Murder in Peking

By Vincent Starrett

A house party in 1930s Peking is crashed by a killer in this cozy mystery by the author of The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes.

Wealthy businesswoman Kate Webber has rented out an ancient Buddhist temple in the lonely hills west of the city for what looks to be an exciting party. A worldly woman like Kate has all sorts of friends. Among her guests are a museum curator, a painter, a local teacher, an old school friend from Kansas, a debonaire mystery novelist, a travel writer, and even a Hollywood film director. The evening begins easily with smiles, cocktails, and colorful conversations. But the frivolity vanishes instantly with one piercing scream . . .

When the body of a guest is discovered in one of the bedrooms, infamous amateur detective Hope Johnson is on the scene to investigate. With his eye for detail, Johnson aims to uncover which of the other partygoers is a killer. And he better hurry before the night takes an even deadlier turn for the worse . . .

Murder in Peking was originally published in 1937 as The Laughing Buddha.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Feb 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504065962

Vincent Starrett

Vincent Starrett (1886–1974) was a Chicago journalist who become one of the world’s foremost experts on Sherlock Holmes. A books columnist for the Chicago Tribune, he also wrote biographies of authors such as Robert Louis Stevenson and Ambrose Bierce. A founding member of the Baker Street Irregulars, Starrett is best known for writing The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1933), an imaginative biography of the famous sleuth.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Half way up the steep ascent Pilgrim halted his bearers to step down upon the hard soil of China. A red afterglow of sunset, incredibly theatrical, still lighted the western sky, and the purple hills were a dark fresco along the borders of evening; their jagged peaks, he thought, were like monstrous cutouts measured against a backdrop of fire and blood, upon a stage set for colossal drama.

Behind and below, across the darkening plain, Peking seethed and sweltered in the humid heat of summer; but up here among the pines the air was fresh and keen. He drew it deeply into his lungs and suddenly was grateful to the determined woman who had invited him to spend a week-end in her rented temple. With luck it might be a profitable experience. Whilst others clattered round on donkeys or gazed in awe at crumbling gods and dragons, he would recline upon a bank of earth and meditate on Chapter Nine. It was a chapter that promised to be troublesome.

He looked backward down the twisting trail by which he had ascended and saw it vanish into dusk; but from a lower level sounded the commotion of another gang of bearers toiling upward with their burden. Thurston was not far behind. At the edge of the gorge his own chair-coolies were perilously squatted on their haunches, waiting his order to advance. In the gathering gloom they seemed to Pilgrim animate gargoyles from a mediaeval cornice.

Then a second lantern, gleaming like a firefly, twinkled around a shoulder of the trail and moved slowly upward toward the shelf of rock on which he waited. The voice of Ellis Thurston called to him.

Is that you, Pilgrim? Lord, what a lovely spot this would be for a spill! These fellows of mine nearly had me over the cliff as we came around that last turn. The panting coolies set him down upon the shelf and flung themselves among their countrymen. Their passenger climbed stiffly from his litter and stretched his legs. For a moment, he added, "I thought it was another chapter in the ‘Oriental Encounters’ of Ellis Thurston. The last, by Jove!"

‘In which the Laughing Buddha is triumphant,’ smiled the novelist. You didn’t miss the sunset, I hope. Even for these parts it was something of a masterpiece.

Watched it all the way up, said Thurston, reassuringly. They get better every time I see them. This is the half-way station, I suppose. I always wonder how they do it in the darkness. Do they never have an accident?

I never heard of any. Sure-footed little devils! Pilgrim consulted his wrist-watch in the small glow of a lantern. There’ll be a moon shortly, I think; we may as well give them a rest. There’s no hurry, anyway. Kate will wait dinner for us until nine-thirty, then begin without us. We don’t want any more cocktails, do we?

He plucked a long pipe from his pocket and filled it from a pouch.

Or dinner either, agreed Thurston, the way I feel just now. I’m stuffed with anchovies. The social life of this place is worse than California. He sat down on a patch of crumbling earth and stone and groped for cigarettes. This rock is positively luxurious.

Penalty of fame, said Pilgrim; and perhaps absence. Your exits and entrances are dramatic events in an isolated community of expatriates. He sprawled beside his companion.

Thurston was not impressed. Big party, I suppose? he questioned. His match for a moment lighted the long, hard line of his jaw.

Big enough. I don’t think it will be a bore, if that’s what you mean. The food will be delicious and the temple is well worth looking at for the first time. Kate has made it over into something between a night club and a shooting-box; if you think the sunset was colorful, just wait until you see her living-room. She expresses herself in the primary colours—all of them.

She’s not eccentric, is she? She didn’t look it.

To the contrary, said the novelist, she is one of the few completely natural and admirable women I have met in Peking. She simply does as she pleases and doesn’t give a damn. If I have a quarrel with her, it is that she refuses to be critical. She suffers fools a bit too gladly for my taste; I’m not that charitable. This affair is likely to be distinguished, however. The celebrities will be fairly numerous: yourself; Tattershall; some Hollywood director, I believe, now pausing in our midst—

And Mr. Howard Pilgrim, the well-known man of letters?

"Author of ‘Dead Man Inside,’ ‘Recipe for Murder,’ and other classics of the home and screen," agreed the novelist.

His companion laughed. What is it now, Howard? he asked, with good-humored patronage. ‘Pandemonium in Peking’? Japanese spies and Chinese opium-eaters? Soviet agents and beautiful Eurasian girls with daggers in their sleeves? Look here—why not make a yarn of my adventures? They’ve been mysterious enough, God knows. Call it—"

"‘The Laughing Buddha’? It’s a good title. I made a note of it some days ago. If you could manage to get yourself murdered it would be a help."

I’ll think it over, said Thurston, with a grin.

The shadows deepened round them as they talked and night-birds whispered in the vegetation of the lower slopes. A lazy moon now silvered the scene with weary brightness. On the rim of the ravine the chair-coolies gossiped in stuttering undertones that crackled into laughter like exploding firecrackers.

Thurston sank his voice to a lower key. It might even come to that, he said reflectively; and after a moment: I was followed again tonight.

Pilgrim was startled. The deuce you were!

"I think so, anyway. It isn’t easy to be sure. It’s just a feeling—but one gets to know it."

But what the devil can they want?

I wish I knew. I might even be willing to give it to them.

Keeping track of your movements possibly—but no, the others were actually looking through your bags! You’re not carrying the ‘Green Eye of Goona’ in your pocket?

Never stole the eye of an idol in my life, said Thurston, smiling. That sort of thing is pure Edgar Wallace.

Where did you see this new fellow?

I didn’t see him, and I don’t know whether he was new or old. I simply knew he was there. It was after we left the Willcocks’ and again as we came away from the hotel. But there’s always a dozen Chinese standing around in doorways; it’s impossible to say which is which.

Pilgrim pulled thoughtfully at his pipe. It was suddenly lonesome there in the alien darkness, on a stony mountain ledge. His imagination was too alert. After a time he stole a glance at the reclining chair-boys, still prattling of loves and losses; then he tapped his ashes out against the rock and stood up with decision:

It’s hardly likely that we were followed to the hills, said Howard Pilgrim briskly; but—greatly as your demise would assist the cause of literature—my duty is clear. I must get you to Kate Webber’s. After that the responsibility is hers.

His companion stood up, laughing. "There was a car behind ours part of the way, he volunteered, with a twinkle. We lost it just before we reached the Jade Pagoda. However, this is no place for a murder, Howard; we can hear anyone approaching us a mile away. And you and I could hold this pass against a regiment."

I’d rather not, said Pilgrim. Hey, boy! he yelled at the expectant bearers. "We go topside right away. A wonderful language, Thurston—the Chinese. I picked it up in no time. Most of it is just ‘Hey, boy!’"

Their carriers toiled upward through the darkness into the region of the higher pines, with many groans and exclamations. The bobbing lanterns lighted the upward swing of heel and knee, troubling the shadows of the straining men. They crossed a bare ridge where the breeze blew sharply, and labored down a gully, then climbed a terrace sown with shards of rock that crunched and slithered underfoot and rattled down the mountain. Then, unexpectedly, the trail was broader and the chairs were level; they came to rest before a great, stone staircase hewn from solid rock. At the top waited a small white figure, with an electric torch, to lead them into the higher mysteries of the temple.

There had been no conversation for several minutes when Thurston spoke. Plenty of money, I suppose? he questioned suddenly.

"Who—Kate? She’s probably the most successful business woman in the Far East. Branches all over the world. Even sells furs in Florida, I believe! Odd you hadn’t met her before—but I think she was in America, selling, the last time you were here. The novelist was fumbling for his wallet as he spoke; the boys were waiting for their money. Why do you ask? he added. Not thinking of marrying again, I hope! After losing Anne, I should think—"

If I ever do, said Thurston, grinning, it will be for money.

Pilgrim looked at him with distaste. Anne Thurston had been a woman in a million. He could never forgive this man for his neglect of her.

The Chinese boy ran quickly down the steps and chattered at them like a monkey. When the address had ended he spoke proudly in the foreign tongue. Good morning, he observed, and Thurston laughed.

That isn’t irony, said Pilgrim; it’s Chang’s idea of our customary greeting. He’s been trying to tell us, I suppose, that we are still in time for dinner.

They climbed the long steps and entered the gatehouse of the rented temple. The Chinese boy was laughing; he sprayed his light into the darkness to reveal two hideous monsters on either side of the entrance—ferocious giants, with eyeballs big as fists, ready to dash down fiery darts on trespassers. But the Americans had seen too many temples; they snorted and passed through into the square beyond.

More steps beset them, mounting to a courtyard set with drum- and bell-towers, with flashing roofs of green and yellow tile; then steps again, interrupted by the dwelling of the Four Great Kings. These were gigantic idols hardly less terrible than the Guardians of the Gate. In the skipping light of the torch they seemed to pulse with a smouldering fury. Under the upraised foot of each, a little stone demon writhed.

Seated upon a dais in the middle of the passage, as if to block their way, a jovial Buddha smiled a secret smile. His enormous belly flowed forward and sat upon his lap; his eyes were merry with the promise of good living.

Instinctively, the two men stopped before him.

Well, there’s your friend, said Pilgrim, with a shrug. He doesn’t look so very terrible, does he?

‘Maitreya of the paunch,’ said Ellis Thurston—the ‘Laughing Buddha’! He looks quite innocent, I must confess. But, joking aside, the resemblance to my intruder is remarkable. He stared upward into the wide, flat face of the Buddhist messiah and posed a question: Why is a fat man always slightly gruesome?

Again the steps climbed upward, equalizing the slope of the hillside; they passed a gate and stood within a courtyard flagged with ancient stones. At the extremity of the rectangle was a long, low building, with a curving roof, from whose windows lights gleamed and voices sounded brightly. Outside the door two huge stone lions, cunningly marcelled, glared lifeless welcome. A trail of scarlet lanterns lighted the way to supper.

2.

In the astounding living-room, with its moongate fireplace and its rainbow drapes, young Mr. Johnson was listening to a story. The narrator also was enjoying it; he chuckled and wheezed at every pause for breath. He was a fattish gentleman of cosmopolitan appearance and puckish humour, who bore a superficial resemblance to the celebrated Mr. Alexander Woollcott.

Well, in the morning, concluded the storyteller, J. K. telephoned frantically to the desk. His trousers had been stolen during the night, he said, and what the devil were they going to do about it? Of course, the manager came galloping up and took a look himself; but—no trousers! Inside of an hour, every member of the staff had had a look for J. K.’s trousers, and J. K. lay in bed and cursed them for a pack of fools. In the end, of course, they had to send out and get him a new suit of clothes.

The company roared appreciatively and Mr. Osgood was much pleased with himself. The prankish ‘J. K.’—a former secretary of embassy, now dead—was his favorite subject of reminiscence.

"But what did happen to his trousers if they weren’t stolen?" asked Lora Pilgrim, always a dependable foil.

That’s the puzzle, my dear, retorted Selden Osgood. "How did J. K. win his bet?"

"Had them on all the time. Under his pyjamas, I suppose." Mrs. Windom’s sneering complacence made short work of the problem.

The small Pilgrim was troubled. But, Blanche—how could he? Didn’t anybody—? She blushed, but followed through: "Didn’t anybody look?"

Of course they looked, cried Osgood scornfully. That isn’t the answer at all. Do you give up?

"By Jove, do you know, I constantly have dreams of that sort, even now, contributed Tattershall, the explorer. He screwed his monocle more deeply into his eye and stared belligerently around the room. There I am, quite suddenly, in the midst of the Gobi desert perhaps, without my—"

Do you all give up?

Young Mr. Johnson coughed deprecatingly. His serious blue eyes were suddenly merry. The problem is quite simple, isn’t it? he said. I thought everybody would speak at once. He wasn’t wearing any trousers when he entered the hotel.

What!

The shout was one of amusement and protest; it emanated, crescendo, from the women. Oh, fie, Mr. Johnson! added a slender Chinese girl, coiled like a kitten in the depths of a huge chair. She waggled a finger at him and smiled be-wilderingly.

Kate Webber had heard the tale before. He’s right, she said. J. K. wasn’t wearing any trousers. How did you know?

Mr. Osgood said that his friend had slipped into a long overcoat; then he rather hastily abandoned the clue. When the point about the pants developed, it was obvious that the overcoat had concealed a certain nakedness. Young Mr. Johnson smiled whimsically at Lora Pilgrim.

You’re too smart, said Kate, and rose quickly from a scarlet couch to hasten to the door. Sounds of arrival were beginning to be heard outside. This will be your uncle and Dr. Thurston, I imagine, she called to Lora.

The two latecomers tramped into the picture, murmuring apologies. There were cries of greeting and of jovial insult. Kate Webber gestured breezily.

"You both know nearly everyone, don’t you? The stunning blonde lady in the corner is Allie Colchis; she’s from Copenhagen, which makes her a Dane. Dr. Thurston and Mr. Pilgrim, darling! Dr. Thurston curates in a museum and Mr. Pilgrim writes the grandest mystery stories. He’s going to give me one. Miss Li—Miss Lucas—Miss Pilgrim—Mrs. Windom—Mrs. Milam; and the men, of course—Oh! don’t you know Mr. Lilleso? Well, you know his name, at any rate. This is the Mr. Lilleso, from Hollywood. She was principally addressing Thurston. You remember Jerry Street, I suppose—although he’s been away almost as long as you have."

Thurston shook hands with the young artist, whom he vaguely remembered meeting two years before. Glad to see you again, Mr. Street, he murmured. I suppose you know that your work is very popular in America just now.

And about time, replied the painter grimly. They’ve been eating up so much fake stuff in the last ten years—

My name is Johnson, said young Mr. Johnson apologetically. It’s a name like Smith—nobody ever remembers it.

Nonsense! cried Kate Webber, unperturbed. I was saving you until the last. Last but not least, Mr. Hope Johnson—a young man from America. Is everybody starving? She hurried away in search of her factotum.

I think I may have met you in the States, said Thurston. Your name and your face are very familiar to me.

Which was quite true, he reflected as he turned away to speak with Tattershall; but somehow the circumstances of the meeting were not clear. Where the dickens had he met Hope Johnson in America? Or had he seen his name and picture in the papers? He was an attractive-looking rascal, whoever he was, reflected the curator.

The loveliness from Copenhagen claimed him before he could reach the explorer’s side. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, she told him.

That’s very flattering, said Thurston.

She smiled engagingly. I’ve read your books and like them very much.

I was afraid it was too good to be true, said Thurston, laughing. "You are confusing me with Mr. Pilgrim. He’s the fellow who—"

"No, really—I’ve read them both: ‘Symbolism in the Art Motives of China’ and ‘Chinese Pottery and Porcelain: an Introduction’."

My dear young woman, you appall me!

But in a number of instances I think you are quite wrong, said Allie Colchis.

The deuce you do!

For instance, contrary to your expressed opinion, I think we have evidence that the decoration of porcelain with underglaze red, in China, had already reached a high state of development as early as the Sung Dynasty.

Good Lord! said Thurston reverently. "And may I ask, my dear, who you are?"

She laughed. "Do I have to be somebody? There is an oriental museum in Copenhagen, and I was once an assistant there—a very little one, of course."

It’s still incredible, said Thurston. You must be a very remarkable young woman. But about this underglaze red, you know, I think you are—Hang it! They’re calling us to dinner. You’re hungry, I suppose?

Well, I am—rather.

We must talk of this again.

I’d love to, said Allie Colchis.

The dinner was particularly gay, largely because of the conversation of the man from Hollywood. He had emerged from an early fit of self-consciousness and answered all questions fired at him. There are always twenty questions that everybody wants to ask about the pictures. Blanche Windom wanted all the scandal and contributed some of it herself, which Lilleso amusingly refuted. It was positively not the truth, he said, that Kitty Clive could not play without a shot of ‘coke’; she simply preferred to be a little drunk before the camera.

The questions hurtled at him thick and fast.

Oh, yes, smiled