The Fate Joss

CHAPTER XV THE MANDARIN’S GUESTS

HARRY VINCENT opened his eyes and blinked in bewilderment. He was conscious of strange surroundings and the scene seemed hazy. Walls of red and gold vied in visual conflict beneath mellow light. Staring across the room, Harry saw Cliff Marsland stirring upon a couch. Cliff, too, was waking.

Glancing about amid the subdued glow, Harry found his thoughts reverting to last night’s episode. He remembered the capture at the hands of Doctor Roy Tam; he recalled the matted floor of the pitch-dark room. Then he recollected the advent of Noy Dow and Loy Ming; the light that the man had turned on to reveal a barren room.

Could this be the same place, transformed? This room was square; but its walls were gayly colored. It had no windows; only a single door, yet that was faced with brass instead of wood. The floor was thickly tufted, not bare except for mats which served as resting places. As for the mats themselves, they had changed into luxurious couches, one for each of the two occupants.

That slow walk to the tea chests; the sleep oblivion that had followed it; the promises that Noy Dow had spoken — all drifted through Harry’s brain. Realization followed. He knew where he and Cliff must be. This was the promised destination, the home of the mandarin, Shan Kwan.

Cliff was propping himself on one elbow. He grinned at Harry, proving that he, too, had guessed their new location. Both men were fully dressed save for their coats, vests and shoes. Rising from their couches, they found those garments resting on quaint taborets.

“How do we get out of here?” questioned Cliff.

“Try the gong,” suggested Harry, indicating the center of the brass door, which was shaped like a rounded bell target. “That’s a hammer, there, isn’t it?”

The latter object was hanging by the door. Cliff went over, examined it; then used the hammer to clang against the brazen circle. He stepped back as the door clicked. A bowing Chinaman appeared as the portal slid open.

THIS fellow was clad in yellow robes with crimson trimmings. He must have been a chief steward or some such officer, for when he clapped his hands and babbled in Chinese, scurrying footsteps answered. Two lesser Chinamen appeared carrying bowls and towels. They set these objects on taborets and went away, to return soon afterward carrying teakwood chairs.

The bowing steward motioned for Harry and Cliff to seat themselves. The servants produced razors and brushes. The guests removed their neckties and the two Chinamen proceeded to act as barbers. Harry grinned at Cliff through a wealth of foamy lather.

“That sleep helped the whiskers grow,” chuckled Harry. “This shave is going to feel good. I guess we’ll be in for breakfast next. I won’t feel sorry.”

“I’m mighty hungry,” returned Cliff. “I guess it must be the middle of the morning. Say,” — he raised his head to address the steward — “you tellee timee? Gottee watchee? Clockee?”

The robed man bowed, apparently understanding. He produced a massive gold timepiece and held it so both could see. Cliff noted that it was quarter after nine. With a relieved smile, he settled back to let the Chinese barber complete the shave.

Harry, too, was pleased. He knew that the tea chests were to have been removed very early. They had probably been taken away by half past seven and the trip here must have been a short one. A few hours of stretched slumber had apparently served to counteract the kinks caused by huddling in the tea chests. Harry was feeling quite limber; and Cliff looked the same.

Shan Kwan had been fully thoughtful of his guests’ comfort. It was not long before Cliff and Harry were following the steward along a passage, en route to meet the mandarin. They noted the mellow light of this corridor; and they observed several doors of brass that indicated other rooms like their own.

This corridor was wide; so were others that they entered. Various hallways formed a maze, all softly glowing with indirect lights; and as they proceeded on their way, the two guests realized that they could not hope to find the return path without a guide.

The steward was familiar with this silent, deserted honeycomb of corridors. He brought them finally to one where they observed two wide-swung doors of brass; beyond that portal a room with brazen walls. Golden-hued screens were visible in that room, with a square teakwood pedestal upon the thick-rugged floor. They were passing the tiny temple that Shan Kwan had shown Raymond Roucard.

The guide unlocked the door at the end of this corridor. Harry and Cliff followed him up the stairs. They reached another door; it was opened, and the steward bowed them through. Passing curtains, the guests stopped short, lost in awe of the new room that they had entered.

All about were gorgeous dragon tapestries. Luxurious rugs covered the floor; teakwood furnishings were in abundance. The very center of the room was occupied by a large table, with seats for four. Upon it were plates and goblets of solid gold. Choice fruits and viands were visible, in bowls of the same metal.

A man was seated at the table. He rose as Harry and Cliff entered. His robes were of vivid crimson; his saffron face was wreathed with a pleasant smile. The arrivals needed no introduction. They knew that this must be Shan Kwan the Mandarin.

“I GREET YOU,” stated the host, with a profound bow. “As my guests you are welcome. Pray, join me, and hold repast with Shan Kwan, the Mandarin.”

The guests approached the table; Shan Kwan motioned them to the seats at the sides. A voice came from the doorway; the two men turned about to see Loy Ming enter the room. The mandarin’s niece was smiling her welcome as she took the chair opposite her uncle. When she was seated, Shan Kwan bowed. Harry and Cliff sat down; and Shan Kwan followed suit.

Servants entered promptly. They served the luscious fruits and filled the goblets with liquid from sparkling decanters. As those at the table began to eat, one servant went about igniting incense burners. Pale, tantalizing smoke trailed upward to perfume the air.

While the guests still sniffed the exotic aroma, a sound reached their ears. It was music, from some hidden source, with tones that formed a softened melody.

Plucking of zither vied with tinkling bells; though the harmony seemed to be of mechanical origin, its lightened tones were captivating. Once begun, that music seemed as necessary to the ear as light was to the eye. It formed a gentle rhythm that was soothing, more and more with each succeeding strain.

Shan Kwan spoke. His words were audible above the tinkling tones. His voice became melodious because of its accompaniment. Harry and Cliff listened while they leisurely sipped sweet-tasting liquid and drew long breaths to gain the perfume of the incense.

“My humble abode is yours,” announced Shan Kwan. “You are welcome to remain so long as you may choose. Until now, your stay has been a short one. I should indeed be honored if you decide to prolong your sojourn.

“Yet you may wish to be soon on your way. The day is still young; you may have work to do. So I shall not burden you with long discussion. I shall be brief with the questions that I have to ask; and I shall be pleased to have you answer. Should there be questions that you do not choose to answer, we shall forget them.”

Shan Kwan paused. He stroked his chin in solemn fashion. There was no eagerness in his expression; his manner indicated that he was anxious not to embarrass his guests by asking them too much.

“You were prisoners,” remarked the mandarin, at length. “Prisoners captured by Doctor Tam. Are you in the service of some one who is a foe of Doctor Tam?”

Cliff looked at Harry, who took a sip from his goblet, then replied:

“I do not know. We are in a service, yes; but we had never encountered Tam before. Nor had we ever heard of him.”

“Your services, then, is opposed to those who deal in evil?”

“Yes. That, I suppose, would account for Doctor Tam’s enmity.”

Cliff had finished his goblet; a servant filled it for him, while Harry, as spokesman, waited for Shan Kwan’s next question.

“You have heard,” inquired the mandarin, “of an idol from the temple of Je Ho, called the Fate Joss?”

Harry deliberated, then answered: “Yes, I have heard of it.”

“Could you tell me,” questioned Shan Kwan, “if the Fate Joss is now in the hands of Doctor Tam?”

“That is a difficult question,” replied Harry. “I doubt that Doctor Tam holds the Fate Joss; but—”

“He can’t have it, Harry,” put in Cliff. “You know that Tam could not have guessed that we had come from the—”

Harry gestured for silence. He looked toward Shan Kwan and saw the mandarin gaze reprovingly at Cliff, who subsided promptly. Harry was pleased that he was to continue as spokesman. He finished his goblet and waited for another question.

“What concerns me,” explained the mandarin, “is the safety of the Fate Joss. I am of old China; I grieve that the Joss should have been removed from its temple. I seek to return it thither. That is why I ask these questions.

“Tell me: suppose you should gain the Fate Joss; either you or the one whom you serve. What would you wish to do with it? Would you seek to return it to the land where it belongs?”

Harry smiled as he pondered on the question. Cliff acted as though about to speak; then paused and took another long sip from his goblet. A servant approached with a silver bottle and filled Harry’s empty cup with a gurgling, foamy liquid. Harry toyed with the goblet; then answered:

“I believe so. Yes, I think I would want the Fate Joss to go back to China. Suppose, Shan Kwan, that we depart. By tonight, we shall communicate with you again. Then, perhaps, we may know how much we can tell you.”

Shan Kwan bowed. He waved his hand; the music ceased. The silence seemed to carry a depressing effect; one realized the haunting power of the melody more fully when it had finished. Shan Kwan raised his goblet to the guests. Harry and Cliff did the same. All drank.

Harry noticed a new taste to the liquid in his goblet. The first was sweet; this was tart, but much more pleasing than the other drink. Shan Kwan spoke with a tone of finality.

“You wish to speak with the one you serve,” he nodded. “That will be well. It pleases me. I shall trust in your promise to communicate with me later. Loy Ming, my guests have had repast. You will conduct them—”

SHAN KWAN paused to stare at Harry Vincent. The young man was wavering in his chair. Harry tried to grin; his smile was sickly. Shan Kwan beckoned; two servants aided Harry to his feet.

“I guess — I guess it was that dope from last night,” stammered Harry. “Eating so soon — and drinking something I never had before. I–I feel dizzy—”

Cliff was leaning across the table. He stared at Harry, then turned wildly to Shan Kwan.

“The music!” exclaimed Cliff. “He needs the music! Bring it back — it doesn’t seem right without it—”

Shan Kwan clapped his hands; the music began again, as melodious as before. But it seemed a jangle to Harry; the scent of the incense stifled him. Harry sagged; but as his eyelids dropped, he noted Cliff settling back with an air of contentment.

“You must rest again,” decided Shan Kwan. His voice came hazily to Harry. “Help him to his room; his companion will come for him later.”

Harry tried to protest that he was all right; but words could not reach his lips. He saw Loy Ming arise to lead the way; then the servants supported him toward the stairs. Harry was conscious of the trip down, then through the corridors. It ended in the room where he had awakened. More comfortable, yet still somewhat dizzy, Harry rested.

Long minutes passed. About a quarter hour had elapsed when Cliff entered the room and surveyed his companion with a grin that seemed bleary to Harry. Resting, Harry managed to speak.

“I–I’m pretty dizzy, Cliff. That tart stuff was too strong, I guess. Did — did you have any of it?”

“My drink was sweet,” returned Cliff. “Sweet with sweet music. Perfumed air, the atmosphere of old China — it was swell, Harry, swell!”

“We’ve got to start, Cliff. I — we — both of us have our duty to perform.”

“Don’t worry, Harry. Go back to sleep; that’s what I’m going to do. I’m feeling light; but I’m steady. Plenty steady. We’re all alone here — I had them close the door. Don’t worry, Harry.”

“But unless we go—”

“I fixed it.” Cliff leaned forward and balanced on the edge of Harry’s couch. “Fixed it with the mandarin, see? I knew you weren’t feeling good, so I talked with Shan Kwan.”

“He asked you questions?”

“Not a one. I just told him a few things. Like us being on our way to Scranton. Our having to be back in New York tonight. Said I should have sent a wire — needed to make a complete report—”

“You talked about the Fate Joss?”

“Said I’d seen it once. Told him I guessed it was safe. He and I went into a room where there was a telephone. I called Burbank.”

“With the mandarin there?”

Harry tried to rise from his couch. Cliff chuckled and pushed him back.

“Not a bit of it,” he laughed. “I wrote out what I was going to say. Word for word, so I’d get it straight. I’m feeling woozy, too, eating and drinking on top of that dope. So I fixed it just right. The mandarin went out before I talked to Burbank.”

“He was there until you talked?”

“Just a little while. Had some suggestions; wanted me to write them down. So I could pass them along. I did the rest, Harry, and I burned up what I’d wrote. Burned it up, in with some incense, so nobody would see it. What’s more, I’ve forgotten it already, most of it. Everything’s fixed swell, Harry. We stay right here and get a little sleep. Then we’ll move along, unless we get some word from — unless we get some word.”

“What time is it now, Cliff?”

Cliff looked at his watch; he shook his head and dropped it back in his pocket. He reached for Harry’s watch, glanced at it and let it slide back.

“Both of them stopped,” he declared. “Don’t matter, though. It can’t be after ten o’clock. Two hours yet to noon, Harry. You take a nap; I’ll do the same.”

Harry settled back and closed his eyes. Cliff moved slowly across the room, dropped on his own couch and stretched out with a weary sigh.

“It’s all right, Harry,” Harry heard him say. “All right, old top; everything’s been fixed. Fixed just right — so’s we can take a little rest. Fixed just right—”

Cliff’s phrases slowed; they became a mumble. Harry, however, heard no more of them. His dizziness had faded; reassured by Cliff’s statements, Harry had dropped off to sleep.

Shan Kwan’s guests had enjoyed the mandarin’s hospitality and had chosen to remain within these comfortable walls.