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
“I should say he objected fiercely?”
“He was past objecting to anything, otherwise I have no doubt he would have objected furiously. The index finger of the injured hand had one of those preternaturally long nails, protected by an engraved golden case. However, at least I gave him a chance of life. He was under my care for some time, but I doubt if ever he was properly grateful. He had an iron constitution, though, and I finally allowed him to depart. One queer stipulation he had made—that the severed hand, with its golden nail-case, should be given to him when he left hospital. And this bargain I faithfully carried out.”
“Most extraordinary,” I said. “Did you ever learn the identity of the old gentleman?”
“He was very reticent, but I made a number of inquiries, and finally learned with absolute certainty, I think, that he was the Mandarin Quong Mi Su from Johore Bahru, a person of great repute among the Chinese there, and rather a big man in China. He was known locally as the Mandarin Quong.”
“Did you learn anything respecting how he had come by his injury, Doctor?”
Matheson smiled in his quiet fashion, and selected a fresh cigar with great deliberation. Then:
“I suppose it is scarcely a case of betraying a professional secret,” he said, “but during the time that my patient was recovering from the effects of the anaesthetic he unconsciously gave me several clues to the nature of the episode. Putting two and two together I gathered that someone, although the name of this person never once passed the lips of the mandarin, had abducted his favourite wife.”
“Good heavens! truly amazing,” I exclaimed.
“Is it not? How small a place the world is. My old mandarin had traced the abductor and presumably the girl to some house which I gathered to be in the neighbourhood of Katong. In an attempt to force an entrance—doubtless with the amiable purpose of slaying them both—he had been detected by the prime object of his hatred. In hurriedly descending from a window he had been attacked by some weapon, possibly a sword, and had only made good his escape in the condition in which I found him. How far he had proceeded I cannot say, but I should imagine that the house to which he had been was no great distance from the spot where I found him.”
“Comment is really superfluous,” remarked Burton. “He was looking for Adderley.”
“I agree,” said Jennings.
“And,” I added, “it was evidently after this episode that I had the privilege of visiting that interesting establishment.”
There was a short interval of silence; then:
“You probably retain no very clear impression of the shadow which you saw,” said Dr. Matheson, with great deliberation. “At the time perhaps you had less occasion particularly to study it. But are you satisfied that it was really caused by someone moving behind the curtain?”
I considered his question for a few moments.
“I am not,” I confessed. “Your story, Doctor, makes me wonder whether it may not have been due to something else.”
“What else can it have been due to?” exclaimed Jennings contemptuously—“unless to the champagne?”
“I won't quote Shakespeare,” said Dr. Matheson, smiling in his odd way. “The famous lines, though appropriate, are somewhat overworked. But I will quote Kipling: 'East is East, and West is West.'”
II THE LADY OF KATONG
Fully six months had elapsed, and on returning from Singapore I had forgotten all about Adderley and the unsavoury stories connected with his reputation. Then, one evening as I was strolling aimlessly along St. James's Street, wondering how I was going to kill time—for almost everyone I knew was out of town, including Paul Harley, and London can be infinitely more lonely under such conditions than any desert—I saw a thick-set figure approaching along the other side of the street.
The swing of the shoulders, the aggressive turn of the head, were vaguely familiar, and while I was searching my memory and endeavouring to obtain a view of the man's face, he stared across in my direction.
It was Adderley.
He looked even more debauched than I remembered him, for whereas in Singapore he had had a tanned skin, now he looked unhealthily pallid and blotchy. He raised his hand, and:
“Knox!” he cried, and ran across to greet me.
His boisterous manner and a sort of coarse geniality which he possessed had made him popular with a certain set in former days, but I, who knew that this geniality was forced, and assumed to conceal a sort of appalling animalism, had never been deceived by it. Most people found Adderley out sooner or later, but I had detected the man's true nature from the very beginning. His eyes alone were danger signals for any amateur psychologist. However, I greeted him civilly enough:
“Bless my soul, you are looking as fit as a fiddle!” he cried. “Where have you been, and what have you been doing since I saw you last?”
“Nothing much,” I replied, “beyond trying to settle down in a reformed world.”
“Reformed world!” echoed Adderley. “More like a ruined world it has seemed to me.”
He laughed loudly. That he had already explored several bottles was palpable.
We were silent for a while, mentally weighing one another up, as it were. Then:
“Are you living in town?” asked Adderley.
“I am staying at the Carlton at the moment,” I replied. “My chambers are in the hands of the decorators. It's awkward. Interferes with my work.”
“Work!” cried Adderley. “Work! It's a nasty word, Knox. Are you doing anything now?”
“Nothing, until eight o'clock, when I have an appointment.”
“Come along to my place,” he suggested, “and have a cup of tea, or a whisky and soda if you prefer it.”
Probably I should have refused, but even as he spoke I was mentally translated to the lounge of the Hotel de l'Europe, and prompted by a very human curiosity I determined to accept his invitation. I wondered if Fate had thrown an opportunity in my way of learning the end of the peculiar story which had been related on that occasion.
I accompanied Adderley to his chambers, which were within a stone's throw of the spot where I had met him. That this gift for making himself unpopular with all and sundry, high and low, had not deserted him, was illustrated by the attitude of the liftman as we entered the hall of the chambers. He
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