The Black Parrot

CONQUEST

Lhassa Camber sailed for Saigon two weeks after Barthélemy embarked on the Cambodia, there being only a fortnightly service between Bangkok and the capital of Cochin China.

As the boat carried her out upon the gulf she gazed across the glassy purple at the island of Koh si Chang, bulking somberly above the sea-line. In the dusk it resembled a dark mausoleum, and was, to her, symbolical. Behind, buried in the Heavenly-Royal City, was a key to the secret that had drawn her to Asia, but from the old quest had arisen a new purpose, just as a soul rises from the discarded husk.

The Gulf of Siam ... Cambodia Point ... then the lighthouse of Cap St.-Jacques burning white against an azure sky.

"Little Paris of the East": thus Saigon, with its opera and sidewalk cafés, has been designated. Lhassa, her imagination freshly colored by the unique splendors of Bangkok, was unimpressed as the ship came into her berth at a dock swarming with Europeans. Nor was her interest quickened when she was rickshawed through a rather drab Chinese quarter and along an avenue patterned after a Paris boulevard. Saigon, she decided, had not the mellow charm of a continental city nor the allure of the average tropical port. It was ... Saigon.

At the hotel she found a note; the expected note:

She considered the terse wording, the even, regular handwriting, and the name, and concluded that Mr. Stephen Conquest was a very efficient, deliberate Britisher. If he was this type, she thought, it was singular that he and Barthélemy were intimate friends....

She had heard that social Saigon frequented the hotels and cafés at night, and so she dressed for dinner accordingly. A gown of deep magenta, striking in its utter simplicity; a daring shade that subdued rather than challenged the russet tone in her hair. Silver-gray stockings; silver slippers.

The hands of her clock indicated precisely eight o'clock when a "boy" brought word that Mr. Conquest was waiting. She smiled at this further proof of his exactitude, and quickly finished her toilette: she was eager to hear why Barthélemy had not met her and what he had accomplished.

If she was surprised at the appearance of the man who was waiting in the close, dim writing-room she did not betray it. "Donatello, the Marble Faun," she thought; she asked:

"Shall we sit here a moment?"

"It will be cooler outside," he suggested.

They moved to the café, on a terrace facing the street, and took a table near the inclosing rail. She studied him openly.

"I'm sure you didn't write that note," she told him at length.

He smiled—a queer smile that quivered at one corner of his mouth, whimsical and melancholy.

"No, I didn't; one of the secretaries did."

He seemed to accept without surprise the fact that she was able to discriminate between himself and the perfunctory note. It irritated her, and she contemplated his cuffs with disapproval: they were more than an inch too long. Otherwise, his dress, the conventional dinner-suit of the tropics, was faultless. In fact, she decided, he was too perfect. When she looked at his face she had the impression that she had seen it done in plaster in some gallery in Florence or Rome: it had the beauty and regularity of features typical of Italian sculpture. His coloring helped the illusion. Indeed, it was incredible that one could remain so white in a tropical climate. Beneath the pallor his skin glowed, as though it had absorbed the glare instead of burning. "Donatello," she thought again; "or Shelley."

"I had a letter from Remy this morning," he informed her. "He said to impress upon you how much he regrets that he can't be here, but, you know, an army man——"

"Where is he?" she interposed.

"Up beyond Siem-Reap." A "boy" came ... went. Then——"He's been appointed agent française at some God-forgotten village on the Mekong," Conquest explained.

"Siem-Reap," she echoed. "That is near Angkor, isn't it?" He started to speak but she went on. "What did Captain Barthélemy tell you? I mean, about the—the affair that brought me here."

He passed cigarettes; took one himself. She observed that his cigarette case was ornamented with an exquisitely wrought figure in gold. The richness of it, the perfection, was in keeping with the man.

"He knew very little," he replied. "He told me he received a message from you a night or so after leaving Bangkok, in which you said that something had happened, and to watch a man who wore, or had worn, a blue slendong. Also you asked him to keep this fellow under surveillance after reaching Saigon but to say nothing to the police. As Remy had to go immediately to his new post, he sent the wireless informing you that I would meet you; then, when he arrived here, he asked me to keep my finger on the slendong chap; also to place myself at your disposal. Which I'm delighted to do."

"You are kind," she put in.

"I assure you"—with his smile of mingled whimsy and melancholy—"my time is of no value at present. I'm on a leave of absence, so to speak; you see, I come up from my sago plantation very rarely, and while I'm here I do nothing but amuse myself. I only hope I can be of service. Thus far I haven't learned anything except that this man in question calls himself Garon and is staying in Cholon."

"Don't belittle that knowledge," she said. "It is precisely what I want to know. I'm sure you will forgive me for the trouble and inconvenience I've caused when I tell you how serious this matter is. Captain Barthélemy and I noticed the man of the blue slendong in Singapore and remarked upon his appearance. Captain Barthélemy thought he resembled some one whom he had known in—in Saigon, I believe. Later, while I was visiting in Bangkok with Dr. Garth, a friend of the family, we saw him again, and I noticed that he was a hunchback. That very night the doctor was"—she hesitated—"was murdered. I found him when I returned to the villa. He ... he had.... The details are frightful, but you must know them: he had been strangled with a blue slendong."

She paused, frowning at the people in the café. How superficial they looked, in their starched linens and elaborate gowns! And yet, she repented, they could not share a tragedy unknown to them.

"It is strange," she resumed, "how one will instinctively connect two remotely related incidents, isn't it? There is no logical reason why I should suspect a man of murder simply because he happened to be wearing a blue slendong and an identical article was found about—was found at the place of the crime. There must be hundreds of blue slendongs. Yet I felt ... well, perhaps it was intuition. I had an impulse, and I obeyed it. I always do. Impulses are truer than logic. One of the doctor's servants disappeared the night he was—was killed. This servant—boy I should say—was a Eurasian and had been with Dr. Garth from boyhood. The police believed him guilty. So I kept silent."

As she spoke her gaze wandered to the street. Swinging lamps made incandescent bubbles against the sky, and beneath them floated oily, perspiring faces, drifting by endlessly like leaves on a slow, black tide. Frenchmen in huge topees, gaunt, sunburnt foresters from Annam and Tongking, slouching troopers and carelessly uniformed officers; barefooted, bare-breasted natives, Annamite tirailleurs in khaki and brass-spiked helmets, noiseless pousse-pousse coolies, and women, white and brown, whose powdered cheeks were sweat-streaked. They repelled her, these faces: the line of blood was as clearly drawn as the rail that separated her from the street where they surged by, leaving the hot air quivering with the odors of stale cigarettes, of liquor, and of cheap powders and perfumes. She had always felt removed from the multitude, but never so completely, so appallingly, as now. The man across the table, with his immaculate apparel, his flawless pallor, seemed to share her segregation, and her attitude toward him warmed.

"Any one of those out there," she continued, indicating the flood of faces, "would have done the obvious thing: they would have told of having seen the man of the blue slendong. But the very idea suffocated me. Suffocated; do you understand? Police courts; conventional justice! To me it was an opportunity. It was Romance. So I let them hunt for Domingo, the Eurasian, while I started upon my tremendous adventure. I believed the slendong man still in Bangkok.... You said he called himself Garon, didn't you?... So the next day I sent my boy to the hotels to inquire if any one fitting his description could be located. Manuel got a clue at the Oriental. A man, hunchbacked and wearing a blue slendong, had been stopping there, but he had left for Saigon the night before. As there was only one ship that had sailed for Saigon the previous night, I realized he, Garon, was on the same boat as Captain Barthélemy. So I sent the message, and"—a shrug—"I am here."

"But," inquired the man, "what reason, what motive, had this chap, if he killed your friend?"

She gazed at him critically.

"I suppose you will laugh, but ... no, I don't believe you will." She leaned toward him, smiling slightly. "I believe Garon is in some way associated with that almost mythical creature, the Black Parrot—he may even be the Parrot."

He, too, smiled. "The Black Parrot! Why?"

"You probably heard that the Emerald Buddha was stolen from the king's wat in Bangkok; you did, of course, didn't you? Well, it disappeared the night Dr. Garth was—was murdered. The doctor had many priceless antiques and curios in his home, rare Buddhas and collections of jewels with a romantic history. The Black Parrot, as you know, is reputed to be a thief who steals just such things and sells them to unscrupulous collectors. Why not suppose, then, that the Black Parrot or one of his band stole the Emerald Buddha? And, again binding together two remotely related incidents, why not suppose also that the same person came to the doctor's villa with the intention of robbing him?"

"Was anything stolen?"

"An inventory of his collections was found, and, according to it, nothing was missing. However, something may have prevented the thief from carrying out his intention—my return for instance. Oh, there are many excuses for a hurried flight!"

Conquest continued to smile. "Then you really believe this Garon is the notorious Black Parrot?"

"Or one of his associates. Why not?" The rattle of dishes and silverware announced the approach of their "boy." "He was in Bangkok when the Emerald Buddha was stolen," she went on, "and he left immediately afterward. I had hoped, and still hope, that Captain Barthélemy could help me. I said, you remember, that he mentioned a resemblance when he saw Garon in Singapore. Did he speak of it to you?"

Conquest nodded. "He said Garon looked like a garroter who was sent to Cayenne, a chap called Letourneau."

"Letourneau? In Bangkok he told me the name of the man Garon resembled; Letourneau doesn't sound like it."

"Yes, that's the name. At Remy's suggestion I made a few discreet inquiries and learned that this Letourneau was one of the first convicts to escape after Le Perroquet Noir was guillotined. You've heard the story of the execution of the Black Parrot, I dare say."

"Yes. Then——" She halted; caught her breath sharply. "Dr. Garth was strangled," she said, "and Letourneau is a...."

"On the surface it's significant enough," he agreed. "But we don't know that Garon is Letourneau: he merely resembles him."

"Nevertheless, it strengthens my theory. The Buddha, the doctor's collections, the slendong, all, point to the Black Parrot or an agent. Don't you see?"

"I see, yes. But what can we do to prove this theory? Inform the police and let them arrest——"

"No, no!" she broke in. "It is my opportunity; I refuse to surrender it!"

She said it vehemently, and a flush crept into her olive pallor. She was conscious of Conquest's appraising look, a look that swept her from the casque of copperish hair to the silver-cloth girdle. A vague resentment tempered her ardor.

"Magnificent!" she heard him murmur under his breath. Then he spoke aloud. "Did you ever read 'Freya of the Seven Isles?' Or don't you care for Conrad?"

The word "magnificent" suggested to her a particularly well bred animal. It acted as a challenge.

"Oh, I know what you think!" she flared. "It seems ridiculous to you that I, a woman, should have come from Bangkok on a mission like this! How utterly masculine! A woman must have no purpose except to make herself attractive; if she assumes any other she is an Amazon! A purpose! Why, think of death closing down upon a body that was given as a means of achievement and not to be developed for personal vanity! Think of it! The prospect of leaving only a memory of beauty appalls me! Personality, an individual's contribution to the world through accomplishment, is the quality that time transmutes from age to age."

She leaned nearer him, a glow in the dark splendor of her eyes.

"It seems a small thing, a ridiculous thing, what I am trying to do. Catch a thief! A little cruel, isn't it? But ambition is essentially cruel. After all, thieves have the same fundamental emotions as we, but with a flaw somewhere. Too, what I intend to do seems like attempting to destroy Romance. One must take a small step first. Indeed, if it were not for the glamour of Romance my first step would be reduced to the ugly level of a police-court affair. But Romance saves it, makes it seem as though I were exploring some dark, unknown continent. Romance! Do you understand? Or, like the rest, do you consider me a sort of sexless creature, afflicted with a fever whose only cure is a home and a hearthstone and some man to bore me through the winter evenings?"

His gray eyes met hers across the table, and she thought she glimpsed a responsive gleam in them. That whimsical, melancholy smile twisted the corner of his mouth.

"Does it matter what I think as an individual?" he queried. "Or do you merely wish some one to approve your philosophy?"

"Does it need approval?"

"No, it's far too splendid."

She knew he was not flattering her; she sensed a sympathy of ideas between Conquest and herself. Ideas, she repeated, not ideals. There was something disturbing in his character, an indefinable element that she ... distrusted or disliked? Whatever it was, it warned her against intimacy.

"Far too splendid!" he repeated. "Romance! Unknown continents! I hope you'll let me voyage with you. What is your next step?"

"My plans are indefinite. You said that Garon was staying in—where was it?"

"Cholon. He's at the house of a wealthy Chinese merchant. Cholon, you know, is the Chinese city—about three miles from Saigon proper."

"Who traced him there? You?"

"No. But I've been more or less keeping my finger on him. You see, when Remy received your message on the boat, he cultivated Garon. Garon said he was a bird collector. When they arrived here Remy suggested that he occupy his quarters instead of going to a hotel, as he had to leave immediately for his new post. But Garon declined. While in the custom-house Remy saw one of his tirailleurs, so he instructed the fellow to follow Garon and report where he went. That night he was informed that Garon had gone to the house of a certain merchant—I forget the name now—in Cholon. Remy came to me the next morning, and I sent my cleverest boy to shadow him. He's been into the city twice, each time to visit a tailor on the Rue Catinat, and almost every night he goes to Lily Wun's.

"Lily Wun's?"

"Yes, a place kept by a Eurasian woman. She deals in wines, poppy treacle, and other things. The élite of Saigon patronize Lily."

"Élite?"—a shade of irony in the tone.

"Of course. About one third of the population use opium or some other narcotic. Don't look shocked. The other two thirds drink themselves to death. What is the difference if the same end is achieved?"

As he spoke she caught a glitter in his eyes, cold as Iceland spar. He could be cruel, she decided. A dreamer? Yes—but of a type that could divert men to his purpose, making opportunities of their failures, or, inspired by his illusions, sacrifice them pitilessly to his gain.

"Does Garon go there for drugs?" she asked.

"Obviously."

She was silent for a moment, then pressed:

"Do you know this Lily Wun?"

He smiled. "Every one in Saigon does."

A twinge of suspicion made her scrutinize him carefully. No, his eyes were too clear....

"Can she be trusted?" she pursued.

"If your price is higher than the other chap's. But I wouldn't——"

"You wouldn't what? Go to Lily Wun's? Why?"

"No. I didn't know you intended to go."

"I do."

"Alone?" Then he added, "I dare not offer my protection; but my company?"

"You may go—on one condition."

"Yes?"

"You must—well, obey me"—smiling.

"Agreed. But what do you expect to find?"

She counter-questioned, "Are you sure Garon goes there for drugs?"

"What else?"

"If, as you say, every one knows this Lily Wun, wouldn't you, provided you were—well, what I suspect Garon to be; wouldn't you cultivate her under those circumstances? And you said she could be bought."

"When do you want to go? To-morrow night?"

"Yes."

"You aren't afraid?"

She smiled tolerantly. "Of you?"

He laughed. "What will you do there? Question Lily?"

"Let the occasion care for itself."

"Excellent. Incidentally, I presumed to get tickets for the opera to-night. Do you care to go? It's 'The Barber of Seville.'"

Her impulse was to refuse, but she reconsidered. There was a complexity in his nature that challenged her, two elements of character that offered a contrast as striking as his pallor and his dead-black hair.

Late that night, after the opera, she lay in the gloom of her room and thought of Stephen Conquest. During the performance his cuffs had slipped back and shown her rings of livid gray about his wrists. Scars. As she saw them she had a fantastic picture: fire and smoke of the Inquisition, and a tormented figure gyved to the wall ... Stephen Conquest: a silken envelop for emotions that threatened their frail prison ... Stephen Conquest....

She fell asleep and dreamed of grim monks and wavering candles; dreamed of a white face in a black cell.

2

In a tropical climate it is considered the height of folly, even bad form, for one to exert himself during the midday heat. Therefore, the shops and business houses of Saigon close between eleven and two with true Latin regard for form when it is consistent with comfort. In the silken hours following this siesta social Saigon emerges, driving up and down the wide avenues or gathering over piquantes-grenadines at the open-air cafés on the Rue Catinat and the Boulevard Bonnard.

Lhassa, having spent the day indoors, motored to Cholon in the late afternoon, arriving just before sunset. In the half-tone of early night the Chinese city had a pleasantly wicked atmosphere: narrow streets where roofs met overhead; gay booths and shops; and endless processions of yellow mortals. She searched the colorful throng for a familiar hunched figure; saw no one who even resembled him.

When she returned to the hotel she dined alone on the terrace and studied the other patrons. The men, the majority plethoric, genially intoxicated individuals, were too eager to smile. They interpreted for her the spirit of Saigon: luxurious looseness. She attributed this condition to the laxity of the average Frenchman, in what he considers exile, who forgets that one may be indiscreet in Paris without being indecent but that it is difficult in the tropics.

She perceived in Conquest a type that noticed clothes, and she had, therefore, gowned herself with more care than usual. Gray suède slippers, gray silk stockings, a gray chiffon dress, and a black leghorn hat with burnt-orange roses about the crown. The burnt-orange roses were like a flash of her temperament: a touch of defiance in an otherwise subdued symphony.

The meal over, she went to her room. There she debated the question of instructing her "boy" to follow and wait outside Lily Wun's, but finally decided she was capable of meeting any emergency. So she draped a veil about her hat, placed a small black automatic in her purse, and sat down to wait.

Conquest arrived at the appointed time, immaculately clad. As he greeted her she caught in his eyes a sharp wistfulness, almost hunger, that sent a momentary dread over her.

"Something unfortunate has occurred," he announced as they left the hotel in a motor-car; he was driving.

"Garon has disappeared?"—intuitively.

He glanced at her. "Well, rather. Last night he left the house in Cholon, got in a car, and was driven off. Keo-lin—that's my boy—couldn't find any vehicle swift enough to follow, so he waited for Garon to return. But Garon hasn't—that is, he hadn't the last I heard, which was just before dark. I'm deucedly sorry."

"Please don't apologize," she begged. "You have been too great a help for that. Anyhow, I feel quite optimistic. If, as you believe, Garon takes drugs, then sooner or later he'll go to Lily Wun's, and we can pick up his trail again—if we don't find a clue to-night."

He gave her a frankly admiring look. "You remind me of a woman I once saw in the jungle."

"An Amazon?"—ironically.

"No, a figure carved on a wall. She was one of those ancient queens of the Golden Chersonese; a god's consort; Indra's. I discovered her in a temple up beyond Laos-land, a forgotten empress looking down from a slab of sandstone upon the desolation of a forgotten temple. She was a carving, part of a bas-relief, a creature cold to the touch; yet she filled the temple with her presence; filled it with fire. It seemed as though the sculptor who did her had trapped her spirit in the stone. The flesh was dead, but the woman was there. She will be there—on and on, age after age, even after those ruins are buried. Savants of another century will unearth her. She will never die, not even when the stone crumbles. She has something of the immortal Ayesha in her, a spirit that is Art itself...."

A soft laugh. "You see," he explained, "I paint and model a bit, and frequently my enthusiasm slips the leash. But Beauty is a lustrum for man's sins. Beauty and Art and Romance: the Trinity. Prophets talk much of reincarnation, of the Law of Karma, of metempsychosis. And yet——Have you ever entered some strange port—at dawn, say—and seen masts and sails, roofs and cathedral towers, playing like rainbow colors in a mist; have you ever seen that and felt an intimacy with it, a familiarity that almost frightened you?... Reincarnation? No. It's the spirit of Art, ancient as Life, that instantly recognizes Beauty; a spirit that belongs to no individual body but that looks, with varying degrees of vision, from all eyes."

He paused; the motor-car was purring eastward across the city. There was a somber quality in what he said, a quality almost tragic, that depressed her. His profile, burningly white, seemed to cauterize the darkness.

"Romance," he resumed whimsically, "is the deceptive one of the Trinity. I think of it as feminine. Why? Perhaps because it possesses men and leads them to the corners of the earth. Mountain, jungle, sea, city, and ruin; it lures them to all of these. But it ever evades. Romance, the beautiful illusion. Lord Jim sought it—you've read 'Lord Jim,' of course. And see what he found: he passed 'under a cloud, inscrutable ... forgotten, unforgiven.' Oh, I know it from memory! By Jove, the more I think of that beggar the more I'm convinced he's a great conception! Fancy that young fool giving up his life for an illusion! Not a woman, that illusion—thank God! It's the obvious thing to die for a woman—but an illusion...."

He chuckled. "Romance. It tyrannizes men, but the majority won't admit it. Yes, it's a tyrant. For instance. I have a sago plantation at Kawaras. Instead of regarding it as a prosaic place of business, I think of it as my kingdom. It is, after a fashion, for I'm white rajah there. Although I give the Government a percentage of my profit in return for protection, and am under certain agreements with them, I control the territory. A sort of miniature North Borneo Company or Sarawak. There's a disgruntled Malay sultan who lives in state near the plantation, and I rather wish he'd start a row—instead of being gratified that he's peaceful! Absurd, isn't it? Yet it would be sumptuous. Native troops; war proas; a British gunboat. I can picture you in a setting of that sort; yes, I can clearly vizualize you ... ranee of Kawaras."

"Ranee of Kawaras," she repeated, almost believing that a boy sat beside her, telling of his dreams of treasure and fabulous kingdoms. "Is that an offer?" She regretted it the instant it was spoken; wondered why she had said it.

He laughed—a sound that the hot wind snatched from his lips and flung behind.

"It may have been!"

The atmosphere suddenly became taut, like gauze stretched tight upon a loom. She felt that another word would rend the fabric. The throb of the motor was a warning drum-beat. But Conquest did not speak; they rode in silence through tepid darkness.

Their destination was what appeared to be a huge, rambling villa surrounded by palms and plumed bamboo. A solitary lamp glowed on the portico; lights peeped from the chinks of blinds. Despite these evidences of occupancy it seemed to house only a great stillness. When they got out, a white-liveried Annamite, materializing from within, took charge of the automobile.

"This was once the residence of an important government official," Conquest told her as they crossed the veranda, "who was so deeply in debt to Lily that he was forced to give up his home as partial payment."

Before they entered Lhassa dropped her veil. A cold nausea traveled over her in waves. It was not the result of fear but aversion. The sensation recalled a late afternoon in Tokio, when she visited the Yoshiwara.

Within, the silence took on a velvet heaviness, and a pungent fragrance as of burning aloes clung to the air. A "boy" slipped out noiselessly from behind brown curtains. Conquest moved forward to meet him, speaking in a whisper, then motioned to Lhassa, who had remained by the door.

Draperies parted and rustled together behind them. A yellow-shaded lamp revealed a room with many curtained recesses. Dragons were lacquered in gold upon black panels. They were led to a small apartment which, like the larger room, was black-paneled and dragon-lacquered. In the center stood a tea-table and chairs; and a brass bowl on a stand sent up a bluish coil of incense. Half-drawn curtains hinted at a shadowy alcove.

The pulse in Lhassa's throat began throbbing as Conquest seated her, and the "boy" went out, softly closing the door. There was in the room, in the house, an air of luxurious evil that seemed to soil her; the incense, a jasmine odor, was suffocating.

"Do you regret coming?" he asked, gray eyes searching her.

"I shall be glad to breathe clean air again," was her answer. "Did you tell the boy to send Lily Wun?"

"No. Before I do that we must have something to drink. It is necessary to—to preserve our face, as the Chinese say. They mix an excellent cocktail here, called the 'green dragon's breath.'"

She surveyed him doubtfully.

"Do you come often?"

He smiled. "As often as business necessitates."

"Business?"

"Yes. I have a lot of Chinos employed at Kawaras, some doing clerical work, others at the godowns—warehouses, you know. I have to keep them supplied with opium."

That rather shocked her sense of moral justice. "You encourage vice?"

"No, I recognize it. The Chinos wouldn't stay if they didn't have their pipe of 'black smoke.' Furthermore, if I didn't sell it to them, some profiteer would; so you see, paradoxical as it may seem, I am a benefactor."

As he spoke he changed, in her eyes, as subtly, as inexplicably, as a chemical darkens under the magic of a foreign fluid. His pallor was gray, unnatural. "The Marble Faun," crept into her mind. The thought frightened her, and she said hurriedly:

"What about the administration? Does it sanction Lily Wun and her establishment?"

He smiled again. The whimsical expression seemed to melt his features into a more human mold.

"Undoubtedly it considers Lily's business highly profitable."

"Is French colonial policy so corrupt?"

"You are too severe. Vice is an accepted unit of every large organization; it's corrupt only when it's unlicensed. And, you know, you can't build a Utopia so near the equator."

Again that grayness came over his face. It appalled her, and she welcomed the entrance of a "boy" bearing a tray. Conquest spoke a few words in what she imagined was a Chinese dialect, and the "boy" withdrew as quietly as he had come.

"Lily will be here shortly," he announced. "I think she'll be less suspicious if I question her. May I?"

"Of course."

A moment later the door opened to admit a woman; a sultry creature, tawny as a leopard. Libidinous eyes looked out from a mask of white enamel.

"You wish to see me, monsieur?"

Conquest did not rise. "Yes. A matter of confidential information."

As Lhassa gazed at Lily Wun she thought again of the Yoshiwara: the Eurasian's face was smooth as a doll's, yet old, old as iniquity.

"I want to know something about a man with whom I intend to do business," Conquest went on. "I understand he comes here frequently. He's a hunchback; name's Garon. Do you know him?"

Lhassa imagined that the woman smiled faintly.

"I do not discuss my patrons, monsieur," she replied. But she made no move to go.

"Then he is a patron?"

"He is here often," she admitted.

"For the 'black smoke'?"

"Did I say that, monsieur?"

"But you don't deny it?"

"You talk like a gendarme"—her eyes narrowing to black slits. "He comes to my house, to one of my rooms, to meet a friend. How do I know what he does?"

"You know what you sell him."

A shrug. "Nothing—except a drink now and then. But he pays for the use of the room."

"And what of his friend? A lady?"

"No."

He smiled. "Good. We're progressing. Do you know anything about this Garon? Anything—interesting?"

"No."

"You were never curious enough to listen outside the door—or have one of your boys?"

"Certainly not."

"But"—still smiling—"you might allow one of your regular patrons do so if Monsieur Garon comes to-night?"

"He will not be here to-night," she snapped. "Why do you ask these questions, monsieur? Am I a criminal? What do you want?"

Before Conquest could answer, Lhassa spoke.

"How do you know he isn't coming to-night? Did he tell you he wasn't?"

The narrow eyes focused upon her. "No."

Lhassa grasped at a possibility. "Then some one else did? Some one who left a message for him? The man whom he meets here, perhaps?"

The Eurasian opened her mouth but shut it quickly and turned as if to go.

"I will pay for the information," Lhassa announced.

The woman faced about slowly. "How much?"

"Fifty piasters."

"Twenty-five," Conquest corrected hastily.

Lily Wun smiled at him contemptuously. "Fifty," she agreed.

Lhassa nodded. "What was the message?"

"It was sealed——"

"But you opened it and read it," interposed Conquest.

Again the contemptuous smile; she addressed Lhassa.

"It was written in ideographs. It spoke of a consignment of tea that had been received, and said that before this shipment was disposed of the writer would notify those interested. That was all. It was not signed."

"Who brought it?" Lhassa probed.

"A merchant from Cap St.-Jacques. He is called Ong-Yoi. He told me that a man, a man whose name he did not give, had paid him to bring the message, and that the boy of Monsieur Garon would call for it in the morning."

"Is the man who sent the note the one whom Monsieur Garon frequently meets here?"

The Eurasian shrugged. "How can I say? Monsieur Garon's friend has not come to-night."

"What is his name, this friend?"

"I do not know, madame."

Lhassa was certain the woman was lying, but instead of pressing the question she said:

"But you know the address of the merchant of Cap St.-Jacques? Ong-Yoi; is that the name?"

"Yes. I know his address."

Conquest drew out pencil and envelop. "What is it?"

Lily Wun told him, adding, "That is all I know."

Lhassa paid her, and, without another word, she went out.

"You should have made her show you the message"; thus Conquest.

"But I couldn't have read it. Anyhow, I don't believe the content of the note half as important as the address of the man who brought it," she confided. "Now we——"

"Suppose you tell me when we're outside?" he interrupted.

She perceived the wisdom of this advice and pretended to sip the cocktail—a green liquid that tasted like sweetened varnish. Presently, when he had drained his glass, she suggested that they leave.

"Now, proceed," he instructed as the motor-car whirled them away from the huge, rambling house.

She drew in quantities of cleansing air before she spoke.

"As I said, I believe the address of the man who brought the message more valuable to us than the message itself. It's possible that from him we may learn the identity of the sender—and that might lead to many discoveries—Garon, for instance."

"You mean, you propose to go to Cap St.-Jacques and hunt up this Ong-Yoi, or whatever his name is?"

"Yes."

"Cap St.-Jacques is about forty-eight miles down the river. Why not, instead of making that trip, let me have Keo-lin watch at Lily Wun's and follow Garon's boy?"

"Why not do both?"

"By Jove! You're determined to get at the bottom of this affair! If you insist on going to Cap St.-Jacques, then let me take you on my steam-yacht. I came up on her from Kawaras. We could make the run down the river in about four hours. I'd suggest turning the entire matter over to me, but you wouldn't listen to that, I know."

"No, I wouldn't. But"—a pause—"I may accept your offer to take me."

"Excellent. If we leave about three o'clock in the afternoon we'll reach Cap St.-Jacques at dusk." And he added, "We'd get back to Saigon before midnight."

She realized that what she proposed to do was indiscreet if not improper. But it was not her nature to allow convention to interfere with opportunity. And she did not doubt her ability to take care of herself; nor did she question the impulse that had led Conquest to make the offer. He was an anomaly. She sensed something lacking in him, some moral element that as yet she was unable to define. At times it flashed close to the surface, like a scaly body in a woodland pool. But it was too remote, too elusive, to cause her more than vague apprehension.

When they reached the hotel he refused her invitation to sit on the terrace for a while. There was reticence in his manner, a strange eagerness to get away, that was contradicted by a devouring look; and it came to her suddenly that he was deliberately forcing himself to leave against his desire. In a flash of intuition she saw he was afraid ... of her. The revelation was like the touch of fog. He said good night perfunctorily; extended his hand. The cuff slipped back....

"Handcuffs," he said, gazing at his wrists. "Prometheus bound."

As he raised his eyes she caught a gleam cold as frost; it hurt her. She could say nothing. He turned quickly; went.

Handcuffs. She repeated that as she ascended to her room. Again, as on the previous night, she felt hot torment in Stephen Conquest; again she felt oppressed by shadowy, cowled figures.

3

In the morning Lhassa decided to write to Captain Barthélemy and tell him of her progress. Not knowing his address, she telephoned the offices of the Saigon-Siamese Trading Company to inquire of Conquest. But she was informed that he was not in nor likely to be before noon. She then telephoned the Caserne d'Infanterie Coloniale; was given the chief of information.

Could he tell her the name of the post to which Captain Remy Barthélemy had been transferred? she asked.

Barthélemy? the chief of information repeated the name. Did the madame know his——the voice stopped; pronounced the name again. Oh, Captain Barthélemy! Ah, yes! Was she a friend of Monsieur le Capitaine?

She replied that she was.

And a new-comer to Saigon—yes?

Puzzled, she affirmed.

Ah, yes! Well, he did not remember the name of the post now. These Asiatic names! Mon Dieu! His assistant, who was out at present, had the key to the drawer where the records were kept. Would the madame pardon this unavoidable circumstance? And would she give him her name? He would get the information as soon as possible and call.

She told him her name and address, and, still puzzled, hung up. The courtesy of the chief of information was unusual in a land where the average official has liver trouble and a hundred other tropical complaints.

After an hour she abandoned waiting. She had some shopping to do.

As she was leaving the hotel she was accosted from behind by a little, red-faced, mustached officer, who lifted his helmet and stood rigidly at attention as he addressed her.

"Miss Camber? Will you pardon me? I just inquired for you. May I detain you a moment? I am the chief of information.... Yes.... Will you sit? I shall be brief."

He was a rather ridiculous figure, with his red face, his long mustache and tight-fitting uniform, she thought.

"Being a man of some delicacy," he resumed, "I deemed it better to call in person instead of telephoning. Do I understand that you are an old friend of Monsieur le Capitaine Barthélemy?"

A vague fear cast its shadow upon her. "Why, yes," she answered. "Not exactly an old friend, but——"

"You knew him in France? Yes?"

"No. I met him in Singapore and——But why do you ask?"

An exaggerated gesture. "A matter of delicacy! No offense, mademoiselle! There has been an unfortunate occurrence, a——" He paused; made another gesture. "Regrettable, mademoiselle, very.... A good officer and a gentleman.... You see—pardon my brusqueness—Captain Barthélemy took his life about two weeks ago."

He seemed disappointed that she did not swoon. The vague fear had become substantial; she felt as though a tangible weight pressed against her breast. She groped for words, deserted by her usual poise.

"Two weeks!" she echoed. "After he returned?"

"No, mademoiselle, on the way. The circumstances are somewhat—nebulous—yes, nebulous! It occurred while the ship was in port. Let me think—at Kep, I believe. No one knows how it happened. He told one of the crew he wished to go ashore—it was night, I believe—and went to his cabin. When he did not return some one was sent after him—and he was—er—gone. His clothing was there—the garments he had discarded—but...." Another gesture. His face had grown redder, and he appeared quite excited. "The porthole, mademoiselle.... The only way.... Oh, yes; large enough. There was no letter—nothing except his clothing."

The dull heaviness in her breast had grown. Barthélemy—dead! A sharp desolation swept over her; receded; left an insidious deposit. She saw in fancy Conquest's gray eyes.

"Being a man of some delicacy," the little officer was saying, "I hesitated telling you over the wire. It is indeed regrettable. A good soldier; a gentleman.... I sympathize, mademoiselle. Is there anything I can do?"

"No," she told him, recovering her poise. "You are very considerate; I appreciate it."

"It is nothing," he assured her. "Some delicacy, you understand.... A daughter in France—yes, Paris.... Ah, mon Dieu! Paris!..."

Bowing, he made his departure, a very straight and ridiculous little figure. Lhassa was possessed of a crazy desire to laugh as she watched him go through the doorway.

She returned to her room. There, sinking into a chair, she surrendered to a host of questions; venomous questions that flashed in and out of her mind; that pricked here and there and left itching vaccinations. Barthélemy—a suicide. She did not believe it. Conquest; her wireless from Bangkok. Suicide? No—murder. In some way Garon had intercepted her message and killed Barthélemy. Conquest was an accomplice, a——Fantastic; it couldn't be. Yet, if there were no conspiracy, why did Conquest wish her to believe that Barthélemy had been sent to a post in the interior? What an elaborate scheme! She remembered, suddenly, all that Conquest had told her about Garon and the house in Cholon; remembered Lily Wun's; remembered his offer to take her to Cap St.-Jacques. What a web!

She sat there, reviewing the last few days. She saw everything clearly now. It was fantastic—but true. Garon had strangled Dr. Garth; Garon alias Letourneau, the garroter. He had stolen the Emerald Buddha. He had learned of her message and killed Barthélemy. Then he had conspired with Conquest to meet her and discover what she knew. Garon was the Black Parrot. Or Conquest. Or perhaps neither. Tools.

She rose and walked to the window; walked back; resumed her seat. She could believe Garon guilty of almost anything because he was, after a fashion, unreal; indeed, he was so shadowy a personality that at times she doubted his existence. But it was not so easy to associate Conquest, a man of flesh and blood, with a fabulous band of criminals. Yet unquestionably he was involved. Now, in the light of this new development, countless little incidents recurred to strengthen her suspicion.

She glanced at her watch. After eleven. At two thirty he would call to take her to the quay. She should summon the police and have them at the hotel to meet him. But she would do nothing of the sort. Thus far she had ridden alone, and alone she intended to continue. Police! Something she had said a day or so before flung back to her: "If it were not for the glamour of Romance, my first step would be reduced to the ugly level of a police-court affair." No, not the police. There was a more finished way. She wondered if she dared try it. Perhaps Conquest had planned to hold her prisoner at Cap St.-Jacques or take her out to sea. Absurd. But the whole affair was more or less absurd. She must think, consider well.

At the end of half an hour she had decided, and she sent for Manuel, her "boy." A few minutes later he was in her room.

"Manuel, I am going down the river this afternoon with Mr. Conquest," she told him. "Remember that name, Conquest—Stephen Conquest. His headquarters, here in the city, are at the Saigon-Siamese Trading Company, on the Quai François Garnier. Remember that, too. We are bound for Cap St.-Jacques. I should be back by midnight; however, I may be delayed. If I'm not here by two o'clock—no, three; if I'm not here by three and you haven't heard from me, go to the police and tell them what I've told you.

"Meanwhile, I want you to be in front of the hotel, in a car, at two thirty this afternoon, and follow me when I leave. Get the name of the yacht and her place of mooring. After that, do whatever you wish until seven o'clock, then return to the hotel, for I may call...."

As the door closed behind the Filipino she sank into a chair, shuddering. First, Dr. Garth, then Barthélemy! Two within one month! And such a month! She saw it as a pattern of brutal hues: the white glare of the days, the poignant grays and purples of the nights; and woven into this fabric, vanishing and reappearing at intervals, the blue slendong. It seemed invisibly bound about her, drawing her on; drawing her toward a revelation that she sensed with growing fear.

Another shudder. She looked down at her gray morning-dress. The ghastly ashen shade depressed her. She must change. The gown of dull bronze crêpe. Bronze belonged to her mood.

4

Lhassa felt nervous when she descended to meet Stephen Conquest, but the sight of him gave her assurance. Indeed, it was incredible, she thought, that he was involved in the elaborate deception that had been exposed to her, and she wondered for a moment if she had not imagined the conversation with the chief of information. However, all doubt was dispelled by the recollections that were seared upon her mind.

They did not go directly to the river, but drove by a roundabout way, which puzzled and vaguely disturbed her. Conquest was even more talkative than usual, and as he chatted she sat and studied his long, thin profile. Flawless in form. But there was a blemish within. She turned this realization over in her mind with increasing dismay. Although she had known it, instinctively, from the first, the proof shocked her. Irrelevantly, she thought of an instance packed away in the subconscious: One late afternoon in Washington, when ice lay pale on the pavements and the lamps were frosty moons in the dusk, several boys passed, their faces fine and unspoiled. And, as they passed, one of them cursed vilely. And because she was only a little girl, she went home and prayed for him.... Queer that she should remember that now. Yet, somehow, Stephen Conquest reminded her of that boy with the unspoiled face and the evil tongue. Depression settled upon her, stayed until the river-front was reached.

Conquest's yacht was a slim sea-hound gleaming white with a coat of new paint, a craft much larger than she had imagined.

"A thousand tons," he told her as they went aboard. "Notice her name," he added, smiling, "I called her after Conrad's Narcissus. There"—indicating a swarthy uniformed man near the wheel-house—"there is the Nigger. I found him in Macao. He'd lost everything but his certificate of navigation. I got all my crew by picking up derelicts. It's a sort of game, a god's game. Not all human wreckage is wormwood; often only the bark is rotten. And they're faithful, faithful as dogs."

"But," she questioned, "aren't you afraid that some day they may turn and bite you?"

"No, I have more faith in driftwood than in the finished product from the mills. Their sense of appreciation is more highly developed. Please understand, I'm not a benefactor: I demand an equal measure of service for all that I give. I don't pity these men; I merely realize their value." A pause, then: "Would you like to go over the ship?..."

The Narcissus was perfectly equipped, and immaculate from bow to stern. Adjoining the dining-saloon was a sea-parlor with green hangings, a deep, soft rug to match, and many bookcases. The cabins were white-enameled and brass-finished. He took her into all but one, which he explained, whimsically, was Bluebeard's. She wondered why he did not show it to her, and decided he was deliberately trying to make her inquisitive. However, her curiosity was not so easily smothered, and when they moved on her mind held a picture of the unopened door.

The muffled sound of bells and a faint vibration announced that they were under way, and an involuntary dread ran through her. She wondered, with a sharp wrench of doubt, if she had acted wisely. However, she realized it was too late for regret now. But, she asked herself, did she regret coming? In all probability the trip would be uneventful, and she would return knowing little if any more than before. If anything did happen——Well, this was a desperate venture.

They returned to the deck and established themselves under the awning aft, she on a wicker chaise-longue and he in a Singapore chair. Clammy heat steamed up from the river, beat down from the sky. It crippled her thoughts and quivered before her in visible waves. Conquest seemed out of focus, a pale blur in the blue incandescence. When he offered her cigarettes she observed the gold-wrought figure on his case; remembered, indolently, that she had noticed it before.

"It's copied from an ancient relief," he said perceiving her interest.

She took the case and studied the design. It was a woman unclothed but for an elaborate girdle, many necklaces and bracelets, and a three-coned tiara; a figure so finely wrought that each feature was distinct.

"It represents an Apsara or celestial courtesan," he explained. "The Khmers immortalized them in bas-relief on the walls of Angkor. However, the original of this one isn't at Angkor, but in a temple in the Shan States. There's a story connected with it that I'll tell you some time. You remember the stone woman I spoke of the other night? This is a replica made from a photograph; the work was done by an old goldsmith in Bangkok."

At the mention of Bangkok her attention was drawn abruptly from the case to its owner.

"You've been in Bangkok?"

He nodded.

She was at the point of inquiring if his visit was recent when she realized the question would be too pointed; instead, she said:

"Tell me something of Angkor."

"Angkor," he mused, gazing at the figure on the cigarette-case. "Stone cobras and mournful silence. And bats; one can never forget the bats. I went through Angkor Wat one night, and the creatures terrified me, wheeling and flapping about like the spirits of Dracula's Un-dead...."

She half closed her eyes as he talked, her thoughts upon Bangkok instead of Angkor. When was he in the Siamese capital? she wondered. Why? Perhaps he was there on his yacht the night Dr. Garth was murdered. But that did not seem logical, for if he was why did Garon leave on the packet? No, he was not an actual actor in the Bangkok affair, but he was concerned indirectly. He, Stephen Conquest ... Donatello.... The heat destroyed the coherence of her thoughts; fragments drifted in utter languor. He who sat opposite her, talking of the relics of an ancient culture, was a criminal. She repeated that with languid dismay. Fantastic. Bizarre. An illusion of the heat, the dreadful heat. What a frightful place in which to live! A clammy moisture seemed to congeal about her: she gazed out from a gelatinous prison at the incredible rogue who talked on....

Toward late afternoon, when the blue mountains of Annam lifted their peaks against an angry sky, a feeling of uneasiness stole over her. She grew restless; suggested they go up in the bow. Dusk had lowered its gauze, and phosphorus embroidered a luminous net around the yacht.

Presently a gong, luxuriously soft, sounded somewhere amidships.

"I have a boy who prepares dishes worthy of a calif's chef," Conquest informed her, "so I planned to dine on the Narcissus instead of at Cap St.-Jacques. We'll not be there for an hour yet."

Lhassa welcomed the diversion.... A Chino served, his straw sandals whispering mysteriously. Although the food was excellent, she had no appetite. She felt excited, felt that she was on the threshold of a tremendous adventure.

After the meal, Conquest paused in the sea-parlor and took a paper-bound volume from one of the bookcases.

"In this old geographical journal are some excellent views of Angkor Thom," he said. "Would you care to look at them while I find out where we are?"

Not wishing to betray her nervousness, she took the journal and turned the pages with assumed interest. Conquest approached a speaking-tube, and after a brief conversation reported that they would reach Cap St.-Jacques shortly. Relieved, she closed the magazine.

"Shall we go on deck?"

"Yes—but first, I have a surprise. If you'd really like to explore the mystery of Bluebeard's cabin you may."

A sudden inexplicable fear tightened her throat.

"Bluebeard's cabin," she repeated. "That sounds unpleasant."

He laughed; his expression was cryptic. "Oh, I've covered all the heads!"

She grimaced; hesitated; followed him into the passage to the cabins, her finger-tips grown cold. The sound of the turning key rasped loudly in the narrow alley. It startled her; left her angry at her nervousness. Conquest opened the door and switched on a light, then stepped aside with that cryptic expression.

At first she saw only a white state-room with a wardrobe-trunk pushed against the wall and several bags and boxes on the floor. Then, suddenly, with an ultra-clarity born of suspense, she perceived that the baggage was her own.

She stared, the iciness creeping up from her fingers and touching her heart. The drumming of her pulse was so loud that she imagined it was audible to the man. She stood motionless.

The sudden remembrance of Manuel broke the temporary paralysis, gave her the power to turn and face Conquest.

"This is preposterous," she heard herself saying in a voice cold as sleet. "Preposterous. I...."

She broke off, sweeping across the cabin to the open port. The dark shimmer of water stretched away to a cluster of lights and a black promontory. As she looked, a tremulous antenna flickered out from the lighthouse, was absorbed in inky-purple gloom. The pygmy flash gave an added somberness to the scene. It was an evanescent gleam of hope in a black and threatening world.

At the sound of Conquest's step she turned.

"It would be untruthful to say I'm sorry," he commenced. "You forced this upon me——"

"Don't explain," she interrupted. "Tell me where we are going."

He smiled, gesturing extravagantly toward the porthole.

"Out there among the stars. You wish romance—adventure. Very well. I shall play at being a god."

He shrugged; walked to the door; paused.

"I suppose," he said, "you think your Filipino boy will report your absence. But he won't; I've taken steps to prevent it."

The announcement bred a momentary panic. When it passed, she thrilled with a sudden consciousness of power.

"You are very thorough"—with a cold, scornful smile. "You even remember my clothes. I suppose I should be afraid. But I'm not. Nor have I any desire to escape. I suspected you might do something like this, something utterly fantastic. You see, to-day I discovered that Captain Barthélemy—what shall I say?—took his life?... I should detest and loathe you; instead I pity you. In doing this preposterous thing you've given me an opportunity. For the first time in my life I have something to do—something to do; do you understand? And perhaps I'll succeed; perhaps I'll find the Black Parrot; who knows? No, I'm not afraid. You can be cruel—but not to me. You know why. You need not guard me. I sha'n't try to get away—at least, not at present. But when I'm ready to go I shall, yes, whether you believe it or not."

They faced each other across the cabin, her eyes smoldering with purpose, his coldly mocking. The tableau was brief. With a faint smile he stepped outside and closed the door.

She felt vaguely disappointed.

5

A moment after Conquest departed she placed the key on the inside of the door and locked it. Then she flung herself on the berth, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. She did neither, but crouched there, staring ahead with unseeing eyes, a suggestion of the leopard in her pose. Resentment against Conquest burned in her. She wanted to hurt him, to bruise his flawless face. Her rage, reflex of fright, was so acute that it nauseated her.

Gradually the flame of fury died. From the ashes rose a fierce desire for companionship. Profound isolation bore down upon her. Alone. Always alone. The macaw, the brilliant bird, flying from place to place, free as the wind and as lonely!

She rose abruptly, closing her mind to these thoughts. From her purse she took her automatic, stared at it. How could that small, gleaming cylinder destroy life? She shuddered, slipped the weapon under the mattress.

A cool breeze and a gentle heave told her the yacht was now on the open sea and prompted her to look out of the port. A yellow moon peered above the sea-line, flaking a weird path across the water. Behind, the promontory of Cap St.-Jacques lay dark against the stars. The night with its blacks, its purples, and its amber moon settled into a pattern—the pattern of shifting, changing colors that had woven about her in Bangkok, and, like a magic carpet, swept her to Saigon. She was its central design, a figure woven into it securely with the blue slendong. And it was carrying her on and on, out of her world and into a region remote from fact.