The Desert Driver. Harold Lamb

a moment. “To whom is the—box, consigned?”

      “To my old acquaintance, Mr. Li Yuan Kow. No street address is necessary. There is,” Cheng’s fine eyes twinkled, “only one street in Chagan and one Li Yuan Kow. Do you accept the mission, Mr. Warner?” He did not look at Mac.

      “Yes, if I may ask one question.” As Cheng assented readily, the American asked quickly. “Has Kow a car?”

      “Pu chih tao,” said the merchant, explaining, as he perceived he had spoken in colloquial Chinese, “I do not know.” Mac thought he seemed a little puzzled by his companion’s irrelevant question.

      “Then we will deliver the package,” Warner agreed.

      Whereupon Cheng struck a small gong hanging by his head and in a moment the clerk appeared, bearing with him an oblong box about a foot long, half as wide, and some four inches high. It was done up in heavy rice paper bound with supple-reeds knotted in an intricate fashion. These were sealed in one place by red wax, stamped with a signet, the pattern of which resembled, Mac thought, a bird like a crow.

      Warner glanced at this seal twice and took the package. It weighed several pounds and Cheng suggested that Warner carry it to the hotel in the typewriter case he had brought to the merchant’s house, leaving the typewriter to be sent around later.

      “I do not want you to be seen carrying the box from my house,” he pointed out, and Warner, agreeing to this,, signed the merchant’s receipt for a package, contents unknown.

      Warner took out the small typewriter, and placed within the empty case—which was of the portable variety with a handle—the package Cheng handed him. Then the clerk gave him a hundred dollars in American bills. As they were leaving the shop he asked to see the automobile that had been damaged in the collision recently, explaining that his friend, McMahon, was an expert mechanic and might be able to repair it for the merchant.

      Shaking his head doubtfully, Fu Cheng took them to the garage opening into a court at the rear of the shop, where two cars were standing. One, a big touring car, was in good condition; the other, a roadster, was hopelessly smashed, as Mac saw at a glance.

      “It’s a job for a half-dozen new parts, Mr. Cheng, and a month’s time. Was it a head-on smash?”

      While the merchant was making clear that the roadster had been struck a glancing blow by the other car and had swerved against a stone wall, McMahon noticed in a dark corner of the court by some packing boxes, a figure that he thought he recognized. When they were back in the hotel room he mentioned this to Warner.

      “That flash guy, the one I handed a sock to, was hanging around Cheng’s garage.”

      “And followed us here,” was the reply.

      * * * *

      FU CHENG had pointed out that their best course was to leave Pekin for the wall and the west as soon as possible. So McMahon spent a contented afternoon selecting a car for the trip, putting up the money by way of surety, and buying equipment from the automobile company and a general store where Cheng had asked him to order what he needed and charge the things to him.

      It was a pleasant task indeed for the mechanic who had wandered, broke, into the city that morning. He had the car and took his purchases home with him—canvas, ropes, tools, three spare tires and tubes with a pump. Also large tins for gasoline and oil. Also a demijohn for water.

      For himself and Warner he took a pair of heavy corduroy jackets, gloves, and blankets. For food he had a good stock of American canned goods, coffee, evaporated milk, sugar, and a good-sized box of pao ping—thin bread cakes. Meat, rice and fruit he knew could be purchased on the way. He added a kettle, fry pan arid two tin plates. Finally he indulged in a shave and a box of fifty first-rate Manila cigars which he succeeded in charging to Cheng.

      Satisfied with what he had done and feeling hungry, he made his way back to the hotel where he found Warner sitting in his shirt sleeves by the open window, the paper bound package on his knees: On the cot, amid a clutter of newspaper clippings, a compass, and field glasses, was a Colt forty-five, loaded and well oiled. Mac surveyed it with appreciation. “Where’s mine?” he asked.

      Warner glanced at his companion quizzically. “You’ve got us in for this thing, Mac. I was half-minded to decline Cheng’s offer, when you said you’d go through with it anyway. If you had, you’d have been uncommonly good buzzard meat out in the Gobi in five days.”

      Mac shook his head. “First you say Cheng is square, then you make out he’s crooked.”

      “He’s merely Chinese—like his store, that has the worst things on view in the windows and the best things hidden away where nobody sees ’em.”

      But the mechanic was convinced that his friend was wrong. What could be fairer than the way Cheng had treated them—two strangers? No, the Chinese were good Americans, up-to-date and business-like. The talk about feuds and trickery was the bunk.

      He was more sure of this when Cheng’s clerk looked in at their room that evening, after supper, to return the typewriter and deliver the map the merchant had promised. Also a message to the effect that they could get petrol at a town a hundred miles out from the wall (indicated in the map) and that they should watch out for marauding bands of Mongols in the Gobi.

      The clerk said good-by very politely and went out. Mac listened to his steps dwindling down the corridor, and yawned. His own labors were ended some time since: the car with its load was waiting in a side alley, and Warner had not offered to assist. He had sat smoking in the chair, and now showed no signs of turning in. Mac was sleepy and a little irritated.

      “You didn’t strain yourself, helping me with the stuff, Bob, but it’s all fixed now. What you been doing?”

      “Thinking.”

      Mac grunted. “Forget Cheng. We’re in four hundred bucks. Ain’t that enough for you? What’s eating you?”

      “I don’t know.”

      The mechanic swore under his breath, and Warner looked up sharply, his reddish beard jutting out.

      “Wonder what’s in the box?” muttered Mac, stretching himself out on the bed.

      “We’ll know in a few minutes—as soon as we open it.” Warner rose, moved the one chair in front of the keyhole after locking the door, and hung his coat on the back of the chair. Then he produced several lengths of reed cords, similar to those that bound the box. These he laid on the table beside the box, and pulled down the shade, turning up the gas jet full at the same time. Mac sat up, no longer drowsy.

      “Listen, kid,” he observed after a minute. “I know darn well you’re boss of this outfit, but I got a hunch. It will be unlucky to open that box.” As Warner proceeded calmly to work the seal loose with the blade of a pocket knife, he added, “It ain’t square to Cheng to do it.”