Читать книгу The Desert Driver - Harold Lamb - Страница 6

Cheng Makes an Offer

THE curio store of Fu Cheng resembled from the street a junk shop. In fact, there was nothing but odds and ends of junk in the shop entrance; in the second room were common articles presided over by a tattered and wrinkled guardian who ushered the two white men into the third room, filled with a fine stock of curios. Here the English speaking clerk took charge of them and conducted them up a flight of steps to a chamber where the daylight did not penetrate and Fu Cheng sat under a large yellow lantern amid the sheen of silks, the glimmer of strange jewels and the glint of splendid, ancient china.

Fu Cheng rose and bowed courteously. He was a man, unusually handsome, clad in a mandarin robe. Warner noticed that his mouth was firm, and his muscular hands well kept—a successful merchant, who had sold out his business in San Francisco at a profit.

For a half-hour, as custom prescribed, they talked, in English, about everything but Cheng’s summons. Then the mandarin glanced gravely about the room, listened for a moment for sounds from the shop below, and observed, “I venture to ask, Mr. Warner, if you will be able to undertake a commission for me, involving some time and great care?”

As the American did not reply, he went on..

“You may be able to make some sales for yourself at the same time. Unfortunately, as I said yesterday, I have all the typewriters that I need. What I desire is that you should deliver for me a certain piece of goods to a business friend who is not in Pekin. At present I can not spare any of my men. I have taken the liberty of looking up you. It is your intention, you said, to leave Pekin for the interior?”

Warner nodded assent.

“By extending your journey somewhat you could deliver my package, and you would find yourself in a locality where”— he smiled politely—“typewriters are not in such supply as in Pekin.”

“Where, Mr. Cheng, is this place?”

“Chagan, outside the great wall.”

“In the Gobi desert?” Warner’s brows went up.

“The Gobi desert, Mr. Warner, covers a great deal of ground. It is made up of mountains and plains as well as sand stretches. Between the great wall and Chagan—a distance of about four hundred miles west by northwest—it is a high Prairie, treeless and flat as a table top. It is like your Wyoming, or Kansas, but perfectly level, and the climate is—”

“The best in the world!”

“Like California,” nodded Fu Cheng, who had a sense of humor, “according to Californians. A highway runs from the wall through the Great Kinghan Mountains, and beyond there you can strike across the plain along the route I will give you, outlined on a map. You should be In Chagan in five days after leaving the wall.”

The two white men looked up in surprise. Four hundred miles in five days, even by a fast camel, was impossible—if there were mountains to cross.

“I would advise,” explained the merchant, “hiring a light car in Peking. The rent of the car will be paid by me; you can leave the money I give you as preliminary payment on deposit with the automobile company as security for the return of the car. I will give you a hundred dollars in American currency now, and as much again when you bring me the signed receipt of the friend to whom I am sending the box, in Chagan.”

“Better say a hundred now and three hundred later,” suggested Warner. “I will have to take Mr. McMahon with me to drive the car and make repairs.”

To this Fu Cheng assented after a moment’s thought, and Mac had much ado to restrain a whistle of delight. He wanted to whisper to Warner not to say anything more, lest Cheng change his mind. But his friend looked thoughtful.

“I take it there will be some danger in it, for us?” he observed.

Fu Cheng nodded promptly, and asked if either of the white men were married—whether they had close friends or dependants in China, or were known to the American consuls. To all of these questions Warner responded in the negative. Then the Chinese admitted frankly that the mission was dangerous, because the article they would take was valuable, and his enemies in Pekin would know that he had sent it. Attempts would be made to harrass the messengers, and to steal the box.

“Then why do you trust us with it?” demanded Warner quickly.

Fu Cheng spread out his hands and smiled. Two Americans, bound presumably on their own business, would be allowed to go, especially in a car, where Chinese might be—killed by Fu Cheng’s enemies. “You have weapons, I assume,” he concluded, “and once out on the plain in your motor you will be able to go faster than any pursuer.”

For the first time Mac spoke up. He liked Fu Cheng’s manner and way of doing business. Warners hesitation annoyed him. “Look here, Mr. Cheng, this is all right with me. Get that? If Warner backs down I’ll do the job and glad of it.”

A sharp glance from his friend silenced him, and Warner considered a moment. “To whom is the—box, consigned?”

“To my old acquaintance, Mr. Li Yuan Kow. No street address is necessary. There is,” Cheng’s fine eyes twinkled, “only one street in Chagan and one Li Yuan Kow. Do you accept the mission, Mr. Warner?” He did not look at Mac.

“Yes, if I may ask one question.” As Cheng assented readily, the American asked quickly. “Has Kow a car?”

“Pu chih tao,” said the merchant, explaining, as he perceived he had spoken in colloquial Chinese, “I do not know.” Mac thought he seemed a little puzzled by his companion’s irrelevant question.

“Then we will deliver the package,” Warner agreed.

Whereupon Cheng struck a small gong hanging by his head and in a moment the clerk appeared, bearing with him an oblong box about a foot long, half as wide, and some four inches high. It was done up in heavy rice paper bound with supple-reeds knotted in an intricate fashion. These were sealed in one place by red wax, stamped with a signet, the pattern of which resembled, Mac thought, a bird like a crow.

Warner glanced at this seal twice and took the package. It weighed several pounds and Cheng suggested that Warner carry it to the hotel in the typewriter case he had brought to the merchant’s house, leaving the typewriter to be sent around later.

“I do not want you to be seen carrying the box from my house,” he pointed out, and Warner, agreeing to this,, signed the merchant’s receipt for a package, contents unknown.

Warner took out the small typewriter, and placed within the empty case—which was of the portable variety with a handle—the package Cheng handed him. Then the clerk gave him a hundred dollars in American bills. As they were leaving the shop he asked to see the automobile that had been damaged in the collision recently, explaining that his friend, McMahon, was an expert mechanic and might be able to repair it for the merchant.

Shaking his head doubtfully, Fu Cheng took them to the garage opening into a court at the rear of the shop, where two cars were standing. One, a big touring car, was in good condition; the other, a roadster, was hopelessly smashed, as Mac saw at a glance.

“It’s a job for a half-dozen new parts, Mr. Cheng, and a month’s time. Was it a head-on smash?”

While the merchant was making clear that the roadster had been struck a glancing blow by the other car and had swerved against a stone wall, McMahon noticed in a dark corner of the court by some packing boxes, a figure that he thought he recognized. When they were back in the hotel room he mentioned this to Warner.

“That flash guy, the one I handed a sock to, was hanging around Cheng’s garage.”

“And followed us here,” was the reply.

* * * *

FU CHENG had pointed out that their best course was to leave Pekin for the wall and the west as soon as possible. So McMahon spent a contented afternoon selecting a car for the trip, putting up the money by way of surety, and buying equipment from the automobile company and a general store where Cheng had asked him to order what he needed and charge the things to him.

It was a pleasant task indeed for the mechanic who had wandered, broke, into the city that morning. He had the car and took his purchases home with him—canvas, ropes, tools, three spare tires and tubes with a pump. Also large tins for gasoline and oil. Also a demijohn for water.

For himself and Warner he took a pair of heavy corduroy jackets, gloves, and blankets. For food he had a good stock of American canned goods, coffee, evaporated milk, sugar, and a good-sized box of pao ping—thin bread cakes. Meat, rice and fruit he knew could be purchased on the way. He added a kettle, fry pan arid two tin plates. Finally he indulged in a shave and a box of fifty first-rate Manila cigars which he succeeded in charging to Cheng.

Satisfied with what he had done and feeling hungry, he made his way back to the hotel where he found Warner sitting in his shirt sleeves by the open window, the paper bound package on his knees: On the cot, amid a clutter of newspaper clippings, a compass, and field glasses, was a Colt forty-five, loaded and well oiled. Mac surveyed it with appreciation. “Where’s mine?” he asked.

Warner glanced at his companion quizzically. “You’ve got us in for this thing, Mac. I was half-minded to decline Cheng’s offer, when you said you’d go through with it anyway. If you had, you’d have been uncommonly good buzzard meat out in the Gobi in five days.”

Mac shook his head. “First you say Cheng is square, then you make out he’s crooked.”

“He’s merely Chinese—like his store, that has the worst things on view in the windows and the best things hidden away where nobody sees ’em.”

But the mechanic was convinced that his friend was wrong. What could be fairer than the way Cheng had treated them—two strangers? No, the Chinese were good Americans, up-to-date and business-like. The talk about feuds and trickery was the bunk.

He was more sure of this when Cheng’s clerk looked in at their room that evening, after supper, to return the typewriter and deliver the map the merchant had promised. Also a message to the effect that they could get petrol at a town a hundred miles out from the wall (indicated in the map) and that they should watch out for marauding bands of Mongols in the Gobi.

The clerk said good-by very politely and went out. Mac listened to his steps dwindling down the corridor, and yawned. His own labors were ended some time since: the car with its load was waiting in a side alley, and Warner had not offered to assist. He had sat smoking in the chair, and now showed no signs of turning in. Mac was sleepy and a little irritated.

“You didn’t strain yourself, helping me with the stuff, Bob, but it’s all fixed now. What you been doing?”

“Thinking.”

Mac grunted. “Forget Cheng. We’re in four hundred bucks. Ain’t that enough for you? What’s eating you?”

“I don’t know.”

The mechanic swore under his breath, and Warner looked up sharply, his reddish beard jutting out.

“Wonder what’s in the box?” muttered Mac, stretching himself out on the bed.

“We’ll know in a few minutes—as soon as we open it.” Warner rose, moved the one chair in front of the keyhole after locking the door, and hung his coat on the back of the chair. Then he produced several lengths of reed cords, similar to those that bound the box. These he laid on the table beside the box, and pulled down the shade, turning up the gas jet full at the same time. Mac sat up, no longer drowsy.

“Listen, kid,” he observed after a minute. “I know darn well you’re boss of this outfit, but I got a hunch. It will be unlucky to open that box.” As Warner proceeded calmly to work the seal loose with the blade of a pocket knife, he added, “It ain’t square to Cheng to do it.”