From Waterloo Station he drove to the hotel where he usually stayed when he was in town, and the hotel valet took charge of his dress suit in preparation for the ceremony of the following night. Fing-Su had rather amused him by his insistence upon his matter of costume.
“A tail coat and a white tie, the grand habit,” he said. “The initiation will interest you—it combines some of the more modern ceremonies with one as ancient as life.”
He ordered tea to be sent to his room, and it had hardly been served before Major Spedwell appeared. He greeted his new associate with the question:
“What happened last night?”
Stephen Narth shook his head with a show of irritation.
“I don’t know. It was a monstrous scheme of Fing-Su’s. I—I nearly chucked the whole thing.”
“Did you?” The Major sank into the only armchair in the room. “Well, I shouldn’t take that too seriously if I were you. No harm was intended to the girl. Fing-Su was very considerate; she was being taken to a place where she would have had white women to look after her, everything that heart could desire.”
“Then why on earth–-?” began Narth.
Spedwell made a gesture of impatience.
“He has a reason. He wanted to put a lever under Mr Clifford Lynne.”
He got up from his chair, walked to the fireplace and knocked off the ash of his cigar.
“There’s money for you in this, Narth,” he said, “and only one thing required of you—and that’s loyalty. Fing-Su thinks you’re a man who will be very useful to him.” He looked at the other oddly. “You might even take Leggat’s place,” he said.
Stephen Narth looked up quickly.
“Leggat? I thought he was a great friend of yours.”
“He is and he isn’t,” said Spedwell carefully. “Fing-Su thinks—well, there have been leakages. Things had got out, and unfortunately got into the wrong quarters.” And then, abruptly: “Lynne is in town. I suppose you know that?”
“I’m not interested in his movements,” said Mr Narth with some acerbity.
“I thought you might be,” said the other carelessly.
He could have added that he himself was more interested in Clifford Lynne’s plans than that erratic man could be possibly aware. And there was a reason for his interest: Fing-Su had found a new plan—one so ingeniously arranged that only one man could save Joan Bray, and that was the quick-shooting man from Siangtan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Clifford came to his Mayfair dwelling in time for a hasty lunch, and he came alone. He had left strict injunctions with Joe Bray to keep himself hidden, a very necessary precaution, for Joe was essentially an open-air man who chafed at confinement. His first act on arrival was to call a Mayfair number.
“Mr Leggat is not in,” was the reply, and Clifford cursed the affable traitor who had promised to be available from one o’clock onwards.
He had further reason for annoyance when at two o’clock Mr Leggat called openly at the house. Ferdinand Leggat was a lover of good things, but as a rule he reserved his conviviality for the hours which followed dinner. Cliff took one glance at the man as he swaggered into the dining-room and rightly interpreted the red face and the fatuous smile.
“You’re a madman, Leggat,” he said quietly, as he walked to the door and closed it. “Why do you come here in daylight?”
Leggat had reached the point of exhilaration when he alone stood out clearly from a blurred world.
“Because I prefer daylight,” he said a little thickly. “Why should I, a man of my qualities, sneak around in the dark? That for Fing-Su and all his myrmidons!” He snapped his finger contemptuously and broke into a guffaw of laughters but Clifford Lynne was not amused.
“You’re a fool,” he said again. “I asked you to be on hand so that I might telephone you. Don’t underrate Fing-Su, my friend.”
“Bah!” said the other as he walked, uninvited, to the buffet and helped himself liberally from the tantalus. “There was never a giddy Oriental who could scare me! You seem to forget that I’ve lived in China, Lynne. And as to the secret society–-” He threw back his head and laughed again. “My dear old man,” he said as he walked unsteadily back to the table, a large tumblerful of amber liquor in his hand, “if there is a fool here, it’s you! I’ve given you enough information to hang Fing-Su. You’re a rich man, you can afford to hand the thing over to the police, and sit down comfortably and await developments.”
Clifford did not explain that he had already been in touch with the Colonial and Foreign Offices, and had been met with a polite sceptism which had at once irritated and silenced him. The Foreign Office knew that the Peckham factory stored field guns. They had been bought in the open market, he was blandly told, and there was no mystery about them at all. They could not be exported without a licence, and there was no reason in the world why a Chinese trading company should not have the same privileges as a white. To all this and more he had listened with growing impatience.
“I’m through with Fing-Su,” said Leggat. “He is not only a Chink but a mean Chink. And after all I’ve done for him! Did you arrange for the Umgeni to be searched, as I suggested?”
Clifford nodded. He had succeeded so far that he had induced the Port of London Authority to take action, and the Umgeni had been searched systematically, her cargo had been hauled from the hold and broached, but nothing had been found save the conventional articles of commerce, cases of spades, reapers, cooking pots and the usual stock of the trader.
“Humph!” Leggat was surprised. “I know they’ve been loading her for weeks–-“
“She sails tonight,” said Clifford, “and not even Fing-Su can unload her cargo and replace it.”
His guest gulped down the contents of the tumbler and exhaled a deep breath.
“I’m through with him,” he repeated. “I thought he was the original duck that laid golden eggs ad infinitum.”
“In other words, you’ve exploited him as far as you can, eh?” asked Clifford, with a faint smile. “And now you’re ready to sell the carcass! What part is Spedwell playing?”
Leggat shrugged his broad shoulders.
“I never liked Spedwell very much,” he said. “These military Johnnies get my goat. He’s Fing-Su’s chief of staff—spends all his time with maps and plans and drill-books. He and Fing-Su have just finished writing a Chinese manual.”
“A rifle manual?” asked Clifford quickly.
“Something like that,” said the other with a shrug.
Clifford raised his hand in warning as there came a gentle knock at the door and his servant entered.
“I forgot to tell you, sir,” he said, “the Post Office workmen came this morning to fix your telephone.”
“Fix—what do you mean, fix?” asked Lynne, a frown gathering on his forehead.
“They said there had been some complaints about the instrument—the exchange couldn’t hear you very distinctly.”
Lynne was silent and thoughtful for a second.
“Were you here whilst the repairs were being done?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, sir,” smiled the man. “They had a Post Office card of authority, but I’m too old a bird to take a risk—I was with them all the time whilst they fixed the amplifier.”
“Oh!” said Clifford blankly. And then: “Where did they put this ‘amplifier’?”