# Oriental Stories/Volume 1/Issue 1/Singapore Nights

Singapore Nights
By Frank Owen
The East never sleeps, never rests. Its maze of confusion and mystery flows onward endlessly
1
Dick Varney stood on the docks in Singapore gazing idly at his surroundings. This was a new life, a new world, and it was just as well. He had been bored with New York anyway, aside from the fact that it was a dangerous place for him to remain. He had come to the East as a member of the crew of a large freighter. The fact that he was a rather worthless member hadn't really mattered. The main thing was that no one suspected he was the famous Richard Varney.
Along the waterfront Chinese junks piled up everywhere like so much kindling wood. Hordes of sleek-eyed Orientals pattered about jabbering, laughing, chanting incessantly. Near at hand scores of steamers lay at anchor. Almost every nation was represented in the kaleidoscope of flags. They helped to make the color of the morning even more vivid.
At last Dick turned his steps inland. He walked through spacious avenues on which fronted magnificent government buildings and enormous hotels which might have been in New York or London, so resplendent were they with gayly dressed ladies and well-groomed men. He shunned the big hotels. His clothes were not in fit condition for him to stop at them. Oddly enough it did not enter his head to buy better ones. He was dressed like a common sailor, in clothes of cheap blue shoddy material, and yet he had grown accustomed to them. He dreaded the thought of being forced to wear full-dressed shirts and stiff white collars again.
He crossed the Singapore River, pausing for a moment to appreciate the beauty of the gay-hued sampans which almost completely filled the stream from bank to bank. It was extremely interesting. He was a born artist. Every new scene attracted him. He smiled at the rikshas containing well-dressed perfumed ladies and drawn by poor coolies who had advanced no farther in life than to be beasts of burden. Lean, raw-boned fellows, the very expression of their emaciated faces showed plainly the years of toil and privation through which they had passed. Wealth and poverty are responsible for some grimly provocative pictures.
Dick Varney entered the business section where stood the enormous banks and office buildings, so modern that they would not have seemed misplaced in the heart of any large city. The glamor is fading from the East. Modernism is creeping in.
He was amazed at the motley throngs which he met everywhere, Europeans, Hindoos, Japanese, Malays, Filipinos, Dyaks and Javanese. Every quarter of the globe was represented and the costumes were as varied and absurd as any in Barnum's circus.
In spite of himself he chuckled. "I'd hate to keep a clothing store here," he mused.
At last he journeyed into the low-built poorer section of the city, and there, almost hidden among the blue, yellow ​and pink dwellings of the Chinese, he found an odd little ramshackle building which was used as a combination bar and lodging-house and kept by a wizened little old fellow who spoke as many languages as a month has days and was known by the extremely uninteresting name of Mr. Isaacs.
He looked shrewdly at Dick Varney when he applied to him for a room. He rubbed his hands together. He was trying to decide whether he could be trusted for a night's lodging. In the appraisal Dick evidently lost out, for in a high-pitched, quavering voice he said, "Have you any money?"
Dick's anger flared up at once. "Have you any rooms?" he cried.
The old man shook his head dolefully. "I think not," he said.
"Well, you'd better think again. I'm going to stop here if I have to pitch you out bodily into the alley. I've got enough money to buy this filthy hovel but I'm not going to buy it. All I want is a room."
Mr. Isaacs adopted a conciliatory attitude at once.
"Be calm," he said, "be calm. Never give vent to anger. Anger is foolish. It might bring on a stroke. I have some of the best rooms in Singapore. They are old but they are clean. They are small but they are good."
As he spoke he led Dick up a rickety staircase to a little dingy room that was so filthy it might have been the forecastle of an abandoned schooner.
"This is a splendid room," he said. "Nice and quiet, nobody to bother you, and only a pound a night."
"You're lucky if you even get a couple of ounces," said Dick. "I appreciate your sense of humor, but don't carry it to an extreme. I'm used to the Orient. Don't mistake me for a fool. If you do not ask something within reason you won't get a thing."
Mr. Isaacs hesitated. "How about two pounds per week?" he asked at last.
"That's more than the whole building is worth," was the reply, "but I'll pay it to you."
He did not add that Mr. Isaacs was interesting to him, that therefore he did not wish to stop anywhere else. If he had, Mr. Isaacs would probably have attempted
"As Dick Spoke, Mr. Isaacs whipped out a revolver."
Mr. Isaacs was the type of individual whom one often meets and yet who never seems in the proper place. One could never imagine him as a child. He looked as though he had been born old. Even in Singapore he was a man of mystery. No one knew from whence he had come. He apparently had no relatives. He received no mail. It was rumored that he was enormously wealthy but then such rumors spring up about all old men who are eccentric.
That night Dick suffered from insomnia. He retired early and yet he could not sleep. The little room was like an oven. It was stifling, suffocating. He rose and threw open the hall door, which permitted a dozen weird odors to creep in. Nevertheless the breeze that occasionally blew through was cool, or so it seemed compared to the stagnant torpid heat when the door was closed. From the Chinese houses across a narrow court came the echo of laughter or the occasional guttural speech of some Celestial merrymaker. Over all floated the wild, unearthly din of Chinese music, the singsong notes of the same unrhythmic tune crashed out over and over again.
Dick tossed upon his bed. He would have gotten up if there had been any conceivable place co go. Singapore was a dry of horrors, grand by day, sinister by night.
He closed his eyes, striving to shut out his thoughts. For a few moments he lay still. If only he could doze even for a few moments! Then suddenly he was wide awake, every muscle taut, but he did not move. Some one was moving cautiously across the floor of his room. He could hear the stealthy patter of bare feet. He hesitated only long enough to locate where the intruder walked; then with an oath he sprang from the bed and crashed to the floor on top of the wizened, wrinkled figure of Mr. Isaacs.
"Let me go," he whined, "let me up! You're killing me. Oh, my poor old bones! They will all be broken,"
Dick stumbled to his feet, dragging Mr. Isaacs after him. He shook him until his teeth rattled.
"What are you doing in my room?" he demanded.
"I meant no offense," quavered Mr. Isaacs. "I only came in to see if you were sleeping soundly."
"And were disappointed to find I wasn't."
"Certainly."
"Well, don't worry about my welfare any longer. Better watch yourself. If I catch you skulking around my room again I'll fix you so you won't sleep for a week. Furthermore, you won't find any money here. I took the precaution to deposit it today with a local bank. Of course I would not have done so had I known I was to have such a solicitous host."
2
The incident would have driven a less hardy wanderer from the unsavory lodging-house, but not so Dick. He viewed it as a prelude to adventure. What form the adventure would take he could not tell. One could not, however, dwell long at such a house without some sort of excitement. Until it broke, he would remain.
Every day found Singapore a constantly changing mass of color. Almost from dawn till sunset he tramped around the city, even journeying into the most wild and dismal of the filthy alleys.
Sometimes in the evenings he went into the bar in the house of Mr. Isaacs, and a more forbidding room could not be imagined. It was lit by a single oil lamp ​which hung from a huge black hook in the center of the room. Instead of illuminating the chamber it only served to make the gloom of the farthest corners more pronounced, and yet it seemed fitting for the room to be almost in darkness, for it was a place of shadows. The men who lolled there, bleary-eyed, unshaven and half drugged with liquor, seemed only to be shadows also. They sat and consumed glass after glass of the strong golden-yellow wine for which the establishment of Mr. Isaacs was famous. A few drinks were sufficient to sink them into a torpor, after which they just sat and mechanically drank and drank like inanimate things, scarcely conscious of their actions. Mr. Isaacs continually filled up the glasses as fast as they were emptied, never waiting for a second order, and always when one of the revellers roused himself sufficiently to make a settlement, Mr. Isaacs charged for twice as many drinks as had been consumed.
In one corner of the room was a dilapidated piano, so decrepit-looking it had probably found its way there because it was unfit for any place else. Every key was out of tune. Whenever any one tried to play it the symphony of discord was maddening. A young fellow named Bourse McGill was banging away at it most of the time. He had a rather doleful, gloomy voice, not without a certain charm, and hour after hour he would sing My Mother Was a Lady.
Sandy Lawrence, who represented an American trading company, would stand it as long as he could, then he'd shriek, "If your mother was such a fine lady, why the hell did you leave her?"
In spite of himself Dick Varney became interested in studying the weird stream of patrons which continually surged in and out. A perpetual habitue was a one-eyed man named Lew. He sat alone at a table, never saying a word, scarcely even moving, and yet his single eye kept constantly searching for something—perhaps for the other eye. Then there was the Welshman. He never told his name. He went about Singapore anonymously, an enigma which nobody took the trouble to solve. He was neither pleasing-looking nor ugly. He was neutral, the type that submerges itself into the throng unnoticed. He lacked individuality. He never said a thing worth listening to, and yet he talked a lot. Nobody heard him. His voice was low and monotonous. It failed to carry. About his drab person there was only one thing that distinguished him from the common herd: a huge wart on the side of his nose, a wart as big as a bean. It bobbed up and down as he walked. It seemed momentarily in danger of falling off.
"When it does," mused Dick, "the Welshman will lose his last flicker of individuality. He'll go out like a candle. Nobody'll ever look at him again. It is rather pathetic because he seems to yearn for notoriety, to be constantly in the spotlight. Where did he come from? Where did any of this crowd come from? Where are they going? Here they are, sitting and drinking. They have paused at a bar in Singapore, the Highway of the World. Where does the Highway lead? What will be the end?"
He motioned to Mr. Isaacs. "A glass of wine," he said curtly.
Mr. Isaacs conferred upon him a look of such undisguised hatred that Dick would probably have commented upon it if he had noticed. Nevertheless he brought the wine, a quart bottle and a glass. Dick poured a generous drink and then another. It tasted rather good. It caused the spell of ennui to lift somewhat. ​His blood coursed through his veins with new energy.
The bar-room was almost in darkness. The faces of the men loomed up grotesquely. Many of the gaunt, haggard faces seemed whiter than ever. The men who were sunburned and unshaven looked as black as negroes. Lew's single eye kept up its ceaseless quest. Bourse McGill, bent low over the piano, sang My Mother Was a Lady in a drawling monotone. The squeaks and discords of the piano blended eerily with the clanging din of Chinese music from the house next door. Dick gazed at his glass of golden wine. In the fantastic light it seemed to glow with a splendid insistence. The wine he had already drunk had gone to his head. It was a mad moment. Singapore was mad, life was mad, everything was out of key, all sounds echoed in falsetto notes. Mr. Isaacs crept over and seated himself at the table opposite him. He laughed gratingly.
"Did I disturb you?" he asked.
"You always do," replied Dick. He did not bother admitting that he was really glad of his companionship. He longed to fathom the mystery of Mr. Isaacs. With such an education what was he doing in the very dregs of Singapore?
"I am unwelcome," said Mr. Isaacs, "because you think I am a Jew."
"You are wrong," snapped Dick. "You are unwelcome because you do not appeal to me. I may be a bit crude in my speech but I do not believe in wasting words."
"You hold me in contempt because I am a Jew."
"Rot!"
"It is true. You loathe me because you fear me. It is so the world over. A Jew is a composite type made up of all the races of the world. He has no country because he is of all countries. When necessity forces him to it he can live as cheaply as a Chinaman, or he can save as clutchingly as a Scotchman. On the other hand, there is no one in the world who can entertain so lavishly, who understands drollery and humor so well. He is a better trader than an Arab. He knows ivory better than an Abyssinian, and pearls better than a Ceylonese diver. He is a connoisseur of diamonds and other precious stones. He will deprive himself of every pleasure to obtain an education. He is often crafty and untrustworthy in his business dealings because he knows that the survival of the fittest is governed solely by the caliber of individual wits. He has been harassed and oppressed for centuries. He is disillusioned. His faith in everything, except himself, is ruined. He is disliked because he is feared. He adapts himself to any environment and every condition. He is a universalise He flourishes in any climate. He has most of the vices of earth and all of the virtues. His home life is ideal. He is a good husband and a loving father. His children look up to him. He is progressive and therefore misunderstood." Mr. Isaacs spoke with great vehemence. His earnestness made him truly eloquent despite the shrill, guttural tone of his voice. "And yet you hate me because I am a Jew."
Dick was amazed at the torrent of words. He was impressed. Not for a moment had he imagined that Mr. Isaacs was capable of rising to such rhetorical heights.
"For the last time," he said in a voice far more amiable than it had been before, "let me assure you that you are absolutely wrong."
As Dick spoke Mr. Isaacs whipped out a revolver with an alacrity that would have done credit to a boy of twenty. He levelled it at Dick in a horribly deliberate manner.
​"You lie!" he cried in a voice which rose almost to a shriek, almost beyond control. "And as sure as you're a dirty rat I'm going to make you admit it."
Bourse McGill stopped playing. For a moment he forgot that his mother was a lady. He swung lazily around on his stool. The incident promised to be interesting. He rolled a cigarette nonchalantly as though he were in a theater waiting for a show to begin. Lew's one eye stopped its roving, its mate forgotten. It focussed itself upon the scene. Every man in the place stopped talking. It was a breathless moment, although not an uncommon one in the sordid bar-room. There was not a single friendly face. Most of them were mask-like. The emotions lying underneath were unreadable. Dick realized that he was in a precarious position and yet he disliked the thought of groveling at the feet of Mr. Isaacs.
Mr. Isaacs kept the revolver leveled at him. His hand did not shake. It did not quiver.
"You detest me because I am a Jew."
It was the one sentence Dick needed. It was the spark that touched off the fuse of his anger. With an oath he sprang up, and seizing the chair on which he had been sitting he hurled it at the oil lamp less than a dozen feet away. The next moment there was a muffled roar and a sheet of flame shot from the lamp. In the confusion Dick sprang for the door. Lew barred his way. There was no time to lose. Dick's clenched fist shot out and successfully closed the weird remaining eye. Then he fought his way to the door. He walked over several prostrate bodies. Bourse McGill clutched at him but failed to get a hold. Mt; Isaacs was on his knees moaning and wailing like an idiot.
"Oh, my poor house," he shrieked, "my poor house! It is afire and it is not insured. Oh, my poor house!"
As Dick dashed past him he yelled, "I despise you not because you are a Jew but because you are a yellow thief!"
A great body loomed up before him. Dick seized a chair and crashed it down over the head of the black, shadowy form. Now he was in the street. He ran as if all the fiends of legend were after him but he was pursued only by a half-dozen or so of the less drunken patrons of Mr. Isaacs. These, however, increased as they pursued him, for almost every idler, and there seemed to be hundreds of them, joined in the hunt. A man-hunt is always far more interesting than any other kind. In the distance, far behind him, the sky glowed red as the fire gained headway in the box-like structure of the hotel. He quickened his pace. He dashed down a crooked winding alley to shake off the throng behind him. They kept up a continuous yelling that made pandemonium out of the peace of the night, an endless babble of shrieks and curses.
A sailor stepped into the center of the alley. Dick didn't know whether he was going to attempt to stop him or not, and he could not afford to take any chances; so he struck him on the chin and with a groan the sailor toppled over, not stunned but surprized at the suddenness of it. Dick continued on toward the waterfront. It seemed endless miles away. He crossed the bridge over the Singapore River. He was far in advance of the mob. It had grown enormously. There must have been hundreds, so many of them they got in one another's way. Once a huge Javanese fell and immediately a halfdozen piled up on top of him. It was a confusing chase because there was no leader. Scarcely anybody knew what the excitanent was all about. Of the original bunch that had started from the bar-room only, three remained and they made no effort to explain anything.
​At last, almost exhausted, Dick reached the waterfront. Not for a moment did he pause. He rushed up a narrow strip of board that led to a Chinese junk. His breath was almost gone. His heart crashed against his ribs frightfully. At the dark doorway that led into the mystic interior of the ship he paused. The gloom of it was forbidding. It was creepy. Yet the howling mob, which was now dangerously near, was a far more definite menace. As he hesitated, something struck him a terrific blow on the shoulder and sent him headlong into the eery blackness.
3
For a few moments he lay in the darkness afraid to move. He was unhurt, for he had fallen scarcely a half-dozen feet. The interior of the junk was totally black. He did not know whether he was in a cabin or not. He knew nothing about the construction of a Chinese junk. He didn't suppose it amounted to much, or else it would have had a more flowery name. As his eyes grew accustomed co the gloom, he tried to see about him, but he could not. For all the good his eyes were to him in that velvet blackness he might have been blind. He had no idea who had struck him. It could not have been one of his pursuers, for they were far behind. He made no effort to rise. He was afraid that the least rustle of his body might make known his position to the hidden foe, who he was sure lurked in the velvet shadows. Once as he felt cautiously about him his hand encountered a cold damp hand, so bony and with such sharp nails it might have been the claw of some monstrous bird. He shrank back. Yet the hand pursued him. He heard no sound. The hand seemed bodiless, to be groping eerily around in the darkness, an unexplainable menace. He crouched back from it. It was foolish, but nevertheless he was in a condition bordering on panic. Now he was against the wall, but still the hand came on. With an effort he pulled himself together. He could retreat no farther. He put out his hands frantically and in the gloom he found and held a scrawny throat. He squeezed it as though his fingers were a vise. The thing struggled. It uttered a shriek. Dick's grip relaxed. The menace was human. Fear slipped from him. The Chinaman feared him as much as he had feared the groping claws.
Instantly a door opened and an old Chinaman carrying a lantern appeared, a golden-yellow lantern that looked as big as the moon. His face was yellower than the wine of Mr. Isaacs. He was dressed in a long coat of yellow and on his head was a fantastic contrivance which looked as though it might be a shade for the lantern. It could not by any stretch of the imagination have been called a hat. He came forward slowly, as though the years bore down heavily upon his shoulders, and yet there was a majestic air about him which was exceedingly impressive.
Before Dick Varney he stopped. "I am Wing Lo," he said in perfect English. "I have sailed the Yellow Sea for over sixty years. And only now in my advanced age am I molested."
Dick looked at the old fellow in amazement, then at the yellow-brown coolie who was dimly discernible not far off in the shadows, rubbing his scrawny throat with his claw-like fingers.
"It is not I who am the oppressor," he replied. "Until this moment I did not know of your existence. How then could I oppress you? I was held up at the point of a gun in a questionable resort far on the other side of the river. In the ensuing fight I was forced to smash the lamp so that I could escape. Almost half of ​Singapore rushed pell-mell after me. My life wasn't worth a pumpkin-seed until I beheld the plank that led to this junk. I had no alternative. Either I must surrender myself to the mob or trust to the good nature of the occupants of this vessel."
"I am the owner," said Wing Lo, "and I am sorry that my faithful servant mistook you for a robber. I am a trader, and rumor has spread throughout the city that my ship is laden with rich silks."
As Wing Lo spoke Dick Varney glanced up quickly. The sight that met his eyes made his heart stop beating; for framed in the doorway was the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld. She was dressed in black, which made the ivory whiteness of her face more pronounced. Her eyes were dark and her lips were as red as roses. Dick Varney had never cared much about women until that moment. They had been insignificant things in his cosmos. Now his cosmos had suffered an earthquake. All his ideas had changed. Perhaps it was the exotic circumstances under which he beheld her that made his pulse go galloping at a frightful speed. Only the light from the moon-lantern illuminated the room. It cast a strange radiance over everything. The girl stepped forward and held out her hand.
"I have been studying your face," she said slowly, "and I believe I can trust you. I heard you say you were an American. I am an American, too. It is rather good to meet one of my countrymen on this old ship in Singapore."
Dick grasped her hand mechanically. What was that verse in the old Chinese poem by Lai Tai Po? "She was of a loveliness to overthrow kingdoms." The old poet must have been thinking of just such a girl when he wrote that immortal line. Whether he muttered anything by way of greeting, Dick never knew. He was dazzled by the beauty of her. Her loveliness was as intoxicating as old wine.
"I am in great trouble," she whispered softly and her voice seemed to tremble. "Will you help me?"
"Nothing would make me happier," he said huskily. "From this moment forth I am your slave. Bondage with you would be better than kingship with any other woman."
"Are you married?" she asked abruptly.
"No," he replied quickly. "I guess all my life I've been waiting for you."
She smiled wanly. "That is good," said she. She seemed unable to go on. Sudden agitation seized her and she sank upon a rude bench.
"Life is a maze," she faltered. "Why must we all struggle through it blindfolded? Why is there so little happiness in the world?"
"You are in trouble," said he. "Let me help you."
"Yes," she admitted. "I am. I'm not afraid, but it rather gets on my nerves. In all of Singapore Wing Lo is the only one I can trust. That is why I am hiding on his boat."
"Confide in me," suggested Dick. "Maybe I can help you."
She rose to her feet and faced him. "You can," she said emphatically. "In spite of everything I will not fail. My name is Dolores Cravat. No Cravat has ever been able to accept defeat. I want you to marry me tomorrow morning as early as it can be arranged. But I must warn you beforehand, marriage to me will not bring you happiness. It will plunge you into extreme danger. It will be a marriage of convenience only. When the ceremony is over you must leave me. I shall pay you well for any inconvenience the affair may cause you."
Dick was speechless. Marry her? ​Nothing in the world would please him better. But the rest of her words were far from reassuring. They were almost an insult. But she was very lovely, adorable. She was far too gorgeous for him really to be angry. Nevertheless he said decisively, "Of course I'll marry you. Did I not say I was your slave? The suggestion of payment, however, is disagreeable to me. Anything I do will be done because I am mad about you. You can send me away if you like, but let there be no mention of money between us." He smiled wickedly. "Let us set it down merely as American courtesy," he added.
Dick Varney had always been impetuous. He had been in more tight corners than an African explorer. But always he had succeeded in wriggling out. By nature he was daring, impulsive, reckless. He was used to making snap judgments. Hence there was now no half-measure in his devotion. He was intoxicated by the beauty of the girl and in a few hours they would be married. It was like a dream of loveliness. Unbelievable.
Sometime later he sat on the side of the ship and gazed at the low-hanging moon. Before him lay Singapore, dty of mystery and romance, of strange whisperings and quaint shadows. But nothing in Singapore was stranger than the chaos into which his life had been plunged. Put it down that he was mad. The moon glowed in yellow splendor over the blue-purple shadows of the city. Life was very wonderful indeed. And then she came to him. The perfume of her hair was sweeter than the breath of flowers. It was the deepest hush of the night, the blackest hour before sunrise.
"Come," she whispered, "a tiny boat is waiting for us."
He followed as she led the way to St rough rope-ladder. The night was intensely black. No light was visible anywhere on the junk. He groped his way down the ladder and she followed. Soon the sound of oars broke the silence as the little boat floated off down the black river. Here and there along the banks specks of light peeped out like stars. The East never sleeps, never rests. Its maze of confusion and mystery flows onward endlessly.
Dick sat in the stem of the boat. Dolores was beside him. It was enchantment. This glorious girl, a girl whom he scarcely knew, was to be his wife before another sun had set. He was plunging headlong into romance and adventure. His whole life had been a jumble. Softly his arm crept about her shoulders. It was a mad moment, a night of witchery. Who could act sanely on such a night? He drew her to him and pressed his lips to hers. She sighed softly. "Don't," she whispered; "please don't."
At once he released her, but it did not matter. He had kissed her lips. He had expected anger. Instead she had pushed him gently away. Was it only imagination or had she really yielded to him for a single moment?
The oars swished softly in the water. A gentle breeze sprang up and caressed their cheeks. The moon had set, leaving the sky a deeper blue than ever. Like lamps the stars gleamed forth, making the waters weirdly black. At last the little boat stopped. As it did so the dawn thundered up in the east. It burst in a flame of orange-rose and gold. The blue-purple mists of night fled in terror before its glory. The country loomed up sleepily. Birds began to twitter in the tree tops. The distant lantern lights flickered out. The stars dimmed.
Dick helped Dolores to alight from the ​boat. Now they were in an enchanted garden, a garden filled with willow trees and cherry blossoms. There was a great ghinko tree like an Ogre standing guard over a Moon-Bridge that arched above a tiny winding stream. A tiny red-roofed house peeped out from among the trees.
"It is the garden of Doctor Placid," she said softly. "He it will be who will unite us in marriage."
In back of them walked old Wing Lo like a gentle shadow.
"Wing is my friend," said she, "the most faithful friend that dwells in all the world. He will be a witness to the ceremony."
An hour later they were back in the tiny boat again, floating upon the river. Dick's senses quickened. This lovely girl beside him, who was like a flower, this gorgeous, wondrous stranger was his wife.
4
Before parting forever they decided that they would have a little wedding breakfast somewhere in an out-of-the-way alley in the labyrinths of Singapore. He longed to ask her why she had married him. He wished her to confess to him the sinister mystery that hung over her, but somehow he could not bring himself to question her. If she wished to speak, she would; otherwise the matter would remain an enigma to the end.
For their rendezvous they chose a teahouse kept by a bland-faced Oriental that Wing Lo had recommended. It was a rather dim-lit restaurant, though by no means small. In the wraith-like lanternlight it seemed very vast. A few Orientals lolled over their tea and gazed sleepily into the shadows. Outside it was broad daylight, but within the tea-house it was very dark, for the windows were covered by heavy draperies.
For a wedding breakfast it was an extremely sketchy thing, merely rice-cakes and tea. Dick had no appetite whatsoever. He was very gloomy. It was hard to lose the most beautiful wife in the world within a few hours of one's marriage.
"I shall never forget what you have done for me," she said softly.
He smiled wryly. "Spoken like a constant and true wife," he drawled, "and yet you are sending me away."
"I must," she said. She hesitated for a moment; then she went on quickly. "You must think me mad, and therefore I will give you some slight explanation of my actions. My father was a rich tea-merchant, but eccentric. He had few friends, only one that he recognized. This one was Mortimer Davga. I was never able to understand why Davga of all men had been singled out by my father as a confidant. I could not trust him. He was like a sleek cat purring about one, a man of studied culture and refinement, fastidious in his eating and dress. His tastes were of the finest, both in women and jewels. A year ago my father died, leaving me as his sole heir. He made Davga executor of the estate with full unrevokable power to act over my affairs until such time as I should be married. Mortimer Davga proved himself a very thoughtful companion during the funeral. He attended to everything, but immediately thereafter his conduct changed. He came to live at the huge house which was my home. I had no brothers or sisters. My mother died when I was born. I do not know of a single living relative except an uncle in England whom I have never met.
"Existence at that house after the coming of Davga was not a pleasant thing. He moved soundlessly about as though he were a ghost or a spy. Continually I would look up from my book to find him ​standing over me. Several times I thought I caught a malevolent look in his eyes that made me very uncomfortable. He was ugly to an extreme, thin and wizened. He might have been taken for a Jew but he was not. He was, I think, of French extraction, although of his origin I knew little.
"It was distinctly unpleasant to have that soundless prowler living constantly under one's roof. I grew to abhor him, despite the fact that he was very solicitous of my comfort. Things were in a sorry plight. I was very unhappy. Then they grew worse. Davga tried to force his attentions upon me. He was several times my age, but that made no difference to him. His eyes shone like those of a snake whenever he approached me. He sent me flowers, candies and jewels. He wooed me in a hundred subtle ways, but his interest made him only the more repulsive to me. One night, unexpectedly, he took me into his arms and kissed me. It was the final straw. I grew more frightened than ever. There was something menacing about him. I knew that he wished to marry me, not because he cared for me in the slightest, but because he wished to get control of my money forever. I wondered what my chance of continued life would have been if I had yielded to him.
"That night I fled from the house. I sought refuge with old Wing Lo, who had been my faithful servant for years. Davga had discharged all the servants on my father's death. In the entire house there was not one left that I knew. There was only one thing to do, I decided after thinking the matter over calmly. I must marry to get control of my money. But whom to marry was a problem. I had to marry some one I could trust. I wanted it to be an American or an Englishman. Then you came along and I knew you possessed both requisites. To judge from your appearance, if you do not mind frankness, I imagined that you were poor. A bit more money honorably earned might appeal to you. It was thus that I reasoned. Now your work is ended. You are free. When control of the estate passes to me, I will divorce you. You need not give me another thought."
He leaned across the table and seized her hand. "Free?" he repeated. "Free? I shall never be free again. I have gazed into your eyes. I have kissed your lips. Though I live for ages I shall never be free again. But I will go away; I will leave you if you wish. However, do not decide too quickly. You are in danger. At least let me remain until you are safe."
Even as he spoke a shot rang out. It smashed to atoms the tea-cup which he held in his hand. The next moment the lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. The sudden crash surprized Dick despite the fact that his experiences in life led him to expect anything. He sprang back, upsetting a table as he did so. In the room he could hear sounds of scuffling. He called to Dolores but she did not answer. He groped frantically about in the darkness, but to no avail. Then the lights flared on again. The tearoom was deserted. No trace of Dolores could be found. He searched the building from ground to roof but could find no one. It was absolutely deserted. Even the few loiterers had departed. He was quite alone.
At last he rushed from the building. He felt as though his head would burst. What had happened to that lovely girl, the girl who was his wife? The seething lanes of Singapore were crowded with laughing, jabbering, shrieking humanity. Everybody was talking at once. Dogs barked discordantly to add to the ​confusion. A Chinaman driving a pig before him jostled against Dick but his expression was so smiling and friendly he could not take offense. He walked along, his head in a whirl. How was he to find her in this mystic maze which was Singapore?
Then he met Wing Lo, the gentle, faithful servant.
"Would it not be well," Wing Lo whispered softly, "to search for the beloved mistress in the great house, her former home, from which she fled? It is a grim, bleak house wherein a thousand tragedies might lie buried."
It was an excellent suggestion and Dick acted upon it. To have rushed blindly through the tempestuous city without any design at all would have been useless.
He longed to rush off at once on his quest, but he refrained. Before going he decided he must buy suitable clothes. The delay was irksome but it was necessary. Toward evening Wing Lo led him to the great house which stood in the center of a vast garden like a great gray elephant. At the gate Wing Lo left him.
"For me to go farther," he explained, "would only plunge you into grave danger. By the household of Mortimer Davga I am not liked. I do not think they would hesitate at any means to exterminate me. But I shall be in the neighborhood and if I divine that you are in need, I may come to you."
So they parted and Dick Varney walked up the crooked flower-bordered path that led to the house.
The garden was a rug of lovely flowers and stately trees that stood out in silhouette against the sky. It seemed impossible that danger could lurk in such a charming garden. And then a snake came hissing out from the bushes. Dick had barely time to spring aside to avoid it. It broke the spell. After that even the gorgeous flowers seemed deadly. Sudden death might lurk in those lovely blossoms.
He hurried on until before him loomed the monstrous gray house, vast, bulky, shapeless. It must have been designed by an architect in the last stages of insanity or by one of utterly morbid tendencies. It was all of gray without even the slightest trace of color to form a contrast. It might have been some monstrous prehistoric animal resting for a moment in the garden.
As Dick walked up the steps that led to the house the door was flung open and a rather repulsive Chinaman stood before him. He was elegantly dressed but his face was mottled yellow. His nose was shapeless, his lips thick. His eyes were tiny and crafty. They were shifty eyes that seemed to take in everything at a single glance. He would have made, to judge by his appearance, an excellent henchman for Genghis Khan, whose cruelty surpassed any other person in Chinese history.
He bowed low as Dick Varney entered. "I wish to see Mr. Mortimer Davga," he announced simply.
"I will lead the way," replied the Chinaman, "and acquaint the master with the fact of your presence."
Dick followed him through velvet-carpeted halls, halls heavy with delicate vases, lacquer screens, rich tapestries and fantastic lanterns. Finally they emerged into a great room that might have been a gorgeous corner of a vast museum. The walls were lined with cabinets of curios, precious jades and art objects that would have enthralled a collector. In the center of the room was a massive table littered with heaps of books and documents, maps and diagrams. Mortimer Davga sat behind the table busy writing. This ​was the sanctum in which most of his schemes and problems were worked out. He was faultlessly attired though rather somberly in a suit of black. Even his tie was black, as though he were still in mourning for the noble friend he had lost, the friend who had trusted him beyond all others by making him executor of his will.
As Dick Varney gazed upon him he could scarcely credit his eyes; for Mortimer Davga was none other than Mr. Isaacs who had kept the vile lodging-house in the poorer section of Singapore, the keeper of the house which Dick's deliberate smashing of the lamp had ultimately laid in ruins. There was no chance that the likeness was only a resemblance. Dick had an excellent faculty for remembering faces, and that sly, sinister, ancient face could belong to none other than Mr. Isaacs.
Dick realized that his position was more than precarious. The man at the door had resembled a scoundrel. Such a man might stop at nothing. And Mr. Isaacs, or to give him his real name, Mortimer Davga, looked capable of formulating any despicable plan. It made his fears for Dolores all the more acute. He longed to flee from the house, and yet he vowed that he would not. Not for a moment did he doubt that Davga had spirited her away from the tea-house. Perhaps the tea-house itself was owned by Davga. The fact that Wing Lo had recommended it meant nothing. Wing Lo was a gentle character. He had merely recommended a tea-house in which he had been wont to linger in the heat of the afternoons. The restaurant was dream-like, the tea superb, and Wing Lo had found contentment. No further credentials were necessary. At last Mortimer Davga looked up from his writing. By not so much as the quiver of an eyelid did he show that he recognized his visitor. He rose to his feet, smiling cordially, hand extended.
"I do not know who you are," he said, "but you are welcome anyway. My house is always open to the passing traveler."
Dick took the extended hand. "I am Richard Varney," he said, "a friend to Dolores Cravat. She told me that if I ever chanced to pass this way I must not fail to call upon her."
"Your coming is rather inopportune," was the reply, "for Dolores is away. I do not know when she will be back. She is a girl of whims, a trifle headstrong. It is too bad that you missed her. She loves company and I know she will be disappointed if she fails to meet you. Perhaps if you are not pressed for time, it might be possible for you to remain a few days with me. At best it is rather lonesome living in such a dreary house. I would be more than thankful for your company."
"After such a delightful invitation," said Dick, "I really can not refuse. Perhaps in a couple of days Dolores will be back again."
"Undoubtedly," agreed Davga, "undoubtedly." He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction, much as a famed chef might do before carving a savory roast.
Supper that evening was an elaborate affair of countless courses and varieties. It was served in the Chinese manner.
Davga was a splendid host, an excellent conversationist. He could talk on any subject in an interesting manner. He discussed world politics, literature and science with equal fluency. Under happier circumstances Dick Varney would have been drawn to him. But his ​experiences had been sufficiently out of the ordinary and harrowing so that he was not to be deceived by a cloak of friendliness. There was no denying that Davga had a magnetic personality. He was ugly to an extreme; the suggestion of great age was like a veneer glossing his face. But his voice had a quality, a drawl to it, chat submerged every other thing. All the deficiencies in his appearance were forgotten. In his tone was charm.
When the meal was ended they returned to the library which was his workshop. He had suggested a game of fantan, and the repulsive individual who had greeted Dick at the door made up the trio. His name was Yeh Ming Hsin and there was a suggestion of hauteur about him that was unbecoming in a servant. For example, he chose the most comfortable seat for himself. But this was no more surprizing than the fact that Davga offered him a cigar before bestowing one upon Dick Varney. Dick smiled to himself. What a contradiction, he reflected. He had been welcomed to the house like a king, but in the choice of a cigar he was subordinate to a servant.
As Davga took the cards to deal, the massive brass lantern above Dick's head gave way and crashed to the floor. Had it not been for the fact that he was stooping to tie a shoe-lace at the moment he most assuredly would have been killed. As it was he was unhurt, but the table was badly damaged.
Davga sprang to his feet. He was all apologies. "What a pity!" he cried. "What a pity!"
Dick laughed shortly. He was in a bad humor. "Do you mean it was a pity it missed my head?"
"Anyway," said Davga, 'Tm glad to see you can still joke. A fellow has to be pretty decent to take such an accident smiling. Of course I meant it was a pity the lantern fell at the precise moment when my guest was in the path of danger."
Dick shrugged his shoulders. "Why give the matter further thought?" he asked. "If you still wish to play fan-tan I suggest that you deal."
Later, sitting in the splendid room which had been assigned to him, Dick tried to decide on a course of action. He knew that Mortimer Davga had recognized him. That in itself constituted a peril. The fact that he was a friend to Dolores Cravat only served to double it. He knew that unless he was constantly on guard his life in that beautiful, sinister house would not be Avorth a farthing. The room was in darkness. Restlessly he rose and walked over toward the window. The moon was rising but it was still so low it cast the garden into greater shadow. The tree tops stood out in silhouette, etched sharply against the sky. The garden was a place of wandering wraiths and shadows. Was it only his imagination or was there really a form crouched beneath his window? His room was on the second floor and there were clinging vines ladder-like in strength climbing up the gray façade of the house. It would be quite an easy matter for an assailant to climb into his room and attack him while he slept. He could lock the strong mahogany door that led into the room, but what use would that be if he could not seal the window?
As he gazed down steadily his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. There was no doubt that a figure was crouching there, though now it crouched no longer. It slowly rose to its feet and mounted the vine-ladder for about a half-dozen feet. "Master," a voice whispered, "master."
It was the gentle voice of Wing Lo. It was good to have a friend so close at hand. The mystery of the house was nerve-racking.
​As Dick leaned from the window, Wing Lo whispered softly, "Master can sleep. Through the night I will watch the approach to your window. I can easily lie hidden in the garden. The shadow tapestries will conceal me."
The next moment Wing Lo was gone. In the distance a dog howled dismally as though it were crying for the moon. It had been a wild, exciting day and Dick was exhausted. He had not been in bed many minutes before he was asleep. How long he slept fie did not know, but the next thing he knew he was sitting bolt upright in bed. He scarcely realized what had awakened him, although he was vaguely conscious that he had heard a scream. Even as he endeavored to get his scattered wits together, the scream was repeated. He sprang from his bed and rushed to the window. By the light of the moon which flooded the garden he beheld Wing Lo gripped in the powerful arms of Yeh Ming Hsin. In the eery light the latter looked like a misshapen baboon.
In a moment Dick had sprung through the window and was climbing down the vines. When he was about ten feet from the ground he jumped, landing full force on the shoulders of Yeh Ming Hsin. So terrific was the impact that Wing Lo was released. Yeh Ming Hsin was somewhat dazed by the unexpected interference and Dick Varney made the most df his bewilderment. He struck him flush on the chin with all his might and followed up with a frightful left jab in the stomach which sent the Chinaman sprawling. All the fight was taken out of him. He lay on the ground scarcely breathing. Wing Lo sprang forward. He drew a rope from his clothing and bound Yeh Ming Hsin hand and foot. Then together they carried the subdued Chinaman to a small building at the foot of the garden, a small pump-house that had been discarded. Wing Lo examined his bonds to see that there was no chance of his escaping. Then together they returned to the house and climbed up the vines to Dick Varney's room.
"I did not scream," explained Wing Lo, "until I knew that I was overpowered. I feared for your life." He paused for a moment, then he continued speaking rather hurriedly. "The time for action has come. When Mortimer Davga discovers that Yeh Ming Hsin is missing, his wrath will be uncheckable. Up till now he has at least shown exceeding courtesy toward you. I know, for I watched by the window while you were eating. But now all restraint will be cast aside. It will be a finish fight. The prize is enormous. John Cravat, my old master, was one of the wealthiest tea-merchants in the East. To gain control of his fortune, Davga will stop at nothing. I know that in the wilder quarters of Singapore he is known as Mr. Isaacs. But I have not worried my little mistress with my suspicions. She does not know. In her interest I have followed him many limes. Some unsavory tales have been whispered about the strange Mr. Isaacs. He seems to be a power here in the underworld. But Davga enjoys a reputation without a blemish. In meeting him, you have a sly and clever foe. It is much like fighting the wind. But you must ​succeed. The little mistress must be found at any cost."
A great clock in the hall sounded two. The gong boomed out so ominously it seemed at drum-pitch.
"What do you suggest doing?" asked Dick rather helplessly.
"We must find Dolores Cravat," replied Wing Lo emphatically. "And we must begin our search at once. I believe she is hidden somewhere in the house. It would be the logical place to seclude her. No labyrinth in Singapore is less known than the long winding halls of this house. What it was built for, I do not know. It is like a gigantic ugly blot on the color of the city. And Singapore is a town that does not stop at anything. I believe we should begin our search in the library, the room in which Mortimer Davga spends most of his time. It is his custom to keep the door of the room locked when he is away. If there were not many secrets buried there he would not be so careful of it. Other rooms there are in the house filled with treasures equally as rare, yet he guards them not."
So together Wing Lo and Dick crept down the immense winding halls, halls of dazzling blackness that bore down upon them like bales of black wool. They were afraid to strike a light, for such carelessness might spell death. It was slow work, for there were numerous chests and cabinets in the halls, statues and vases which they had to use care not to overturn. Once they paused breathless. They imagined they had heard a door close stealthily in the floor above. They waited, expecting each moment the brewing storm to break. But the silence continued, a silence that tore at their nerves by its intensity.
As they continued onward, Dick held the arm of Wing Lo so that they would not be separated. Wing knew the halls well. He was on familiar ground. But without him Dick would have been utterly lost. The corridors had been lighted dimly when he passed through them to the bedroom. If there had been light, despite the vastness of the house, he might have found his way back, but in that impenetrable jet he was helpless.
And now they reached the library. There was only a slim chance that the door would be unlocked. If Davga carried the key always with him, it was scarcely creditable it would be unlocked now. Yet luck was with them. It was not only unbarred but it was standing wide open. It was a bit of neglect on Davga's part and it served their purpose. Cautiously they crept into the room. The blackness even there was intense. Slowly step by step they edged their way toward the farthest wall. And now it seemed as though they could hear some one calling, calling faintly for help. Was it purely imagination? Was it the wind in the willows outside the window? Or was it Yeh Ming Hsin? Had he succeeded in freeing himself from his bonds?
They listened breathlessly. Presently the sound came again, more distinctly. Dick's heart commenced to pound wildly, for it was the voice of Dolores and she was calling to him. He worked his way to the wall and placed his ear against it. Once more he heard her voice, a voice which he could never forget. He decided to risk everything. "Dolores," he murmured softly, "Dolores." At that there came a tapping on the wall. It was true! It was not imagination. She was imprisoned in the wall. Perhaps there was a hidden room with a secret panel leading to it. This was the reason Mortimer Davga kept the chamber locked.
Dick Varney uttered an oath. "The lights!" he cried. "Turn on the lights!" Wing Lo obeyed at once. Death might ​stalk in that room, but what did it matter? His beloved mistress had been found again. As the lights flared up, they beheld Mortimer Davga standing near the chimney corner. There was an ugly smile on his face. He had been sleeping on a couch in the room. But now he was wide awake.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," he purred, "may I inquire the cause of this intrusion?" As he spoke in a calm gentle voice he whipped out a revolver. But his action was not quick enough. Even as he beheld him, Dick had leaped. The revolver flew from Davga's hand as he lurched backward. The next moment Dick had him by the throat. Unmercifully his fingers closed until Davga's eyes grew wild with horror.
"Where is Dolores?" cried Dick. "Unless you show me how to get to her, this hour will be your last!"
He released his relentless grip somewhat. Davga moaned. Then he smiled, a smile that was a leer. Once more the fingers closed. This time Dick held him breathless for a few seconds longer. Then once more his fingers relaxed.
"This is your final chance," he said tensely. "If I tighten them again they will not loosen until their work is done." He dragged Davga ta his feet and pushed him headlong toward the wall, at the same time drawing a revolver. In the interim Wing Lo had walked across the room and bolted the door. For a while at least they would be free from interference.
Mortimer Davga whined like a whipped animal. A fortune was slipping through his fingers. Better to lose a fortune than his life. He fumbled along the baseboard of the wall and presently a panel swung open. Dick handed the revolver to Wing Lo. Then he stepped into the blackness of the hidden room. The next moment Dolores was in his arms. He was kissing her lips.
"We must never be separated again,'" he whispered fervently.
Gently he led her to the next room. She was unharmed. The hidden room had been cozily furnished. She had been well fed. What Davga's intention had been they did not know, nor did they care. All that mattered was that she was free again.
When they re-entered the library, Dick took the revolver from Wing Lo.
"Allow me to present my wife," he said to Mortimer Davga. "We were married yesterday morning. I believe under the terms of her father's will the estate passes to her control after her marriage."
Mortimer Davga laughed gratingly. "You perhaps are not aware that there is a proviso," said he, "that I must sanction the wedding. Control passes to her only at my option. You are a mighty clever fellow, but it looks as though in me you have met your master."
Next Month
The
King of the Jerawahs
By S. B. H. Hurst
The vast treasure that Alexander the Great left behind him before he crossed the Indus in his attempted conquest of India was legendary throughout the Orient. He left a bandit Jerawah to guard the treasure until he returned, and the secret was passed down from age to age by the Jerawahs, an outcast band of robbers.
How this secret was discovered by Bugs Sinnat, how the King of the Jerawahs was murdered because he possessed the Key to the Secret, and how his murderers were stalked across a weird desert by a bearded Afghan of the Durani Clan makes as fascinating a story as you have ever read. It will be published complete in the
December-January issue of
Oriental Stories
On Sale November 15th
To avoid missing your copy, clip and mail this coupon today!
Oriental Stories
840 N. Michigan Ave.,
Chicago, Ill.
Enclosed find $1.50 for one year's subscription to ORIENTAL, STORIES to begin with the December-January issue ($1.75 in Canada).
Name :
| Address ||
| City | State |
Dick had taken a wild chance that Davga was really a criminal. He went on the theory that the house which he had kept under the name of Mr. Isaacs was a hotbed of crime. It seemed to reek of it.
Mortimer Davga collapsed into a chair. His face was ashen. By his expression, Dick knew that his words had struck home.
"I will see my lawyer at once," said he huskily, "and have the necessary papers drawn. After all, there is no reason why Dolores should not marry whom she likes."
"That is good," replied Dick. "Nevertheless we'll hold you prisoner until the proper papers have been prepared." As he spoke he seized Mortimer Davga by the arm and thrust him into the hidden chamber. Then he closed the panel and returned to Dolores.
He took her into his arms. "I've decided not to give you up," he whispered softly.
"I guess," she drawled, "I don't want to be given up."
He did not bother telling her that although she believed she was marrying a poor man, he was really as rich as she. He had inherited a fortune and had left New York to escape the countless people who wanted him for his money, not for himself. He had sailed for Singapore in quest of adventure and romance. He had found both. Having found Dolores, he had found all.