The Chinese Tapestry

CHAPTER IV. THE DEAD MAN SPEAKS

IT was exactly five minutes before nine o’clock when Hype Mellick made his secret telephone call to Zack Ruggey, from the Club Monterey. The precise time of eight fifty-five was registered elsewhere, in a place where many eyes could see it: namely, upon the huge clock dial of the San Francisco Ferry Terminal.

The fog was thickest near the waterfront, yet even its swirling density could not obscure the tower light above the ferry building. A great, glowing disk, its face marked by two clearly pointing hands, the giant clock shone like a perpetual beacon.

A young man was glancing upward at the big clock as he hurried across the car tracks at the foot of Market Street. Noting the time over his shoulder, he stopped and looked about to note trolley cars that were placarded with unfamiliar signs. He was a stranger to San Francisco, this chap, and that fact only added to the confusion of his hurry.

Lights from the ferry building showed the young man’s face to be a pleasant one. His eyes were friendly, although they carried a bewildered blink. His shocky, light-brown hair peeked from beneath his weather-streaked felt hat.

He made a somewhat gawky figure because of his tight-fitting topcoat; and his suitcase, which closely resembled an old-fashioned carpet bag, was a final touch that gave him a countrified appearance.

A cruising taxi rolled up. The driver spied the half-bewildered man and shouted “Cab!” The young fellow nodded. The driver stopped and opened the door.

The young man clambered aboard with his carpet bag; then, leaning through the front partition, he unfolded a slip of frayed paper and pointed to a written address.

“This is where I wish to go,” he told the driver, in a deliberate tone. “Make speed, my man, and I shall reimburse you for your effort.”

The driver gulped as he put the cab in motion. He was going to a spot deep in Chinatown, to a house on a steep-pitched street that was almost completely unfrequented by Americans. The taximan knew the address, but never before had he taken a passenger there.

As he sped along, the driver wondered. He had a half guess that the young man might be heading for a secret opium house. The neighborhood was just the sort to bide such a den.

THE trip from the ferry terminal to Chinatown was a rapid one. Looking in his mirror, the taximan could see his passenger’s face when he reached the glare of the quaint Oriental quarter.

The jehu observed a gleam upon the young man’s face; he noted eyes that sparkled, lips that formed a pleased smile as the passenger stared at signs in the Chinese language.

Then came the gloom of a narrow street. The driver jammed the brakes in front of a narrow, grimy-fronted house. The young man stepped from the cab and handed the cabby a two-dollar bill, with an order to keep the change. The driver stared, for the bill was one of an old series, the oversized type no longer issued.

With a glance at the gloomy street, the driver waited no longer. He shoved the cab into gear and headed his vehicle toward the lighted streets.

BACK on the gloomy street, the passenger from the cab had ascended a flight of old wooden steps, to ring a shaky doorbell. Half a minute passed; bolts clicked and the door opened inward. A suspicious, yellow face peered from the house. The young man bowed and spoke words in Chinese. He was admitted.

He entered a dull hall that showed an uncarpeted stairway leading to the second floor. Beyond the steps was a long, ground-floor passage.

The young man looked inquiringly at the suspicious-eyed Chinaman who had admitted him. He began to speak again, in Chinese; but paused when he heard footsteps creaking from the stairs.

Another Celestial was descending. Like the fellow who had answered the door, he had a suspicious gaze. Both Orientals were garbed alike, in black trousers and loose-fitting blouses of the same hue.

The average American would have taken them for brothers; but this visitor was quick to note their facial differences. More than that, he recognized at once that the man on the stairs was the more important of the two.

Again, the young American began to speak in Chinese. This time he addressed the second Chinaman.

The man on the stairs smiled blandly and raised his hand in interruption.

“We speak in English, here,” he declared, in an odd, choppy fashion. “My name is Tsing Chan. This man” — he paused to point to the Celestial who had opened the door — “is Wong Soy. What, may I ask, is your name, sir?”

“I am David Kelroy,” replied the American. “I arrived this evening from Shanghai.”

“You are the one that we expected,” asserted Tsing Chan, solemnly. “Do you have the token that Ku Luan sent you with his letter?”

“It is here.”

Kelroy produced a piece of crimson silk, a square that measured six inches in each direction. It was embroidered with gold design, the center of which formed the representation of a Chinese pagoda. Tsing Chan studied the cloth carefully. David Kelroy watched him.

Wong Soy was edging forward. A change had come upon the suspicious doorman’s expression. His slanty eyes showed eagerness, as they darted glances toward Kelroy.

It was plain that Wong Soy had known only that a visitor was expected; David Kelroy’s name was new to him, and so was that square of embroidered silk that Wong Soy seemed anxious to glimpse.

Tsing Chan was nodding his approval. Wong Soy drew back and stood beside the door. His flicker of eagerness had ended. He seemed indifferent to words that had passed between Tsing Chan and David Kelroy.

“It is well,” said Tsing Chan to the visitor. “Come. Ku Luan awaits you. I, his trusted steward, shall lead you to the room wherein he lies.”

Turning, Tsing Chan pointed to the stairs. David Kelroy ascended and the Chinese steward followed.

Wong Soy remained motionless beside the door. It was not until both had reached the second floor that the doorman indulged in an ugly, gloating leer.

UPSTAIRS, Tsing Chan had turned the knob of a closed door. He started the barrier moving inward; then stepped aside and bowed, as a sign that Kelroy was to enter.

The young man stepped into a small, plainly furnished bedroom. He stopped just beyond the threshold.

Tsing Chan, still in the hallway, drew the door shut, leaving the visitor alone in the little room.

David Kelroy did not hear the click of the closing door. His whole attention was directed elsewhere, toward a cot against the farther wall.

Upon that bed lay the strangest figure that he had ever seen, the shape of a wizened, parchment-faced Chinaman who looked to be a hundred years of age.

Scrawny hands were yellow upon the surface of the bedspread. The withered face, though yellow likewise, had attained a pallor that was indicative of death. As David Kelroy approached, step by step, he became positive that the ancient Chinaman was dead.

Soberly, Kelroy stood above the corpselike form, studying the closed, tight eyelids. He felt the chill that frequently comes to one who stands in the presence of death. He was fixed to the spot, staring at that scrawny, worn-out body from which all semblance of life had departed.

Then came horror; an emotion more vivid than the awe of death. As Kelroy gazed, his own eyes seemed to produce a life-giving power.

Ku Luan’s eyelids flickered; they opened, to reveal a glassy stare. Parched lips wavered; at first they delivered only a gasp. Then came crackly tones, as though a voice from within the corpse was speaking:

“I am Ku Luan.”

DAVID KELROY felt his own hands twitch nervously as his ears heard the statement. Rigid, he could only stare, in hopeless disbelief; yet the words that reached him implanted themselves within his brain.

“I awaited your coming.” Ku Luan’s voice was mechanical. “I saw the approach of death. I accepted death that I might rest. I have saved life’s final precious moments, that I might speak to you.”

Kelroy nodded. Feebly, he tried to speak his understanding. Ku Luan’s ears must have detected the incoherent attempt, for the old man’s voice proceeded with its crackle.

“I am of old China,” declared the living dead man. “When I came from China, I brought wealth. My treasure is safe. I kept it for my nephew, who dwells in Peking. I believed him to be one who sought to restore old China.”

A pause. Thin eyelids closed; then reopened.

“My nephew, Tyan Li, has failed my trust,” resumed Ku Luan. “The treasure shall not be his. It shall be yours, David Kelroy, because your father and I were friends. To you shall belong the message that I prepared for my traitorous nephew, Tyan Li.”

Pausing again, Ku Luan tried to raise one withered hand. At last succeeding, he pointed to a cabinet at the foot of the cot.

David Kelroy managed motion of his own. He went to the cabinet and drew open a small drawer which Ku Luan had apparently indicated. Within the drawer, he found an iron ring, from which dangled six huge brass keys, all of more than eight inches in length.

Though Ku Luan’s fixed eyes had remained upward, the Chinaman’s ears could catch the jangle of the brass. As Kelroy approached with the keys, Ku Luan spoke again.

“Go to my storeroom,” ordered Ku Luan. “Use one key to enter. Use another to unlock the great iron chest. Remove the teakwood box that bears the silver dragon. Within the teakwood box you will find my message to Tyan Li. The message which belongs to you instead.

“One man alone was destined to aid the carrier of that message. The destined man was Tobias Eldreth, whom I knew when he lived in Peking. Tobias Eldreth is dead; but he has grandsons. They can aid in his stead. Take the teakwood box to them.

“Tell my steward, Tsing Chan, to show you the way to the storeroom. Go there alone. Do not return within these walls once you have gained the teakwood box. Tell no one — not even Tsing Chan — why you are going to the storeroom. Say only that it is my order.

“That is all. Yet I still have strength of life. Call Tsing Chan, that I may speak of matters which concern him only. Go. Call Tsing Chan. He awaits outside this room.”

Kelroy thrust the brass keys into his pocket. He went to the closed door and opened it. He saw Tsing Chan, standing with bowed head. Kelroy beckoned to the steward. Tsing Chan entered the bedroom and approached his master.

Again, Kelroy heard Ku Luan speak, this time in Chinese. Knowing the language, Kelroy quickly closed the door and remained in the outside hall, that he might not be a party to this conversation.

MINUTES passed. The door opened. Kelroy faced Tsing Chan. The Chinese steward motioned.

Kelroy entered the bedroom, with Tsing Chan, he approached Ku Luan’s cot. The ancient man’s eyes were still open; his lips were moving slightly.

As the watchers stood attentive, the lip motion ceased. A strange sightlessness disturbed the glassy eyes.

What little light they had held departed.

Tsing Chan stood in solemn silence; David Kelroy likewise. Chinese and American, both were paying tribute to the memory of one Ku Luan.

For that last departing gleam had left no doubt in their individual minds. Unspeaking, both men had recognized that Ku Luan’s ordeal had ended.

The living dead man was no more. The Shadow, when he came in the guise of Doctor Roy Tam, would be too late to hold speech with Ku Luan.