Page:Weird Tales Volume 4 Number 2 (1924-05-07).djvu/101

Fresno and that if he desired to invest his winnings in the metropolis of the San Joaquin Valley he could be manager of the place.

Soo Bong overflowed with expressions of gratitude. Yet perhaps had this offer not taken him so completely off his feet and he had scrutinized the older man's face keenly he would have detected a gleam that would have lessened his enthusiasm.

"When am I to leave?" he asked.

"Next week. Be prepared to make the journey Monday."

"And about Sin Ping? We love each other devotedly. Therefore, if in a year—"

Again that strange gleam in Yuen Gow's eyes as he said: "When the year is ended we shall see."

That night Sin Ping was an unwilling eavesdropper to a conversationbetween her father and her brother. She didn't remember all she heard, but that which made a lasting impression were the words of her father:

"I promised him that in a year he could claim your sister."

And her brother's answer:

"That was a safe promise, knowing as only you and I do, that the chances of his return are scarcely worth considering."

Strangely enough, and for some reason or other, when she met Soo Bong clandestinely that evening, she failed to speak of her kins' talk. And it is not at all likely that it would have influenced him.

Monday of the following week Soo Bong and Yuen Moy started for Fresno by automobile. The next day Yuen Moy returned alone. He seemed unusually pale. Also, he betrayed symptoms of decided nervousness. Aimlessly he wandered about the streets and alleys of Chinatown, never seeming able to remain for long in one place. Toward dusk he went to the family home.

And it was just at this hour that down in America's raisin patch, an American rancher, while walking across a part of his acreage, found a revolver, glittering new, with three cylinders empty. He picked it up wonderingly, proceeded a few paces—and came upon the body of a dead Chinese youth. He hurried to his ranch bungalow, and got the sheriff on the telephone. An hour later both the sheriff and the coroner arrived upon the scene.

Addressing the coroner the sheriff consulted: "What is it, Doc—murder or suicide?"

"It's not suicide, Ed. The bullets couldn't have entered this part of the body had the Chink himself pulled the trigger. Looks like cold-blooded murder to me. How're the tongs hereabouts? Anything like fireworks among 'em?"

Ed, the sheriff, shook his head. "They're as quiet as the Bridal Veil over in the Yosemite in the dead o' winter. Last week all of 'em signed up another peace pact—a regular league o' nations now. And here I was aimin' to have a little rest and now it's up to me and the rest o' my outfit to get busy. Doc, why is a Chink murder as bad as a Chink puzzle? The answer is: Because you don't know where to begin and there's no end. Well, if you've got all the dope you want I'll be stepping on the gas and get the San Francisco 'boys' in this game."

Hours later one of the San Francisco "boys," formerly one of the Chinatown squad, Terry Morane in the directory, went down to view the features of the dead youth.

"Know him, Terry?" the sheriff inquired.

Morane scratched his head. "Maybe I do and maybe I don't. To you most Chinks look alike, but if you mix with 'em the way I do you get to tell the difference. This stiff looks familiar to me but I'll have to do a little scouting around before I can name him."

Next day, back in Chinatown, Morane wandered into the shop of Yuen Gow.

"Where's the young feller used to be here?" he asked the proprietor.

Almost indifferently the Chinaman asked: "Who you mean?"

"I don't sabe his name—never did. But where is he?"

Again came the query: "Who you mean?" But this time was added a name—Soo Bong.

"Well, where is he? How many times do I have to ask the same question?"

"Fresno—open branch store there," came the information desired.

Morane wired the Fresno sheriff:

"Any new Chink store opened in your town lately?"

The answer read: "No."

Back to Yuen Gow's marched Morane.

"You lied to me," he told the father of Sin Ping. "Why?"

"No sabe," was the masked answer.

The officer now perceived the futility of quizzing the old man. So he inquired:

"You've got a son, Mo-ey, haven't you?"

For answer Yuen Gow called aloud: "Yuen Moy!" And added some Chinese words.

"What did you and Soo Bong quarrel about on the way to Fresno the other day? I know more about your movements than you think." Morane shot query and assertion at him in one breath.

Yuen Moy was not as clever as his father. Falteringly he said: "About a girl."

Morane did the logical thing. He took the young Chinese to the station and there lodged against him the charge: "Held for Fresno sheriff."

Naturally the evening papers earned the news. And Sin Ping read the article with a dull and aching heart. Tears streaming down her cheeks? Not yet. The shock was far too great. Her mind was far too stunned by poignant grief. All evening she remained in the seclusion of her room. She was like one in a trance. Then, suddenly, like a hideous ogre, there came to her the memory of her father's words to Yuen Moy anent Soo Bong. And her brother's assertion of exultant triumph.

She sat immobile for more than an hour. Yet her mind was alive and active, her thoughts bitter. The tears that would have relieved her grief would not flow. Such is the signal of deepest grief—dry eyes, apparent passivity. Her loss was irreparable—and had been caused by those who loved her and whom she had loved and trusted, by those to whom she had looked for happiness and protection.

At last there arrived the demand for action. It completely overcame the lethargy that was her first reaction to great grief. She crossed slowly to a little writing desk that stood at a window overlooking the sea. Before this she sat down. Slowly she took up a pen; inked it; drew paper and envelope to her. Then, in English, she wrote a note to the Chief of Police, revealing therein the conversation she had overheard. Rereading what she had written she inserted the note in the envelope; addressed it; sealed and stamped it. Then she put on a light cape and carried the note to the corner mail box. Here she hesitated only a fraction of a second, then resolutely posted it.

She returned immediately to her room. No one else was in the bungalow. Carefully she dressed herself in her prettiest frock, and then went again to the writing desk. This time, instead of pen and ink, she used ink and brush with which to write her second note And, with tears now streaming from her eyes, she wrote in Chinese:

"You and my brother have killed my