The Case of the Backward Mule. Erle Stanley Gardner
Читать онлайн книгу.
to recall an experience of danger when Maynard’s finger touched the third square. Once more they went down to the numbered blue squares. Once more the trail was hot until Maynard’s pencil started pointing out the individual red squares, and then Clane permitted himself to relax, serene in the consciousness that he had now diverted Maynard’s attention to a part of the city which meant absolutely nothing.
Maynard said, “Well, I guess that’s all.”
Clane was aware of this trap, a premature announcement of the completion of the test designed to lull the victim into a false sense of security.
Then abruptly Maynard opened a drawer and pulled out a small wooden figure. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.
To save his life Clane couldn’t overcome the emotional impact that the figure aroused in his mind.
“I see that it does,” Maynard said dryly.
“Indeed it does,” Clane admitted.
Maynard said, “It seems to be a figure of a very good Chinese on a horse. The peculiar thing is that he is seated backward.”
“It isn’t a horse,” Clane told him. “It’s a mule.”
“Can you tell me something about the figure?”
“He’s Chow Kok Koh, if one uses the Cantonese. Or Chang Kuo-lao, if one prefers the Mandarin designation.”
“Well, let’s stick with the Cantonese since that seems a little easier for me to pronounce,” Maynard said. “Just who is Chow Kok Koh?”
“He is one of the eight Chinese Immortals.”
“Can you tell me anything more about him than that?”
“He is supposed to have supernatural powers of magic. He can make himself invisible at will. The white mule which he is riding can be folded up and put away. You will note that he carries a sun-shade and has on his back, carried by a sling, something which looks like a small bag of golf clubs.”
Maynard nodded.
“That,” Clane said, “is yu, a musical instrument consisting of a bamboo tube. The things which look like golf-clubs are two rods with which the bamboo tube can be beaten. It is a primitive musical instrument, particularly associated with Chow Kok Koh.”
“But surely, Mr. Clane, there is nothing about the symbology of this figure which would account for the very strong emotional reaction which this figure aroused when I produced it.”
Clane made a wry face. “I’m afraid this machine is reading my mind.”
“Perhaps you can assist us by telling us the reason for that emotion.”
“I think,” Clane said, “the particular figure which you are holding in your hand is a figure which I gave to Cynthia Renton just before I left on my last mission to China.”
“Would you mind telling me why you gave it to her?”
“It was a gift.”
“It had some particular significance?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us what that is?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with the murder,” Clane said. “It goes into some very secret Chinese philosophy. Properly understood, the figure of Chow Kok Koh represents the Oriental acquiescence in the course of life’s stream which we mistakenly refer to as ‘fatalism’.”
“And why should you hesitate to tell me about that?”
“Because it is something rather fine, something rather sacred. It is knowledge which is closely guarded. Those who will tell you about Chow Kok Koh are usually the ones who don’t know. Those who do know give their information only to the person whose mind has been prepared to receive it.”
“You think perhaps it would be too deep for my intelligence?” Maynard asked, with a patronizing smile.
“I am not certain that your mind is ready to receive the information.”
Maynard accepted defeat. He put the figure back in the drawer of the desk, unfastened the bands which held electrodes and pressure-measuring devices to Clane’s arms. He regarded Clane moodily, thoughtfully.
“Well?” Clane asked.
“I don’t understand it,” Maynard said. “Either there is something in connection with your thought processes which I haven’t accurately diagnosed, or else...”
“Well?” Clane asked. “What’s the rest of it?”
“Or else,” Maynard said calmly, “you surreptitiously returned to this country and murdered Horace Farnsworth. That’s all, Mr. Clane. You may go now.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A TAXI deposited Terry Clane in front of a down-town office building, for the most part dark and silent now, only an occasional lighted window marking the late labors of some harassed executive trying to catch up in his business affairs by working long after the staff had gone home.
A call-bell summoned the janitor, who brought the elevator up from the basement.
“Who do you want to see?”
“Stacey Nevis.”
“Six hundred and two. He expecting you?”
“Yes.”
The janitor indicated the night register. “Sign here. Your name, the office you’re going to, the name of the man you’re going to see.”
Terry Clane filled in the record. The janitor shot the elevator up to the sixth floor.
“Do you know if he’s still in?” Clane asked as he left the elevator.
“Think he is. Think he’s got another man with him. You the man they’re waiting for?”
“I believe so.”
“Okay.”
The door clanged and the cage slid down into the silence, leaving Terry Clane standing in the dimly-lit corridor down which the echoes of his steps seemed to precede him until he came to the lighted oblong of ground glass which bore the legend in gilt letters “STACEY NEVIS, Investments. ENTER.”
Terry Clane tried the door. It was unlocked and he entered the outer office, its stale aftermath of the day’s business contrasting with the fresh night air on the outside.
The door of the private office was propped open and two men facing each other were seated in chairs that had been drawn close together. They were smoking and there was that about their posture which indicated a low-voiced exchange of confidences.
The man who was facing the door jumped up as Clane entered. He was smiling affably with his hand outstretched. “Well, well, at last,” he said. “We’d about given you up.”
“I was detained,” Clane said, shaking hands.
Nevis, a tall loose-jointed man in the late thirties, managed somehow to keep himself clothed with an air of rustic simplicity despite the expensively-tailored garments which he wore.
George Gloster, the other man in the room, some seven or eight years older than Nevis, stocky, quick, intense, nervous in his motions, rose from his chair, crossed the office with quick strides, pushed out his hand, but his smile was perfunctory. The dark glittering eyes seemed to be taking a cautious inventory. He said, “I’m afraid I haven’t much time left.”
“That’s all right,” Clane said, “it won’t take long for me to say what I have to say.”
“Have a nice trip?” Nevis asked.
“So-so.”