The Second Achmed Abdullah Megapack. Achmed Abdullah

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СКАЧАТЬ soft, gliding hum of voices, the sizzling of the opium lamps, the sucking of boiling-hot tea drunk by compressed lips, the clicks of the copper and ivory counters—it was all tremendously peaceful and reassuring; and Ng Ch’u sighed contentedly as he dropped into a chair by the side of Ching Shan, his silent partner, and began talking to him in an undertone about a shipment of Sheba pottery which could be picked up at a bargain in San Francisco.

      Presently, business over, he asked a question.

      “Brother very old and very wise,” he said, “what are the protections of the day and the night against an evil man?”

      Ching Shan was known throughout Pell Street for his stout wisdom—a reputation which he upheld by quoting esoterically and didactically from some hoary tome of learning, whenever asked a question, and then reinforcing his opinion by a yet lengthier quotation from another book.

      “Ng Ch’u,” he replied, “it has been reported in the Shu King that the sage Wu once spoke as follows: ‘I have heard that the good man, doing good, finds the day insufficient, and the night, and that the evil man, doing evil, also finds the day insufficient, and the night.’” He paused, looked around him, made sure that not only Ng Ch’u but also the rest of the company were listening to him attentively, and continued: “Yet, as to the evil man, and the good, has it not furthermore been said that the correct doctrine of the good man is to be true to the principles of his nature and the benevolent exercise of these principles when dealing with others?”

      “Even when dealing with evil men?” asked Ng Ch’u.

      “Decidedly, little brother.”

      “Ah—” smiled Ng Ch’u, “and the principle of my nature has always been to see that I have pork with my evening rice—to bargain close and tight—to know the worth of money—”

      “Money,” said Nag Hong Fah, the restaurant proprietor, “which is the greatest truth in the world—”

      “Money,” chimed in Yung Long, the wealthy wholesale grocer, “which is mastery and power and sway and shining achievement—”

      “Money,” said Ching Shan rather severely, since he had retired from active business affairs and was not worried by financial troubles, “which is good only when used by a purified desire and a righteous aim—”

      “What aim more righteous,” rejoined Ng Ch’u, “than peace and happiness and the evening rice—”

      And then, quite suddenly, a hush fell over the Honorable Pavilion of Tranquil Longevity. Tea cups were held tremblingly in mid-air. Pipes dropped. Voices were stilled.

      For there, framed in the doorway, stood three figures, lean, tall, threatening; faces masked by black neckerchiefs; pistols held steadily in yellow hands.

      “Oh—Buddha!” screamed Nag Hong Fah. “The hatchetmen—the hatchetmen—”

      “Silence, obese grandfather of a skillet!” said the tallest of the three. “Silence—or—” His voice was terse and metallic; his pistol described a significant half-circle and drew a bead on the restaurant proprietor’s stout chest. He took a step nearer into the room, while his two colleagues kept the company covered. “My friends,” he said, “I have not come here to harm anybody—except—”

      His eyes searched the smoke-laden room, and, as if drawn by a magnet, Ng Ch’u rose and waddled up to him.

      “Except to kill me?” he suggested meekly.

      “Rightly guessed, older brother,” smiled the other. “I regret—but what is life—eh:—and what is death? A slashing of throats! A cutting of necks! A jolly ripping of jugular veins!” He laughed behind his mask and drew Ng Ch’u toward him with a strong, clawlike hand.

      The latter trembled like a leaf.

      “Honorable killer,” he asked, “there is, I take it, no personal rancor against me in your heart?”

      “Not a breath—not an atom—not a sliver! It is a mere matter of business!”

      “You have been sent by somebody else to kill me—perhaps by—?”

      “Let us name no names. I have indeed been sent by—somebody.”

      Ng Ch’u looked over his shoulder at Ching Shan who sat there, very quiet, very disinterested.

      “Ching Shan,” he said, “did you not say that the correct doctrine of the good man is to be true to his principles and the benevolent exercise of these principles?”

      “Indeed!” wonderingly.

      “Ah—” gently breathed Ng Ch’u, and again he addressed the hatchetman. “Honorable killer,” he said, “the nameless party—who sent you here—how much did he promise you for causing my spirit to join the spirits of my ancestors?”

      “But—”

      “Tell me. How much?”

      “Five hundred dollars!”

      Ng Ch’u smiled.

      “Five hundred dollars—eh?—for killing me?” he repeated.

      “Yes, yes!” exclaimed the astonished hatchetman.

      “Five hundred dollars—eh?—for killing me?” he rebroke into gurgling laughter. “Correct doctrine to be true to one’s own principles! Principles of barter and trade—my principles—the coolie’s principles—Ahee!—ahoo!—ahai! Here, hatchetman!” His voice was now quite steady. Steady was the hand with which he drew a thick roll of bills from his pocket. “Here are five hundred dollars—and yet another hundred! Go! Go and kill him—him who sent you!”

      * * * *

      And, late that night, back in his neat little flat, Ng Ch’u turned casually to his wife.

      “Moon-beam,” he said, “the little trouble has been satisfactorily settled.” He paused, smiled. “Tomorrow,” he added, “I shall eat my evening rice from a pale-blue Suen-tih Ming bowl with red fish molded as handles.”

      “Yes, Great One,” came the Moon-beam’s calm, incurious reply.

      THE HATCHETMAN

      A barrel-organ had just creaked up the street, leaving a sudden rent of silence in the hectic clattering of the Pell Street symphony and lending a slow, dramatic thud to the words of Yung Long, the wholesale grocer, that drifted through the gangrened door.

      “Yes,” he said. “Wong Ti—” and Wong Ti, on his way through the hall, stopped as he heard his name—“is a killer, a hatchetman. In the whole of Pell Street there is none more skilled than he in his profession. He is old and withered. True! But his mind is sharp, his hand is steady, and he knows the intricate lore of drugs. He could put poison in your belly, and your lips would be none the wiser. Too, he is fearless of the white devils’ incomprehensible laws. He has killed more often than there are hairs on his honourable chest. Yet has he never been punished, never even been suspected.”

      “Then—why—?” came the slurring, slightly ironic question.

      “Because,” СКАЧАТЬ