The Jade God by Alan Sullivan (snow like ashes series txt) 📕

reckon I’ve sucked in something from the places I’ve been in that helps to get under the skin at times. Getting back to clues, this world is full of clues that go unnoticed just because people don’t know how to look at them. Same thing when you get so used to a thing that you can’t tell whether it’s in the room or not, without making sure. That’s because you don’t hear what it says.”

“Ah,” put in Derrick swiftly, “then you believe that things talk?”

“It’s the only talk worth listening to now and then.”

Derrick’s pulse quickened. “Is that what you depend on in this case?”

The peddler nodded. “Perhaps it would surprise you if I said that something was talking at this very minute, a queer kind of stuff that I only half get.”

Saying this, he lifted his eyes, and sent Derrick an extraordinary look. There was power in it, and a certain mesmeric weight, and in a strange but unmistakable fashion it invited the young man to acknowledge what he himself believed. This look stated very plainly that the stranger saw through Derrick’s camouflage, and also quite understood the present necessity for it; but it suggested, too, that behind the newcomer was an authority that as yet he had no intention to disclose. There were no words in which to phrase what Derrick felt. Presently, and as though to make the thing as easy as possible for the master of Beech Lodge, the little man gave a short laugh.

“You might as well let me try it, sir. If I fail there will be no harm done.”

Derrick, without realizing it, took his cue. “Well,” he said good-humouredly, “at any rate, you can’t do much harm by having a look at the room. What do you say, Martin? I’ll let you decide, since you’re responsible for Blunt while he’s here.”

Martin twisted his lips in a vain effort to speak, but it seemed that any reminder of responsibility was almost too much for him. He shot the peddler a swift glance, in which fear and respect were mingled, and when he looked at his master his eyes implored that he be not further involved. In that moment Martin acted like an honest man. Then the expression passed, and his face was once more a mask.

“That’s just as you feel about it, sir.”

Derrick turned to Blunt. “Well, then, you can come up, say, at six o’clock, and you’d better bring Martin with you. And, by the way,” he added, “if you want any details about this murder before you come, Martin knows a good deal more than I do, so you’d better pump him.”

Blunt shook his head. “It’s just as well I shouldn’t know anything at all, sir. Sometimes the more one thinks one knows the less one finds out.” Again he sent the young man that extraordinary look.

“All right; but if you change your mind, and Martin gets stuck, I’ll put you in touch with Perkins at the house.”

Martin started at this, but Blunt seemed unmoved. “Who might Perkins be?”

“The maid who was here when Mr. Millicent died. She found him.”

The man’s expression did not change in the slightest.

“I won’t want to bother her, sir; and look here, if you doubt my faith you can take my pack till you’re satisfied I’m straight. Anything else?”

His voice lifted as he spoke, and Derrick knew what he meant. The sharp eyes peering from the cottage window had missed nothing. The stranger was aware that something lay hidden in that pocket, nor could all his art conceal the hunger that was growing in his soul. Derrick, his mind tense, and realizing that every step taken now must inevitably affect the last scene of the drama, gripped the image with fingers that felt suddenly cold, then drew it out and dropped it carelessly into the peddler’s hand. The man quivered at the touch.

“While we’re on the subject, there’s something that may interest you. Ever see anything like it before?”

A tremor ran through the lean form, and the bright eyes became clouded with emotion. The brown fingers closed caressingly, till, all in a breath, a look of concentrated shrewdness spread over the swarthy face. The man stared at the molded wax, then at Derrick. “You clever devil!” was what the eyes said. He grasped the meaning of this model, there could be no doubt of that, and telegraphed an unconscious admiration to the one who had fashioned it. He scanned the small square base, the cloaked shoulders, the tiny folded hands, and the hellish sneer on the pygmy features, and nodded. Yes, it was all there, and nothing was there. A great gulf yawned between wax and jade. But the peddler remained master of himself, while Martin, at his elbow, seemed rooted to the ground.

“What do you think of it?” asked Derrick smoothly.

The peddler shook his head. “Of this, sir, nothing at all; but if I could see the original it might be another matter. Do you happen to have it?”

“I do, but not here. And it doesn’t belong to me. Ever see anything like it?”

Blunt nodded. “Yes, but not often. The original of this may have come from Indo-China, up northeast of the Bay of Bengal. I reckon it would be about five hundred years old. They don’t make them often nowadays. These things sometimes drift down into the Malay country, but they’re not supposed to. Look here, sir, I’ve a leaning for carved jade, which brings a good price from the Chinese, and I’ll trade you anything in my pack for the original of this.”

“But I’ve told you it’s not mine.”

“Maybe, sir, but if you’ll put me in touch with the owner I’ll make it worth his while to sell.”

“We’ll see about that later. Why did you say that these things are not supposed to get out of Indo-China?”

“Let me ask first, sir, if this ever brought any bad luck to the man who owned it?” He paused and smiled cynically. “I mean the original.”

Derrick nodded. The