Vincent Connor Omnibus E-Book

Bedford-Jones H.

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Collection of stories: “A Prince for Sale,” “House of Missing Men,” “The Tomb-Robber,” “Diplomacy by Air,” “Connor Takes Charge” and “The King-Makers.”
His companions of the China clubs and legations thought Vincent Connor a wealthy playboy; but his “play” was matching wits in tight places against wily Oriental intriguers…
Vincent Connor wondered why a Russian countess should invite his friend to dinner in the French concession at Tientsin; and the answer was sudden and grim…
All China was buzzing with talk about the theft of the priceless Han jades when Connor, freelance of Oriental politics, took a hand in the risky game…
Vincent Connor’s political intrigues were so secret and successful that they puzzled all China; but this blow drove him to open and reckless action…
To manage a Far East business in spite of Chinese intrigues takes both courage and brains; and Vincent Connor’s friends never guessed he had either…
The last of a long line of emperors stages a comeback under Yankee auspices…

Leseprobe

Copyright

First published in 1931-1932

Copyright © 2022 Classica Libris

Chapter 1

A PRINCE FOR SALE

In Bristow Road, Tientsin, were located the head offices of the various Connor enterprises, inherited or acquired by that singular young man, Vincent Connor, rumored to be one of the wealthiest foreign business men in all China. Good will, in that ancient land, counts for a great deal, and various people who had predicted the break-up of the Connor interests after they had passed into the hands of a polo-playing, seemingly idle heir, were at a sad loss to account for the way their prophecies came to naught. But then, very few people were in the confidence of Vincent Connor.

He had just finished the morning mail and was on the point of departing for the Tientsin Club where he resided nominally, when a special delivery letter arrived. It proved to be from Chang, his father’s native partner, who conducted the up-country end of the Connor business from Nanking, the new republican capital. The note, written in flowing Mandarin, was cryptic.

If you have forty or fifty thousand dollars gold to invest, seek Prince Pho-to at the Pavilion of a Thousand Delights, at Fuchow. The south is far away, except for the merchant who bargains as he goes. It is for you to find one Colonel Moutet of the French embassy, who also travels south.

Connor was tempted to laugh at this but knew better than to laugh at any message from Chang, who was in most intimate touch with China’s affairs. Also, as it happened, he did have ten thousand pounds, an intended bribe recently acquired, from certain unscrupulous gentry, whose point of view regarding the future of China did not coincide with that of Connor.

“Prince Pho-to—huh!” grunted Connor, skepticism in his dark-blue eyes, a frown upon his wide-jawed, wide-angled features. Yale had not dimmed his childhood grasp of China’s tongue or customs; and in the two years since taking over the business, he had gone far in knowledge.

“That’s no Chinese name; sounds like Annamese, or else a joke,” he reflected. “And Fuchow! Why the devil go away down there? Still, old Chang has scented something, sure enough. Better look up this chap Moutet. He must be around these parts, if Chang said to find him.”

Apparently no easy task, in a city that held the flotsam of half a dozen nations, from Russian refugees to Italian exiles, and teemed with business and intrigue. Therefore Connor was somewhat startled to run slap upon his man at the first cast—to find him, indeed, a guest at the Tientsin Club, and to see him sitting at a table across the room as he lunched.

He studied the man, sensing an adversary. Moutet was forty-odd, gray at the temples, with the hard, precise features of a martinet, a steel-trap mouth, black eyes merciless as steel. Evidently a man in rigid self-restraint, therefore an extremist who would not know how to relax in moderation. Half a dozen decorations. Lithe, active, vigorous. Connor made up his mind on the instant; he needed information, first of all, and swiftly weighed different schemes. No, he must use the bungalow—his disguise would not do for a long trip. Besides, he had no need of it in the south, where he was unknown.

Thus resolved, he took prompt action. Moutet, he discovered, was in charge of a typically French “mission” at Mukden, was now on leave, and was one of the most important French undercover officers in Asia—in other words, a semi-secret agent cloaking his diplomatic work behind scientific and industrial work. Down south in Yünnan, a French colony in fact if not in name, the Connor interests had large timber monopolies, under the name of the Laoyang Company. Upon these facts Connor based his action.

His “bungalow” was in reality a mandarin’s pleasure palace, which his father had converted into a residence. Connor rarely used it; Hung, the old family servitor, remained in charge. So, at two that afternoon, Connor called up Hung on the wire from his club rooms.

“A dinner for two, at eight tonight, Hung,” he said. “Chinese style, but with cocktails and no rice wine. With the first few courses serve that Vouvray ’16, and plenty of it. With the later courses, the Château Spire ’97, in the large goblets. Afterward, the Napoleon cognac. And plenty of that, also.”

It was no difficult matter to reach Colonel Moutet by telephone, and once he had his man, Connor spoke in his none too good French, using the high, sing-song tones that went with his assumed character.

“This is Monsieur Wang Erh Yu of the Laoyang Company—the timber interests in Yünnan,” Connor said. “I am the vice president and general manager, and there are several matters of policy which I should like to discuss with you. If Monsieur le Colonel will honor me with his company at dinner, at my residence here—”

Colonel Moutet was not averse to dining with a wealthy Chinese, and Connor arranged to call for him later.

His nostrils widened and lips thickened by cotton pads, his black hair coarsened with grease, his sunburned features and hands yellowed by a saffron infusion, his European garments cunningly tailored to give an air of awkwardness, “Mr. Wang” carried off his dinner guest promptly on time, to a dinner such as Moutet had seldom eaten, with wines which the appreciative Frenchman found miraculous. Mr. Wang himself ate very little.

There was enough talk of business to appease any possible suspicion—tentative agreements made; plans discussed. Moutet proved to be sympathetic, sternly bound by orders, with a clear understanding of native problems and customs; he had a fanatical regard for duty, though when Mr. Wang mentioned the recent revolt in Annam, Moutet did not hesitate to express his contempt for bureaucracy. The old brown cognac loosened his tongue a bit, perhaps.

“Between ourselves, of course,” said the colonel, “the whole affair was incredibly bungled. Whole villages were destroyed and needless air bombardments were carried out. The penal commission was illegal. The executions and sentences were barbarous. That is no way to make the Annamese love us! They are burdened with intolerable taxes. Someday, mark me, there’ll be an explosion in Annam.”

“Because of stupid oppression?”

“Yes.” Moutet shrugged. “Plenty of us see the mistakes; what can we do except carry out orders? I myself leave tomorrow on a most unpleasant, even degrading errand—yet I must do my best. Look at the opium monopoly, despite the decrees of the Chamber in Paris!”

“Did you ever,” queried Mr. Wang carelessly, “hear of an Annamese mandarin or ruler by the name of Pho-to? I’ve heard the name; I cannot recall in what connection.”

“Hm!” Colonel Moutet started, but instantly became casual again. “Yes, a good deal was heard of him down there. The heir to the throne, or so called, and a man greatly loved and revered by natives. A dangerous man, from our viewpoint. I understand he has brains and has made foreign contacts. He was involved in the revolt but fled into Chinese territory somewhere. No one knows just where he is, I believe.”

Mr. Wang blinked behind his thick spectacles. “Indeed! Let us hope that French rule will save Annam and Yünnan from the chaos which has enveloped China!”

Later, Mr. Wang took his guest back to the club—and thirty minutes later was packing his own bag, preparatory to catching the boat leaving for Shanghai in the morning.

“Evidently,” he reflected, “this excellent colonel is going to see Prince Pho-to, and will perform his errand to the letter, even if it revolts him. It must be disagreeable indeed! Probably it is even illegal; so much the better.”

He did not forget to pack the ten thousand pounds in crisp black-and-white Bank of England notes.

On the way to Shanghai, Connor saw little of Moutet; there were other French officers aboard and all flocked together, after the manner of their caste.

It was different after changing to a Merchants’ Line boat for Fuchow. Their mess seats were together, and acquaintance began with the first meal; Connor’s name was unknown to the Frenchman, since the various Connor enterprises went by Chinese names, and Moutet was far from recognizing Mr. Wang in this scrupulously dressed young American.

It was late afternoon when they entered the Min River and bore up for Pagoda Anchorage, for the transfer to steam launches. Here Moutet departed in the French consular launch, and Connor went on to the city, nine miles above, by the regular craft, landing at the Hwang-sung wharf and taking a hotel sedan chair up to the Brand House. After a wash-up, he sallied forth to the office of the local Connor agent, a sleek little man of great efficiency, who welcomed the head of the firm with much éclat, though it was just closing time.

“This wholly unworthy person needs your help, great maternal uncle,” said Connor in the old, stilted phrases of Mandarin.

“All that this humble slave owns is at the disposal of the venerable ancestor!”

“Tell me what you know about the Pavilion of a Thousand Delights. And its occupants.”

“It is a viceroy’s palace in the higher ground beyond the Nangtai district,” said the local manager. “Long vacant, it was occupied several months ago by a foreigner—”

“Prince Pho-to of Annam,” said Connor. “Go on.”

The sleek eyes blinked. “Exactly. With him are Annamese servants and twenty wives; but there is talk that his creditors are many and he has been selling jewels. Also, the French have spies watching him, although his own servants are faithful. I think he will be sold out by one of the two men with him.”

“Eh?” Connor frowned at this, which sounded involved. “Which two men?”

“The white men. One is French, an army deserter. The other is an old Russian, a cripple.”

“Which one would sell him out?”

“I do not know. It is only gossip.”

“Very well. Now I have important work for you. I wish an interview with this French courtier at my hotel, within the hour if possible; I wish an interview with the Russian at the Pavilion of a Thousand Delights at a later hour this evening. Provide a palanquin for me with bearers who may be trusted implicitly.”

“This slave will obey the orders of the great maternal ancestor.”

“One thing more. This Prince Pho-to himself—does he speak English or Mandarin?”

“No. He speaks only his own barbarian tongue, and French.”

“Good enough.”

Connor departed. He had given his agent an almost impossible commission, yet he knew it would be fulfilled.

He was right. Before he finished dinner, a chit arrived from his agent:

The first will come soon after this. An interview with the second at nine o’clock. A chair will await you at the door.

With a satisfied nod, Connor finished his dinner, left instructions at the desk regarding a visitor, and went to his room. He had no more than got his pipe well drawing, when a knock came at his door; a short man with wide shoulders and bronzed features, a vigorous and direct manner, tailored whites, entered and bowed.

“M’sieu’ Connor? Allow me.”

From the pasteboard extended, Connor found that he was dealing with one Monsieur Raymond Delille, formerly avocat at the Court of Appeals, Toulouse. In a flash he had a glimmer of the man’s past; a lawyer, perhaps involved in some disgrace, enlisting in the Colonial forces, later on deserting, to guide the destinies of this rebelling prince and share his fortune, literally enough. Connor smiled, waved his visitor to a chair and a drink.

“Do you speak English, Monsieur Delille—no? Then pray pardon my hesitant French. As you may be aware, it is the habit of Americans to come bluntly to the point, so let us do it. I believe you are acquainted with Colonel Moutet?”

The eyes of Delille hardened, though not before a flicker of apprehension darted in them.

“I know of him at least, m’sieu’,” he replied cautiously.

“You know that he is here in Fuchow?”

“No! Impossible!” The startled surprise was genuine beyond any question. Connor smiled and took a cigarette from his jade-and- gold case.

“Come, Monsieur Delille; we are not children, you and I. You occupy a certain position with the prince, eh? Never mind what position I occupy; I asked you to come here in order to tell you about Moutet, and to ask you a certain question.”

From his pocket, Connor took the sheaf of Bank of England notes and carelessly riffled them in his fingers. They fascinated the widening gaze of the Frenchman.

“Understand me,” went on Connor easily. “I am in no way acting contrary to Colonel Moutet or his desires. He is in absolute ignorance of my business, as I am of his; but I suspect that he will make you certain propositions. Well and good. Here in my hand is fifty thousand dollars, gold, in cash. In the event that Moutet made you an offer, and you had this money to cast into the scales with it—would you accept?”

Delille looked up, his eyes dilating.

“An offer—”

“To betray Prince Pho-to, if we put it bluntly.”

Delille grimaced. “Diantre! Blunt you certainly are. Well, m’sieu’, I am not a fool. Do I understand that you offer me this money, here and now?”

Connor laughed. “By no means. Moutet will probably communicate with you tonight or in the morning. Do not mention me to him. If, as I believe, his plans are in entire agreement with my own, I shall turn over the money to you—half in advance, half upon consummation of the work. This, I believe, is satisfactory?”

The other nodded and drew a deep breath.

“Fifty thousand cash! It is eminently satisfactory, my dear American! I’ll communicate with you after Moutet sees me, eh? Good.”

“But no mention of me, mind!” warned Connor, and the other promised volubly.

“Dirty rat!” muttered Connor as his visitor departed.

On the evidence he had acquired, he no longer doubted that the mission which Moutet had mentioned was to get rid somehow of the menace presented by Prince Pho-to; by abducting him and getting him back to French territory, perhaps by killing him. Connor had heard much about the man on his way south, about his integrity, his popularity, his hatred of the despotic French rule which gripped the empire of his fathers.

And Pho-to, so far as Connor could discover, was next to helpless. None of the great powers had interests in Annam, none of them had any reason to help the prince or to protect him. In seizing or killing him, France could violate Chinese soil with impunity, for all China was in anarchy. Connor had begun to feel an acute sympathy for this fugitive.

To such affairs as this, rather than to piling up more wealth in business, Vincent Connor had devoted himself. To this indefinable cause of justice, of aiding the oppressed, he flung his weight of wealth and connections, his personal abilities, his knowledge of China and its people. Not the least of his aids was his own reputation; the last person to be suspected of such things was the coxcomb and dandy, the young spendthrift from college who had inherited the Connor fortunes.

At nine-fifteen Connor left the hotel, clad in faultless evening clothes which did not betray the little automatic nestling under his armpit. As he came down the steps, a sedan chair was brought forward; he stepped in silently, and the chair sped away, two men trotting before and after the bearers, with torches.

He had a brief and unforgettable vision of Fuchow by night—the far-flung Chinese city across the river glimmering and shimmering with lights, the two bridges sketched against the darkness by their lanterns, the electric lights of the Nangtai section stretching up the hillsides; then he was in darkness, out of the streets, the bearers padding along a hill road.

Of the Pavilion of a Thousand Delights, he could make out little. Gates in a wall were thrown open, they passed through gardens, and came finally to a lighted doorway where waited a brown Annamese servant. Connor stepped out of his chair, a door was opened, and he found himself in a room whose floor was thick with rugs, whose walls were high with bookshelves, in a soft glow of light from half a dozen Chinese lamps.

Waiting for him was the crippled Russian.

Connor found himself returning the bow of a man whose hair was white, whose face was seamed by age and sufferings, whose body was twisted awkwardly as though wrenched askew by giant hands, yet whose evening attire was faultless as his own. The face of the man was remarkable; it was like wood wrought by the adze, so harsh were its angles, and the thin, bloodless lips made an imperceptible line beneath the clipped mustache, but the eyes were piercing, brilliant blue as though lighted by eternal youth.

“I believe you are Mr. Connor?” said the Russian in fluent English. “I am Ivan Serovitch, Comrade Ivan if you like, formerly a prince of the Litovsk House.”

The savage irony of the man showed in his acid voice. Connor smiled.

“Prince Ivan, should I say?” he returned, with the warm affability which made men like and trust him. “I do not care particularly for the titles of Soviet democracy, myself.”

“Will you be seated?” Serovitch indicted a chair by the table, where a tray of liqueurs was in evidence. “I am ignorant of the nature of your business.”

“Oh, it is extremely commercial business, I assure you,” said Connor. From his pocket he produced the sheaf of bank notes and laid them on the table, and across them faced the keen blue eyes of his host. “There is ten thousand pounds in cash. Will you count it?”

“In cash? Are you mad—or is this some jest?” The Russian seized the sheaf of notes and glanced through them. He replaced them and frowned at his visitor. “Well?”

“They can be yours, if you will. Everyone knows your master is practically done for; his money and credit are exhausted, he is friendless; the net is closing upon him. Well, finish it and earn this packet of notes.”

A mortal pallor swept into the distorted face of the Russian. He gripped the table edge with both hands, staring at Connor from blazing eyes.

“You mean it?” he whispered.

“There is the money. What better proof?”

Serovitch passed a hand across his brow, relaxed.

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Connor,” he said after a moment. “For ten years I have been the tutor and friend of Prince Pho-to; his destiny has been in my hands, his character has upgrown under my eyes. I have gained a deep admiration for his integrity, for his high and noble spirit. Adversity has not shaken nor altered him. He is truly what Confucius was wont to call the superior man.”

Connor shrugged with affected cynicism.

“You may write his epitaph, then,” he observed. “Come! Your decision?”

The blue eyes flamed at him.

“Mr. Connor, in my younger days I would have answered your insult with a dagger in your vile heart,” said the Russian hoarsely. “As it is, I can only tell you to take your filthy money and get out of here before I call the servants to whip you out. Go!”

A laugh broke from Connor. He leaned forward, his eyes very warm, and put out his hand.

“You are a rare man, Ivan Serovitch. Give me your hand! I am proud to know you. I came here, a stranger to you and to Delille, and I had to test you both. I knew one of you was a traitor, perhaps both. The hand of France is already closing upon you, and I myself am running too great risks to take any chances. Now let us start afresh. Your hand!”

The Russian stared in slow comprehension.

“So!” he returned. “You—you don’t know how close you were to death!”

Their hands met. Then Connor pushed the money across the table.

“Take it, for your master. It cost me nothing; it is a political bribe I snatched from both the givers and the taker. Now it will serve a real purpose.”

“Is this another trick?” Serovitch glared, incredulous and suspicious. “Why are you here? For whom are you acting?”

“For myself,” said Connor, and briefly sketched his own position. “You see, these things amuse me. Occasionally reward comes, when one meets a man like you, or like Colonel Moutet.”

Serovitch started. “Moutet! That devil—you know him?”

“I arrived in Fuchow today, with him,” said Connor quietly. “He is not a devil, but a man who obeys orders at all costs, right or wrong. He is here upon a mission which revolts his every instinct, yet he will perform it. You can guess what it is. And Delille—”

“Delille!” breathed the Russian. “The deserter, the renegade, bound to us by every tie of gratitude—”

“Plays the part of Judas,” said Connor. “Listen, my friend! Don’t let that man suspect that you know. Leave him to me; rather, we shall meet the treachery together. I’ll have more details tomorrow.”

The chin of Serovitch sank on his breast.

“I have feared this,” he said gloomily. “Assassination, perhaps. They will stop at nothing. In two days I will have an answer from the British. If we can reach Singapore and stay there, he is safe. Gracious God, how I have worked for it! Undoubtedly the French know this, know that the British will give us protection there. This is why Moutet is here, you see? He means to stop us.”

“And you really had no money?”

“Not a piastre,” said Serovitch. “No credit. The prince has magnificent jewels, but we could not sell them here. This money of yours—”

“Not mine,” and Connor smiled. “Yours.”

The Russian looked at him for a moment, then came to his feet.

“Come. I want you to meet the prince. I will tell him all these things.”

Serovitch led the way to a curtain, pushed it aside, opened a door after knocking, and ushered Connor into a room where a man sat at a desk writing. The man looked up. He was a typical Annamese, small, thin-featured, in European garments. The Russian clicked his heels and saluted.

“Monsieur le Prince,” he said in French, “I beg leave to present a friend, Monsieur Connor, an American. He has come to warn me of danger and to lend certain help.”

Prince Pho-to shook hands with Connor, spoke a few words in French, then echoed the word “danger” inquiringly. The Russian shrugged.