. It was in his face, in his
manner, no longer diffident, assured, almost commanding. Their positions
were transformed, she less a fine lady, queening it amid the evidences of
her wealth, than a girl, lonely and uncared for, he the dominating,
masculine presence that her life had lacked. The woman in her, slowly
unfolding in secret potency, felt his ascendancy and bloomed into fuller
being. They were conscious of the constraint and shyness that had been
between them giving place to a gracious ease, of having suddenly
experienced a harmonious adjustment that had come about without effort or
intention.

Over the smooth, sweet sense of it they talked on indifferent matter,
items of local importance, small social doings, the Metropolitan Opera
Company which was to open its season on the following Monday night. It
was wonderful how interesting everything was, how they passed from
subject to subject. They had so much to say that the shadows were rising
in the distant end of the room before Mark came to the real matter of
moment. It was proof of the change in him that he did not grope and
blunder to it but brought it forward with one abrupt question.

Scottish book of the year goes to Kieron Smith, Boy by James Kelman

The barrister Constance Briscoe has won the libel case brought against her by her mother, Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, over her bestselling misery memoir Ugly, in which she accused Briscoe-Mitchell of childhood cruelty and neglect.

Briscoe-Mitchell claimed the allegations were "a piece of fiction", and sued Briscoe and her publishers Hodder & Stoughton for libel.

A 10-day hearing at the high court in London concluded earlier today with a unanimous verdict from the jury after more than a day's deliberation. Speaking outside the court, Briscoe, a part-time judge, said she was "very happy" with the verdict.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me. Now I just want to get on with my career," she said. "I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial, but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors, it should never be swept under the carpet."

The hearing saw Briscoe tell Mr Justice Tugendhat and a jury how her mother beat her with a stick for wetting the bed, called her a "dirty little whore" and drove her to attempt suicide by drinking bleach.

Briscoe's account of her upbringing was published in 2006 and has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2008 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

Would you have your ashes scattered in Jane Austen's garden?
American film producer to publish version of the Bible in which God says it is better to be gay than straight

The royal family doesn't need a poet

The power of Jane Austen never ceases to amaze: the myriad film and TV adaptations, the biopics, the spin-off self-help books, the novels about Austen book clubs and Austen obsessives and even, next spring, the publication of a book about "how Jane Austen conquered the world" (Jane's Fame, by Clare Harman). And now comes the just-too-weird story that deceased fans of Jane Austen have been banned from having their ashes scattered in her garden. In a letter to the Jane Austen Society, Louise West, the collections manager of Jane Austen's House Museum, wrote: "While we understand many admirers of Jane Austen would love to have ashes laid here, it is something we do not allow. It is distressing for visitors to see mounds of human ash, particularly so for our gardener. Also, it is of no benefit to the garden!" (Or is it? Surely a small quantity of fresh ashes judiciously placed beneath a hydrangea bush is just the ticket?)

Anyway, leaving aside the Gardeners' Question Time minutiae, what on earth is going on here? I like an Austen novel as much as the next person – I probably reread my way through the complete works every couple of years – but I am baffled as to why one would want to be laid to rest among the flowerbeds of Chawton. The only explanation is the currently unstoppable power of the Austen cult, fuelled by Colin Firth in a wet blouse, by Andrew Davies's adaptations, and by Hollywood. I'm all for enjoying books, but the cult of Austen has reached ridiculous proportions. In a post-feminist world that should know better, she seems to be adored as the comforting provider of romantic, happy-endings nonsense instead of the sharp and acerbic social satirist she deserves to be seen as.

(Does anyone actually believe her, by the way, when she foretells a happy marriage for Darcey and Elizabeth? I fear a woman as interesting as Elizabeth would be sorely disappointed with this standard-issue British Repressed Public-school Man - hopeless emotionally, and probably hopeless in bed.)

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2008 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds