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Page 57
It was Keith who now smiled into the eyes of the Chinaman, but it was a
smile that did not soften that gray and rock-like hardness that had
settled in his face. "Kao, you are a devil. I suppose that is a
compliment to your dirty ears. You're rotten to the core of the thing
that beats in you like a heart; you're a yellow snake from the skin in.
I came to see you because I thought there might be a way out of this
mess. I had almost made up my mind to kill you. But I won't do that.
There's a better way. In half an hour I'll be with McDowell, and I'll
beat you out by telling him that I'm John Keith. And I'll tell him this
story of Miriam Kirkstone from beginning to end. I'll tell him of that
dais you've built for her--your sacrificial altar!--and tomorrow Prince
Albert will rise to a man to drag you out of this hole and kill you as
they would kill a rat. That is my answer, you slit-eyed, Yale-veneered
yellow devil! I may die, and Peter Kirkstone may die, but you'll not
get Miriam Kirkstone!"
He was on his feet when he finished, amazed at the calmness of his own
voice, amazed that his hands were steady and his brain was cool in this
hour of his sacrifice. And Kao was stunned. Before his eyes he saw a
white man throwing away his life. Here, in the final play, was a
master-stroke he had not foreseen. A moment before the victor, he was
now the vanquished. About him he saw his world falling, his power gone,
his own life suddenly hanging by a thread. In Keith's face he read the
truth. This white man was not bluffing. He would go to McDowell. He
would tell the truth. This man who had ventured so much for his own
life and freedom would now sacrifice that life to save a girl, one
girl! He could not understand, and yet he believed. For it was there
before his eyes in that gray, passionless face that was as inexorable
as the face of one of his own stone gods.
As he uttered the words that smashed all that Kao had planned for,
Keith sensed rather than saw the swift change of emotion sweeping
through the yellow-visaged Moloch staring up at him. For a space the
oriental's evil eyes had widened, exposing wider rims of saffron white,
betraying his amazement, the shock of Keith's unexpected revolt, and
then the lids closed slowly, until only dark and menacing gleams of
fire shot between them, and Keith thought of the eyes of a snake. Swift
as the strike of a rattler Kao was on his feet, his gown thrown back,
one clawing hand jerking a derringer from his silken belt. In the same
breath he raised his voice in a sharp call.
Keith sprang back. The snake-like threat in the Chinaman's eyes had
prepared him, and his Service automatic leaped from its holster with
lightning swiftness. Yet that movement was no swifter than the response
to Kao's cry. The panel shot open, the screens moved, tapestries
billowed suddenly as if moved by the wind, and Kao's servants sprang
forth and were at him like a pack of dogs. Keith had no time to judge
their number, for his brain was centered in the race with Kao's
derringer. He saw its silver mountings flash in the candle-glow, saw
its spurt of smoke and fire. But its report was drowned in the roar of
his automatic as it replied with a stream of lead and flame. He saw the
derringer fall and Kao crumple up like a jackknife. His brain turned
red as he swung his weapon on the others, and as he fired, he backed
toward the door. Then something caught him from behind, twisting his
head almost from his shoulders, and he went down.
He lost his automatic. Weight of bodies was upon him; yellow hands
clutched for his throat; he felt hot breaths and heard throaty cries. A
madness of horror possessed him, a horror that was like the blind
madness of Laocoon struggling with his sons in the coils of the giant
serpent. In these moments he was not fighting men. They were monsters,
yellow, foul-smelling, unhuman, and he fought as Laocoon fought. As if
it had been a cane, he snapped the bone of an arm whose hand was
throttling him; he twisted back a head until it snapped between its
shoulders; he struck and broke with a blind fury and a giant strength,
until at last, torn and covered with blood, he leaped free and reached
the door. As he opened it and sprang through, he had the visual
impression that only two of his assailants were rising from the floor.
For the space of a second he hesitated in the little hallway. Down the
stairs was light--and people. He knew that he was bleeding and his
clothes were torn, and that flight in that direction was impossible. At
the opposite end of the hall was a curtain which he judged must cover a
window. With a swift movement he tore down this curtain and found that
he was right. In another second he had crashed the window outward with
his shoulder, and felt the cool air of the night in his face. The door
behind him was still closed when he crawled out upon a narrow landing
at the top of a flight of steps leading down into the alley. He paused
long enough to convince himself that his enemies were making no effort
to follow him, and as he went down the steps, he caught himself grimly
chuckling. He had given them enough.
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