The White Jade Seal by H. Bedford Jones. One Garvin, mouthing his
chiroot in the smoking room, idly fingered the white jade seal that depended from
his watch chain. This seal was an odd thing. Garvin himself was odd.
Most singular of all, however, was the fact that the man sitting
on Garvin's left should have laid down his book at this precise instant, thus
catching sight of the jade seal. If you are at all intimately acquainted with
the line of mail boats running from India to Rangoon, you have heard some
queer tales. None of them surpasses the story of the White Jade Seal when
it comes to Queerness. However, Garvin was tall, dark bearded, and
silent, his eyes darkling with hidden fires. The man on his left was
small, spectacled, rather chubby, yet with a mouth that expressed unreasonable determination,
a regular trapmouth. In fact, Garvin's looks spoke of the far hills
in jungle, those of the other men of cities and clubs. The latter
was down on the passenger list, as John Manning, commercial traveler. Beastly
hot night, said Manning the instant after he had laid down his book.
Garvin gave him a swift glance, found him cherubic and smiling, and nodded
gravely. Very rank. Manning nodded and gave his order, for Garvin had
previously beckoned a boy. Presently, the drinks came, the glasses were touched
and sipped. Manning mopped his brow, which had suddenly become finally beated with
perspiration. Devilish country, he said, impulsively, glad, I don't have
to stay in it. You look as though you don't mind, though Garvin
smiled slightly, I don't. It's good country for men up in the hills,
the hills. Manning turned toward him with voluble interest. Did you hear
about that horrible affair up country Rangoon? Papers were full of it this last
week. I don't call that a good country. I call it beastly.
I read a little something about the details, but not very much. These
two chaps who murdered each other, I mean, or one of them murdered
the other. Which was it? Garvin mouthed his cigar, then took it
out and carefully inspected it. One gained the distinct impression that he was trying
not to look startled. You have it wrong, he said, slowly and
steadily. You misunderstood the reports. That is, if you refer to the
case of Smithson and Ormsby. That's the one, affirmed Manning eagerly. Those
two mining chaps, you know, who had been up in the Shen country
looking for gold or tin or something. They'd been gone a long while,
given up for dead by everyone until this story came out. Oh yes,
rubies, that was it. They were after rubies. I swear I had
an idea that one of them had murdered the other. Perhaps I read the
story amiss. Some chap brought down the yarn, found the bodies or something.
Who was he? I was the chap, said Garvin. Manning strained
around, staring at him blankly. You, Garvin nodded. Yes, you
see, I happened to run across Ormsby's boy in the hills dying. He
had been captured by the hill tribes and escaped. He told me the whole
thing. If you'd be interested in learning what really happened, Oh, yes,
yes, exclaimed Manning. His eyes fell for an instant on the white
jade seal. Yes, do tell me. Let's have the boy fill the
glasses again. Eh. Garvin nodded, and the boy came when he had
filled the orders, and gone again. Garvin composedly told his story. It's
not much of a yarn, though the newspapers played it up. He said.
When the boy was out of earshot, the two chaps got in trouble
with the hillman and had to run for it. Finally, the beggars surrounded
them on a hill. They held out for a week until their last cartridges
were used up, and then were rushed. After I heard about it,
I went there, found the place and buried their bones. So that's the
whole thing, Not as you had it, oh, said Manning, disappointedly.
So that's the way of it, exactly, said Garvin, and puffed
at his cigar. His fingers toyed with the white jade's seal, and Manning
leaned forward and looked at it. Frankly enough, that's a curious thing,
May I see it? Garvin started slightly, then laughed and held up the
seal. It was a trifle over an inch long, a long cube of
white jade with a gold ring sunk in one end. On the other end
was a cut Chinese inscription in tiny characters it's Melee, isn't it, asked
Manning innocently. Garvin laughed at that. Oh, no, Chinese. I
picked it up in the Singapore bazaar two years ago. It's a seal,
you know. The idiographs mean good luck or something of the sort. Odd
thing, said Manning. Then picked up the book and rose, well,
I'll say good night, and thanks very much for the story. Queer,
how I got it so jumbled? Night, said Garvin. Manning left the
smoking room. He made his way to the upper deck, and there stood
for a moment at the rail. Then, deliberately he flung his book overboard
and watched the splash in the phosphorescent rush of water alongside. It was a
gesture as though he had finished with something forever. Drawing a deep breath,
he turned aft and went to the purser's cabin, at which he knocked.
The purser was splitting a bottle of beer with the first officer, and Manning
crowded into the little cabin and sank on the bunk. Greetings and long life,
old son, exclaimed the purser. Cheerfully mac reach him down another bottle,
and then go turn in like a good little boy, said Manning.
Solemnly. The first officer collared a bottle of beer and went to the door.
I wouldn't drink with two bad eggs like you, anyhow, he declared,
and then grinned as he departed. John Manning seemed to be rather well
known aboard here. Now, old son, spit it out, said the
purser, wiping his mustache. Here, I say, what's it all about?
Buck up? Buck up? This won't do. Manning was leaning back
in the bunk, looking whitish and rather ill. He smiled faintly, and
then his trap mouth set in two lines again, and he sat up.
After gulping down some beer, he accepted a cigarette and lighted it. You
know that Chap Garvin, tall bearded tan brought in that story from the Hills
that was in all the Rangoon papers last week, Aye, said the purser
cautiously. Well, you have a nasty job to do for me, will
you? For you, as the owner in chief of this Bally steamship line,
demanded the purser, Or for you yourself, damn the steamship line,
said Manning, for me myself, with the same old streamers that you're wearing
on your manly chest. Old son, I'll do murder for you, said
the purser. Not for you as owner, mind to hell with the owner's
off duty. But you and me and that brother of yours. Say,
say now, I'd cut off my right hand to have him here with us
over the beer. Do you mind that night when the three of us was
in a Gallipoli trench and we had a bottle of beer. Shut up and
listen to me, said Manning. You're drunk this minute two. Garvin had
enjoyed a rubber of bridge and was about ready to turn in for the night
when the purser came into the nearly emptied smoking room and flopped down into a
chair side Garvin. The purser was drunk, obviously, so the row of
campaign ribbons on his breast was always askew when he was drunk. He called
for a drink, blinked at Garvin, and then began to laugh, Old
son, funniest thing happened tonight, he said, funniest thing you ever heard.
Suppose I shouldn't talk about it, but who cares. You're all right,
Sparks told me about it. Poor kid. He'll have half the cowcutt
of police out to meet us. Excited he is. You and me are
pals. What here's how and many to come? Garvin nodded, and the
glasses tinkled. The purser thirstily emptied his glass at a gulp. What,
oh, yes, funniest thing ever here It is now feller on board here
who murdered some chap up country, understand, shot him in the backer somewhere,
robbed him, then grew a beard and came down to rangoon and came
aboard with the loot. Funniest thing ever here's how. Garvin gulped a little,
lifted his glass mechanically. The purser cursed his own empty glass noisily summoned
the boy and presently began to talk again. This fella name is ormsby understand,
had a thing he took off the man he murdered. Don't understand myself,
something particular. It was jade or something. And today or tonight sometime
he got talking with somebody and this other chap saw this thing and popped onto
the game. Right, Oh, police chap, this chap was understand,
damn complicated thing to talk about. Oh yes, I remember now. Murdered
man's name was Smithson. And now the wireless is signalant for the Calcutta Police.
Funny thing wireless when you stop to think about it. Now, I
remember one time back where was it? Oh? Yes, back in the
old BP line, you know it, out of the Australian ports. Garvin
raised to his feet, walked away suddenly, and was gone. The purser
stared vacantly after him, then rose and also left the smoking room, but
with a surprisingly steady step. When he had returned to his own cabin,
the purser found Manning still there, quietly smoking. Did it, old son?
Though, for the life of me, I can't see just what your
game is letting onto that rodder that you're a police chap. A knock sounded
at the door, and Spark stepped in. The young wireless officer, who
was new to the line, gave Manning one curious glance, and then shoved
back his cap and looked at the purser. See here, I just got
a message in from rang Doon for a chap named Smithson. No one by
that name aboard, the old hooker, thought. Purser waved his hand genially
toward Manning. Right here, y'are mister Smithson, God save the mark he
owns most of this ruddy steamship line, old son, and I've no respect
for him at all, devil a bit, but you'd better have plenty down
under his placid exterior. He has brains somewhere. Shut up, said Manning,
looking at Sparks. Where's the message here, sir, said Sparks.
Aught into belief, he handed over the message and left the cabin. Manning
spread out the slip on his knee, and at his invitation, the purser
crowded over to read the words. Smithson s s. Hulagu, little known
of Garvin here said, came overland from Yu Dan explorer Rangoon Times. I
sent the Times a request to look him up this evening, but sent a
personal call to the editor and only signed my first name, said Manning.
An explanation, well, loosen up, said the purser. What's your game
now? If what you think is so, why not call the police?
Why give him warning? What's the jade thing? Manning smiled slightly. You
are a venerable, bald headed and senile. Do you remember the Typing rebellion
in China? Heard of it? Why? My grandfather was in it,
A friend and adviser of the Typing Emperor When my grandfather came home, the
Taiping Emperor gave him a jade seal, a small private imperial seal for personal
letters. Nothing like it could possibly exist and duplicate. My brother Bob carried
it as a lucky token also in case he got up into China and needed
any help. Last letter I had from him before digging off with Ormsby,
he mentioned it. So this chap Garvin light about it. Nobody knows much
what Ormsby looked like, but this thing gave his game away. The purser
whistled at this bully, and you're wrangling him at the strength of it.
But look here, what do you expect to get out of it? Suppose
you and me go down there and arrest the blighter for the murder of your
brother. What, cool down and open another bottle of beer, said Manning,
and shut off that electric fan. Being a purser and at one time
a naval brigade officer, it's natural you should have no brains. We'll try
to instruct you. The purser shut off the buzzing electric fan, and so
sudden silence fell, broken only by the monotonous twang of the engines. In
this silence. The two men brank their beer, Manning complacent and alert,
the purser sadly, puzzled and wondering. Suddenly, something jarred into the night.
A muffled vibration lifted through the ship. With an exclamation, the purser
sprang to his feet. That's a shot somewhere below exactly, said Manning coolly.
Also, that's the end of the story, the end of the Jade Seal.