“You needn’t tell Fing-Su I’ve been aboard,” he said. “I’ve got something I want to take out with me to the coast.”
“Are you coming too, Major?” asked the purser.
“I may come; I don’t know. The point is, I don’t want anybody to know I’ve got these things on board.”
The purser took him to a large cabin on the well deck.
“How long have you been using this for passenger accommodation?” asked the Major with a frown.
“Never used it before,” said the man, “but Fing-Su has given orders that it has to be got ready for a passenger.”
“Not for him—he has the captain’s cabin. Who is going this trip?”
But here the purser could not help him. He could, however, indicate a place of storage for the thing which Spedwell carried. It was a small black chest with two hasps and padlocks, and very carefully the visitor deposited his treasure on the deck.
“I’ll go along and get the padlocks for you, Major,” said the officer, and disappeared.
This absence was very necessary to Major Spedwell, for he had certain delicate adjustments to make before the purser returned with the locks and keys. The little box had to be packed about with square brown cakes, which he took from his bag. He found some difficulty in fitting them in the space, but he had finished his work and had closed down the lid before the black officer returned with the locks in his hand.
Spedwell straightened himself up and dusted his knees.
“Now listen, Haki—who works your wireless?”
“Either me or one of my Chink boys. I’ve got the instrument in my cabin. Why?”
Spedwell handed him the key of the chest.
“Put that in your pocket and never let it leave you. If you get a radio from me which says ‘All well,’ take the stuff out of the box and chuck it overboard. You’ll probably get the message before you leave the Channel. You’ll remember?”
Haki nodded, his eyes round with wonder.
“I don’t get the idea,” he said, “but I’ll do what you tell me, Major. Are you smuggling something?”
But Spedwell had no further information to give. He did not tell the man that in certain eventualities another radio would reach him; there was time enough when the crisis arose.
“But suppose you make this trip with us?” persisted the Negro.
“In that case,” said Spedwell, with a twisted smile, “I’ll be able to whisper the message in your ear—if I’m travelling alive!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Joe Bray arrived in Clarges Street shortly after ten, for rainclouds had hastened the hour of darkness and had made possible an earlier move from Sunningdale. He was charged with suppressed excitement, for the night promised an adventure, and adventure was the breath of old Joe Bray’s nostrils.
“Great idea of yours, Cliff, coming in the back way through the garage so that nobody could see me,” he said.
“I could have saved you the trouble,” said Clifford. “Fing-Su knows you’re alive.”
Joe Bray’s face fell. The news robbed him of half his mystery.
“I have a man in Narth’s office, a fellow named Perkins,” explained Clifford. “It took me more time than money to suborn him, because he’s one of the loyal kind. Did the detectives arrive?”
Joe nodded.
“A bit disappointing they was, Cliff,” he complained; “just ordinary people like you and me. You’d never think they was detectives.”
“That seems an asset,” said Clifford, and after a moment’s thought: “Did you get into touch with Joan?”
Old Joe shook his head.
“You told me not to,” he said virtuously.
“You don’t even know whether she’s come back?” He sighed. “I’m not very much worried about her, because Scotland Yard has put a man to shadow her. He’ll probably report later.”
“How did you get Scotland Yard into this, Cliff?” asked the big man curiously. “And if they’re in, why don’t they pinch Fing-Su?”
“Because they haven’t sufficient evidence to pinch anybody,” said Clifford shortly.
He was beginning to feel the strain of this battle with the invisible forces of the Chinaman.
“You’ll be able to satisfy your curiosity about Scotland Yard. It’s quite an unromantic place. Superintendent Willing is calling tonight and is going with us down-river. Can you swim, Joe?”
“Anything that’s manly I can do,” said Joe emphatically. “Get out of your head, Cliff, that I’m a back number. There’s I nothing that ever walked in trousers that could get me hollering for mother. A man of fifty is in the prime of life, as I’ve often said.”
Superintendent Willing arrived soon after—a thin, cadaverous man with a mordant sense of humour and a low opinion of humanity. In some respects he was nearer to the typical idea of Joe Bray’s imagination than the three men he had met earlier in the evening, for the superintendent spoke little and conveyed an impression of infallibility.
“You know we searched the Umgeni this morning? She’s due out tonight.”
Clifford nodded.
“There was nothing in the shape of contraband. Perhaps they’re going to send it by the Umveli—that’s the sister ship. They’re lying side by side in the Pool. But she’s not due to sail for a month, and she goes to Newcastle first. Have you seen anything of my man, Long—the fellow I put to trail Miss Bray?” And when Clifford shook his head: “I thought he might have reported to you. He’s probably gone back to Sunningdale with her. Now, Mr Lynne, what is the business end of this Chink’s operations?”
“Fing-Su? So far as I can gather, his idea is to create a new dynasty in China! Before he can bring that into being he would in the ordinary course of events have to fight the various mercenary generals who have sliced up the country between them, but I rather imagine he has found the easier way. Every general in China has his price—always remember that the Chinese have no patriotism; are unconscious of any sentiment for the soil that produced them. Their politics are immediate and local. Most of them aren’t aware that Mongolia has become a Russian province. The generals are bandits on the grand scale, and battles are decided by the timely desertions of armies. Strategy in China means getting the best price for treachery and keeping your plans dark until the last minute.”
“And Narth—he’s rather a puzzle to me,” said Willing. “I can’t see what value he can be to Fing-Su and his crowd. The man is no genius, and certainly no fighter.”
“Narth is very useful; make no mistake about that. Although he is practically bankrupt, he knows the City intimately—by which I mean that when it comes to a question of negotiating dollars against lives, there won’t be a better man in the City of London than Stephen Narth. He is personally acquainted with the great financial groups; he has the very knowledge which Fing-Su lacks. If Fing-Su succeeds there will be some valuable concessions to be had—Narth is to be the broker! At present he is a doubtful proposition, and Fing knows it. The money he has borrowed from our Chinese friend doesn’t give Fing-Su the grip on him that he imagines. Stephen has got to be clamped to the Joyful Hands with bonds of steel. Perhaps the mumbory-jumbory of the initiation service might hold him—but I doubt it.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s time we made a move,” he said. “I have arranged for an electric launch to meet us at Wapping. Have you a gun?”
“Don’t want it,” rsaid the superintendent cheerfully. “I’ve a walking-cane that’s got a kick in it and makes no noise. But I think the evening is going to be wasted. I’ve searched the Umgeni–-“
“I’m not going to look at the Umgeni,” interrupted Cliff grimly. “Her sister ship’s lying alongside–-“