The Dragon's Claw/Chapter 6

EILL McNEILL walked out of Grand Central Station, scorning a taxicab. The hotel could send for his baggage. With all the fervor of one American born—New York born, at that—who has been expatriated for years in a barbaric kingdom, he wanted to see, smell and taste New York. He bought a paper but did not look at it. People interested him more than news so far. He was already wondering how soon he could call upon the Remsdens—upon Helen Remsden, to be exact. It was mid-morning and he would have to wait until afternoon he decided. But he could send some flowers, and did.

He walked down Fifth Avenue to his hotel, got his room, washed up and went out again on the streets. The unread paper was still in his pocket. Still on the Avenue, enjoying the bustle of the crowds, the things in the shop windows, he came to Madison Square and sat down among the flotsam and jetsam of the city. Presently he pulled out the paper and gradually became more and more interested. On an inner page was a half-tone engraving of two men in the most modern of conventional attire, silk-hatted yet prominently foreign, Oriental. The caption read:

It was interesting reading to McNeill, though he wondered at the strange turn of mind that changed the descendants of so old a dynasty to such ardent liberalists. But the establishment of the new republic upon so firm a basis as to make its envoys recognized generally by the United States Government, as these princes seemed to be, to judge by what they had done and what programs were still in store for them officially, held a measure of comfort. The old powers and traditions of Hoang Lung would die hard, but they might, in the rush of new thought and an open policy toward the Occident, die swiftly. Much of their power would be curtailed with their prestige. They would he low awhile until the ever turning kaleidoscope of awakening China shifted to a new pattern of the same varicolored parts.

There would be a lifting of the ban against the desecrators of the shrine, and the followers of the old legendary faiths would be content with the restoration of their relic. He wondered if Prince Liu Chi or his cousin had heard of the outrage. If so their racial traits would hold the memory despite the 'camouflage of New World veneer. China's ancient faith would not change with its policies, save outwardly. The two nobles were registered at his own hotel, he noted.

Another article flashed at him as he turned the page. It was not a lengthy one, but the headlines leaped at him, making the half-inch capitals that formed the name of Remsden seem as large as wood block freak captions. The article read:

This was a staggering thing and McNeill, mechanically folding up the paper, emitted so sharp a whistle that the passers-by looked at him curiously. But he paid no heed to them.

How could Remsden have presented the claw to the museum when, he, McNeill, had given it over to Tao Chan as ransom for the girl? Some jugglery had gone on here—jugglery that increased the danger to Remsden and his stepdaughter to the nth degree. The visit of the two princes could not be merely a coincidence. Their liberalism was palpably a blind and their real mission revealed. They were after the claw.

Yet the claw was with Tao Chan. It could not be possible that Remsden had regained it. He had literally fled from Peking. It was almost absurd to think there was another relic like it. McNeill was positive there was not. Even if there was, the possession of it—the gift of it to the museum would be as deadly. The interview did not ring true to McNeill. It might have been reported correctly, but what did an American newspaperman know of the subtleties of the Oriental mind? No matter what story Remsden might have coined as to his obtaining possession of the relic, to exhibit such an object of reverence to the princes would be, in their eyes, little short of an insult—a sacrilege. They must surely know all about what had happened at the temple.

While Americans might think little of a Chinese museum having on show specimens of early American culture or crudeness, the claw had been imbedded for unrecorded centuries in the heart of all that was Chinese. It was interwoven with the very essence of ancestor worship. It was holy. No American who had not lived years in China could ever hope to see the differences of thought in such an affair. The racial ideas of the two nations were thousands of years apart. Even Remsden could not properly sense what McNeill felt.

Now the claw was in the museum and Remsden, in his blind pomposity, was elevated to the pinnacle he had been willing to spend so much—to risk so much—to obtain. But, in the eyes of the princes, for all their affectation of Occidental ideas, Remsden was a profaner of shrines, a robber of China's holy of holies. McNeill had to admit that the museum must have the claw, though how this had happened was a riddle hard to solve.

What would be the next move? pondered McNeill. An attempt to get hold of the claw, or swift and horrible revenge upon Helen, her stepfather and, perhaps, himself, if they knew of his presence in New York.

McNeill strove to unravel what might be in the minds of the two princes and then he started north for the Remsdens. It was vital that he should find out just what had occurred—what Remsden had done—where the claw came from. He wondered whether Helen had been present at the reception. The early evening editions came out, but there was nothing more in them. A Wall Street magnate had collapsed, and the market was in jeopardy. The Chinese princes were eclipsed, Remsden forgotten.

East Nineties reached and the house located, McNeill sent in his card by a serving man who elevated his eyebrows the slightest bit as he pronounced the name and then, ushering McNeill into a reception room, said—

"I'll see if Miss Remsden is at home, sir."

McNeill heard a door shut somewhere down the hall. Then he caught faint echoes of a voice he recognized as Remsden's. The man came back, demurely apologetic.

"Miss Remsden is not at home, sir. Gone out of town for a few days. Mr. Remsden said he would see you some other time, sir, regretting that he is very busy just now, sir. Yes, sir. I thank you."

McNeill had done nothing to render the man grateful and he went out to his still waiting taxi a little hurt, a great deal disappointed, and much more worried. At his hotel a note was awaiting him that had been brought by special messenger. It read:

And the note was dated that afternoon and superscribed—

"So that is how the wind blows?" said McNeill sotto voce. "The old boy thinks I'll bawl him out whatever yarn he puts up about getting the claw. For that I'm to be lied to and refused admittance. We'll see about that. I wonder if the fool thinks he is not in actual danger?"

He dressed for his lonely dinner for the sheer pleasure of wearing clothes long foreign to him, and the head waiter, recognizing an out-of-the-ordinary person in his appearance, gave him a good table just the right distance from the music and not far from where the Chinese princes were eminently enjoying an Occidental menu.

They were with a party of American men and women, the latter exploiting foreign magnates to their own gratification. No one seemed to look his way and he lingered over his own carefully chosen meal after the eastern royalty had left. His tip duly impressed his waiter, as did his word of thanks for service. The man lingered.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but the man who waited on them foreign chaps wanted to find out your name. Of course I didn't know it sir, but?" "He could easily have got it, I suppose. Thanks."

"Ever been there, sir? China, I mean. I've got a cousin in Shanghai who sells sewing-machines. Doing well, too."

"Yes, I've been there. He should do well. Reserve this table for me tomorrow night, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

So one of the princes, or both, had been interested in him. Why? McNeill cogitated over that a long time that night before he went to sleep. And, in the morning, he fancied he began to see the answer.

The claw was to the fore in the papers once more. The museum had been broken into some time between two and three o'clock. Only the vigilance of the special watchmen had prevented serious vandalism. The intruders were masked. Only a glimpse had been caught of them in the Oriental gallery where the claw of the dragon king, presented by the newly elected president, was deposited. A protective agency man, felt-shod, had seen the marauders bending over the case in which the claw had been placed. He shouted and fired as the burglars rushed for an open window from which the netting had been removed. Two other watchmen had rushed to his assistance and a general alarm was turned in.

Blood was found on the windowsill, showing that the bullet of the watchman had been well aimed. Traces of a ladder, presumably of the extension variety, were found in the turf below the windows. It was said that a swift car had been seen breaking the speed limits in the vicinity of the museum. The police believed they had an important clew. Special precautions were to be taken to safeguard the curio.

Prince Liu Chi could not be reached this morning, the paper stated, having retired, but his secretary announced the sincere regrets of both their highnesses at the occurrence, coupled with an expression of thanks that the attempt had failed and a hope that the robbers would be given over to the justice of American law and order.

The telephone rang as McNeill was reading over the article the second time. It was Helen Remsden's voice he recognized.

"Can you come up here, right away?" she asked, and her voice quivered with anxiety. "Father is dreadfully upset and wants to see you as soon as possible."

"I'm starting now," McNeill answered.

"Wants to make me his burden-bearer once more, I suppose," McNeill told himself as he hastily finished his dressing. "Well, I'm not going without breakfast for his sake."