Behind that mask, p.15
Behind That Mask, page 15
“What articles d’ you mean, Chief? You mean that coin catalogue Kenwood was reading when he was sloughed?”
“Yes, and the goose-neck desk lamp here—and one of these red-white-an’-blue appointment calendars like ye hav on yer oo’n desk.” St. John Mackenzie paused. “Listen here, Terr-ry. Have ye considered th’ fact yet, that the evening sheet on that calendar—for October 31st, that is—the blue one, in fact—was lying exposed to full view when the squad came in? With ‘Yin Yi: 8:30’ written on it in lead pencil?”
“Well—yes—no—yes. That is, Chief, you mean maybe—you mean that Yin Yi would have ripped it off? But takin’ Yin Yi—just for an example now, that is!—f’r things has been movin’ along some in my department—and how!—he obvi’sly didn’t see the notation! He nor nobody else, I take it. For lead pencil on blue—even if it is a light blue—don’t stand out like lead pencil on white.”
St. John Mackenzie was a bit slow in answering. Evidently he was pondering on something. He seemed to collect himself suddenly.
“Deedn’t see it, did I hear ye saying? Listen—do ye know wha’ that crack-brain Chinese did aroond this place?”
“No—what, Chief?”
“Well, he unscrewed th’ oreeginal light bulb oot o’ th’ desk lamp—’twas only a 60-watt frosted bulb—and stood on a small rolling table here—at least he must ha’ stood on that—and unscrewed th’ big 200-watt unfrosted bulb in the ceiling, and—well, he changed both bulbs, that’s all.”
“Changed ’em, eh? How you know that, Chief?”
“Both have the smoodge mar-rks of the red dye in those cheap cotton gloves, where he gripped th’ bulbs har-rd to screw them in, if not oot. Moreover-r, I had Dotson here count the cross-thread mar-rks under his magnifyin’ glass—they show in the smoodges here an’ there—and called oop the C. I. Laboratory over there where you are. That was the fir-rst time I was trying to get ye, and coot mysel’ off till I could get more infoormation. And do ye know what they repoort?”
“Same number o’ cross-threads per inch, Chief?”
“Exactly! And a vera slight scoorchin’ of the soorface of the fingertips of the right glove. Hot bulbs, see?”
“Well—I’ll be damned, Chief. Kenwood’s killer must have wanted plenty of light on that table top. He must have wanted to search for somethin’ mighty bad.”
“I theenk not, Terry. For fr-rom th’ way he laid oot the goose-neck light —an’ the calendar—one—or th’ ither—or maybe both—he deedn’t want th’ light on th’ table top—but on that calendar! He wanted that appointment sheet to show up like—like a hoose afire, the minute the police came in on the place.”
“Well—200 watts, unfrosted, ought to a-made pencil writin’ on blue paper stick out like a sore thumb.”
“It does! 40 newspaper reporters and 40 flatfeet cooldn’t have muffed it, Terr-ry. Now, Terr-ry, wi’ the lights th’ way they ar-re—an’ th’ absolute positive evidence that ’twas the Indian—th’ Chinese, that is—and not Kenw’od, who changed these bulbs and put them in their new poseetions—what conclusion can we come to? Only, that th’ fir-rst, last and absolutely sure theeng Yin w’ad a’done—was he right in his head—wa’d ha’ been to tear off that little blue paper square showing he had an appointment for 8:30. He couldn’t have failed to see it Terry—for ’twas the last poseetion the lamp was left in. It wa’d ha’ hit him squar-re in the face. Terr-ry, he’s crazy, joost as I suggested an hoor ago. He—”
“Wait, Chief. Now so far as I can see—the lamp was so fixed that the examinin’ squad couldn’t fail possibly to see that blue top sheet!”
“Yes. And—”
“Well, Chief, I gotta lot to tell you about the Chink. He’s all in the clear. So far’s opportunity goes, that is. He was in Indianapolis tonight, and I’ve checked him a dozen ways around, an’ back and forth across the board as well. True, he had reason to bump Kenwood off—there’s positively no gettin’ away on the motive—but he’s one damn lucky Chink that he wasn’t in this burg tonight.”
“So he’s in the clear?”
“Posilutely, Chief. That is—all but as to the motive, y’ understand. He ain’t in th’ clear there.”
“Well—I’ll be damned! Hm! Well, Terr-ry, all I can say then is that whoever keeled Kenwo’d went to one hell of a lot of trouble to rivet it on Yin. Of course they moost have seen that Chinese name—the appointment, that is—while they were talking to Kenwo’d. And prepar-red to take full advantage of it when they shoold strike him down. And but—hm!—they came here prepar-red to keel Kenwo’d in Chinese fashion. For ’twas Chinese fashion, Terr-ry, regar-rdless of what they called it. ’Twas Chinese fashion, regardless of th’ suit they wore and their motives f’r doin’ a quiet job. Chinese stuff, that head-splitting. No getting awa’ from that. And—well, Terr-ry, it’s begeening to look like a sort of half prepar-red—half-impromptu—plant of some sor-rt, eh?”
“I’m afraid it is, Chief. A little while ago I wouldn’t-a talked this way. But now I’m thinkin’ on a new plane. And furthermore, th’ way I look at it now, th’ last thing Yin Yi would ever have did—if he’d been in Chi, and bent on murder—would have been to bump Kenwood off in any fashion even remotely suggestin’ Chinese.”
“Unless he hasna’ his proper weets, I’d say. But you say he’s in the clear?”
“Yes. And that makes it all smack, somehow, of a sort of orig’nal intention, on somebody’s part, Chief, to hang it on him. Or, rather, on any luckless Chink that might know Kenwood. And then grabbing off the chance of a lifetime—that name on the calendar. The funniest dam’ frame-up I ever encountered yet, in this man’s town. But not so funny for the victim—considerin’ he had a motive to do th’ very thing he was framed for. For he did want that five hundred bucks, Chief—and Kenwood, never in this world, would-a been likely to have paid out any five hundred berries on anything like that. For the Chink had no real legal claim against him whatever.”
“Well, we’ll look into that fur-rther. But in the meantime, ye can bank on it that only an insane man—or somebody trying to frame him—w’ad ha’ laid oot these fixtures and light-bulbs th’ way they ar-re laid oot right now. Well, I’ll see ye in a shor-rt while. I’m cooming back over to the Bureau now.”
There were a couple of brief goodbyes, and more clickings.
And Rand heard O’Rourke now fishing again in space for himself.
“Rand—you there yet?”
“Of course I’m here.”
With which O’Rourke rattled his receiver-hook deafeningly in David Rand’s ear. Jessica came on.
“Yes, Mr. O’Rourke?”
“Take Mr. Rand off the ‘B’-hookup now, Jessica, and put him on direct.”
In a moment they were talking again as they had first talked, a full hour before.
“And now, Rand,” O’Rourke said, “what were you starting to say about motives—when Sinjohn came on the wire?”
“Just, O’Rourke,” Rand told him, “that I’m in a position to demolish every vestige of any motive on the part of Yin Yi to kill Kenwood.”
“You are? Why didn’t you say something about it before?”
“Every time I tried to, somebody came in and tossed me over onto a ‘B’-hookup—or told me to pipe down—or moved me here or there.”
“All right. Well, what do you know?”
“Just this, O’Rourke. When I came back from New York today, Kenwood spoke to me at some length about the Yin Yi matter. Which had come up while I was gone, of course. He told me he intended to pay Yin Yi off. The whole $500. He was quite earnest and resolved in this too. In short, O’Rourke, even if Yin Yi had gone there tonight—he’d have gotten every cent of the money he thought he was entitled to.”
“Well—I’ll be damned. Are you sure o’ that?”
“Sure? Why of course I’m sure. Furthermore, the girl was sitting nearby, and heard the whole conversation.”
“Well—what do you know about that! And Kenwood had the coin, as well, on him tonight, to have paid Yin Yi off with. $2100 in five hundreds and one hundreds. Well, I’ll let the girl give her account of the conversation tomorrow—but while I turn over this Yin Yi card here, and use a little Irish shorthand, give me every bit you can remember of that conversation. Where it touches on Yin Yi, that is—and that $500. And where it shows Kenwood did intend to pay the Chink off—or didn’t.”
“There isn’t anything to tell about him not going to pay Yin Yi off. Everything he had to say was to the effect that he was going to. And he was a chap, O’Rourke, who didn’t change his mind—once he came to a decision. He—but here—the whole conversation is fresh in my mind now. And I’ll go back to the beginning of it, while it is that way. The beginning, that is, where I asked Kenwood what had happened in my absence.” Rand slipped back, in recollection, with no trouble to that conversation in the sunny once, late that afternoon. And reason enough, too, perhaps, that he could, so easily, and so clearly, since the conversation was associated in his mind with a most highly pleasing thing—his triumphal return from New York with an agreement that helped his purse—and ego! And with no hesitation whatever, Rand spoke.
“Well, in the first place, Kenwood was tickled stiff—that I had signed his cousin up. I mention this because later on he said that Yin Yi was the ‘hunch-back’s hump for J. Kenwood, Esquire’; and that something told him he was going to have good luck for the rest of his days for settling in full with the Chinese fellow. And he—but to get back to the beginning. He was tickled stiff, as I say, at my luck. And pleased at the order he got in Topeka. Then we went over to politics. He bawled the very devil out of me—and all Democrats included!—said we all ought to be—but never mind. He razzed us to a fare-you-well. And I speak of that alone, because later on he complimented Yin Yi’s intelligence for at least being a Republican, like himself! He—”
“Slow up a second. Till I jot that down. I might as well clear the Chink all th’ way around, as half-way. And that Republican stuff ain’t so nonsensical as a Republican himself is! I know one good Dimmicrat to shoot a Republican dead. And over nothing but tariff, too. Two years ago. Colonel Vetters, if you recall it. But now go on.”
“Well,” Rand continued, “Kenwood first introduced the matter by saying that something had come up that was costing him five hundred berries. That was his phrase. And he said—let’s see—yes—he said: ‘I’m paying it out of my own sweet, kind heart—with no grousing or grumbling. In other words—invited guests please omit sackcloth and ashes!’”
Rand paused. “Then he told me all about how the Chinese got roped in. On the gravestone marble ad. A stockselling proposition, see? And I recall he said regretfully—concerning one Golden-Tongued Kelly who once worked for us ‘he took the poor Chinaman for his wad’. And added—let’s see—yes—the words ‘took him lock, stock and barrel!’ Then he went on to tell about Yin Yi’s visit to him. He did say there was a sort of silent menace about the fellow’s visit. But, if you ask me, it seemed to amuse Kenwood more than anything. In fact, he complimented the Chinese fellow again: said, rather admiringly, that the Celestial was too perfect an actor and psychologist to make cheap threats. And—oh yes—it was right there he said that Yin Yi had the most confounded clear logic he’d ever encountered. That it was impossible to get sore at the position the latter took. And—yes—it was right there that I kidded Kenwood back, and found that he was only too willing to attribute Yi’s logic to his being a Republican—like Kenwood—which had come out in their conversation. Now where was I?”
“About Yi’s logic.”
“Oh yes. Well, Kenwood said then that when Yi got done with his argument, that he—Jack, that is—was absolutely sold himself—not only that he owed the Chinese $500—but 6 percent interest on it for 29 days!—and 7 percent accrued interest as well! I—oh, yes—that’s where I kidded him again—as to why he didn’t hire Yin Yi for our outfit—but he took me seriously, and solemnly said he would at that—if people weren’t so asininely prejudiced against Chinese. In fact, here were his words—catch ’em before they fade from my mind: ‘The Chinese—the Chinese in general —yes—are one dam’ fine race, I’ve—I’ve always gotten along fine with ’em—in fact, I like Chinks; they’re such philosophers, patient devils, they—they—yes—intrigue me—they appeal to me in some peculiar way. And as a rule they like me too.’” I paused. “Did you get all that?”
“Yeah, I’m entering the high spots. Yin Yi ought to hand this ticket down to his grandchildren.”
“Well,” Rand went on ruthlessly, “then Kenwood said that Yin Yi was in a position to do us a lot of injury in case he sued us—the publicity and newspaper sob stories, you know. The which I later confirmed. Then he told how he had learned that he hadn’t lost that ad—the gravestone ad, that is—on a supposed hundred-M run. That a defective electro had saved him from a $1600 loss. Tickled stiff, he was. And then—let’s see? Yes—he said: ‘Then I did some hard thinking. Here, we’ve run along beautifully all—all these months—without any trouble’—no, that wasn’t the phrase he used; he said, instead: ‘never hitting a single snag or catching a dose of publicity of any sort; and one poor Chink’—no, he called him ‘one poor devil of a Chink’—‘and one poor devil of a Chink’ he said, ‘gets accidentally into our smooth-running machinery—and hurts himself—and thus us.’ And—let’s see—yes—he said: ‘So I said to myself, says I: Having saved a neat chunk of money,’ etc., etc. ‘Thanks to that electro,’ etc.—‘and being just about to expand in New York as well’ etc. etc.—‘if David brings home the bacon, I’m going to pay the Chink off’—yes—‘his whole $500 loss’—he stated that specifically, O’Rourke—‘and consider it cheap’.”
Rand paused.
“And it was after I told him that it really was cheap—that $500 was less than a third of his month’s takings—that the said ‘Virtue’—yes—‘virtue is always rewarded!’ And pointed out how he got back the old advertiser for that 2nd cover. And that good order in Topeka. And said that the Chinese fellow was his lucky fetish now. And then—let’s see—yes—it was then he called over to Miss Creston for some hundreds and five hundreds she had for him. Of course he knew at the time he had a meeting with Yin Yi for tonight—but neither of us—Miss Creston nor I, that is—knew that. At any rate, he added the money she gave him, to what he already had. That’s all—oh—no—here’s one more thing.”
“Shoot the works,” O’Rourke ordered whimsically.
“I said—I said: ‘Jack, you’ve got enough there to pay off a dozen Chinamen!’
“And he said—let’s see—yes—‘God forbid. The one doesn’t worry me —he’s my lucky talisman now!—but a dozen would.’ And went on counting to seventeen hundred—and got weary of his own money. And that’s all,” I finished.
“Well you’ve said enough,” O’Rourke commented, “to file Yin Yi’s card with Joan of Arc’s and some of them other famous Martians of history that got a right royal framing! Nothing else for me to ask, I guess. Unless—well, let’s see—Kenwood was a bit sweet on your Creston girl—at least he musta been if, as you told me, he wanted to marry her. Now Yin Yi didn’t make goo-goo eyes at—”
“No, he didn’t,” Rand said wearily. “I kidded her about that very thing myself. Asked her outright, in fact, if Yin Yi made love to her. And she said that Kenwood stepped out once while Yin was there—and she tried to be nice to him—but that he only scowled at her.”
Rand paused, and finished:
“No, O’Rourke, I’ll stake my life—from what I know of Jack Kenwood—that had Yin Yi stayed in town and really gone there tonight, he’d have been paid off—and off in good humor too. For Kenwood was in the best of humor—every way around the board. Lady Luck was just beaming on him this week.”
“Well, between you an’ me tonight, Rand, Yin owes us plenty. And you say the girl heard the whole conversation, too?”
“Every word of it.”
“Couldn’t be better. I’ll read off these notes to her tomorrow, and she can check affirmatives for everything she recalls.”
They were both silent now. And O’Rourke spoke.
“And what,” he said, “before I hang up—shall we make Yin do for us—his saviors? Model us in wax?”
“God forbid!” was Rand’s answer. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ll be content to have the best Chinese dinner that can be bought in Chinatown.”
“I likewise,” said O’Rourke. “I’ll go down to his cell now—and tell him that he’s going to be our host! What day will suit ye?”
CHAPTER XVI
“Your Announcer Speaking.”
Sebastien Zing, squatting deeply in the huge sheepskin-lined bag with which each member of the Elliott Muncibar Tibet-bound party was provided, huddled even tighter in it, there in the midday encampment at Pass 171, in the Himalayas. The noonday tea would soon be passed about by the cook Fung Soo, and he, Sebastien Zing, would, he knew, then be feeling more cheerful.
In view of the fact that it would be another month before the party could possibly make Tibet—and that its single short-wave sending radio, by which it could telegraph back to civilization, was completely and entirely out of commission, Sebastien Zing should have felt exceedingly lonely as well as a bit cheerless. But no—the compact 14-tube radio in the ground in front of him was at least bringing in the jolly strains of a most jazzy orchestra, clear from Shanghai.
But now the music came to a stop, and a man’s voice—a bit British in enunciation, but quite American in its choice of words—spoke from the tiny box.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” it said, “you have been listening to the Royal Scots Band, in the Chung Sung Luncheon Club of the International Settlement, Shanghai. Which club—thanks to the generosity of Mr. Chung Sung—is also radio station EW-18. And before putting on the air that marvelous little London tap dancer, Patricia O’Hearn, I want to give you all a most interesting announcement that is right now being carried—according to the classification under which it had just come to the Shanghai office of the Amalgamated News Service—in thousands of extra newspapers in far-off America where, of course, at this moment it is approximately midnight. That is, it is now 1 a.m. in New York, 9 p.m. in San Francisco—and exactly midnight in Chicago, the locale of the news in this particular news item.”
“Yes, and the goose-neck desk lamp here—and one of these red-white-an’-blue appointment calendars like ye hav on yer oo’n desk.” St. John Mackenzie paused. “Listen here, Terr-ry. Have ye considered th’ fact yet, that the evening sheet on that calendar—for October 31st, that is—the blue one, in fact—was lying exposed to full view when the squad came in? With ‘Yin Yi: 8:30’ written on it in lead pencil?”
“Well—yes—no—yes. That is, Chief, you mean maybe—you mean that Yin Yi would have ripped it off? But takin’ Yin Yi—just for an example now, that is!—f’r things has been movin’ along some in my department—and how!—he obvi’sly didn’t see the notation! He nor nobody else, I take it. For lead pencil on blue—even if it is a light blue—don’t stand out like lead pencil on white.”
St. John Mackenzie was a bit slow in answering. Evidently he was pondering on something. He seemed to collect himself suddenly.
“Deedn’t see it, did I hear ye saying? Listen—do ye know wha’ that crack-brain Chinese did aroond this place?”
“No—what, Chief?”
“Well, he unscrewed th’ oreeginal light bulb oot o’ th’ desk lamp—’twas only a 60-watt frosted bulb—and stood on a small rolling table here—at least he must ha’ stood on that—and unscrewed th’ big 200-watt unfrosted bulb in the ceiling, and—well, he changed both bulbs, that’s all.”
“Changed ’em, eh? How you know that, Chief?”
“Both have the smoodge mar-rks of the red dye in those cheap cotton gloves, where he gripped th’ bulbs har-rd to screw them in, if not oot. Moreover-r, I had Dotson here count the cross-thread mar-rks under his magnifyin’ glass—they show in the smoodges here an’ there—and called oop the C. I. Laboratory over there where you are. That was the fir-rst time I was trying to get ye, and coot mysel’ off till I could get more infoormation. And do ye know what they repoort?”
“Same number o’ cross-threads per inch, Chief?”
“Exactly! And a vera slight scoorchin’ of the soorface of the fingertips of the right glove. Hot bulbs, see?”
“Well—I’ll be damned, Chief. Kenwood’s killer must have wanted plenty of light on that table top. He must have wanted to search for somethin’ mighty bad.”
“I theenk not, Terry. For fr-rom th’ way he laid oot the goose-neck light —an’ the calendar—one—or th’ ither—or maybe both—he deedn’t want th’ light on th’ table top—but on that calendar! He wanted that appointment sheet to show up like—like a hoose afire, the minute the police came in on the place.”
“Well—200 watts, unfrosted, ought to a-made pencil writin’ on blue paper stick out like a sore thumb.”
“It does! 40 newspaper reporters and 40 flatfeet cooldn’t have muffed it, Terr-ry. Now, Terr-ry, wi’ the lights th’ way they ar-re—an’ th’ absolute positive evidence that ’twas the Indian—th’ Chinese, that is—and not Kenw’od, who changed these bulbs and put them in their new poseetions—what conclusion can we come to? Only, that th’ fir-rst, last and absolutely sure theeng Yin w’ad a’done—was he right in his head—wa’d ha’ been to tear off that little blue paper square showing he had an appointment for 8:30. He couldn’t have failed to see it Terry—for ’twas the last poseetion the lamp was left in. It wa’d ha’ hit him squar-re in the face. Terr-ry, he’s crazy, joost as I suggested an hoor ago. He—”
“Wait, Chief. Now so far as I can see—the lamp was so fixed that the examinin’ squad couldn’t fail possibly to see that blue top sheet!”
“Yes. And—”
“Well, Chief, I gotta lot to tell you about the Chink. He’s all in the clear. So far’s opportunity goes, that is. He was in Indianapolis tonight, and I’ve checked him a dozen ways around, an’ back and forth across the board as well. True, he had reason to bump Kenwood off—there’s positively no gettin’ away on the motive—but he’s one damn lucky Chink that he wasn’t in this burg tonight.”
“So he’s in the clear?”
“Posilutely, Chief. That is—all but as to the motive, y’ understand. He ain’t in th’ clear there.”
“Well—I’ll be damned! Hm! Well, Terr-ry, all I can say then is that whoever keeled Kenwo’d went to one hell of a lot of trouble to rivet it on Yin. Of course they moost have seen that Chinese name—the appointment, that is—while they were talking to Kenwo’d. And prepar-red to take full advantage of it when they shoold strike him down. And but—hm!—they came here prepar-red to keel Kenwo’d in Chinese fashion. For ’twas Chinese fashion, Terr-ry, regar-rdless of what they called it. ’Twas Chinese fashion, regardless of th’ suit they wore and their motives f’r doin’ a quiet job. Chinese stuff, that head-splitting. No getting awa’ from that. And—well, Terr-ry, it’s begeening to look like a sort of half prepar-red—half-impromptu—plant of some sor-rt, eh?”
“I’m afraid it is, Chief. A little while ago I wouldn’t-a talked this way. But now I’m thinkin’ on a new plane. And furthermore, th’ way I look at it now, th’ last thing Yin Yi would ever have did—if he’d been in Chi, and bent on murder—would have been to bump Kenwood off in any fashion even remotely suggestin’ Chinese.”
“Unless he hasna’ his proper weets, I’d say. But you say he’s in the clear?”
“Yes. And that makes it all smack, somehow, of a sort of orig’nal intention, on somebody’s part, Chief, to hang it on him. Or, rather, on any luckless Chink that might know Kenwood. And then grabbing off the chance of a lifetime—that name on the calendar. The funniest dam’ frame-up I ever encountered yet, in this man’s town. But not so funny for the victim—considerin’ he had a motive to do th’ very thing he was framed for. For he did want that five hundred bucks, Chief—and Kenwood, never in this world, would-a been likely to have paid out any five hundred berries on anything like that. For the Chink had no real legal claim against him whatever.”
“Well, we’ll look into that fur-rther. But in the meantime, ye can bank on it that only an insane man—or somebody trying to frame him—w’ad ha’ laid oot these fixtures and light-bulbs th’ way they ar-re laid oot right now. Well, I’ll see ye in a shor-rt while. I’m cooming back over to the Bureau now.”
There were a couple of brief goodbyes, and more clickings.
And Rand heard O’Rourke now fishing again in space for himself.
“Rand—you there yet?”
“Of course I’m here.”
With which O’Rourke rattled his receiver-hook deafeningly in David Rand’s ear. Jessica came on.
“Yes, Mr. O’Rourke?”
“Take Mr. Rand off the ‘B’-hookup now, Jessica, and put him on direct.”
In a moment they were talking again as they had first talked, a full hour before.
“And now, Rand,” O’Rourke said, “what were you starting to say about motives—when Sinjohn came on the wire?”
“Just, O’Rourke,” Rand told him, “that I’m in a position to demolish every vestige of any motive on the part of Yin Yi to kill Kenwood.”
“You are? Why didn’t you say something about it before?”
“Every time I tried to, somebody came in and tossed me over onto a ‘B’-hookup—or told me to pipe down—or moved me here or there.”
“All right. Well, what do you know?”
“Just this, O’Rourke. When I came back from New York today, Kenwood spoke to me at some length about the Yin Yi matter. Which had come up while I was gone, of course. He told me he intended to pay Yin Yi off. The whole $500. He was quite earnest and resolved in this too. In short, O’Rourke, even if Yin Yi had gone there tonight—he’d have gotten every cent of the money he thought he was entitled to.”
“Well—I’ll be damned. Are you sure o’ that?”
“Sure? Why of course I’m sure. Furthermore, the girl was sitting nearby, and heard the whole conversation.”
“Well—what do you know about that! And Kenwood had the coin, as well, on him tonight, to have paid Yin Yi off with. $2100 in five hundreds and one hundreds. Well, I’ll let the girl give her account of the conversation tomorrow—but while I turn over this Yin Yi card here, and use a little Irish shorthand, give me every bit you can remember of that conversation. Where it touches on Yin Yi, that is—and that $500. And where it shows Kenwood did intend to pay the Chink off—or didn’t.”
“There isn’t anything to tell about him not going to pay Yin Yi off. Everything he had to say was to the effect that he was going to. And he was a chap, O’Rourke, who didn’t change his mind—once he came to a decision. He—but here—the whole conversation is fresh in my mind now. And I’ll go back to the beginning of it, while it is that way. The beginning, that is, where I asked Kenwood what had happened in my absence.” Rand slipped back, in recollection, with no trouble to that conversation in the sunny once, late that afternoon. And reason enough, too, perhaps, that he could, so easily, and so clearly, since the conversation was associated in his mind with a most highly pleasing thing—his triumphal return from New York with an agreement that helped his purse—and ego! And with no hesitation whatever, Rand spoke.
“Well, in the first place, Kenwood was tickled stiff—that I had signed his cousin up. I mention this because later on he said that Yin Yi was the ‘hunch-back’s hump for J. Kenwood, Esquire’; and that something told him he was going to have good luck for the rest of his days for settling in full with the Chinese fellow. And he—but to get back to the beginning. He was tickled stiff, as I say, at my luck. And pleased at the order he got in Topeka. Then we went over to politics. He bawled the very devil out of me—and all Democrats included!—said we all ought to be—but never mind. He razzed us to a fare-you-well. And I speak of that alone, because later on he complimented Yin Yi’s intelligence for at least being a Republican, like himself! He—”
“Slow up a second. Till I jot that down. I might as well clear the Chink all th’ way around, as half-way. And that Republican stuff ain’t so nonsensical as a Republican himself is! I know one good Dimmicrat to shoot a Republican dead. And over nothing but tariff, too. Two years ago. Colonel Vetters, if you recall it. But now go on.”
“Well,” Rand continued, “Kenwood first introduced the matter by saying that something had come up that was costing him five hundred berries. That was his phrase. And he said—let’s see—yes—he said: ‘I’m paying it out of my own sweet, kind heart—with no grousing or grumbling. In other words—invited guests please omit sackcloth and ashes!’”
Rand paused. “Then he told me all about how the Chinese got roped in. On the gravestone marble ad. A stockselling proposition, see? And I recall he said regretfully—concerning one Golden-Tongued Kelly who once worked for us ‘he took the poor Chinaman for his wad’. And added—let’s see—yes—the words ‘took him lock, stock and barrel!’ Then he went on to tell about Yin Yi’s visit to him. He did say there was a sort of silent menace about the fellow’s visit. But, if you ask me, it seemed to amuse Kenwood more than anything. In fact, he complimented the Chinese fellow again: said, rather admiringly, that the Celestial was too perfect an actor and psychologist to make cheap threats. And—oh yes—it was right there he said that Yin Yi had the most confounded clear logic he’d ever encountered. That it was impossible to get sore at the position the latter took. And—yes—it was right there that I kidded Kenwood back, and found that he was only too willing to attribute Yi’s logic to his being a Republican—like Kenwood—which had come out in their conversation. Now where was I?”
“About Yi’s logic.”
“Oh yes. Well, Kenwood said then that when Yi got done with his argument, that he—Jack, that is—was absolutely sold himself—not only that he owed the Chinese $500—but 6 percent interest on it for 29 days!—and 7 percent accrued interest as well! I—oh, yes—that’s where I kidded him again—as to why he didn’t hire Yin Yi for our outfit—but he took me seriously, and solemnly said he would at that—if people weren’t so asininely prejudiced against Chinese. In fact, here were his words—catch ’em before they fade from my mind: ‘The Chinese—the Chinese in general —yes—are one dam’ fine race, I’ve—I’ve always gotten along fine with ’em—in fact, I like Chinks; they’re such philosophers, patient devils, they—they—yes—intrigue me—they appeal to me in some peculiar way. And as a rule they like me too.’” I paused. “Did you get all that?”
“Yeah, I’m entering the high spots. Yin Yi ought to hand this ticket down to his grandchildren.”
“Well,” Rand went on ruthlessly, “then Kenwood said that Yin Yi was in a position to do us a lot of injury in case he sued us—the publicity and newspaper sob stories, you know. The which I later confirmed. Then he told how he had learned that he hadn’t lost that ad—the gravestone ad, that is—on a supposed hundred-M run. That a defective electro had saved him from a $1600 loss. Tickled stiff, he was. And then—let’s see? Yes—he said: ‘Then I did some hard thinking. Here, we’ve run along beautifully all—all these months—without any trouble’—no, that wasn’t the phrase he used; he said, instead: ‘never hitting a single snag or catching a dose of publicity of any sort; and one poor Chink’—no, he called him ‘one poor devil of a Chink’—‘and one poor devil of a Chink’ he said, ‘gets accidentally into our smooth-running machinery—and hurts himself—and thus us.’ And—let’s see—yes—he said: ‘So I said to myself, says I: Having saved a neat chunk of money,’ etc., etc. ‘Thanks to that electro,’ etc.—‘and being just about to expand in New York as well’ etc. etc.—‘if David brings home the bacon, I’m going to pay the Chink off’—yes—‘his whole $500 loss’—he stated that specifically, O’Rourke—‘and consider it cheap’.”
Rand paused.
“And it was after I told him that it really was cheap—that $500 was less than a third of his month’s takings—that the said ‘Virtue’—yes—‘virtue is always rewarded!’ And pointed out how he got back the old advertiser for that 2nd cover. And that good order in Topeka. And said that the Chinese fellow was his lucky fetish now. And then—let’s see—yes—it was then he called over to Miss Creston for some hundreds and five hundreds she had for him. Of course he knew at the time he had a meeting with Yin Yi for tonight—but neither of us—Miss Creston nor I, that is—knew that. At any rate, he added the money she gave him, to what he already had. That’s all—oh—no—here’s one more thing.”
“Shoot the works,” O’Rourke ordered whimsically.
“I said—I said: ‘Jack, you’ve got enough there to pay off a dozen Chinamen!’
“And he said—let’s see—yes—‘God forbid. The one doesn’t worry me —he’s my lucky talisman now!—but a dozen would.’ And went on counting to seventeen hundred—and got weary of his own money. And that’s all,” I finished.
“Well you’ve said enough,” O’Rourke commented, “to file Yin Yi’s card with Joan of Arc’s and some of them other famous Martians of history that got a right royal framing! Nothing else for me to ask, I guess. Unless—well, let’s see—Kenwood was a bit sweet on your Creston girl—at least he musta been if, as you told me, he wanted to marry her. Now Yin Yi didn’t make goo-goo eyes at—”
“No, he didn’t,” Rand said wearily. “I kidded her about that very thing myself. Asked her outright, in fact, if Yin Yi made love to her. And she said that Kenwood stepped out once while Yin was there—and she tried to be nice to him—but that he only scowled at her.”
Rand paused, and finished:
“No, O’Rourke, I’ll stake my life—from what I know of Jack Kenwood—that had Yin Yi stayed in town and really gone there tonight, he’d have been paid off—and off in good humor too. For Kenwood was in the best of humor—every way around the board. Lady Luck was just beaming on him this week.”
“Well, between you an’ me tonight, Rand, Yin owes us plenty. And you say the girl heard the whole conversation, too?”
“Every word of it.”
“Couldn’t be better. I’ll read off these notes to her tomorrow, and she can check affirmatives for everything she recalls.”
They were both silent now. And O’Rourke spoke.
“And what,” he said, “before I hang up—shall we make Yin do for us—his saviors? Model us in wax?”
“God forbid!” was Rand’s answer. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ll be content to have the best Chinese dinner that can be bought in Chinatown.”
“I likewise,” said O’Rourke. “I’ll go down to his cell now—and tell him that he’s going to be our host! What day will suit ye?”
CHAPTER XVI
“Your Announcer Speaking.”
Sebastien Zing, squatting deeply in the huge sheepskin-lined bag with which each member of the Elliott Muncibar Tibet-bound party was provided, huddled even tighter in it, there in the midday encampment at Pass 171, in the Himalayas. The noonday tea would soon be passed about by the cook Fung Soo, and he, Sebastien Zing, would, he knew, then be feeling more cheerful.
In view of the fact that it would be another month before the party could possibly make Tibet—and that its single short-wave sending radio, by which it could telegraph back to civilization, was completely and entirely out of commission, Sebastien Zing should have felt exceedingly lonely as well as a bit cheerless. But no—the compact 14-tube radio in the ground in front of him was at least bringing in the jolly strains of a most jazzy orchestra, clear from Shanghai.
But now the music came to a stop, and a man’s voice—a bit British in enunciation, but quite American in its choice of words—spoke from the tiny box.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” it said, “you have been listening to the Royal Scots Band, in the Chung Sung Luncheon Club of the International Settlement, Shanghai. Which club—thanks to the generosity of Mr. Chung Sung—is also radio station EW-18. And before putting on the air that marvelous little London tap dancer, Patricia O’Hearn, I want to give you all a most interesting announcement that is right now being carried—according to the classification under which it had just come to the Shanghai office of the Amalgamated News Service—in thousands of extra newspapers in far-off America where, of course, at this moment it is approximately midnight. That is, it is now 1 a.m. in New York, 9 p.m. in San Francisco—and exactly midnight in Chicago, the locale of the news in this particular news item.”
