Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Tales of Chinatown by Sax Rohmer (classic books for 12 year olds TXT) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «Tales of Chinatown by Sax Rohmer (classic books for 12 year olds TXT) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
Lady Pat started to her feet with a wild, swift action which must have reminded a beholder of a startled gazelle. The drapery masking the door which she had first investigated was drawn aside. A man entered and dropped the curtain behind him.
Exactly what she had expected she could not have defined, but the presence of this perfect stranger was a complete surprise. The man, who wore embroidered slippers and a sort of long blue robe, stood there regarding her with an expression which, even in her frantic condition, she found to be puzzling. He had long, untidy gray hair brushed back from his low brow; eyes strangely like the eyes of Lou Chada, except that they were more heavy-lidded; but his skin was as yellow as a guinea, and his gaunt, cleanshaven face was the face of an Oriental.
The slender hands, too, which he held clasped before him, were yellow, and possessed a curiously arresting quality. Pat imagined them clasped about her white throat, and her very soul seemed to shrink from the man who stood there looking at her with those long, magnetic, inscrutable eyes.
She wondered why she was surprised, and suddenly realized that it was because of the expression in his eyes, for it was an expression of cold anger. Then the intruder spoke.
“Who are you?” he demanded, speaking with an accent which was unfamiliar to her, but in a voice which was not unlike the voice of Lou Chada. “Who brought you here?”
This was so wholly unexpected that for a moment she found herself unable to reply, but finally:
“How dare you!” she cried, her native courage reasserting itself. “I have been drugged and brought to this place. You shall pay for it. How dare you!”
“Ah!” The long, dark eyes regarded her unmovingly. “But who are you?”
“I am Lady Rourke. Open the door. You shall bitterly regret this outrage.”
“You are Lady Rourke?” the man repeated. “Before you speak of regrets, answer the question which I have asked: Who brought you here?”
“Lou Chada.”
“Ah!” There was no alteration of pose, no change of expression, but slightly the intonation had varied.
“I don't know who you are, but I demand to be released from this place instantly.”
The man standing before the curtained door slightly inclined his head.
“You shall be released,” he replied, “but not instantly. I will see the one who brought you here. He may not be entirely to blame. Before you leave we shall understand one another.”
Tone and glance were coldly angry. Then, before the frightened woman could say another word, the man in the blue robe robe withdrew, the curtain was dropped again, and she heard the grating of a key in the lock. She ran to the door, beating upon it with her clenched hands.
“Let me go!” she cried, half hysterically. “Let me go! You shall pay for this! Oh, you shall pay for this!”
No one answered, and, turning, she leaned back against the curtain, breathing heavily and fighting for composure, for strength.
IV ZANI CHADA, THE EURASIAN
“I can't help thinking, Chief Inspector,” said the officer in charge at Limehouse Station, “that you take unnecessary risks.”
“Can't you?” said Kerry, tilting his bowler farther forward and staring truculently at the speaker.
“No, I can't. Since you cleaned up the dope gang down here you've been a marked man. These murders in the Chinatown area, of which this one to-night makes the third, have got some kind of big influence behind them. Yet you wander about in the fog without even a gun in your pocket.”
“I don't believe in guns,” rapped Kerry. “My bare hands are good enough for any yellow smart in this area. And if they give out I can kick like a mule.”
The other laughed, shaking his head.
“It's silly, all the same,” he persisted. “The man who did the job out there in the fog to-night might have knifed you or shot you long before you could have got here.”
“He might,” snapped Kerry, “but he didn't.”
Yet, remembering his wife, who would be waiting for him in the cosy sitting-room he knew a sudden pang. Perhaps he did take unnecessary chances. Others had said so. Hard upon the thought came the memory of his boy, and of the telephone message which the episodes of the night had prevented him from sending.
He remembered, too, something which his fearless nature had prompted him to forget: he remembered how, just as he had arisen from beside the body of the murdered man, oblique eyes had regarded him swiftly out of the fog. He had lashed out with a boxer's instinct, but his knuckles had encountered nothing but empty air. No sound had come to tell him that the thing had not been an illusion. Only, once again, as he groped his way through the shuttered streets of Chinatown and the silence of the yellow mist, something had prompted him to turn; and again he had detected the glint of oblique eyes, and faintly had discerned the form of one who followed him.
Kerry chewed viciously, then:
“I think I'll 'phone the wife,” he said abruptly. “She'll be expecting me.”
Almost before he had finished speaking the 'phone bell rang, and a few moments later:
“Someone to speak to you, Chief Inspector,” cried the officer in charge.
“Ah!” exclaimed Kerry, his fierce eyes lighting up. “That will be from home.”
“I don't think so,” was the reply. “But see who it is.”
“Hello!” he called.
He was answered by an unfamiliar voice, a voice which had a queer, guttural intonation. It was the sort of voice he had learned to loathe.
“Is that Chief Inspector Kerry?”
“Yes,” he snapped.
“May I take it that what I have to say will be treated in confidence?”
“Certainly not.”
“Think again, Chief Inspector,” the voice continued. “You are a man within sight of the ambition of years, and although you may be unaware of the fact, you stand upon the edge of a disaster. I appreciate your sense of duty and respect it. But there are times when diplomacy is a more potent weapon than force.”
Comments (0)