Speaker 1: 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.