Edgar Wallace: The Yellow Snake

“My dear Major Spedwell,” he said, “there can only be one master in any such organization as this, and that master, I beg to emphasize, is myself. If it is my wish that she should stay in England, she stays; if I desire that she should go to the coast, she goes, Is that understood?”

So quickly did Spedwell’s hand move, that Fing-Su saw nothing but a blur of moving pink. In that fraction of a second something had appeared in Spedwell’s hand. It lay flat on the table, its black muzzle pointing to Fing-Su’s white waistcoat.

“She stays,” said Spedwell tensely.

The Chinaman’s face was creased and puckered for a moment with a fear which the white man had never seen before. Presently he recovered himself and forced a smile.

“As you wish, she may stay. There is nothing to be gained by quarrelling,” he said. “Where is she now? In the factory? Go and get her.”

Spedwell stared at this unexpected request.

“I though you didn’t want her to know you had a hand in this,” he said.

“It is a matter of indifference to me,” said the other. “Go bring her, please.”

Spedwell had reached the door when he heard the soft swish of a drawer opening, and turned in a flash. A bullet seared his face and splintered the panel of the door. As his gun jerked up, he saw Fing-Su drop to the floor. For a second he hesitated, then, turning, fled into the big room from which the private office of ‘the Emperor’ led.

It was a storehouse, piled high with bales of goods, with three narrow alleyways leading to the big doors at the end. He had only one chance. At the far end of the warehouse was the fuse-board which protected the lights in this wing of the factory. As, in response to the sound of shooting, the end door burst open, and a crowd of coolies flocked into the warehouse, he raised his automatic and fired twice. There was a splinter of marble and glass, and all the lights in the place went out.

Leaping up, he pulled himself to the top of a bale and ran lightly along, springing from bale to packing-case, until he came within a few feet of the open door, around which a few undecided coolies were grouped. With one leap he was amongst them, his pistol blazing. They had not recovered from their astonishment when he had dived through them, sped across the dark yard and reached the top of the wall by way of the shed that Clifford Lynne had seen the night he made his unauthorized visit. Before his pursuers could reach him, he had dropped over the wall into the muddy alley and was flying for his life along the canal bank.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“There’s another door here,” said Willing suddenly.

He was examining the wall of the inner cabin with the aid of his lamp. He pointed to an oblong aperture which apparently was fastened on the other side.

“It is pretty useless to us,” said Clifford Lynne after a brief inspection. “We shall have to wait until somebody comes in to make the bed. If what I believe is correct, the Umveli will be dropping down the river in an hour or two. I noticed just now that all the lights are out on the other ship. Just about now they will be ringing the changes.”

“What are they waiting for?” grumbled Joe. “Always thought they wanted a high tide to float out, and she’s running high now. And with this rain, it is dark enough to hide a Dreadnought!”

In the door behind which they were imprisoned were a number of small air-holes, and this gave Lynne an opportunity of observing the bigger room. The men had left the bulkhead lights burning, and dimly through the small porthole which faced him he could get a view of a blurred light moving and disappearing on the well deck. From beneath their feet there came the hum and whirr of the dynamo, and whilst they were listening they heard a dull roar from over the ship’s side.

“She’s got a full head of steam,” said Willing. “This looks as if your theory may be right, Lynne, and we are going to see something!”

There were other evidences of activity. Above their heads they heard an insistent patter of feet, and a wailing chorus while a boat was hauled up and swung inboard.

It was a quarter to three when they heard the clank of the anchor capstan, and almost immediately a well-known voice came to Lynne. The door of the outer cabin was flung open, and Fing-Su, in a long, fur-lined overcoat, stalked majestically into the apartment.

“Here is your room, my young lady, and here you will stay. If you make a noise or give me any trouble or scream, I will find you a better furnished cabin!”

It required all Clifford Lynne’s presence of mind to check the cry that came to his lips, for there had followed Fing-Su into the cabin, a pale-faced girl. She was hatless, drenched with the rain, yet her little chin was held up and there was no fear in her eyes. He groaned in his soul as he recognized Joan Bray.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

She had been awakened from an uneasy sleep by the smashing in of her door, and had submitted, with a resolution, and a calm which were inexplicable to the watching Fing-Su, to be carried to the waiting car. The night was favourable to such a move; the streets were deserted, and nobody saw, in the two closed cars that moved swiftly towards Rotherhithe, anything of an unusual nature. It was not till she alighted on a deserted wharf, before she walked down the rickety stairs to the waiting boat, that she observed she had a companion in misfortune—somebody whose head was enveloped in a blanket, through which moans and whimperings were audible. She could never recall that journey from the shore to the ship. She had a vague recollection that somebody had carried her up a steep ladder and had deposited her on a wet and slippery deck, from which she rose with an effort. And then, through the rain, she had seen Fing-Su’s peering face, and found herself pushed through the door of a poorly furnished cabin.

The Chinaman went to the door and called a name which she thought sounded like ‘Mammy!’ and presently a fat Chinese woman came waddling in, wiping her hands upon a soiled apron.

“This is your bedroom, young miss,” said Fing-Su.

He spun over the handle and the door moved slightly.

“Attend, Amah!” He addressed the woman in the Honan dialect. “You will stay by this girl, and you will not let her out of your sight. If she screams you are to stop her, and if you don’t–—” He raised the walking-stick he carried threateningly, and the old woman shrank back.

The ship was moving now; the roar of its siren broke into the night. The girl standing by the table, heard the tinkle of the telegraph and the sudden throb throb of a slowly revolving propeller. It was a nightmare; it could not be real. Yet it was true; she was on a ship moving down Thames River towards the sea and–- She shivered.

What lay at the end of this voyage?

And then she recalled the Major’s words, and knew that he had kept faith. The fact that they had had to break down the door proved that he had no hand in this outrage. Where was he? she wondered, and then it flashed upon her that this whimpering thing, with its head hidden in a blanket, might be he. Only for a second did the thought remain; somehow she could not imagine that hard-faced man whimpering or snivelling for mercy.

“You stay here, missie”—it was the fat Amah, still quaking with the terror which Fing-Su had inspired, and she spoke in lisping English—“I go make your bed.”

She opened the door wider and stepped inside, and Joan thought she heard a strange shuffling of feet, but took no notice of it until:

“Can you put out the light?”

She nearly swooned. It was Clifford Lynne’s voice!

It took her a minute before she could locate the switch which controlled the light but after a while she found it near the edge of the door, and for a long time she could not control her trembling fingers sufficiently to turn the little knob. The moment the lights were extinguished somebody came swiftly to her side, a strong arm went round her shoulders, and she found herself sobbing hysterically on his breast. There was a long deep silence, broken only by her weeping, and then, anxiously: