He pressed his lips together and made a humming sound.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Chinese for ‘no’,” he told her, smilingly, his eyes tender. “You see, the Chinese negative is expressed by simply prefixing that m-m-m sound to any word or sentence.”
“My,” she said, “it must be easy for a Chinese girl to say ‘no’. She could say it with her mouth closed!”
Terry dismissed her remark with a mere nod and went on, “And, by way of further answer to your question, I’m not going to marry Alma.”
Her eyes widened with consternation. “Not going... to marry Alma? Oh, Owl, but you must! It would break her heart. You love her and she loves you. You do love her, don’t you, Owl?”
“In a way — yes.”
“Then why aren’t you going to marry her, Owl?”
“Because,” he said, gripping her fingers, his voice suddenly husky, “I’m going to marry you.”
“You... you’re... Oh, Owl, no... please! Alma...”
“Wants me to,” he interrupted. “She’s too wrapped up in a career to take time out to be a wife. She didn’t really analyze it until this thing came up, and then...”
Cynthia stared at him with startled eyes, suddenly scraped back her chair.
“Come on, Owl,” she said. “If you’ve got anything like that to say to me, you’re going to say it where we aren’t surrounded by a whole mess of strange people, and... and where lipstick smears won’t be so damned conspicuous. Come on, Owl... Gee, I hope I’m not taking the aggressive in this ring, but you come on!”
A puzzled waiter rushed after them, caught them halfway to the door, and stared incredulously at the bill Terry pushed into his palm. At the cloakroom there was a slight delay while the attendant was getting Cynthia’s fur coat. A newsboy temptingly displayed a folded front page. “Read about de moider, Mister,” he invited.
“Oh, Owl, look! There’s Juanita’s picture, and...”
Terry handed the boy a half dollar, grabbed the paper. Cynthia looked over his shoulder. Suddenly she giggled. “Look!” she exclaimed.
Terry, who had been reading the headlines: “POLO PLAYER ADMITS BEING TOOL IN MANDRA MURDER... SPORTSMAN PROCURES MURDER WEAPON FOR DARING DANCER,” lowered his eyes to the place Cynthia was indicating. Juanita’s picture had been taken in front of her cell. Below it appeared the caption: “JUANITA MANDRA, THE BEAUTIFUL DANCER, WIDOW OF THE MURDERED MAN, TELLS HER STORY FOR THE FIRST time: ‘WE HAD DECIDED TO SEPARATE,’ THE DANCER SAID TEARFULLY. ‘I WAS FINISHED WITH HIM BECAUSE OF HIS INFIDELITIES. I WENT TO HIS APARTMENT TO GET SOME OF MY THINGS. THIS SLEEVE GUN WAS LYING ON THE TABLE. NOT KNOWING WHAT IT WAS, I PICKED IT UP. HE GRABBED ME, STRUGGLED WITH ME, RIPPED MY GOWN FROM MY SHOULDERS. I DREW BACK, FIGHTING TO FREE MYSELF. I AM SATISFIED NOW, MY HUSBAND HAD INTENDED TO KILL ME WITH THAT SLEEVE GUN. HIS HANDS WERE MOIST WITH PERSPIRATION. THEY SLIPPED DOWN MY BARE ARMS. HIS FINGERS CLOSED ABOUT MINE, PRESSING THE CATCH OF THE SLEEVE GUN. I SCREAMED BECAUSE THE CATCH WAS CUTTING INTO MY FLESH. SUDDENLY THERE WAS A WHIRRING SOUND. SOMETHING JARRED IN MY HAND. JACOB FELL BACK. EVEN THEN I DIDN’T KNOW THAT...’ (Read the full story of what transpired on page 3, column 2.)”
The girl brought Cynthia’s coat and Terry slipped it over her smooth shoulders. She nestled against the soft fur and laughed.
“Good old Renny. He’ll make it stick. Isn’t it a swell break for Juanita that Renny had already thought up that story, studied up on sleeve guns and had it all rehearsed? You should have seen the methodical way he ironed out all the weak points in the story!”
She studied the photograph, looking at Juanita’s legs with the critical appraisal which one woman gives to the feminine charms of another.
“At that, Owl,” she said, “the arguments by which she expects to sway the jury aren’t any better than mine.”
An Acknowledgment
The Chinese characters in this book are fictitious, but the background is not. Such inaccuracies as exist are due to my own inability to concentrate upon that which has been shown me, and, in turn, to depict that which I have seen.
Cultured Chinese rarely mingle with foreigners, are particularly inaccessible to the “Tourist”. That I am privileged to enjoy the friendship of many of this group is a source of constant gratification. Their loyalty to friendship, the patience with which they have condoned my many errors, has created a lasting impression upon me.
It is hard for them to understand a memory which is less than photographic. My clumsy attempts at mastering their language, my glaring breaches of Chinese etiquette, must have provoked both mirth and embarrassment. That I have never seen evidences of either is typical of their innate courtesy.
Lest some of the things in this book seem exaggerated, may I observe that the most scholarly talk on concentration I have ever listened to was by a Chinese; that the one man I have met who seemed to have a perfect command of the English language, summoning with effortless ease the words by which he expressed the most subtle nuances of meaning, was Chinese; that the most satisfactory friendships I have ever enjoyed were with Chinese.
China is a large nation. Its people Comprise many classes. Too much has been written of the more accessible lower classes; too little of the aloof Chinese aristocrat, who considers the true teacher with a respect akin to reverence. I am not a novelist. I wish I were. But lest the reader consider the Chinese atmosphere in this book overdrawn, I assure him that I have known the exact counterpart of the characters described. I have had Chinese friends unhesitatingly risk their lives in my behalf. I am indebted to them for a most fascinating system of mental discipline, and I herewith make public acknowledgment of that indebtedness.
E. S. G.