# Weird Tales/Volume 38/Issue 1/The Long Still Streets of Evening

By
Frank
Owen
TheLong Still Streets of Evening
Heading by A. R. Tilburne
Before ringing the doorbell of the great house on the Avenue, Ives Cranston gazed furtively about him. The street was almost deserted although the evening was still young. Gay automobiles hummed past and occasional buses lumbered down toward the Square. Across the street was Central Park like a peaceful green carpet spread out in the throbbing turmoil of the city.
Ives Cranston was fastidiously dressed, not flashily but in perfect taste. He was tall and rather good-looking. Handsome would be too strong a word but he was not unattractive.
Again he gazed furtively up and down the street. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Evidently he had arrived at some sort of a decision, for he rang the bell. It boomed out sonorously through the rooms as though searching for the dwellers hidden beyond those massive walls.
Almost immediately the door was opened by a Chinese servant who was attired in ​Occidental formal evening dress. He bowed low as he bade the visitor to enter.
A suggestion of burning pungent incense made fragrant the great halls.
"I believe the Honorable Chang Kien is expecting me," began Cranston.
"My master is in the library," was the reply.
"Will you acquaint him with the fact that Ives Cranston of Chicago awaits the pleasure of an interview?"
"My master has instructed me to lead you into his presence at once." The man although undoubtedly Chinese spoke as easily and as fluently as though he were native-born.
He led the way down a wide spacious hall, a hall carpeted in velvet and dimly lighted by iridescent yellow-orange lamps. At the end of the hall was a doorway hidden by soft rich curtains. The servant, whose name was Shung Kung, held the draperies aside as Ives Cranston entered. The room in which he now found himself was very long and very wide. At one end was a massive open fireplace, a fireplace so huge that it seemed capable of holding a trunk of an entire tree at one time. There was no fire burning although a great log lay upon the irons ready to be consumed by the flames whenever necessity demanded. The room was cozy and comfortable, there were many books spread about on the tables and also many lamps. Near every chair there was a lamp and near every lamp there were a quantity of books. Scattered about the room were vases filled with flowers, wistaria, roses, carnations and sweet jasmine, whose fragrance hung like a caress on the air.
Chank Kien sat in a great armchair before the fireplace. He rose as Ives Cranston entered. Cranston reflected that he had seldom seen a man so handsome despite his evident Mongolian extraction. His face although it had a yellow-olive cast, was almost white. His lips were well-formed, well-formed also was his aquiline nose but it was his splendid eyes that were his chief attraction. They were dark, as dark as night shadows but they were more brilliant than crystals in sunlight. They were extremely expressive, reflecting his every mood except when he did not wish his thoughts to be known. Then the fires died down in them, as though at the command of his will they had been banked, leaving them sombre and brooding. He was faultlessly attired in a Tuxedo suit. His hands were thin and expressive. On one finger he wore an amethyst which glowed like a purple sunset. In his own country he was a powerful mandarin.
After greetings had been exchanged, Chang Kien motioned his guest to be seated.
"I was just drinking a cup of pearl-orchid scented tea," he said, "perhaps you might care to join me. There is no more charming method of binding friendship than for companions to quaff tea together."
As he spoke he poured out a tiny cupful of the amber fluid.
"Small though the cup is," he mused, "the strength it contains is vast."
Ives Cranston lifted the fragile cup to his lips and sipped the tea. It was odd, slightly sweet in taste but not unpleasant. As Cranston slowly consumed the beverage Chang Kien plunged into a discussion of literature which was distinctly charming. His enunciation was perfect and the tone of his voice was like rare music. He talked of the charm of single words, of groups of words and tiny verses and quoted snatches of songs from old Chinese poets.
The wind blows. The inn is filled with the scent of willow flowers.
She sits all night by the cold lamp until the moon melts into the dawn.
The sages and worthies of old times Have left not a sound, Only those who drank Have achieved lasting fame.
So he quoted on and on, bits of verse, broken bits of sentences that aroused pleasurable thoughts within him. At first Ives Cranston was delighted with his drolleries but as the hours passed he commenced to grow uneasy.
Finally, when for a moment his host lapsed into silence, he said abruptly, "I could listen to you endlessly were it not for the fact that I am pressed for time. Literature has always appealed to me, and poetry I have always adored. But I have come ail ​the way from Chicago to behold the Gobi Diamond which you have advertised for sale throughout the country. Legends about it are cropping up everywhere, even in the wind that blows through the wheatlands."
Chang Kien rose to his feet. He was all apologies. "Forgive me for forgetting your purpose here," he said, "but when my mind is plunged in literature it is as though I walk in a sweet dream. Lovely words are jewels more gorgeous than any precious stone. They enthrall me far more greatly. A stone delights the material eye, gorgeous words appeal to the spiritual."
As he spoke he crossed the room to a wall-safe, a simple affair which is customarily builded into the better-class houses. In a few moments he returned with a red velvet box.
Without a word he drew from it an enormous diamond which he placed upon the table before him where the electric lamps gleamed upon it, causing it to flash and scintillate with a wondrous fire. It was blue-white like moonlight sparkling on a blue lake.
Ives Cranston gasped. He took a step forward. His face was flushed. It seemed hard for him to breathe as though he were suffocated by its magnificence. His hands trembled. They fluttered nervously about the diamond, afraid to touch it, yet caught in the web of its witchery.
"Examine it," suggested Chang Kien, "you can better then judge of its perfection." He was perfectly composed. Once more he seated himself in the great armchair. He sipped languidly at his tea. He paid little attention to the diamond. He thought of the written picture of Ho Shao-Chi:
The single butterfly comes— Goes— Comes— Returning as though urged by love.
The tea in his cup was cold, so he took a fresh cup and filled it from the pot that had been singing softly, kept warm by an alcohol lamp.
And now Ives Cranston held the glowing blue diamond in his hands. He caressed it as though it were alive. He crooned softly to it. The expression of his face was like that of one hypnotized.
Chang Kien gazed at him and smiled. It was foolish to go into such ecstasies over a jewel. Now a perfect quatrain or an unpublished poem by the immortal Li T'ai-Po would be something quite different. But a jewel that contained no music.
He was interrupted in his musings by the voice of Ives Cranston. Chang Kien was a man of moods. His mind was like the sky, ever-changing, ever-charming. But his opinions varied upon occasion. At the moment his mind was filled with wondrous poetry. At other times art and prose held him equally enthralled.
"What is the price of this Jewel?" asked Cranston hoarsely.
"How can one put a price on perfection?" replied Chang Kien quizzically. "In all the world there is no other stone exactly identical to that. Jewels are like people. No two are alike. Pearls, for instance, can be matched as to size and color and fire, but they are not duplicates any more than are two men of similar appearance. I do not say that this is the most marvelous diamond in the world, but such as it is, there is no other to absolutely match it."
Ives Cranston seemed surprised. "You adveritsed the gem for sale," he said. "Throughout the length and breadth of the country strange tales and legends are being circulated about it. Its fame could not be greater if you employed a press-agent. Yet now you refuse to set a price upon it."
Chang Kien smiled. "I advertised it in twelve leading cities," he explained. "An art treasure of this sort cannot be disposed of by confining oneself to a single locality. I have had a constant stream of collectors to view it. Some have come all the way from the Pacific Coast."
"If you refuse to put a price upon the diamond," persisted Cranston, "how do you expect to sell it?"
"Merely by bids," was the reply. "If you care you may give the matter thought and mail me a bid. If it is satisfactory I shall reply. If not, the interlude will be over. I sometimes wonder after all whether I would not be disappointed if I succeeded in finding a purchaser."
​Long after Cranston had departed, Chang Kien sat alone in the great room upstairs in which he slept. It was a room of austere simplicity, all the draperies were of purple and dark blue. There were a few chairs scattered about, a great bed and an enormous library table well stacked with books. Chang Kien considered that a house only was cozily furnished when there were books in every room. He switched off the electric lights and seated himself in a comfortable armchair. Lazily he lighted a cigarette. It was the hour of the day which he enjoyed most. Each night he sat alone in the darkness before retiring. He liked to review the events of the day. Usually they were worth musing over. His existence had always been rather venturesome and exciting. He loved to study faces. He thought of the people who had recently visited his house to view the diamond. They had come from all walks of life, all sorts and conditions of men and several women, enough material for a hundred dramas. He thought of Gray Anthony and of Ives Cranston. There could be no doubt that they knew each other. At least Cranston knew Anthony, and yet he had denied it. Odd. But then Chang Kien had lived in China, in the Gobi Desert where strange, unbelievable things frequently happen. He had schooled himself to be surprised, to be shocked at nothing. On the other hand he trusted no man. How many friends he had he neither knew nor cared. His sole consideration was the exact number of his enemies. That was a problem worthy of reflection.
How long he remained sitting in the chair he knew not. It was a moment of complete relaxation. He was off guard. He was resting. If the mask slipped from his face what did it matter? All of us wear masks. Expressions never reflect the true man. But they are as necessary as one's clothes to hide one's nakedness.
He had been dozing but now he was fully awake in an instant. He always slept like a soldier prepared for battle. The thing that aroused him was a feeling that someone was moving about downstairs. He did not know whether he had actually heard a sound. Nor did he care. He had a sort of sixth sense that warned him of danger. Perhaps it was purely natural, since many years of his life had been spent in desert places. He knew that his faithful valet, Shung Kung had retired. They had come upstairs together. Shung Kung was more than a servant. He was a trusted companion, a friend. His faithfulness had been tested time and time again. He was the partner in all his master's numerous enterprises.
Chang Kien listened, every nerve tense. There was scarcely any sound but still he knew that someone had stealthily entered the house. Slowly, cautiously he rose to his feet. He was no longer smoking. His cigarette had long since been consumed. And he was glad. The faint aroma on the air might be perceptible to a keen sense even above the pungent fragrance of the incense.
Fortunately the door of his room was still open, so there was no danger of its creaking. He slipped off his slippers. Barefooted he crept stealthily out into the hall. He was unarmed, nor did he make any attempt to secure a weapon. Step by step he crept down the stairs. They were carpeted in rich velvet, heavily padded. Even had he worn shoes his footfalls could not have been heard. At last he arrived at the library door and peered eagerly within, taking every precaution not to be seen. Before the wall safe was Ives Cranston. He had opened the safe and was just drawing the diamond from it as Chang Kien beheld him. He carried no light for the moon was at the full. It flooded the room in a soft, silvery radiance, at least that part of the room that held the wall-safe. It was as though the very perfection of the night had decided to help in the robbery. Chang Kien watched Cranston only for a second. Then he made his way slowly back upstairs to his room. There he found Shung Kung awaiting him. Shung whispered to him softly as he entered. In a few brief words his master informed him of what he had perceived.
"Subterfuge," he murmured, "is a terrible thing." Thus speaking, he sighed and lay down upon the bed.
Meanwhile Ives Cranston had secured the diamond. He left through the open window by which he had entered. He had found it unlatched when he arrived, so it was not necessary to try to pick the door-lock. He was jubilant. The gorgeous Gobi Diamond was his at last. It was worth coming from ​Pittsburgh to secure. Of course, he had said that he was from Chicago. It would never do in an affair of this sort to give one's real home town.
A few moments later he was on the street again. For safety's sake he decided to cut through Central Park. Perhaps he could find a taxi. He had hoped to have a taxi waiting for him. But at the last minute he had decided that to do so would be too risky. As a rule he worked alone. No one had anything on him. In Pittsburgh he was known as a wealthy stockbroker. He was well-respected well-liked. His friends were numerous. They imagined he was extremely rich and he was. After all is not a clever mind far greater in value than mere money? A taxi was ambling past. He hailed it. It was fortunate that it was empty. He directed the chauffeur to drive him to the Pennsylvania Depot. He had decided to take the first train out of town no matter where it went. The main thing now was to get away. After that he would hurry to Pittsburgh as quickly as possible. Thus musing, he stepped into the taxi. To his consternation he discovered that it was not vacant. He had made a frightful mistake. On this one night of all nights when he wished to avoid meeting anyone he had blundered into a situation which necessitated quick thinking. The occupant of the cab was an old man, a rather tiny old man with bushy white hair. Most of the time only his white hair was visible but whenever they passed a street lamp his jovial face loomed into view.
"Pardon me," spluttered Ives Cranston. "I thought this taxi was empty."
The old man laughed heartily. "It practically is," he chuckled, "for I am as good as nobody. A garrulous old man whom no one takes seriously." He seized the arm of Cranston. "You must stay," he went on quickly. His voice was decisive. "After midnight all men are brothers, whether they be kings or thieves. At that time the long still streets of evening take on a hush of magic. All honest folks are sleeping. Only millionaires, beggars and milkmen are prowling about. Where do you wish to go? I'll take you anywhere you say? If you wish I will join you on a night's adventure. I am cursed with insomnia. For years it has clutched at my health. But now I have mastered it. The secret of overcoming insomnia is never to go to bed."
Ives Cranston sat in his corner. He was very dejected. How was he to rid himself of this garrulous old gentleman? He was probably mildly mad but harmless. At another time he would have been amused by the old man's prattle but not while he carried the wondrous Gobi Diamond in his pocket. Not even Scheherazade herself could have interested him at that moment.
He was in a quandary but abruptly he decided that he would be affable. The old man was harmless. To insist on getting out of the taxi might create a scene. He was unable to gauge the exact degree of the old man's mania.
"I wish to go to the Pennsylvania Depot," he said. "If you insist on going out of your way to accommodate me, you may do so."
The old man called through the speaking-tube to the chauffeur. He had hard work making himself understood.
"I guess," he drawled, "you can't get a license to be a chauffeur unless you are slightly deaf. Anyway they all seem to be."
He drew a couple of cigars from his pocket. "Smoke?" he asked laconically. "These are excellent. A friend sent me them from Tampa. They are the only things from Florida that aren't over-rated."
Mechanically Ives Cranston took the proffered cigar. As he lighted it, he admitted that its excellence could not be denied. Never had he smoked a cigar that was more pungent to the taste. After all the evening's work was not ending in failure. Perhaps this was even a better way to get to the station than that which he had planned. The little old gentleman sitting beside him, like an old jovial grandfather, was the very best sort of a companion to direct suspicion from him. He drew on his cigar. It was surprising how rapidly it was burning away. Within the cab it was delightfully comfortable. The chauffeur was driving rather slowly as though he were drowsy. Cranston yawned. He was drowsy too. Time after time he yawned and once he actually dozed. For a moment he forgot where he was. This would never do. A fortune depended on his keeping awake. Yet the drowsiness persisted. His eyes kept closing as though there were leaden weights on ​the lids. A delightful feeling of contentment crept over him. If only he could sleep. Sweet dreams beckoned. More than anything else in the world he desired sleep, that is more than anything but the Gobi Diamond. Surreptitiously he felt in his inner pocket to see if the diamond were still there. He sighed with relief as his hand encountered it. Now he could sleep, now he could rest. Even his memory was breaking away from its moorings like a launch in a typhoon. He forgot everything, forgot his predicament, forgot the necessity to escape, forgot Chang Kien, yes, even the diamond itself. Tranquil sleep stole over him. The curtain of unconsciousness softly descended. The last thing he was conscious of was the calm even voice of the old man. "In the long still streets of evening anything and everything may happen."
When Ives Cranston awakened he was lying in a soft bed in an attractive room. The sun streamed in through a stained glass window. The room was not elaborately furnished but it was wonderfully restful. So quiet and peaceful it was, it urged one to slumber. He drew his hand across his eyes, striving to collect his memory. He felt remarkably well but all the happenings of the night preceding seemed like a dream. Suddenly he thought of the Gobi Diamond. He sprang from the bed. He was extremely nervous as he took his coat from a chair and felt in the inside pocket. After that he breathed easier. He still had the diamond. He had no inkling as to where he was, nor how he had gotten there. Although the room was serene he realized that his position was precarious to the extreme. Nevertheless, he was able to think clearly.
He walked into the adjoining bathroom and washed and brushed his hair. Then very deliberately he completed dressing. He was in no hurry. In fact, he rather hesitated to open the door that led from the room. What lay behind it? It was a hard question. Even after he had finished dressing, he was loathe to leave. He sat down on a couch. The climax of this particular adventure was upon him.
Even as he thus reflected, the door opened slowly. He gazed at it ominously until it had opened wide. Then a man appeared upon the threshold. He advanced into the room all smiles. But Cranston did not smile. His tongue and lips grew dry, for the figure that approached was that of Chang Kien.
"I came quietly," he said, "so that I would not disturb you if you were still sleeping. He who arouses a guest is more of a scoundrel than he who destroys a wondrous symphony. You must be hungry. I will order your breakfast to be served right here."
He walked across the room and pressed a button in the wall. A few minutes later Shung Kung appeared carrying a tray. On the tray were toast, a plate of cold chicken and a pot of coffee.
"For my own breakfast," mused Chang Kien, "I always take tea but I am aware that in this country coffee is given preference. Eat and may you enjoy your breakfast. While you do so I will read a bit."
As he spoke he drew a slender volume from his pocket.
"This little book," he continued, "is a history of the haikai form of poetry. It is Japanese and although I prefer the poems of China, still I like to read the poetry of other countries for comparative purposes. Chinese poetry is the oldest in the world. It has mellowed like old wine with age. Japanese poetry is mostly imitative. Its roots are buried in old China. Still there are gems in the literature of Japan which are superb in their loveliness. What could be more exquisite than:
"Thought I, the fallen flowers Are returning to their branch; But lo! they were butterflies."
I think of all Japanese poems I like best the haikais of Matsuro Basho:
"I come weary, In search of an inn— Ah! these wistaria flowers."
One would have to journey long to find aught that exceeds them in perfection."
Although Ives Cranston had no appetite, he ate mechanically. He felt as though an unseen net was tightening about him. Chang Kien could not have been more cordial, but it was unnatural. Under the circumstances ​he would have preferred him to show extreme anger.
At last he finished eating. The last drop of coffee had been consumed. He put down his cup and gazed questioningly at the face of Chang Kien. But Chang was unperturbed. He continued reading:
"Between the hedges of two gardens Floating, swaying, floating, A willow."
Ives Cranston could stand the silence no longer.
"Would I be presuming," he asked coldly, "if I asked how I came to be here?"
Chang Kien laid aside his book. He smiled. "As to that," he said, "would I be presuming if I asked how the Gobi Diamond came to be in the inner pocket of your coat? We will answer questions in chronological order. Since the diamond disappeared prior to your entrance into the room, I do not think I am at fault in requesting some slight explanation."
Ives Cranston seemed confused. What answer could he give? It was bold-faced robbery and he had been caught. There was nothing to say and so he said nothing.
"You are guilty of sundry crimes," mused Chang Kien. "To enter unlawfully the home of a man with whom you have shaken hands in friendship is a grievous thing."
"What are you going to do?" asked Cranston defiantly.
"I scarcely know," replied Chang Kien. "Shall I ring for more coffee or perhaps you would prefer a cigarette? It has always seemed to me that the world would progress if wars could be fought in gentlemanly fashion."
"I want nothing," snapped Cranston.
"That is the strangest request I have ever had made to me," drawled Chang Kien. "Usually my acquaintances desire all sorts of favors and expensive extravagances. I have often thought that a man must indeed be fortunate to be able to afford many friends. Personally I prefer enemies. They are less expensive and far more interesting and diverting. So much for preliminaries. Now as to the matter in hand. There are several roads down which I might proceed. You will perhaps pardon my bluntness but you have robbed my house. You have taken from me a rare possession—the Gobi Diamond. Besides which you have given one more jolt to my faith in human nature. I could have you arrested."
"Nothing of the sort," declared Cranston. "While it is true I am here in this room you cannot prove that I have robbed you of anything. What proof is there that I took the Gobi Diamond? It would be your word against mine. I am a citizen, a respected member of society."
"Being a member of society can scarcely be taken as a recommendation," said Chang Kien. "As to proof, I saw you take the diamond from the safe. So did the faithful, honest Shung Kung. The little old man with whom you rode about the city last evening is a famous and shrewd detective. He brought you to this house. He saw the Gobi Diamond in your pocket. He knew that it belonged to me, for it was not the first time he had seen it. I assure you I am violating no trust when I say that the old gentleman was employed to guard the diamond. Who shall find fault with him simply because his methods of working are slightly different to the established? I do not wish to spoil your day. The sun is far too beautiful, the air too fresh. There is poetry in the air. This morning I do believe a lark was singing in my garden. Yet it seems to me the evidence against you is very strong. I have no doubt that you are well thought of in Pittsburgh."
"Who said I came from Pittsburgh?" snapped Cranston.
"Pardon me if I presume," was the reply. "I know you stated you were from Chicago. However a gentleman from Chicago as a rule does not have his clothes made in Pittsburgh. Your hat too has a Pittsburgh label. However it is of no consequence. It would be quite possible, I imagine, for a man to be a gentleman in either city. In my own country, I am respected. I trust I show no conceit when I state that my fame has spread throughout the Gobi Desert. In my own country I am a magistrate. Countless are the trials at which I have officiated. I rather pride myself on my fairness. Justice to me is a divine thing. I am rather vain and for that reason I believe I will settle the present ​case to my own liking. You have caused me much worry. You have made me lose an entire night's sleep. This rest is lost. I shall never be able to reclaim it. If you have any suggestions to make I will listen to them. But bear this in mind. You will not escape until the scales of justice have swung into balance. The law must take its course."
Ives Cranston could not help admiring the suave manner of Chang Kien. He knew that he had met defeat. He also realized that if this affair ever became known he would lose all the prestige which for years he had labored so carefully to build up.
"Let us say," he suggested, "that for last night I simply rented the diamond. For its use I am willing to pay. What do you think about a thousand dollars?"
"Not much," said Chang Kien curtly.
"This is an affair which I detest being mixed up in. To a great degree I feel that it is beneath me. You cannot bargain with me. My price is ten thousand dollars. Nothing less. And permit me to say, all things considered, you are getting off rather cheaply."
Ives Cranston gasped. "I have not that amount of money with me."
"I am sure of that," was the reply, "but I think under the circumstances I will permit you to leave the house to get it. You have an account in a New York bank not far from this house. If you take a taxi it will not take you long. I do not think that you will endeavor to get away. You would not in any case. Even at this moment, a taxi is waiting for you at the door."
As Chang Kien spoke he led the way downstairs.
"I will wait for you in the library," he said. "I shall read a bit more of Matsura Basho while I do so."
After Cranston had gone Chang Kien settled down in a great armchair. He would liked to have seen Cranston's face when he found the jovial old friend of the past evening waiting to share once more his taxi with him.
In less than half an hour Cranston was back again. Now his expression was as calm and serene as that of Chang Kien. He too was able to control his emotions. He was a born gambler, a good loser. He bowed down before genius that was greater than his own. He counted out the money.
"It is all there," he said slowly. "And now since our business is over I suppose you have no objection to my leaving."
"None whatsoever," smiled Chang Kien. "Whenever you are in New York I should be charmed to have you visit me."
Cranston was anxious to get away. He still had the Gobi Diamond. In the confusion Chang Kien seemed to have forgotten it. As he walked toward the door, Chang Kien called after him.
"One moment," he said. "You may keep the Gobi Diamond. It is only paste. The one you viewed last evening was real but always before retiring I remove it from the wall safe and place therein a rather splendid imitation. The chance of being robbed, you see, entered into my calculations."
Long after Ives Cranston had gone Chang Kien still sat in his library reading his slender volume of haikais by Matsura Basho who of all the Japanese poets is the most interesting.
"The evening's cold Touches the pallid lily's skin Before it touches me."
Not till he had read the last verses did he lay the book aside. Even then he did so reluctantly. Now his mind was free, free to muse over the happenings of the last few hours. The interlude had been amusing and also lucrative. He admired the excellent manner in which Ives Cranston had accepted defeat. He was quite honorable enough to be a member of polite society