Death in a Gray Mist
By Frank Owen
Heading by A. R. Tilburne
Seven men had gone to the Black
Inn to kill Chung Kuo. They chose
a night when fog hung low over the
land so that their actions might not be observed.
They were all strangers to each
other, and also to the man whom they had
come to kill. Each pictured him in an entirely
different manner.
One believed that Chung Kuo was a
monk in a gray robe; a second, that he was
tall and austere, no longer young, a graduate
of Han-lin College; a third, that he
was fat and blustery, a military man who
swaggered more than any mandarin of old;
a fourth, that he was a business man,
shrewd, penetrating, a good trader, cold, dangerous; a fifth, that he was a shopkeeper,
a seller of ivory and jade, who
liked to spend his evenings playing fan-tan
at the inn; but the sixth, merely believed
that he was a general, an important leader
in China’s fight to be free.
Unfortunately, Chung Kuo knew every
one of them and if he had any part in the
fictions that had been so deviously planted
in craven minds, he was shrewd enough to
divulge the matter to no one. However,
he had excellent lieutenants who had
proved good reporters. Chung Kuo considered
it droll that seven men had come
on so slight a mission, a mission that the
lowliest poisonous insect might so easily
accomplish. To him it seemed an abundant
waste of manpower. It did not speak
well for the ability of Colonel Nagai, a
Japanese officer, who wished to have
Chung Kuo obliterated.
The inn went by the euphonious name
of Five Elm Lodge because of the stately
trees that guarded it like sentinels. But
locally it was called the Black Inn, because
in Chinese parlance, a Black Inn is a den
of thieves. Certainly on the present occasion
it was living up to its reputation.
They had come to Hangchow by circuitous
routes even though they had been
granted safe passage by Japanese officials.
But not even a renegade trusts a Jap; he
will fatten on his money, but steer clear of
his treachery. The seven preferred to work
carefully and in their own manner. At
the inn they were shown to a large room
with seven beds, to use the term rather
carelessly, for the sleeping accommodations
consisted of only thin mattresses spread
upon the cold hard floor. But the air was
good for there were plenty of windows
with oiled paper panes that were thrown
open upon a slumbering garden.
In the dead vast middle of the night,
long after the others had retired to rest,
San Tak decided that he would stroll in
the garden. He was irritable and upset. He
had hoped that he might slay Chung Kuo
and be away before morning rice, but now
it appeared as if his quarry had gone from
the inn and he would have to await his return.
Time means nothing to the Chinese
as a general thing but it meant everything
to San Tak who had set out to kill. Colonel
Nagai had promised him even a more
lucrative assignment if he was able to complete
this one with speed and efficiency.
Colonel Nagai believed in war by assassination.
An enemy shot in the back was a
good enemy. His entire code was built
upon treachery. The Japanese war lords
had praised his record many times. It was
the code of the gangster but also their
code. The colonel was a brilliant warrior
but he had a craven’s heart. He flinched
when facing an enemy, but when planning
nefarious schemes he was valiant. No
officer had a more arrogant manner.
San Tak met with no opposition as he
climbed through the window into the
garden. Perhaps all his companions were
sleeping. He hoped they were, for he was
annoyed by their proximity.
The fog still haunted the garden. The
air was damp and chill. Nevertheless he
walked somberly along, his thoughts blending
with the gloom of the night. Momentarily
he regretted that he had heeded the
honeyed words of Colonel Nagai. To be
tracking down an unknown foe was as futile
as wrestling with a wraith.
He strode along, unaware that there was
hidden danger in the fog. A dry well
yawned hungrily in front of him and he
plunged head-first to the bottom. The
bones of his neck snapped as if they were
as brittle as porcelain. Thereafter he was
not concerned with human affairs. In the
blackness, a figure climbed down into the
well and drew a good-luck piece from San
Tak’s sleeve.
San Tak returned not to the Inn. However seven men occupied the beds for the
remainder of the night.
Not long after dawn, they rose, dressed
and went to the tea-room to have morning
rice. Curiously, for the first time, they
studied one another. It was at that moment
that knowledge came to them that
they were all at the inn for the same purpose—to
kill Chung Kuo. But they did
not suspect that they had all been hired by
the same official, Colonel Nagai. Certainly
the colonel did not underestimate the resourcefulness
of his enemy. Chung Kuo
might easily have overcome and exterminated
one opponent. He might even be
able to trick two or three. But seven was
an impossible number for any man to face,
especially since every one of the seven was
an experienced killer, who had no compunction
whatever about shooting a man
from ambush.
The old man who brought them rice and
tea was benignant and smiling. He was
also very efficient.
Finally To-jun voiced the wishes of all,
when he said, “Where is your master,
Chung Kuo?”
“I have no master,” said the old man
gently. “I am free. The sky is mine and
my eyes roam at will among the stars.
‘When the bells and drums sound in harmony,
and the sounding-stones and flutes
blend their notes, abundant blessings are
sent down’.”
“How can you quote from ‘The Book
of Poetry’ when our land is overrun by
Japanese?”
“The crickets too have come and gone;
so endeth every blight. And now the sky
is filled, with abundant music, perhaps this
new plague that has come upon us will
have a difficult future.”
“Interesting, but still you have not answered
my question. Where is Chung
Kuo?”
“Chung Kuo is everywhere, like the
breeze that brushes your shoulder.”
“But when will he return to the inn?”
“In good time, perhaps today, perhaps
tomorrow. It does not seem long since I
have talked with him.”
“You are very loyal to Chung Kuo.”
“I am loyal to any traveler who pauses
for rest and tea.”
One of the other renegades, Fan Su lost
his temper. Never did he have much patience.
“Maybe a horse-whip might give
him better memory.”
“Very doubtful,” replied the old man,
“but of one thing be assured, if I am molested
you will be deprived of rice. We
do not feed our enemies for long. Would
I be presuming to point out that ‘Five Elm
Lodge’ is not called ‘The Black Inn’ without
reason. Threats are wearisome, they
sour the tea.”
Fan Su sprang to his feet. “I’ll not
stand for this!” he cried, but his arrogance
was short-lived, he tripped and fell
and blood flowed from his nose.”
“Quite frequently,” mused the old servant,
“the tyrant ends up by being ridiculous.”
To-jun who had started the conversation
was angered that Fan Su had taken the
initiative away from him. He decided that
at the first opportunity he would avenge
the slight. If Fan Su saw another sunrise
it would be a surprise to him. To-jun had
had a Japanese mother, and his father had
been worthless. In a land where every man
worked he had devoted his entire time to
samshu. Later he became a brigand though
with indifferent success. However his son
followed willingly in his footsteps, with
one difference, he lacked the least semblance
of culture. He would kill a man or
a pig with equal facility provided he was
paid for it. He had long, strong fingers
and a short temper. Patience was unknown
to him.
Meanwhile the old servant, with complete
indifference to their presence, procured a broom from a storeroom and started
sweeping. The Chinese believe there is
some magic efficacy attached to brooms and
demons have great fear of them.
“‘Old man,” cried Fan Su, “are we evil
spirits that you would sweep away?”
“You are more qualified to answer that
question than I.”
“Evil, perhaps,” chuckled Fan Su, after
a moment, deciding that it was better to
treat the matter as a bit of humor rather
than appearing a fool before his companions,
“but I assure you I am not a spirit.”
“So I decided when you fell on your
face. But now I must finish my sweeping
so that I may sit in the garden and rest.
Little vacancies from toil are sweet.”
Lin Kia who spoke little was formulating
a plan. Some time later as he strolled
through the garden he encountered the old
servant as though by accident.
“If you will tell me where I may find
Chung Kuo, I will reward you well,” he
said softly.
“How well?” asked the old man.
Lin Kia slipped a gold piece into his
hand. “This coin answers for me,” he
said.
The old servant examined the coin curiously.
So long was it before he spoke,
Lin Kia feared that his gift was to be rejected.
He felt easier when it vanished into
the ancient one’s sleeve.
“Chung Kuo likes to walk by moonlight
in a bamboo grove, and tonight the moon
will be a disc of white jade. The most appropriate
time to encounter him is during
the hour of the Rat. (From 11 P.M. to
1 A.M.)”
“I, too, like to wander among the tall
bamboo,” murmured Lin Kia.
For the renegades the rest of that day
passed lazily. They ate, sipped tea and
dozed, though with one eye open. A few
travelers stopped at the inn. However, not
nearly as many as in the days before the
Japanese blight. Now business was a mere
trickle; the great trading that had gone on
before had all but vanished. In the past,
caravans had stopped at the inn and there
was an enormous yard to accommodate the
horses. Brigands, too, came in little groups.
But they did most of their tradings on the
highway. For a trinket of gold, or a bit
of jade a man might go on living. The
five elms before the lodge were known
near and far. It was a place to be avoided
but it was, even so, never without patrons.
The evil words that were told about it were
a sort of advertising. No questions were
asked of the chance passerby who might
loiter for a moment before continuing his
journey. The tea was excellent.
Night came at last. The renegades retired,
all save Lin Kia who remained
sipping tea at a table. It was but natural
for a man to linger over his tea, for in clear
tea one finds the sages.
Some time before the hour of the Rat,
a slim figure moved about in the darkness
of the room until he came to the mattress
on which Fan Su was sleeping. A quick
swing of an arm in the darkness, and Fan
Su joined his ancestors. It would be morning
before they discovered the dagger of
To-jun imbedded neatly in the heart of
Fan Su.
Meanwhile, Lin Kia walked with light
step into the bamboo grove that grew a few
li from the inn. His felt-soled footsteps
made no sound. He was adept at stalking
his prey. In his sleeve was a gun that frequently
spoke but never got any answer.
His only fear was that he might encounter
a bamboo viper. He was inordinately afraid
of insects. Deeper into the grove he walked.
There was poetry in the night, with the
full-blossomed moon glowing in the sky
like a white chrysanthemum. It surprised
him how very light it was, then with a start
he realized that it was far too light. He
gazed in fear over his shoulder and beheld
roaring flames dogging his footsteps. The bamboo grove had caught fire. He had
been tricked. He vowed vengeance on the
old servant who had placed him in so perilous
a position. The flames were gaining
on him and he was forced to run. But the
bamboo shoots seemed intent on blocking
his path. It was all he could do to push
them aside. What might have happened
isn’t pleasant to think, had it not been for
a sudden ending of the scene. Far above
almost out of sight in the sky, a lone plane
was flying. The flaming grove was an easy
target. The bomb curved down gracefully.
As it struck, the grove was not on fire anymore
and Lin Kia had ceased running.
The rest of the night was peaceful, still.
Then morning came.
At Five Elm Lodge, the renegades awakened,
all but Fan Su whose glazed eyes
had not closed throughout the flight of
the moon. The others rose to their feet
and gazed at the cadaver. To-jun leaned
down and retrieved his knife. Not by the
flickering of an eyelid did he betray his astonishment
that this knife had caused the
destruction of a man on whom he had
vowed vengeance. Had the knife heard his
vow and proceeded to carry it out without
his motivation? To-jun was superstitious.
He believed that the air was filled with disembodied
spirits all evil. He looked up
to find himself peering into the barrel of
a revolver.
“I am Fan Lee,” said one of the renegades.
“Fan Su was my brother. No Chinese
lives and sleeps in the same house as
the murderer of his brother. That is the
root of our philosophy. You have caused
me to break the string that binds me to my
brother. So you must die, I am sorry, but
there is no other way out.”
The gun spoke twice. They buried both
bodies a short distance from the inn, without
benefit of coffin, or services of any kind.
There were no mourners. The six souls
of the dead men could proceed whithersoever
they wished. It was no concern
of the renegades who had a duty to perform.
They returned to the inn, the four of
them that remained alive. That day
they ate morning rice at the same table.
Some impending horror seemed to bind
them together by a spell.
“If this continues,” said P’ang Hao, “not
one of us will survive to complete the task
that brought us all to the inn. I have a
growing suspicion that we are all in the
same work.” As he spoke he placed a bit
of jade on the table before him. His three
companions produced similar jade fragments.
“Those jade amulets bind us all together,”
mused Hu Liang. “It makes
brothers of us all, the fact that we are
bound together as representatives of Colonel
Nagai.”
“Mention the name in hushed tones,”
advised P’ang Hao. “It appears that this
section of Hangchow is not healthy for
those who are in the employ of the Japanese.”
“Especially if they stop for a night or
two at ‘Five Elm Lodge’,” added Fan Lee.
“Woe unto the day that brought my brother
and I to this house. Now he has hung up
his hat and I will converse with him no
more.”
“Truly it seems that we are being decimated
because we are emissaries of Colonel
Nagai,” said Hu Liang slowly. “Might it
not be possible that the very earth is at war
with the Japanese, fighting the cause of
China? I had a friend who was rendered
useless by a tree that fell upon him. The
mist and the mountains are in league with
China because for untold centuries the Chinese
have lived close to the soil. For years
I have carried on my work and never did I
fail to complete a commission. Even bandits
shuddered at my approach and look at
me now, how pitifully has the mighty
fallen. My sleep is disturbed by dreams and in my dreams I am always fleeing
from an unknown terror. Yes, Colonel
Nagai has squandered our ability. He must
have known how fraught with danger was
this undertaking else he would not have
sent seven of us to blot out one enemy
named Chung Kuo. Alas, it was a fateful
undertaking. Three of our men are dead
and Chung Kuo still evades us. Is he the
wind that blows through the willows, is he
the cloud that effaces the moon, or the dew
that bathes the flowers at dawn?”
“At ‘Five Elm Lodge’,” said Tsan Yen
slowly, “we were told that we would discover
Chung Kuo, but alas our reward was
death in a gray mist. Death dwells in this
inn, he is the master of the hostelry. Perhaps
yon old servant is Chung Kuo. Perhaps
he serves us and all the time he is
laughing in his sleeve. Old man, are you
the mighty Chung Kuo?”
“Would that I were,” was the reply. “I
am but a servant whose greatest achievement
is the cooking of lentils. My work
is well done and I can enjoy the quiet of
the garden. But Chung Kuo is kind, he
never acts like a barbarian, or as though I
am beneath him. It would be a great honor
if I could be the mighty Chung Kuo who
so easily eludes seven assassins, but the gods
have ordained it otherwise. I am not a
mighty figure in New China but an old
servant who joys to doze in the sun and
dream of past splendors. Once I possessed
a canary who sang so beautifully that I
named him Tu Fu.
“A mighty mandarin wished to buy the
little singer, but I refused to sell, and
so although I was poor, I was richer than
the mandarin for I possessed Tu Fu whom
he aspired to possess. How pleasant is
life when even a servant might enjoy sweet
songs.”
“I still believe that you are Chung Kuo,”
muttered P’ang Hao.
“I resent being called an assassin,” said
Hu Liang angrily.
“Let us not quarrel with the old man
who serves us rice,” said Fan Lee.
“You are right,” agreed P’ang Hao
willingly. “It is Colonel Nagai who
has betrayed us. He must have known how
perilous was our mission or he would not
have sent seven to perform it. He cares
no more for our lives than if we were
enemies.”
“After all we are Chinese,” Hu Liang
said, “and the colonel considers all Chinese
are his enemies.”
“Well spoken,” agreed Fan Lee. “Perhaps
Chung Kuo does not exist. Perhaps
we were sent here on an errand that was
little more than a practical joke. Even
now I can see Colonel Nagai laughing. He
is laughing up our sleeves.”
“Your words are seasoned with wisdom,”
agreed Hu Liang. “Undoubtedly
our comrades have been done away with
by vicious Japs at the instigation of Nagai
himself. As we sit here now we are all in
grave danger. Any moment death may
strike us down.”
“If it must come, what matter,” mused
Fan Lee, “but it is not pleasant to think
of joining our ancestors with the laughter
of the colonel resounding in our ears.”
“Let us destroy Nagai to stop his laughter!”
burst out P’ang Hao angrily. “We
are wasting time here challenging an old
servant whose greatest achievement is
cooking lentils.”
“Or wielding a sharp knife,” said Fan
Lee, but no one paid the slightest attention
to his Observations, so intent were they
on their own schemes and plans. Each had
decided that he would kill Colonel Nagai
and later join the Chinese forces. The business
of being a renegade was becoming
slightly frayed at the edges. There was
no one to work for the Japanese, for to
trust a Jap was more foolhardy than to
sleep in a bed with a cobra.
Hu Liang voiced the thoughts of all when he said, “It is more expedient to save
our necks and live as patriots, than to continue
our pursuit of Chung Kuo and die
as traitors from a cause as unknown as
the back of the moon.”
Later that day, they left the inn and took
separate paths, but they were all but one of
one purpose. The one was Fan Lee who
took a circuitous route and returned to the
inn.
The old servant was waiting for him.
He had cooked turnips and roast young pig
for a celebration.
“Welcome home, General Chung Kuo,”
he said, bowing low.
“It is good to return quietly to rest,”
replied Fan Lee. “I haven’t been sleeping
well lately. But with Colonel Nagai neatly
disposed of without any effort on my part,
there will be less reason for unease. As
to Pang Hao, Tsan Yen? and Hu Liang,
they are unwittingly doing me a favor. Yet
my future would be at an end if they ever
discovered I was really Chung Kuo. Nevertheless,
I shall find a place for them,
swinging from a pear tree, suspended by a
red cord bound about their throats. They
always prided themselves that they walked
with catlike quietness, nor will they make
any sound on their last creep.”
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