The Pagan Madonna

Outside he called to a disconsolate 'ricksha boy, and a moment later

rattled across the bridge that spans the Soochow Creek. Even the Sikh

policeman had taken to cover. When he finally arrived home he was drenched

from his cap button to the wooden soles of his shoes. He unlocked the shop

door, entered, flung the pack on the floor, and turned on the electric

light. Twenty minutes later he was in dry clothes; hot rice, bean curd,

and tea were warming him; and he sat cross-legged in a little alcove

behind his till, smoking his metal pipe. Two or three puffs, then he would

empty the ash in a brass bowl. He repeated this action half a dozen times.

He was emptying the ash for the last time when the door opened violently

and a man lurched in, hatless and apparently drunk--a white man.

But instantly Ling Foo saw that the man was not drunk. Blood was streaming

down his face, which was gray with terror and agony. The man made a

desperate effort to save himself from falling, and dragged a pile of

embroidered jackets to the floor as he went down.

Ling Foo did not stir. It was not possible for him to move. The suddenness

of the spectacle had disconnected thought from action. He saw all this,

memorized it, even speculated upon it; but he could not move.

The door was still open. The rain slanted across the black oblong space.

He saw it strike the windows, pause, then trickle down. He could not see

what had become of the man; the counter intervened. A tingle ran through

Ling Foo's body, and he knew that his brain had gained control of his body

again. But before this brain could telegraph to his legs three men rushed

into the shop. A bubble of sound came into Ling Foo's throat--one of those

calls for help that fear smothers.

The three men disappeared instantly below the counter rim. Silence, except

for the voices of the rain and the wind. Ling Foo, tensely, even

painfully alive now, waited. He was afraid, and it was perfectly logical

fear. Perhaps they had not noticed him in the alcove. So he waited for

this fantastic drama to end.

The three men rose in unison. Ling Foo saw that they were carrying the

fourth between them. The man who carried the head and shoulders of the

victim--for Ling Foo was now certain that murder was abroad--limped oddly,

with a heave and a sluing twist. Ling Foo slid off his cushion and stepped

round the counter in time to see the night absorb the back of the man who

limped. He tried to recall the face of the man, but could not. His initial

terror had drawn for him three white patches where faces should have

been.