TheMan
Who Would Not Die
By Frank Owen
The strange story of a sea-captain who was twice murdered, and the curious fate that befell his murderer
Twice Jan Breedon had committed murder and both times he had killed the same man. The affair bothered him. Breedon was not a born killer. True, he had a vicious temper, easily aroused; but as a rule he curbed his passions before they got him into difficulties that would be followed by prison sentences.
He had not meant to kill Lee Grandon, but the job was done and it was too late for apologies.
The trouble had started in a notorious gambling-resort in Macao, that accursed port that stands out like a festering feversore on the lips of China. The gamblinghouse had been kept by Zaneen, a crafty little man of Portuguese and Chinese extraction with a dash of French for good measure.
Zaneen was as evil as his house, but he was a born host. Fie knew how to make his guests feel at home. Cards, women, perfume and whisky were blended together to make a tasty broth. His house, The Singapore Hotel, was ill-lighted. All the figures that moved about in it seemed like ghosts. Over each gambling-table was suspended a dim-lit lantern. Back in the shadows slender girls crept about with dark lustrous eyes and alluring lips. Usually they appeared at the exact moment when a guest was proclaiming vociferously about his losses at cards. Thereafter his voice continued, but in a key far more moderate.
That night Jan Breedon had played a game in one of the private rooms upstairs. There were only three men seated at the table. One was Gustafson, a Swedish seaman who had more forehead and less intelligence than any other frequenter of The Singapore. The other player was Lee Grandon, captain of the tramp steamer, Banzai.
Lee Grandon had been slightly drunk. He was quarrelsome. Breedon, who was a past master at card-manipulation, made the fatal error of fumbling as he dealt. Immediately Lee Grandon had sprung to his feet, overturning the table and almost petrifying Gustafson, the moron, who slunk whimpering into a corner.
Without pausing for a moment, Lee's arm shot out and caught Jan Breedon flush on the jaw. He went down as though he had been hit by a sledge-hammer. The room swam dizzily about him but with almost superhuman effort he fought to save himself from losing consciousness. Like a being without reason, Lee Grandon stood over him. His eyes were blood-shot with fury. Cheating at cards was the worst sin in the decalog, according to his way of reasoning. Lee Grandon was not particularly worried
