After all, the mandarin had only sent Peter Larkin a coffin, a knife and other pleasant little gifts . . .
The Lips of Caya Wu
By Frank Owen
I
Peter Larkin’s death had been
accomplished with complete efficiency.
At four-thirty on Wednesday
he had locked the door of his private
office, written terse farewell notes to a few
business associates, consumed half a quart
of whiskey, then fired a bullet into his heart. Death was instantaneous. He was still
clutching the revolver when they found
him.
The authorities tabulated it as suicide,
and the case was closed. But his friend,
Kerle Andrews, a free-lance feature writer
had a hunch that it was murder, and not
without reason. Francis Channing had
phoned him and there was panic in his
voice. He was Peter Larkin’s greatest
friend. Why was he so perturbed? Why
did he want Kerle Andrews to come to his
office at once? It was an interesting item
to chew on. He was always on the alert
for new ideas, and here was a plot ready-made.
II
When Kerle Andrews arrived at Channing’s
office in the Graybar Building, the
architect was in a state bordering on hysteria,
walking up and down the room, his
colorless face resembling a death mask.
As Kerle Andrews was announced by a
clerk, he said, “I came as quick as I could.”
“It’s a relief to see you,” Channing declared
huskily.
“What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
Channing laughed mirthlessly. “Yes,
I’m sick, sick of living, and yet afraid to
die. I lack Pete Larkin’s courage. I do
not feel sorry about his passing; on the
contrary, I envy him.”
“Perhaps he, too, was sick of living.”
“Anyway, he’s dead.”
“But that doesn’t explain your present
state, or does it? You appear as though
you had seen a ghost.”
“I’ve seen worse than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Chan Kien is in town.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing to me,” said
Kerle Andrews bluntly. “What should my
reaction be, one of terror?”
“If you were in my place, it would be.”
“If you’d tell a coherent story, perhaps
I could help you.”
Francis Channing collapsed into a chair
as though his knees had buckled under
him. “Without the shadow of a doubt,
Chan Kien is the key to Peter Larkin’s murder.
As you know, for many years Pete
and I were inseparable friends. Once we
toured the Orient together. It was a most
lucrative enterprise. We dabbled in a hundred
different schemes, trading in silks,
porcelains, amber and jade after a fashion.
Peter had a faculty for shrewd buying. We
shipped all the stuff we bought to August
Galt, an import and export merchant in
New York City who happened to be our
mutual friend. All three of us shared
equally in the profits. Later, years later in
fact, Galt and Larkin quarreled over this
partnership.”
“You do not suspect Galt of being implicated
in any way with the murder,”
Kerle Andrews broke in. As he put the
question, he studied his companion’s expression
intently. Though he was extremely
upset, there could be no denying
his sincerity.
“Not in the slightest degree,” Channing
answered quickly. “May I proceed?”
“Do.”
“Now it so happened that in our travels
we met Chan Kien. His home was in the
Gobi Desert, a legendary home, for it was
rumored he lived in a cave in the mountains
and crept forth only at night. Some
even said he was a fox who dashed about
the country in the moonlight. He could
change his form at will. Pete Larkin and
I met Chan Kien in Peiping. He laughed
over the fantasies that were told about
him. ‘It is good for a man not to be understood,’
he averred, ‘for then people
never lose interest in him.’ What nobody
knew about Chan Kien would have filled
a book. He was immensely rich and had
homes scattered over a wide area of China.
No one knew where he would be sleeping
on a certain night. He did this to confound
his enemies. A rich man is always at the mercy of brigands and frequently
brigands had been at the mercy of Chan
Kien in his office of magistrate, for among
his host of duties was that of meting out
justice. In this he was somewhat of an
epicure. When a head had to roll in the
dust, he insisted that the axe be sharp so
there need be no unnecessary suffering.
Pete and I did much trading with him in
carved ivories, amber, nephrites and jades.
Chan Kien was a connoisseur of jade and
women and it so happened that in his
house in Peiping where he was accustomed
to receive us, lived a girl of languid beauty
named Caya Wu. She was slim and dark
and lovely. Her lips were like splashes
of blood against the pearls of her teeth.
When she walked through the enclosed
garden upon which the rooms of the house
opened, she swayed in so reed-like a manner
it was impossible not to be charmed.
Pete Larkin beheld her through an open
window as she walked in the garden. Impulsively,
he said, ‘Who is yon lovely girl?’
Chan Kien did not like the question. In
China it is bad form to discuss the women
of the household with the master. Nevertheless,
Chan replied, ‘She is a golden slave
that I recently purchased.’
“Impulsively Peter Larkin asked,
‘Care to sell?’ At that an expression
flitted momentarily across the face of Chan
Kien that was not pleasant to behold, even
though his voice remained affable, as he
said, ‘She was a slave but she is a slave
no longer. Any woman I hold in my arms
is thereafter a free woman. That is the gift
I bestow upon her. As for Caya Wu, she
is happy here. All my wealth I lay at her
feet. She commands my heart.’ That ended
the discussion but Pete Larkin smiled as
he lighted a cigarette. Chan Kien went
back into the Gobi the next morning and
we returned to our hotel.
“I thought the incident was closed but I
reasoned incorrectly. Something about
Caya Wu had imbedded itself so deeply
in Pete Larkin’s mind he could think of
nothing else. And he decided that he must
possess Caya Wu though it was the last
thing he did on earth. The Chinese believe
that woman is a wanton creature always
waiting to go astray. Whether or
not that is true, it certainly was the case
with Caya Wu. She was nothing more than
a lovely courtesan. She had no soul. Fire
did not burn her. When Peter made overtures
to her, her smile was warm and
friendly. Before long they were meeting
clandestinely in the garden of her house
under the spell of a spring moon. When
two people are happy, the Chinese believe,
it is always spring even though it be fur
coat weather. Then one night Chan Kien
returned unexpectedly. When he did not
find her in any of the various rooms of the
house that squared the garden, he walked
down one of the marble paths to where a
willow tree formed friendly shadows, and
there he found them in close embrace.
Chan Kien sighed. It was a perfect night.
It seemed a shame to be forced to shatter
the rhythm of the garden by unseemly actions,
but there was work for him to do.
Like steel claws he extended his fingers.
They groped about in the dark until they
found her white jade throat. How soft
was her flesh as his fingers leaped to destroy
it. It was a night of poetry and
dream. Had Tu Fu still lived, he might
have written a lyric, ‘To the Blue Face of
Caya, Dying.’ Even as her breath ceased,
even as the perfume of her lips no longer
mingled with the soft songs of the flowers,
Chan Kien noticed the startled, masklike,
terror-stricken face of Peter Larkin. When
Chan Kien had assured himself that Caya
Wu would no longer be disturbed by figures
of earth, his fingers wearily relaxed.
Now they sought the neck of Pete Larkin
to complete their handiwork, but Pete fled
ignominiously with the speed of the wind
as though all the terrors that haunt the dusk were at his heels. It was the only
time to my knowledge he had ever been
frightened of anything. When he returned
to our hotel he was a pitiable,
craven thing.”
Francis Channing paused for a moment
and licked his dry lips. When he spoke
again his voice was almost inaudible. “A
few hours later we left Peiping never to
return, banished by fear, fear of the retribution
Chan Kien would exact from us if
we remained in China, for Pete Larkin had
intruded upon a romance so beautiful it
might have inspired T’ang poets. We returned
to New York. Several years passed
and we had begun to breathe easier. Then
Chan Kien suddenly appeared in New
York. He had been in town about three
months. I am sure that Peter Larkin collided
with him many times. I am sure that
Chan Kien committed the murder.”
III
By appointment that evening,
Kerle Andrews called at the house on
upper Fifth Avenue which Chan Kien had
rented temporarily during his sojourn in
America. Of all people, the Chinese are
the most courteous; therefore when Kerle
Andrews telephoned Chan Kien, he had
been at once invited to share a cup of
pearl-orchid-scented tea with him. As
Kerle Andrews stood on the doorstep and
rang the bell, immediately, as if by magic,
Shung Kung appeared in the doorway,
bowing graciously. Shunk Kung was Chan
Kien’s personal servant, constant companion,
and friend.
“My master is awaiting you,” he said.
Through a dimly lighted hall he led the
way. Kerle Andrews was astonished and
enthralled at the wealth of porcelains, tapestries
and carved jade ornaments that
made the hall lush with subdued color and
warmth. On the air floated fragrance like
unto sandalwood. The next moment they
had entered the library and Chan Kien
came forward to greet his guest.
“Welcome,” said he graciously. “In
this world we are all travelers and I am
gratified that you chose to stop for a moment
at my house. It is thereby honored.”
As he spoke, he motioned Kerle Andrews
to a chair in the shadows while he
himself seated himself by an ebony table
on which a lamp was lighted. “So that you
may study my expression with less difficulty,”
he smiled. “But even though the
rays of the lamp fall flush upon my face,
a proverb of my people comes to mind,
‘A candle as big as a cup cannot illuminate
tomorrow.’ Ask me whatever question you
wish but I assure you I will keep my
broken arm inside my sleeve.”
He clapped his hands together and
Shung Kung brought tea. The fragile cups
were no thicker than flower petals. As
Shung Kung poured the tea, Chan Kien
said, “Let us drink, tea makes all men
brothers.”
As Kerle Andrews lifted a cup to his
lips, he surveyed his host.
Chan Kien had exceptionally good features.
His nose was well formed, his
mouth was firm though somewhat cruel.
He smiled too much. His eyes were keen,
black, brilliant as new steel. They told
nothing except that the mind they mirrored
was indomitable. Channing had
pointed out that in his own country Chan
Kien was, among other things, a magistrate
who dispensed justice at a city on
the fringe of the Gobi Desert with the
relentlessness of an absolute monarch. In
that small city his word was law. In high
circles he was all powerful. Besides there
was a mysterious hidden side to his life.
Few knew anything about this, and those
who did spoke of it only in whispers to
people whom they could trust.
Chan Kien was a student of character.
Kerle Andrews interested him. He liked
rapier-like minds that he could challenge to verbal combat. He knew his visitor was
shrewd, that he had come there with a
definite purpose, that he was a worthy antagonist.
A war of words was a tonic of
relaxation. It burned away ennui, it quickened
the blood. But he waited for his
opponent to make the first move. Therefore
with a fine air of studied casualness,
he picked up a volume of fragile poems,
legends, sketches, lyrics in jade.
“The vexing thing about these poems,”
he reflected, “is that they are better than
the originals, from an American viewpoint,
which is true of so many things in this
amazing country. The greatest lie in any
of your great men’s lives is their obituaries.
The way dead men are eulogized gives me
the feeling that they must have been guilty
of grave crimes. In our country we believe
that the vast power of Heaven and Earth
make them like unto deities. Therefore
the dead, buried in the earth, are protected
by the great powers of the universe.”
“No thought could be more beautiful,”
Andrews interposed, “but then the Chinese
people have acute understanding.
What better emblem could be found than
their bundled firewood as a symbol of contentment!”
“I am humbled that you appreciate the
simple philosophy of my people.” He
sighed gently, before he added, “However,
I doubt if you came here today merely to
repeat proverbs. Surely there must be some
slight service I can render you.”
“There is indeed,” said Andrews,
equally as abrupt. “The reason I came here
tonight was because I wished to converse
with you about Caya Wu.”
At that Chan Kien’s expression underwent
a change. The mask slipped and his
face was horrible to behold. He sprang
from his chair, his fingers clawing the air.
Kerle Andrews eyed him coolly, seeming
in no way perturbed, but his muscles
were taut, ready to go into action instantly
if occasion required. Then with a visible
effort, Qian Kien caught control of himself
and with a sigh that was almost a
groan he fell back into his chair. He closed
his eyes. Now once more the mask was
adjusted. But his face bore a sickly pallor
and he seemed to have trouble in breathing.
“You came to my house as a friend,”
he whispered intensely, “then why did you
mention Caya Wu?”
“What matter, since she is dead?”
“She is not dead! She dwells in my
heart. And when I sit alone in a room I
can feel her presence as though she is
reading over my shoulder. Man’s life is
naught but a tragedy, a tragedy with laughter.
But what interest can you possibly
have in my beloved?”
“Because I believe that the death of
Peter Larkin is traceable to his association
with her.”
“So you are aware of what happened in
China?”
“Definitely. Now I am attempting to
discover what happened in New York
since your arrival. It is my belief you are
traveling down the long old road of
memory.”
“If you mean I never forget, I plead
guilty That is my fault. But I did not
kill Peter Larkin. It would have been a
pleasure, but he saved me the trouble.
He committed suicide. Your police have
spoken. Who am I to contradict?”
“So I see,” said Kerle Andrews curtly,
“you only know what you read in the
papers.”
“Do you doubt that Peter Larkin committed
suicide?”
“No, but I am interested in the motive.
Why did he commit suicide while you
were in America?”
“That was his concern, not mine. To
show him I bore him no ill will I sent him
a long thin knife with a carved ivory handle.
It was a beautiful thing. Again I
sent him a mahogany coffin. In my country that is esteemed as a present to cherish.
What more could I do for him?”
“What more did you do?” asked Kerle
Andrews bluntly. “As for your gracious
gifts, I’d say a sharp knife biting into one’s
flesh might cause death comparatively
without pain. Therefore I am surprised
that Peter Larkin chose death by a bullet.
The thin knife death would have been far
more poetical. As for the gift of a coffin
to a man with overwrought nerves, it’s
appalling. You chose your presents well.
They are interesting to muse over. It is
subtle revenge indeed to send such implements
to the man whom you are stalking.”
“They were tributes to mark my forgiveness.”
“And also symbols of death.”
“You are both blunt and keen at the
same time. In China we have a saying
that a man cannot live under the same
sky as the murderer of a member of his
family. And Caya Wu was closer to me
than a wife. Peter Larkin killed her, even
though it was my hand that drove the
knife. He created the need for it. Caya
Wu was my slave but once she belonged
to me, thereafter it was I who belonged
to her. When Peter Larkin came, an evil
force, into my garden, he caused me to
lose face. In my own estimation I shrunk
to dwarf size. He had caused Caya Wu
to violate my confidence; so I killed her.
But she is still living. Wherever I go, she
is near. She invades my thoughts. She
causes all other women to be ugly in my
eyes. Sometimes in the hush of the night
she speaks to me and her voice is flower
soft. When I called at the office of Peter
Larkin he was almost in complete collapse.
He gazed at me, speechless, his eyes glazed.
I did not raise my voice. In a quiet tone
I told him that he would not live throughout
the year, that I was planning a torturous
death for him that would make men’s
flesh creep merely to read about it. To
emphasize my statements I left with him
an elegantly bound copy of ‘Torture Garden.’
Thereafter I met him frequently.
I was seldom far away. When he ate at
various restaurants, invariably I would be
at an adjoining table. Once at ‘The Lyceum
Theater’ on an opening night I sat
directly in front of him. On another occasion
he flew to Washington and I was a
passenger on the same plane. Always I
was courteous to him. I bowed formally,
and smiled, but he seldom acknowledged
my greeting. His mind was in tumult. He
could not sleep, and looked it. Once while
he was driving back from Philadelphia, his
car sideswiped a farm truck and he missed
death by a fraction. He attributed the accident
to me, even though I was in a car
fully a quarter mile behind him. Actually
I never once raised my hand against him.
I knew his own nerves would solve the
problem for me. I understand that he always
slept in a room with the lights turned
on, nor were they extinguished till morning
came. He must have imagined that I
was some fabulous monster who could assemble
out of the very air. It was pleasant
to watch his gradual disintegration. Nothing
is more stimulating than the sight of
an enemy gradually cracking up. Finally
the nerves of Peter Larkin snapped and he
committed suicide. He believed there was
no escape, that he was helpless against my
power. He believed I had numerous hidden
alliances, that my schemes spread out
like an octopus to cover the country. A
fantastic delusion. Can I be censured for
believing that his death was in the sweet
nature of a blessing?”
“So it was murder after all,” mused
Kerle Andrews.
“It was suicide. The police have
spoken,” said Chan Kien. “In only one
detail were they wrong. It was not a bullet
that killed Peter Larkin, rather it was a
woman’s kiss, the caressing soft pressure
of the lips of Caya Wu.”
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