Mr. Three

Chapter I The Domino Players

DOMINOES clinked on the tables in the lounge of the Bonhomme Club, in San Francisco. Black cubes, of the American game, and white dominoes of the Chinese; ivory and bamboo pieces of the new game of mah jongg, a fad in the clubs of San Francisco, but a game known to the Chinese for some two thousand years.

It was after the luncheon hour and cigar smoke rose toward the high ceiling. Few words were spoken, so busily did the dominoes clink and chink. The stakes, more often than not, were high. Those who play in the Bonhomme Club are not pikers. Here were gathered men high in the professions, some heads of leading industries in the city, travelers, authors—most of them had made their mark.

Their hour of diversion it was, yet only one—a new arrival—turned to the reading matter on the long table by the fireplace and took up a magazine. He was a slender man, still under middle age; he moved leisurely as if in all his life he had never hurried. Something in the set of his shoulders and the muscles of his hands suggested military life, or physical fitness, and the skin of his lower cheeks and neck was tanned a deep brown.

Two mah jongg players glanced at him more than once. Presently the taller of the pair, a man with a notable, ruddy countenance, hailed the reader.

“Bob Warner, or I'm,a liar! Come out of it, man. Want to sit in with us—three birds of a kind, eh?”

Warner looked up and answered gravely. “Thanks, Hearn, I prefer to keep what feathers I've got. Besides, I'm off all things Oriental.”

“Suit yourself, my lad. So you're fed up on China, after six years of it! What did you get out of it? Something good?”

Clifford Hearn, ten years ago, had been in a New York university with Robert Warner. Working in Wall Street with small means, he had profited by the boom of '16; then he had a hand in a fishery combine that boosted prices until the Government took notice, and the law was invoked to try the heads of the company. Hearn fought his way out of the mess, and doubled his stake twice over by getting control of a copper mine in Arizona in the days after the war when copper mines were shut down and the metal was going begging.

The man was a fighter. Which is to say that he was never afraid to take a chance. He had scattered his money among leases in the oil fields of Southern California, as if over a faro board; his luck was good. In fact, those who followed his lead said it had never failed him, They called him King Cliff—those who knew him at all—and many stories they had of Cliff's luck.

Hearn had always patronized Warner, who was a shy chap, in college, where he fiddled around with ancient history and forgotten languages. The older man had waxed affluent by rapid methods, options on land and oil and stock selling rather than by the surer method of cultivation and building.

“Not so good,” responded Warner. “I've got together some rather curious—experiences.”

With a nod the promoter brushed aside the ivory dominoes, signing to one of the attendants to put them away as he rose to join the man by the fireplace. “Experiences, I'll say that!” He smiled at his companion of the gaming table, a slender individual, faultlessly dressed. “Ray, I want you to meet Bob Warner, the collector. He collects trouble. Bob, this is Count Camprubi, a friend of mine just over from China, himself. He has a story that will interest you.”

The pallid features of Camprubi were handsome, and only his full, brawn eyes and carefully chosen English indicated his foreign birth.

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Warner. You collect—trouble? Ah, I am afraid I do not understand.”

“You will, Ray, when you know Warner better,” chuckled Hearn. “He has been in more tight places than any man in this room, barring you, maybe. They say he saved his skin once by hopping a out of the Gobi desert, and another time by out-deviling a bunch of devil-worshippers somewhere up the Yang-tse River. He goes in for mysteries, picks 'em to pieces. Last two years the United States Government used him as an informal agent in getting tourists out of the hands of bandits in the interior of China.”

As in their college days, the big man spoke patronizingly, and Warner had the impression that Camprubi knew all this beforehand.

“Hardly all of that,” he responded dryly. “I've only knocked about the Gobi, looking into things that interested me. I'm in California to stay—want to get my hand on a fruit ranch in the Imperial Valley, where I can read magazines that haven't pages torn out to make pipe spills for someone else a year ago. For years I've been dreaming of a real nigger cook who can turn out waffles and never heard of soy beans.”

The newcomer in the Bonhomme stood on the hearth and surveyed the rapidly thinning throng of men with relish. He wanted to sit around with his own kind again, and dine at hotels, with perhaps the theatre or opera afterward. For seven years he had scouted the edge of the Gobi, or the great rivers of inland China, on business for somebody else. People were always blundering into trouble and had to be helped out.

He had collected, yes. But what he had gathered together was a lot of queer happenings, grim enough. He had been near the heart of Asia. He was sick of dung fires and the stench of sheepskins, and he never wanted to see camels again.

“Look here, Bob.” Hearn drew out cigars and lit one after the others had refused. “We've been hanging around, Ray and I, to talk to you, ever since your steamer docked a week ago. You'll keep this confidential, of course?”

“Not necessarily,” said the collector quickly. “You don't have to tell me anything, Hearn.”

Camprubi glanced at his companion and shrugged slightly, returning to the study of his cigarette holder.

“Well, this is to your interest as much as ours,” went on the promoter after a pause. “We have knowledge of something really big. You know I'm not talking just to say something. Proof is, I'm going into it myself, backing it, in fact. Camprubi got wind of it, and I've checked everything as far as we've gone. You know more about such things than I do, and you can verify the facts to suit yourself. We know where to find”—he hesitated, studying Warner's face—“the biggest lot of unset jewels in the world.”

Bob Warner looked up with a smile. “Going to trade with Lenin and the Bolsheviks for the crown jewels of Russia?”

“I said 'unset.' These stones are loose, about a quart of 'em, near as I can make out. No earthly doubt about their value. We've seen an inventory—so many rubies, so so many sapphires, matched, as large as a man's thumbnail.” Hearn lowered his voice, although by then the lounge was nearly emptied. The fine eyes of Count Camprubi glowed softly.

“They are really crown jewels,” he added in explanation. Choosing his words with care, he went on. “They are within the borders of China. But they are not a treasure of the later emperors. They date back beyond the time of the empire that we know as Cathay.”

“Earlier than Marco Polo?” In spite of himself, Warner was interested.

Camprubi lifted his slender fingers. “Ah, very much. Before the monarchs of Cathay were the kings of Tsin, in the beginning of history, as we know it. Les anciens, mon ami2”

“This treasure,” said Hearn quietly, “dates from the time of the pyramids of Egypt, more or less. Call it three thousand years.”

“Egypt,” said Warner frankly, “is full of tombs that aren't there at all. The whole East is rife with ruins and each one has a story. And a story is just a story. The favorite yarn is that some dead king laid away his private stock where no one else could find it.”

“True,” assented the foreigner. “But there are always exceptions.”

“This is one,” added the promoter decisively. “Lord Carnarvon hit on another exception, when he found this Tut-ankh-amen tomb. The men that found it cleared a million, didn't they?”

After satisfying himself that no one else was within hearing, Clifford Hearn explained the legend that had aroused his interest. He did so in the matter-of-fact phrases of modern business, yet in his voice was the thrill of the searcher—the tensity of a gambler who is waiting his turn to sit in a game of stupendous stakes.

THREE thousand years ago lived the emperor Chong-Wang, monarch of Tsin, one of the first dynasties of what is today China. Chong-Wang took pride in a collection of jewels, brought from the mountains of India and Persia—as the empires are known today—over the caravan routes of Asia that are old as civilization' itself.

The court historian of his reign made a list of the chief jewels of the monarch, and this list has come down in the annals known as the , being inscribed on tablets of bamboo. It was the custom of the emperor to take long hunting trips into the west. During one of these expeditions into the great plain beyond the mountains of Tsin, Chong-Wang was attacked by a savage dog, among the hunting beasts, and died of his hurts.

Wherever he went, Chong-Wang took with him the precious stones that he prized. Rather than entrust them to an attendant, he was in the habit of placing them in a secret place in whatever palace or camp-site he happened to be.

When the emperor of Tsin died, swiftly and violently, he was quartered in a certain hunting pavilion called Singan-mu, or Palace of the West. Although the next emperor ordered a careful search of the pavilion to be made, no jewels were discovered,

Such was the legend of Chong-Wang and his hoard of precious stones. And that was all.

“Except,” Camprubi smiled, “for an additional word of the worthy historian, who relates that the hound that killed the king was quite four cubits high, shaped like a tiger, and had the eyes of a demon. A typical bit of Oriental sophistry, to make it seem as if Chong-Wang had been attacked by a devil instead of an ordinary dog.”

Warner nodded. “I know the legend. Professor Rand, head of the mission college at Lanchow—an old friend—showed me a translation from the Bamboo Books.”

Suspicion, like a shadow, passed over the Count's handsome features, and Hearn's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Most of the accounts of royal wealth, especially in the Orient, are exaggerated,” he observed. “But this looks straight. No reason to suppose Chong-Wang's historian would draw up a false list for his master's use. And the inventory has been handed down with the legend.”

“And we can accept both as fact,” put in Camprubi. “What do you make of it, Mr. Warner?”

“Mighty little. Admitting the truth of the legend—supposing the emperor had the jewels, and hid them—it all happened three thousand years ago. Chong-Wang died, I think, in 1077 B. C., which makes it exactly three thousand years, as this is 1923.”

“Well?”

Warner glanced at his watch impatiently. “In that time anything not built of stone would become dust. A hunting pavilion hardly sounds substantial. Why, the surface of the earth changes in thirty centuries. Mountains might be worn down, and a river could flow over a city. Besides, the exact position of Singan-mu is not known.”

A glance passed between the two adventurers, Camprubi questioning, Hearn thoughtful. “I am an Italian,” said the slender man presently, “and among the records of the Vatican I discovered the second chapter of the treasure. I learned the approximate position of Singan-mu.”

To Warner it was as if someone had drawn back a curtain disclosing a thing unknowable. It was incredible; and yet, these two men were hardly fools. He held back a question as to how the Italian had obtained his knowledge.

Following his own purpose, however, Hearn gave him an inkling, to arouse his interest further. “After this Marco Polo went to Cathay from Venice, priests made the journey, to spread Christianity. Jesuits they were. One of them—I'm not saying which one or when—made a convert of a Chinese nobleman, who pointed out the ruins of Singan-mu.”

Just a little the upper lip of Camprubi curled away from white teeth. His long fingers, shaped for a musician's talent, moved restlessly. Warner thought he was like a cat, watching over a saucer of milk. Camprubi's discovery brought the location of the treasure out of legendary times. True, but2

Hearn guessed at his point. “That was three hundred years ago. The frontiers of China were war-ridden after that. The priest, you can be sure, was half a prisoner—more anxious about his own skin than buried jewels. Singan-mu was lost again, until this year.”

He tossed his cigar into the hearth, half-smoked. “Warner, an American antiquarian—you can call him that—hit on some ruins near the edge—well, the edge of the beyond, we'll say. On one of the granite blocks he found an inscription, two ancient Chinese characters. They were the reign title of Chong-Wang. And the position of the ruins he uncovered agrees roughly with the latitude and longitude given by the priest.”

The three men were silent for a moment. Warner found it hard to believe what he heard. Out of the darkness of antiquity, into the shadows of medieval times, and then into the broad light of today the secret of the emperor of Tsin had come.

“Strange,” he murmured. “But, somehow, I can't think such a hoard would be left unmolested all this time.”

“Nature took care of that, my boy.” Hearn smiled. “You said yourself the face of the earth changes in thirty centuries. It does, and it did. Since Chong-Wang hunted in the fertile valleys and hills of—this place, it has changed. He wouldn't have known it ten centuries later, because it was a barren waste of clay and rock; then it was covered with the sand that drifted in from the Gobi.”

Warner nodded. This was true of all the western border of China.

“So, most of the time,” the promoter went on, “Singan-mu was buried under a rising tide of sand. Then the prevailing winds changed from westerly to northeast, and the sand was driven back a few inches a year. This went on for centuries. Evidently this Singan-mu place was on a hill. Anyway, it came to the surface again, and a doddering old American fossil gatherer hit on one of the granite blocks.”

“The sand,” added Camprubi softly, “helped to preserve the ruins from the corrosion of the elements.”

“It's out of my line a bit, this,” observed Hearn dryly, “and you can be sure I've had experts check every step in my theory. Ray here,” he nodded at the Italian, “knows what he's saying. And, look at this!”

From the side pocket of his tweed coat he drew a chain of linked portions of a hard gray substance. The fragments resembled soapstone, and were pitted deeply. They were strung together on modern twine, but were themselves of ancient workmanship; lines of carving on the surface were still discernible.

“Jade!” cried Warner.

“You said it,” nodded Hearn. “A jade necklace. Precious stones, probably emeralds, were set in those holes.”

“It came from Singan-mu,” added Camprubi.

The two seekers after the treasure of Chong-Wang had been careful, while arousing Warner's interest, to keep from telling him anything that would point out the position of Singan-mu, the ruins of the pleasure pavilion of the emperor of Tsin. It might be anywhere along the line of the most barren and forbidding desert in the world—the Gobi, that lies behind the back door of China.

So, likewise, Camprubi said nothing of how he came to possess the jade necklace without its jewels. He must have secured it in China, and brought it to show as evidence to Hearn, who had never been there.

“Possibly,” the Italian murmured, “the jade was part of the hoard of Chong-Wang, brought to the surface by the working of the shifting sand, Possibly the man who found it took the emeralds, and sold the setting. I bought it in Shanghai from a curio dealer who told me its history, aware that the story would add to its price.”

The jade was undoubtedly very old. Warner knew that its use, as a setting for jewels dated back to before the time of goldsmiths. Without comment he handed it back to Hearn, who pocketed it and surveyed him curiously.

“Its a good bet, even if we lose,” the promoter said. “I've a hunch that the jewels are there. The Jesuit knew a little about Singan-mu; the fossil digger found out a little more. Neither of them thought of anything but doing their stuff—converting pagans and collecting inscriptions for museums; each one had his line. I want the goods, and I'll get them.”

He glanced at the Italian. “Ray and I will. Nobody living has any claim to the hoard—nobody but the finder. Ray, here, crossed over from Shanghai, looking for a partner to tackle the thing. He brought his story to me. He needed money, equipment, and a bunch of men to see it through. He says the interior of China is not safe for a small party. I'm going into it, and we need a third.”

He tapped the collector on the shoulder. “When your ship docked, I said that you were the one to help us out. Bob, you know the country like a book; you can steer us up the Yang-tse, through China, and get a caravan together at one of the border towns. You know what we'd have to take along.”

“I know,” said Warner, He was aware that his qualifications fitted. He would be able to handle natives, to direct the work of excavation, to act as interpreter.

“How would a thousand suit you, for the trip, and all expenses? Of course you'll figure on a percentage of what we find,” he added as Warner made no response. “We can settle that on the boat. I want to catch the next steamer out from here.”

“You accept?” Camprubi asked.

“No,” answered Warner.

“What!” Hearn laughed. “Why, it's right in your line, man! Call it two thousand, then.”

Warner shook his head. “I'm not going with you, Hearn.”

The two men studied him with varying emotions. Clifford Hearn had been certain that the collector would jump at the chance. Warner had little money, and such a search would interest him beyond measure. He had assured himself of these things before approaching the man who had just come in from the Orient.

“But, damn it, man,” he cried, “you won't lose anything if we should fail. I'll go as high as a fifteenth of the percentage of the jewels2”

“I think Mr. Warner is not convinced of our chances of finding Singan-mu,” put in Camprubi, who was more observing. “He may think that the Chinese have already unearthed all that was valuable, as the natives of Egypt have done with so many of the royal tombs.”

“Partly that,” smiled the collector.

“So? Then I can assure Mr. Warner that the natives of the Gobi have a most hearty fear of the spot. They do not go near it. They say there is a devil in Singan-mu, a four-legged devil. Each to his own fancy. I prefer the legend of a woman devil. It is,” he shrugged, “more pleasant to contemplate.”

“Then you'll be entertained, Count,” added Hearn grimly. “Since there's a woman trying to work our claim.” To Warner, he explained, “Other people have wind of this. But we hold most of the trumps. We've been frank with you—what's your real reason for backing out?”

“Frankly,” Warner laughed, “I've a hunch as well as you. I think it's dangerous. Meddling with the unknown is not always agreeable, Hearn. If I were you I'd leave it alone.”

“Scared, eh?” The big man's jaw thrust out, and the friendliness fell away from him on the instant. “All right. Stay out, then, and be careful to keep what you've heard to yourself, see?”

Again suspicion glowed in the dark eyes of the Italian, although he spoke quietly. “If you should try to use the information that we have given you, Mr. Warner, it would be unfortunate.”

So firm a grip had the prospect of the jewel hoard taken upon the minds of the two men that, for an instant, greed, stark and unfeeling, was stamped upon their faces.

Although Warner had not said it, the idea of becoming a partner in the venture with Hearn and Camprubi did not suit him. “I've no intention of talking about your find,” he pointed out impatiently. “And I'm not interested in it. When you get to the headwaters of the Yang-tse find a Mohammedan for a caravanbash. The Moslems do not share the superstitions of the Chinese. And don't load up with equipment here. Anything you want can be bought at Shanghai. Good luck to you.”

He nodded to Hearn and left the room.

Chapter II A Blow in the Dark

AT THE door of the Bonhomme Club the collector hesitated. He had been a fool to refuse Hearn's offer. What if they found the jewels of Chong-Wang? A long chance, but what a reward!

Hearn was a good leader. Those who followed King Cliff had made fortunes. He was ruthless in dealing with enemies, but he always stood up for his friends. And, to interest a man like that, the Italian, Camprubi, must have information he had not shown—although, counting on his acceptance, they had been open enough.

Well, he had made his choice. After all, he had come back to California to live. Professor Rand, likewise, must be returned from the mission college, having resigned his position. And several old friends would be glad enough to see him.

Two hours later Warner felt depressed. He had called on one pal of his newspaper days—now general manager of a new corporation. The man had been delighted to see him, but busy, very busy. Warner had left after a brief talk, interrupted by phone calls and questioning subordinates.

A second friend was on his way to the Berkeley country club—asked if Warner played golf. The collector smiled. Golf, during seven years in the barrens of Central Asia! His friend muttered about an engagement, a foursome—said he must catch the ferry, and would Warner make use of his car and chauffeur?

“Thanks,” grinned the man from the Orient, “I'm walking.”

Another of his friends, he learned over the telephone, had left San Francisco. It was clear to Warner that the newspaper coterie of seven years ago existed no longer. He was a stranger in San Francisco.

Idly he sauntered along the streets, and presently found that he had come to the Embarcadero, having followed the line of least resistance, which, in San Francisco, is down hill. Here laden trucks thundered dustily over the cobbles, and stevedores made their way out of the piers, coats on their arms. A factory whistle blew. Warner saw, directly in front of him, the high bow of the steamer that would take Hearn to China. Smoke was rolling up thickly from a funnel.

His nostrils dilated as he sniffed the odor of dusty planks and warm sea water, of oil and wine and fish. Here was the jumping-off point. If he were going with Hearn, he would see the muddy waters of the great Yang-tse within three weeks—see the blue hills of Ichang, and the red clay that marked the threshold of Central Asia. He knew just what men he would take with the caravan; they would be glad to see him, and Rand, at Lanchow, would have all the latest newspapers.

With a sigh, Warner turned on his heel. Professor Rand was in San Francisco, like himself. Here, at least, was one man who had time to spare. He would go directly to the professor's house, and take him out to dinner.

So the collector pushed through the increasing throng that flowed down the hilly streets to the ferry. Catching a cable car he started up California Street toward the residential section, staring out at the tomblike structures that towered over the rushing people of the street.

The city had changed.

Without trouble he found the Rand house. An old Chinese appeared at the door in answer to his ring.

“Is Professor Rand at home?”

The servant shook his head.

“When will he be in?”

This seemed to give the Chinese food for thought. His patient, wrinkled face puckered. “Long time,” he ejaculated. “Solly. Him stop China-way long time.”

Impatiently, Warner shifted to colloquial Chinese, and the aged guardian of the gate showed his appreciation by a respectful bow, when the white man made himself known as Professor Rand's friend. Mr. Two—as the servant named himself—explained that his master had changed his plans, although he had resigned his post as head of the Lanchow college, and had not left China as yet. “T'a pu lai—he comes not,” Mr. Two concluded patiently.

Warner was more than a little puzzled. Rand had said definitely, six months ago, that he would meet him in San Francisco. Moreover, Mr. Two revealed a courtesy and intelligence not often seen in a Chinese servant in the States,

“Very well,” Warner said regretfully.

Mr. Two bowed and clasped his hands by way of acknowledgment. As soon as the visitor had gone, he locked the front door from the outside, and padded out quietly into the street. Without looking around, he started downhill, toward the Chinese quarter.

It was nearly dark by then, and Warner faced another restaurant dinner alone. His way led also to the downtown streets and he allowed Mr. Two to serve as a guide. The Chinese plodded on, immersed in his own thoughts.

An evening breeze from off the sea chilled the air and fog thickened the dusk. Street lights glowed. Warner found it necessary to hasten a little to keep the bent form of Mr. Two in sight. Few people were stirring on the California street at that hour.

A church spire loomed up out of the mist, and under this Mr. Two paused. Warner stopped, because behind him he heard an unfamiliar, pattering sound. It drew nearer, and the collector smiled, seeing a large dog, nose to the pavement, running past him, its claws scraping on the pavement. In the shadow of the church something moved.

“What in thunder?”

Warner's exclamation was provoked by the sight of Mr. Two fleeing down the side street, past the mission. The arms of the old Chinese were flung over his head, and a slipper dropped from one foot. All at once he cried out—a long, shrill intonation of fear.

Hearing this, the collector began to run after him, glancing from side to side to make out what had frightened the servant. With surprising agility Mr. Two darted into a side alley. The dog, as animals will, trotted after the fleeing man. Mr. Two—seemingly blind for the moment—tripped over a raised grating in the sidewalk.

He fell headlong against a flight of stone steps, under the solitary light of the alley. Warner heard the impact of his skull against the stone, and knew by the limpness of his thin body that he was badly hurt. The dog passed on, but another man emerged from across the alley, and stooped over the prostrate servant.

Warner, coming up, saw the other thrust a hand into the breast of Mr. Two's tunic. Then the newcomer turned and saw the white man standing over him. Dropping his chin on his chest, he sidled away, moving like a huge crab, and disappeared down the alley. For an instant Warner glimpsed a broad, pock-marked face, a loose-lipped mouth set with long, pointed teeth. Then the second Chinese was gone.

Kneeling beside Mr. Two, he found that the servant was conscious. But his eyes were lusterless and his skin pallid. Blood trickled down into his mouth. As the white man, suspecting a fracture of the skull, started to feel his head, Mr. Two reached into his girdle, panting with agony as he moved,

“Me finish,” he muttered. Peering up, he recognized Warner. “Will you take this object to my son?” The words came clearly in Chinese, as if expelled by an effort of will. Having said them, Mr. Two's lips ceased to move. His fingers thrust into the white man's hand something round and hard. Glancing down, Warner saw that he held what appeared to be a medal of iron or bronze.

“Why, yes—certainly,” he responded mechanically. The black beads that were the eyes of Mr. Two continued to fasten upon him steadily.

Briefly Robert Warner answered the questions of the patrolman, summoned to the spot. The officer wrote down the name and address of the injured Chinese, and the fact that it had been an accident. An ambulance arrived, and a man in white knelt by Mr. Two for a moment.

The skull was fractured, the heart very weak; death would come at any time. The young surgeon explained that the shock had proved too much for the aged Oriental. They could operate, yes—would take Mr. Two to the hospital—but the man could never survive it.

“He doesn't want to go to the hospital,” remarked Warner, observing a sudden hostility in the black eyes. Mr. Two, like all of his race, dreaded going under the knife. “Better take him back to the house. The other servants can look after him, and get in a doctor. His son may be there.”