Kai Lung's Golden Hours by Ernest Bramah (best detective novels of all time .TXT) 📕
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- Author: Ernest Bramah
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“I bow, chieftain,” replied Weng acquiescently.
“It is well,” said the chief. “Your strategy will be easy. To cure this lord’s disorder a celebrated physician is even now travelling from the Capital towards Kien-fi. A day’s journey from that place he will encounter obstacles and fall into the hands of those who will take away his robes and papers. About the same place you will meet one with a bowl on the roadside who will hail you, saying, ‘Charity, out of your superfluity, noble mandarin coming from the north!’ To him you will reply, ‘Do mandarins garb thus and thus and go afoot? It is I who need a change of raiment and a chair; aye, by the token of the Locust’s Head!’ He will then lead you to a place where you will find all ready and a suitable chair with trusty bearers. The rest lies beneath your grinding heel. Prosperity!”
Weng prostrated himself and withdrew. The meeting by the wayside befell as he had received assurance—they who serve the Triad do not stumble—and at the appointed time he stood before Tiao’s door and called for admission. He looked to the right and the left as one who examines a new prospect, and among the azalea flowers the burnished roof of the summer-house glittered in the sun.
“Lucky omens attend your coming, benevolence,” said the chief attendant obsequiously; “for since he sent for you an unpropitious planet has cast its influence upon our master, so that his power languishes.”
“Its malignity must be controlled,” said Weng, in a feigned voice, for he recognized the one before him. “Does any watch?”
“Not now,” replied the attendant; “for he has slept since these two hours. Would your graciousness have speech with the one of the inner chamber?”
“In season perchance. First lead me to your lord’s side and then see that we are undisturbed until I reappear. It may be expedient to invoke a powerful charm without delay.”
In another minute Weng stood alone in the sick man’s room, between them no more barrier than the silk-hung curtains of the couch. He slid down his right hand and drew a keen-edged knife; about his left he looped the even more fatal cord; then advancing with a noiseless step he pulled back the drapery and looked down. It was the moment for swift and silent action; nothing but hesitation and delay could imperil him, yet in that supreme moment he stepped back, released the curtain from his faltering grasp and, suffering the weapons to fall unheeded to the floor, covered his face with his hands, for lying before him he had seen the outstretched form, the hard contemptuous features, of his father.
Yet most solemnly alienated from him in every degree. By Wu Chi’s own acts every tie of kinship had been effaced between them: the bowl had been broken, the taper blown out, empty air had filled his place. Wu Chi acknowledged no memory of a son; he could claim no reverence as a father.... Tiao’s husband.... Then he was doubly childless.... The woman and her seed had withered, as he had prophesied.
On the one hand stood the Society, powerful enough to protect him in every extremity, yet holding failure as treason; most terrible and inexorable towards set disobedience. His body might find a painless escape from their earthly torments, but by his oaths his spirit lay in their keeping to be punished through all eternity.
That he was no longer Wu Chi’s son, that he had no father—this conviction had been strong enough to rule him in every contingency of life save this. By every law of men and deities the ties between them had been dissolved, and they stood as a man and man; yet the salt can never be quite washed out of sea-water.
For a time which ceased to be hours or minutes, but seemed as a fragment broken off eternity, he stood, motionless but most deeply racked. With an effort he stooped to take the cord, and paused again; twice he would have seized the dagger, but doubt again possessed him. From a distant point of the house came the chant of a monk singing a prayer and beating upon a wooden drum. The rays of the sun falling upon the gilded roof in the garden again caught his eyes; nothing else stirred.
“These in their turn have settled great issues lightly,” thought Weng bitterly. “Must I wait upon an omen?”
“... submitting oneself to purifying scars,” droned the voice far off; “propitiating if need be by even greater self-inflictions...”
“It suffices,” said Weng dispassionately, and picking up the knife he turned to leave the room.
At the door he paused again, but not in an arising doubt. “I will leave a token for Tiao to wear as a jest,” was the image that had sprung from his new abasement, and taking a sheet of parchment he quickly wrote thereon: “A wave has beat from that distant shore to this, and now sinks in the unknown depths.”
Again he stepped noiselessly to the couch, drew the curtain and dropped the paper lightly on the form. As he did so his breath stopped; his fingers stiffened. Cautiously, on one knee, he listened intently, lightly touched the face; then recklessly taking a hand he raised the arm and suffered it to fall again. No power restrained it; no alertness of awakening life came into the dull face. Wu Chi had already Passed Beyond.
Not Concerned with any Particular Attribute of Those who are Involved
Unendurable was the intermingling of hopes and fears with which Kai Lung sought the shutter on the next occasion after the avowal of Hwa-mei’s devoted strategy. While repeatedly assuring himself that it would have been better to submit to piecemeal slicing without a protesting word rather than that she should incur so formidable a risk, he was compelled as often to admit that when once her mind had formed its image no effort on his part would have held her back. Doubtless Hwa-mei readily grasped the emotion that would possess the one whose welfare was now her chief concern, for without waiting to gum her hair or to gild her lips she hastened to the spot beneath the wall at the earliest moment that Kai Lung could be there.
“Seven marble tombstones are lifted from off my chest!” exclaimed the story-teller when he could greet her. “How did your subterfuge proceed, and with what satisfaction was the history of Weng Cho received?”
“That,” replied Hwa-mei modestly, “will provide the matter for an autumn tale, when seated around a pine-cone fire. In the meanwhile this protracted ordeal takes an ambiguous bend.”
“To what further end does the malignity of the ill-made Ming-shu now shape itself? Should it entail a second peril to your head—”
“The one whom you so justly name fades for a moment out of our concern. Burdened with a secret mission he journeys to Hing-poo, nor does the Mandarin Shan Tien hold another court until the day of his return.”
“That gives a breathing space of time to our ambitions?”
“So much is assured. Yet even in that a subtle danger lurks. Certain contingencies have become involved in the recital of your admittedly ingenious stories which the future unfolding of events may not always justify. For instance, the very speculative Shan Tien, casting his usual moderate limit to the skies, has accepted the Luminous Insect as a beckoning omen, and immersed himself deeply in the chances of every candidate bearing the name of Lao, Ting, Li, Tzu, Sung, Chu, Wang or Chin. Should all these fail incapably at the trials a very undignified period in the Mandarin’s general manner of expressing himself may intervene.”
“Had the time at the disposal of this person been sufficiently enlarged he would not have omitted the various maxims arising from the tale,” admitted Kai Lung, with a shadow of remorse. “That suited to the need of a credulous and ill-balanced mind would doubtless be the proverb: ‘He who believes in gambling will live to sell his sandals.’ It is regrettable if the well-intending Mandarin took the wrong one. Fortunately another moon will fade before the results are known—”
“In the meantime,” continued the maiden, indicating by a glance that what she had to relate was more essential to the requirements of the moment than anything he was saying: “Shan Tien is by no means indisposed towards your cause. Your unassuming attitude and deep research have enlarged your wisdom in his eyes. To-morrow he will send for you to lean upon your well-stored mind.”
“Is the emergency one for which any special preparation is required?” questioned Kai Lung.
“That is the message of my warning. Of late a company of grateful friends has given the Mandarin an inlaid coffin to mark the sense of their indebtedness, the critical nature of the times rendering the gift peculiarly appropriate. Thus provided, Shan Tien has cast his eyes around to secure a burial robe worthy of the casket. The merchants proffer many, each endowed with all the qualities, but meanwhile doubts arise, and now Shan Tien would turn to you to learn what is the true and ancient essential of the garment, and wherein its virtue should reside.”
“The call will not find me inept,” replied Kai Lung. “The story of Wang Ho—”
“It is enough,” exclaimed the maiden warningly. “The time for wandering together in the garden of the imagination has not yet arrived. Ming-shu’s feet are on a journey, it is true, but his eyes are doubtless left behind. Until a like hour to-morrow gladdens our expectant gaze, farewell!”
On the following day, at about the stroke of the usual court, Li-loe approached Kai Lung with a grievous look.
“Alas, manlet,” he exclaimed, “here is one direct from the presence of our high commander, requiring you against his thumb-signed bond. Go you must, and that alone, whether it be for elevation on a tree or on a couch. Out of an insatiable friendship this one would accompany you, were it possible, equally to hold your hand if you are to die or hold your cup if you are to feast. Yet touching that same cask of hidden wine there is still time—”
“Cease, mooncalf,” replied Kai Lung reprovingly. “This is but an eddy on the surface of a moving stream. It comes, it goes; and the waters press on as before.”
Then Kai Lung, neither bound nor wearing the wooden block, was led into the presence of Shan Tien, and allowed to seat himself upon the floor as though he plied his daily trade.
“Sooner or later it will certainly devolve upon this person to condemn you to a violent end,” remarked the far-seeing Mandarin reassuringly. “In the ensuing interval, however, there is no need for either of us to dwell upon what must be regarded as an unpleasant necessity.”
“Yet no crime has been committed, beneficence,” Kai Lung ventured to protest; “nor in his attitude before your virtuous self has this one been guilty of any act of disrespect.”
“You have shown your mind to be both wide and deep, and suitably lined,” declared Shan Tien, dexterously avoiding the weightier part of the story-teller’s plea. “A question now arises as to the efficacy of embroidered coffin cloths, and wherein their potent merit lies. Out of your well-stored memory declare your knowledge of this sort, conveying the solid information in your usual palatable way.”
“I bow, High Excellence,” replied Kai Lung. “This concerns the story of Wang Ho.”
The Story of Wang Ho and the Burial RobeThere was a time when it did not occur to anyone in this pure and enlightened Empire to question the settled and existing order of affairs. It would have been well for the merchant Wang Ho had he lived in that happy era. But, indeed, it is now no unheard-of thing for an ordinary person to suggest that customs which have been established for centuries might with advantage be changed—a form of impiety which is in no degree removed from declaring oneself to be wiser or more profound than one’s ancestors! Scarcely more seemly is this than irregularity in maintaining the Tablets or observing the Rites; and how narrow is the space dividing these delinquencies from the actual crimes of overturning images, counselling rebellion, joining in insurrection and resorting to indiscriminate piracy and bloodshed.
Certainly the merchant Wang Ho would be a thousand taels wealthier to-day if he had fully considered this in advance. Nor would Cheng Lin—but who attempts to eat an orange without first disposing of the peel, or what manner of a dwelling could be erected unless an adequate foundation be first provided?
Wang Ho, then, let it be stated, was one who had early in life amassed a considerable fortune by advising those whose intention it was to hazard their earnings in the State Lotteries as to the
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