Edgar Wallace: The Yellow Snake

“Yellow head!” he said thoughtfully. “Yellow head—what a lad!”

Letty dropped her voice as the queer man came leisurely into the room, his hands thrust into his pockets.

“Has anybody seen a Chink about here?” he asked.

Letty and Mabel spoke together, though he was addressing the one person in the ornate library who was neither obviously palpitating or patently fearful.

“Chinamen—two?” he said thoughtfully. “I thought so! Moses!”

He walked to the window and stared out. Then he came back to the table, lifted the cottonwool gingerly from the box, layer by layer.

“Only one, by gum! But what a perfect houndski!”

He peered out into the sunlit garden.

“Thought they’d use a knife. These fellows can throw a knife wonderfully. One of ‘em killed a foreman of mine a year ago from a distance of a hundred and twenty yards.”

He was addressing Joan, and his voice was friendly and conversational.

“Did you catch him?” she asked.

The bearded man nodded.

“Got him on the law and order side of the mountains and hanged him. A nice fellow in many ways,” he mused, “but temperamental. There is only one way to deal with a temperamental coolie, and that is to hang him.”

He was looking at Letty now, and she regarded his views on temperament as ill-timed, if not actually insulting. He saw her rosebud lips curl up in a smile, but did not feel uncomfortable.

“You?” he asked.

She started.

“No—I—I mean, what do you mean?”

She knew very well what he meant. Clifford Lynne could broadcast thought, and in the tenseness of the moment her receptivity was particularly good.

“I’ve got to marry somebody.”

He glanced now at Mabel Narth, darkly red, her baby blue eyes malignant with the contempt she felt.

“Neither my sister nor I is the lucky girl,” she said with a certain malicious sweetness. “You ought to know Joan…” She glanced round at Mr Narth. “Father!”

Awkwardly enough he introduced the girl.

“Oh!”

Just “Oh!” It might have meant disappointment or relief or just surprise.

“Well—I am here. Ready for the–-” He hesitated for a word. Joan could have sworn that the word he almost used was “sacrifice,” but he changed it to “occasion.”

“Old Joe Bray is dead,” said the stranger. “I suppose you know that? Poor old lunatic! It would have been better for a lot of people if he had died six months ago. A dear old soul, a great old sportsman, but slightly mad.”

Again he addressed Joan. She could observe him now, for he was emerging from the blinding flash of his dramatic arrival. Close upon six feet in height, even his nondescript clothing could not disguise a fine physique. The face was tanned a deep mahogany. His straggling beard was as brown as his long hair and his rather shaggy eyebrows. This bearded man was alive—every inch of him. That was her first impression—his immense vitality. She glanced down at his shapeless shoes; they were home-made, she guessed, and whilst one was fastened with a thin piece of hide, the other lace was of string, and unravelled string at that.

It was a moment for Mr Narth to assert his authority. Natural circumstances made him the most important person in the room. He was not only the head of the house, but he was the principal beneficiary under the will. And this man was old Joe Bray’s manager, one to be ordered rather than persuaded; the merest employee—Mr Narth’s employee in prospect, for if he was inheriting old Joe’s wealth, he also inherited the indubitable authority which wealth carries with it.

“Er—Mr—um—Lynne, I think this discussion of my poor cousin’s—state of mind is not quite proper, and I cannot allow you to asperse his—um—revered memory without protest.”

The stranger was looking at him curiously.

“Oh, you’re Narth, are you—I’ve heard about you! You’re the gentleman who speculates with other people’s money!”

Stephen Narth went red and white. He was for the moment speechless. The crudeness of the statement was paralysing. Had Mr Narth been wise, he would have arrested all further comment, either by walking from the room or by a direct and tremendous rebuke.

“These things get about,” said Lynne, stroking his beard. “You can’t turn the light off a business like yours.”

Stephen Narth got back his voice.

“I am not prepared to discuss such wanton slanders,” he said. There was murder in his eyes if Clifford Lynne had ever seen murder. “For the moment it is necessary to tell you that as the sole beneficiary under Mr Bray’s will and—er—proprietor–-“

“In prospect,” murmured Lynne, when he paused. “You feel that I ought to keep in my place? I am almost inclined to agree. Do you want me?”

He stared at Joan, his expression blank, almost fatuous. She had an odd inclination to laugh.

“Because,” he went on, “if you want me I’m here and ready. The Lord knows I don’t want to force my attentions upon any shrinking maiden, but there’s the position. Joe said, ‘Will you give me your word?’ and I said ‘Yes.’”

He was still staring at her thoughtfully. Did he expect an answer, she wondered. Apparently not, for he went on:

“This complicates matters—I had no idea we should annoy the Joyful Hands—but I’ve been and gone and done it!”

Mr Narth thought that it was a moment when he might without loss of dignity edge himself into the conversation on nearly equal terms.

“The Joyful Hands, I think you said—who on earth are the Joyful Hands?”

The stranger did not seem to resent the intrusion, and Stephen Narth had the queer sensation that the admonishment directed to him a few seconds before was in the nature of a statement of fact made without any real disapproval or malice. Clifford Lynne knew but did not condemn.

“I have taken the Lodge—the Slaters’ Cottage, don’t they call it?” said Clifford in his strangely abrupt way. “A weird hole, but suitable for me. I’m afraid I’ve made rather a mess of your carpet.”

He looked down gloomily at the evidence of tragedy.

“Anyway, snakes have no right to be on carpets,” he said in a tone of relief, as though he had found an unexpected excuse for the disorder he had created.

Mr Narth’s face fell.

“You’re staying here, are you?” he asked, and it was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that the stranger, in all his future visits, should come into the house by the servants’ entrance. But something inhibited this discourteous expression. A man who could treat grand larceny as a matter of indifference, who carried on his person lethal weapons which he could draw, use and replace so quickly that no mortal eye could see his hand’s movement, was not to be insulted with impunity. Instead:

“The Slaters’ Cottage isn’t a very nice place for you,” he said. “It is little better than a ruin. I had it offered to me the other day for a hundred and twenty pounds and refused it–-“

“You missed a bargain,” said Cliff Lynne calmly. “It has a Tudor fireplace worth twice that amount.”

He was looking absently at the girl as he spoke.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if I settled down in the Slaters’ Cottage,” he was musing aloud. “There’s a lovely scullery, where one’s wife could do one’s washing, and three perfectly good rooms—once the rat-holes are stopped up. Personally, I have no objection to rats.”

“And I am rather fond of them,” said Joan coolly, for she was quick to see the challenge and as quick to take it up.

For a second the faintest ghost of a smile showed in his eyes.

“Anyway, I’m staying here. And don’t be scared of losing your reputation, because I shan’t call very often.” He pursed his lips. “Chink! And of course the heathen saw me come in, and delivered the goods instanter! Daren’t do it before, or you’d have heard the wriggler lashing out inside the box. Or he’d have died—there were no holes in the lid. I’ll have to put the Dumb Friends’ League on to these fellows!”