Читать книгу The Scarlet Squadron - George E. Rochester - Страница 4

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My mission in China was to ascertain the fate of Davies. The continuation of the investigations upon which he had been engaged was not required of me. I consequently made as good progress as possible to Suchow, completing the latter part of the journey on the back of an ancient and cantankerous mule.

Dusk was deepening into night, and there was a bitter cold in the air when I rode into Suchow. Halting at a long, low-roofed inn I saw to the wants of my quadruped, then passed in through the main doorway. I found myself in a large room, low-ceilinged and reeking with the mingled fumes of tobacco and cooking. At small tables, so numerous as to fill almost every foot of floor space, sat a miscellaneous collection of humanity. There were massive, gaudily-dressed hillmen, sombre-clad peasants and blue-bloused villagers. All were either smoking and drinking, or eating and drinking. Seating myself at one of the few vacant tables, I ordered food and coffee. Whilst it was being brought I casually studied my fellow customers. Here and there, I noted with surprise, were Chinamen and swarthy Mongolians wearing dingy and frayed uniforms of an unmistakable European cut. One fellow in particular took my eye. His nationality was difficult to distinguish, but I would have hazarded more than a guess that he was born somewhere in Central Europe.

He was a huge fellow, black-bearded, and with little pig-like eyes surmounted by black, bushy eyebrows. His face was tanned the colour of leather. A hideous disfiguring scar ran the length of his right cheek, from temple to mouth. He was clad in a high-necked tunic of dirty grey cloth, trousers of the same material and black, uncleaned knee-boots. His tunic gaped open almost to his waist and one great calloused hand played idly with a glass on the table in front of him.

He was seated within a few feet of me, and on one occasion, finding my gaze upon him, he scowled at me and his thick lips muttered something unintelligible.

A steaming bowl of stewed meat and vegetables was placed in front of me by a slatternly Chinese boy and I fell to with gusto, for my appetite had acquired an extremely sharp edge through my having spent a day in the saddle, and as I ate I pondered anew upon my course of action. I would see what clue I could pick up in Suchow, and, failing anything tangible, I would push on into the hills.... “The big red birds which nest in the hills beyond Suchow.” Davies—from what he had seen—had been under the impression that the big red birds were aeroplanes. Was there then an aerodrome somewhere in the fastnesses of the hills west of Suchow? It seemed absurd, nay, almost impossible.

More than once during the course of my meal I looked up to find the little eyes of the bearded one fixed intently upon me. But, confident in my disguise, I returned his stare blankly enough, then moved my gaze as though unaware of his scrutiny. As I pushed my empty bowl away and turned to my thick, greasy black coffee, he hoisted himself to his feet and, crossing to my table, sank into a chair opposite me.

I sipped my coffee, waiting for him to speak. But, spreading his great arms akimbo on the table, he thrust forward his great head and peered at me in silence. Then, leaning back in his chair, he lit a cheroot and deliberately blew a cloud of rank smoke into my face. I coughed, but displayed neither anger nor protest. He laughed harshly, and his voice rumbled up out of his throat:

“So you swallow that, my yellow friend?”

His Chinese was fluent enough, but guttural.

“And feel honoured that there is one here who should deign to notice me!” I replied, with a slight bow.

He stared at me suspiciously for a moment, then reached forward and grabbed my wrist. With a twist he turned my hand, palm upwards, and examined it closely. As though satisfied he grunted and released his grip.

“Where are you from?”

He shot the question at me abruptly.

“Canton!” I lied.

“What do you seek here?”

“I am but a poor painter of pictures, and my pictures I cannot sell! I journey in search of new scenes, of new peoples, and——”

“Spare me that,” he cut in, gruffly, “and do not whine. You are from Canton, you say; yet yours is not the frame, the body of a Cantonese. And the whites of your eyes are white, my yellow friend. You are well-built, and your hands are not those of a workman. You say you are a painter of pictures. Well, that will explain your hands, but where are your pictures, where are your brushes and your colours?”

“In the pouches of my saddle!”

“Then bring them here!”

I would have protested at this, but, seeing my hesitation, he crashed a huge fist on the table and bellowed:

“Bring them here, you lying, yellow scum!”

I departed, and returned within a few minutes with my portfolio and colour box. He snatched them from me and opened the portfolio on the table. I had not been idle on my journey, and had purchased one or two passably good canvases which—may their originators forgive me—I intended to pass off as my own. In silence the bearded one examined what I had brought him, then, shoving them aside, he leant back in his chair again and said:

“No stranger rides in here without my knowing. I am waiting—waiting—waiting. Some day will come the one for whom I wait.” He leant forward and said harshly, “You might be he. That frame of yours, those eyes of yours, are not those of the true-blooded Celestial. If you are other than you seem,” his voice quivered with passion, “then you will never ride back the way you have come!”

His words caused me to tingle with excitement. No stranger rode in without his knowledge. He was waiting for a certain someone riding in. Could there be any connection between this man and his statements, and the Flying Beetle. I had no evidence to that effect, but I was inclined to think so. I decided to draw a bow at venture.

“I am Wu Chang, painter of pictures,” I murmured; “I have said that I journey in search of new scenes and of new sights. I have heard whispers of the great red birds which nest in the hills beyond Suchow, and it is towards them that I wend my way. Who think you that I am, if I be not Wu Chang?”

My eyes had never left his face whilst I was speaking, and I saw him look at me sharply as I mentioned the great red birds. His huge hulk of a body then shook with silent laughter as I concluded, and he said:

“You seek the great red birds, Wu Chang! Then assuredly shall you find them, for you ride into the hills with me at dawn! But yes, you dog,” as I shook my head protestingly, “for I am not satisfied with you yet. Those eyes ... But there is one who will smell you out, and, by the beard of Confucius, you will die by inches if he finds you to be other than you are. I——”

He broke off sharply as the main door was thrown open. A draught of bitter cold night air swirled into the room.

“Shut that cursed door!” he shouted, wheeling in his chair, “or, by——”

The words died on his lips. His jaw dropped and a look almost of fear crept into his eyes. Following the direction of his gaze, I saw, standing on the threshold, the figure of a man dressed in a scarlet uniform and with a scarlet cape about his shoulders. His high-necked tunic with gold facings fitted his lithe figure as though made by a tailor in Saville Row. A scarlet cap, black peaked, was cocked at a jaunty angle on his head. His face was lean and tanned. A short, dark, military moustache surmounted his upper lip, whilst a tuft of dark hair just below the lower lip gave a somewhat sardonic expression to his face, an expression which was not belied by the curl of his thin lips into a mirthless smile. Screwing a monocle into his right eye he stood framed in the open doorway, ignoring the discomfort caused to the inmates of the room by the swirling, bitter draught.

“Nom d’un nom,” muttered my companion, in excellent French, “C’est le diable!”

Slamming the door shut behind him the scarlet-clad stranger advanced, almost mincingly, towards where my companion and I were seated. Reaching us he cast a cursory glance at myself, then, still smiling his mirthless smile, turned to the bearded one and murmured:

“My good Bolponi, pray continue with your remarks! You were saying—about the door——?”

“Don’t jest with me, Pulhausen,” replied my companion hoarsely, “I did not know it was you!”

“That long tongue of yours will be the death of you some day, my good Bolponi,” purred the other. “But pray acquaint me with your Celestial friend!”

Bolponi flushed.

“No friend of mine, Pulhausen!” he spat out angrily, “but one whose bona fides I seriously doubt!”

“Indeed!”

There was a world of mockery in the voice and in the elevation of the eyebrows. Turning, this scarlet-clad Pulhausen surveyed me interestedly through his monocle.

“So you doubt its bona fides, my good Bolponi,” he said, speaking of me as though I were some dog of doubtful pedigree. “Why? Does it not speak its native tongue with that ease and fluency which you so rightly describe as being the very hallmark of genuineness?”

This conversation, to my astonishment, was being carried on in English.

“He rode in here to-night,” snarled Bolponi. “I knew of his coming, as I know of the coming of all who approach Suchow. Look at his eyes—the eyes of a cursed Englishman, almost. Yet he says he is a painter of pictures! I am not satisfied——”

“Then you shall have him, my good Bolponi,” purred Pulhausen, “and if he will not speak the truth you will try the red-hot irons on the soles of his feet, hey? Ah, pretty sport, Bolponi! But the wind blows cold to-night, and I must needs warm the inner man!”

He called for a dish of hot wine and, whilst it was being brought, he drew from the breast-pocket of his tunic a small, gold cigarette case. Lighting a cigarette, he proceeded to saunter backwards and forwards, passing and repassing me as I sat looking straight ahead as though entirely unconcerned with either him or Bolponi.

Finally he came to a halt just behind my chair.

“Tell me, Bolponi,” he said, “are the men ready to ride out at dawn?”

“Yes, all is ready!”

“Excellent! What new recruits are there?”

“Four. Three yellow, one white. Good men all of them, and passed our doctor at Kanchowfu.”

I was listening to this conversation and jotting it down mentally in order to examine it at leisure, when I suddenly became aware that Bolponi was looking at me strangely. At the same moment Pulhausen sauntered into view from behind me.

“A remarkable fellow this, Bolponi,” he drawled. “A very remarkable fellow indeed!”

Bolponi growled delightedly.

“You have——” he began.

“Burnt a hole in his scalp with the end of my cigarette,” nodded Pulhausen, “and throughout the operation he has sat calmer than he would were he contemplating one of his own pictures! Truly, a remarkable fellow!”

With a triumphant roar Bolponi launched himself to his feet.