Edgar Wallace: The Yellow Snake

“In Shanghai and Canton they say that the Yun Nan Company has more money than the Government has ever seen,” he said slowly. “They say that the Lolo people found gold in Liao-Lio valley–-“

“We found it,” said Joe complacently. “These Lolo couldn’t find anything except excuses to burn down Chinese temples.”

“But you have the money,” insisted Fing-Su. “Idle money–-“

“Not idle—gettin’ four ‘n’ half per cent on it,” murmured Joe.

Fing-Su smiled.

“Four and a half per cent! And you could get a hundred! Up in Shan-si there is a billion dollars worth of coal—a million times a billion! You can’t work it, I know—there is no strong man sitting in the Forbidden City to say ‘Do this’ and it is done. And if there was, he would have no army. There is an investment for your reserves; a strong man.”

“I dessay.”

Joe Bray looked round fearfully. He hated Chinese politics—and He hated them worse.

“Fing-Su,” he said awkwardly, “that long-faced American consul was up here to tiffin yesterday. He got quite het up about your Joyful Hands—said there was too many ‘parlours’ in the country anyway. An’ the central government’s been makin’ inquiries. Ho Sing was here last week askin’ when you reckoned you would be goin’ back to London.”

The Chinaman’s thin lips curled in a smile.

“They give too great an importance to my little club,” he said. “It is purely social—we have no politics. Mr Bray, don’t you think that it would be a good idea if Yun Nan reserves were used–-?”

“Nothin’ doin’!” Joe shook his head violently. “I can’t touch ‘em anyway. Now about them shares, Fing–-“

“They are at my bankers in Shanghai—they shall be returned,” said Fing-Su. “I wish our friend liked me. For him I have nothing but respect and admiration. Yellow Snake! That was unkind!”

His palanquin was waiting to carry him back to his house and Joe Bray watched the trotting coolies until a turn of the hill road hid them from view.

At Fing-Su’s little house three men were waiting, squatting on their haunches before the door. He dismissed his bearers and beckoned the men into the dark mat-covered room which served him as a study.

“Two hours after sunset, Clifford Lynne” (he gave him his Chinese name) “comes into the city by the Gate of Beneficent Rice. Kill him and every paper that he carries bring to me.”

Clifford came to the minute, but through the Mandarin Gate, and the watchers missed him. They reported to their master, but he already knew of Clifford’s return and the way by which he came.

“You will have many opportunities,” said Fing-Su, Bachelor of Arts. “And perhaps it is well that this thing did not happen whilst I was in the city. Tomorrow I go back to England, and I will bring back Power!”

CHAPTER TWO

It was exactly six months after Fing-Su left for Europe, that the partners of Narth Brothers sat behind locked doors in their boardroom in London, facing an unusual situation. Stephen Narth sat at the head of the table; his big, heavy, white face with its perpetual frown indicated that he was more than usually troubled.

Major Gregory Spedwell, yellow and cadaverous, sat on his right. Major Spedwell with his black, curly hair and his cigarette-stained fingers, had a history that was not entirely military.

Facing him was Ferdinand Leggat, a wholesome John Bull figure, with his healthy-looking face and his side-whiskers, though in truth the wholesomeness of his appearance was not borne out by his general character, for ‘John Bull Leggat’ had endured many vicissitudes which were not wholly creditable to himself—before he came to the anchor of comparatively respectable harbourage of Narth Brothers Ltd.

There had been a time when the name of Narth was one with which one could conjure in the City of London. Thomas Ammot Narth, the father of the present head of the firm, had conducted a very excellent, though limited, business on the Stock Exchange, and had for his clients some of the noblest houses in England.

His son had inherited his business acumen without his discrimination, and in consequence, whilst he had increased the business of the firm in volume, he had accepted clients of a character which did not find favour with the older supporters of his firm, and when he found himself in court, as he did on one or two occasions, disputing the accuracy of clients’ instructions, the older supporters of his house had fallen away, and he was left with a clerk and speculator which offered him the opportunities rather of sporadic coups than the steadiness of income which is the sure foundation of prosperity.

He had eked out the bad times by the flotation of numerous companies. Some of these had been mildly successful, but the majority had pursued an inevitable and exciting course which landed them eventually before that official whose unhappy duty it is to arrange the winding up of companies.

It was in the course of these adventures that Stephen Narth had met Mr Leggat, a Galician oil speculator, who also conducted a theatrical agency and a moneylending business, and was generally to be found on the ground floor of jerry-built flotations.

The business which had brought the three members of the firm at nine o’clock in the morning to their cold and uninviting offices at Minchester House had nothing whatever to do with the ordinary business of the firm. Mr Leggat said as much, being somewhat oracular in his methods.

“Let us have the matter fair and square,” he said. “This business of ours is as near to bankruptcy as makes no difference. I say bankruptcy, and for the time being we will let the matter stay right there. What may be revealed at the bankruptcy proceedings doesn’t affect Spedwell and doesn’t affect me. I haven’t speculated with the company’s money—neither has Spedwell.”

“You knew–-” began Narth hotly.

“I knew nothing.” Mr Leggat waved him to silence. “The auditors tell us that the sum of fifty thousand pounds is unaccounted for. Somebody has been gambling on ‘Change—not me; not Spedwell.”

“It was on your advice–-“

Again Mr Leggat held up his hand.

“This isn’t the moment for recrimination. We’re short fifty thousand, more or less. Where and how are we going to raise the money?”

His eyes met Spedwell’s, and for an instant of time that saturnine man showed evidence of approval and amusement.

“It is all very well for you fellows to talk,” growled Narth, wiping his moist face with a silk handkerchief. “You were all in the oil speculation—both of you!”

Mr Leggat smiled and shrugged his broad shoulders, but made no comment.

“Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money.” Spedwell spoke for the first time.

“An awful lot,” agreed his friend, and waited for Mr Narth to speak.

“We didn’t come here today to discuss what we already know,” said Narth impatiently, “but to find a remedy. How are we going to face the music? That is the question.”

“And simply answered, I think,” said Mr Leggat, almost jovially. “I for one have no desire to face again—when I say ‘again’ let me correct myself and say for the first time—the miseries of Wormwood Scrubbs. We have—I should say you have—got to raise the money. There remains only one possibility,” said Mr Leggat slowly, and all the time he was speaking his keen eyes did not leave Stephen Narth’s face. “You are the nephew or cousin of Mr Joseph Bray, and, as all the world knows, Mr Joseph Bray is rich beyond the dreams of avarice. He is reputedly the wealthiest man in China, and I understand—correct me if I am wrong—that you and your family are in receipt of a yearly stipend—pension—from this gentleman–-“