The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels (Mammoth Books) Page 26

  “Whereabouts in Chinatown?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just in that general direction.”

  “And drive fast?”

  “Take ’em on two wheels!”

  “Get in!” snapped the driver.

  He slammed the door. The cab started with a jerk. The tires screamed on the first corner, but all four wheels remained on the pavement. The cabbie did better at the second corner. Then he nearly tipped over as he cut into a dark side street.

  Major Brane gave no sign of nervousness. He was watching the road behind him, and his eyes were cold and hard, frosty in their unwinking stare.

  They were midway in the block when a car swung into the cross street. It was a low roadster, powerful, capable of great speed, and it swept down on the taxicab as a hawk swoops upon a sparrow. The head lights were dark, and the car flashed through the night like some sinister beast of prey.

  The cab had just turned into the second intersection when the roadster drew alongside. There sounded a swift explosion that might have been a backfire. The taxicab swerved as a rear tire went out. Then it settled to the rim and thunkety-thunk-thunk-thunk, marked the revolutions as the cab skidded to the pavement and stopped.

  The cab driver turned a white face to Major Brane, started to say something, then thrust his hands up as high as he could get them, the fingertips jammed into the top of the roof. For he was gazing directly into the business end of a large caliber automatic, held in the hands of one of the figures that had leapt from the roadster. The other figure was holding a submachine gun pointed directly at Major Brane’s stomach.

  Both of the men were masked.

  “Seem to have tire trouble,” said one of the men. He spoke in the peculiar accents of a foreigner whose language is more staccato than musical.

  Major Brane kept his hands in sight, but he did not elevate them. “Yes,” he said.

  The man with the submachine gun grinned. His flashing teeth were plainly visible below the protection of the mask.

  He spoke English with the easy familiarity of one who has spoken no other language since birth. “Better come ride with us,” he said. “You seemed to be in a hurry, and it’ll take time to repair that tire.”

  “I’d prefer to wait,” said Major Brane, and smiled.

  “I’d prefer to have you ride,” said the man with the submachine gun, politely, and the muzzle wavered suggestively in a little arc that took in Major Brane’s torso. “You might find it healthier to ride.”

  “Thanks,” said Major Brane. “I’ll ride, then.”

  The man in the roadster snapped a command. “Open the car door for him,” he said.

  The one who held the automatic stretched back his left hand, worked the catch of the door.

  “OK,” said the man in the roadster.

  Major Brane stumbled. As he stumbled, he threw forth his hand to catch his balance, and the other hand slipped the folded check from his pocket. He lowered his head, thrust the check in his mouth.

  The man with the automatic jumped toward him. The man with the submachine gun laughed sarcastically.

  “No you don’t,” he said. “Get it!”

  The last two words were cracked at the man who had held the automatic. That man leapt forward. Stubby fingers, that were evidently well acquainted with the human anatomy, pressed against nerve centers in Major Brane’s neck. Brane writhed with pain, and opened his jaw. The folded bit of tinted paper dropped to the pavement. The man swooped down upon it, picked it up with eager hands.

  A police whistle trilled through the night.

  “In!” crisped the man with the submachine gun.

  Major Brane felt arms about him, felt his automatic whisked from its holster. Then he was boosted into the roadster. The gears clashed. The car lurched into speed.

  Behind him, Major Brane could hear the taxicab driver yelling for the police, so loudly as to send echoes from the sides of the somber buildings that lined the dark street.

  The roadster’s lights clicked on. The man who had held the submachine gun was driving. The other man was crowded close beside Major Brane’s neck, the other jabbing the end of the automatic into Major Brane’s ribs.

  The man at the wheel knew the city, and he knew his car. The machine kept almost entirely to dark side streets and went swiftly. Within five minutes, it had turned to an alley on a steep hill, slid slowly downward, wheels rubbing against brake bands.

  A garage door silently opened. The roadster went into the garage. The door closed. The roadster lights were switched off. A door opened from the side of the garage.

  “Well?” said a voice.

  “We got it. He found it. We grabbed him. He tried to swallow it, but we got it.”

  “Where was it?” asked the voice from the darkness.

  “In a jar of cold cream in her apartment.”

  The voice made no answer. For several seconds the weight of the dark silence oppressed them. Then the voice gave a crisp command.

  “Bring him in.”

  The man who had driven the car took Major Brane’s arm above the elbow. The other man, an arm still around Major Brane’s neck, jabbed the gun firmly against his ribs.

  “OK, guy. No funny stuff,” said the one who had held the machine gun.

  Major Brane groped with his feet, found the floor. The guards were on either side of him, pushing him forward. A door opened, disclosing a glow of diffused light. A flight of stairs led upward.

  “Up and at ’em!” said the man on Major Brane’s left.

  They climbed up the stairs, maintaining their awkward formation of three abreast. There was a landing at the top, then a hallway. Major Brane was taken down the hallway, into a room that was furnished with exquisite care, a room in which massive furniture dwarfed the high ceilings, the wide windows. Those windows were covered with heavy drapes that had been tightly drawn.

  Major Brane was pushed into a chair.

  “Park yourself, guy.”

  Major Brane sank into the cushions. His hands were on the arms of the chair. The room was deserted, save for his two guards. The man whose voice had given the orders to the pair was nowhere in evidence.

  “May I smoke?” asked Major Brane.

  The masked guard grinned. “Brother,” he said, “if there’s any smoking to be done, I’ll do it. You just sit pretty like you were having your picture taken, and don’t make no sudden moves. I’ve got your gat; but they say you’re full of tricks, and if I was to see any sudden moves, I’d have to cut you open to see whether you was stuffed with sawdust or tricks. You’ve got my curiosity aroused.”

  Major Brane said nothing.

  The man who had taken the check walked purposefully toward one of the draped exits, pushed aside the rich hangings and disappeared.

  Major Brane eyed the masked figure who remained to guard him. The man grinned.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “You wouldn’t know me, even if it wasn’t for the mask.”

  Major Brane lowered his voice, cautiously. “Are you in this thing for money?” he asked.

  The man grinned. “No, no, brother. You got me wrong. I’m in it for my health!” And he laughed gleefully.

  Major Brane was earnest. “They’ve got the check. That’s all they’re concerned with. There’d be some money in it for you if you let me go.”

  The eyes glittered through the mask in scornful appraisal.

  “Think I’m a fool?”

  Major Brane leaned forward, very slightly. “They won’t hurt me,” he said, “and the check’s gone already. But there are some other important papers that I don’t want them to find. They simply can’t find them – mustn’t. Those papers are worth a great deal to certain parties, and it would be most unfortunate if they should fall into the hands of these men who were interested in the check. If you would only accept those papers and deliver them to the proper parties, you could get enough money to make you independent for years to come.”

  The eyes back of the mask were no longer scor
nful. “Where are those papers?” asked the man.

  “You promise you’ll deliver them?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “In my cigarette case,” said Major Brane. “Get them – quick!”

  And he half raised his hands.

  The masked figure came to him in two swift strides.

  “No you don’t! Keep your hands down. I’ll get the cigarette case – In your inside pocket, eh? All right, guy; try anything and you’ll get bumped!” He held a heavy gun in his left hand, thrust an exploring right hand into Major Brane’s inside coat pocket. He extracted the cigarette case, grinned at Major Brane, stepped back.

  “I said I’d deliver ’em. That was a promise. The only thing I didn’t promise was who I’d deliver ’em to. I’ll have to look at ’em first. I might be interested myself.” And he gloatingly held the cigarette case up, pressed the catch.

  That cigarette case had been designed by Major Brane against just such an emergency. The man pressed the catch. The halves flew open, and a spring mechanism shot a stream of ammonia full into the man’s eyes.

  Major Brane was out of the chair with a flashing spurt of motion which was deadly and swift. His right hand crossed over in the sort of blow which is only given by the trained boxer. It was a perfectly timed blow, the powerful muscles of the body swinging into play as the fist pivoted over and around.

  The man with the mask caught the blow on the button of the jaw. Major Brane listened for an instant, but no one seemed to have heard the man’s fall. He walked swiftly to the doorway which led into the hall, then down the hall and down the steps to the garage. He opened the garage door, got in the roadster, turned on the ignition, stepped on the starter. The motor throbbed into life.

  A light flashed on in the garage. A grotesque figure stumbled out through the door, silhouetted as a black blotch against the light of the garage. The man was waving his arms, shouting.

  Major Brane spun the wheel, sent the car skidding around the corner. Behind him, there sounded a single shot; and the bullet whined from the pavement. There were no more shots.

  Major Brane stepped on the gas.

  He drove three blocks toward the south, headed toward Market Street. He saw a garage that was open, slowed the car, swung the wheel, rolled into the garage.

  “Storage,” he said.

  “Day, week, or month?” asked the man in overalls and faded coat who slouched forward.

  “Just for an hour or two; maybe all night.”

  The attendant grinned. “Four bits,” he said.

  Major Brane nodded, handed him half a dollar, received an oblong of pasteboard with a number. He turned, walked out of the garage, paused at the curb and tore the oblong of numbered pasteboard into small bits. Then he started walking, directing his steps over the same route he had traveled in the roadster.

  He heard the snarl of a racing motor, the peculiar screaming noise made by protesting tires when a corner is rounded too fast, and he stepped back into a doorway. A touring car shot past. There were three men in it; three grim figures who sat very erect and whose hands were concealed.

  When the car had passed, Major Brane stepped out and resumed his rapid walk, back toward the house from which he had escaped.

  He walked up the hill. The garage was dark now, but the door was still open.

  Major Brane walked cautiously, but kept up his speed. He slipped into the dark garage, waited, advanced, tried the door which opened to the flight of stairs. The door was locked now, from the inside. Major Brane stopped, applied an eye to the keyhole. The key, he saw, was in the lock.

  He took out his skeleton keys, also a long, slender-bladed penknife. With the point of the knife blade he worked the end of the key around, up and down, up and down. Gradually, as he freed the key, the heavier end, containing the flange, had a tendency to drop down. Major Brane manipulated the key until this tendency had ample opportunity to assert itself. Then he pushed with the point of the knife. The key slid out of the lock, thudded to the floor on the other side of the door.

  Major Brane inserted a skeleton key, pressed up and around on the key, felt the bolt snap back, and opened the door. The little entranceway with the flight of stairs was before him. Major Brane walked cautiously up those stairs. His eyes were slitted, his body poised for swift action.

  He gained the hallway at the top of the stairs, started down it cautiously. He could hear voices from a room at one end of the corridor, voices that were raised in excited conversation. Major Brane avoided that room but slipped into the room which adjoined it. That room was dark; and Major Brane, closing the door behind him, listened for a moment while he stood perfectly still, his every faculty concentrated.

  He was standing so, when there sounded the click of a tight switch and the room was flooded with light.

  A rather tall man with a black beard, and eyes that seemed the shade of dulled silver, was standing by a light switch, holding a huge automatic in a hand that was a mass of bony knuckles, of long fingers and black hair.

  “Sit down, Major Brane,” said the man.

  Major Brane sighed, for the man was he whose name Major Brane had forged to the spurious check.

  The man chuckled. “Do you know, Major, I rather expected you back. Clever, aren’t you? But after one has dealt with you a few times he learns to anticipate your little schemes.”

  Major Brane said nothing. He stood rigidly motionless, taking great care not to move his hands. He knew this man, knew the ruthless cruelty of him, the shrewd resourcefulness of his mind, the deadly determination which actuated him.

  “Do sit down, Major.”

  Major Brane crossed to a chair and sat down.

  The man with the beard let the tips of his white teeth glitter below the gloss of dark hairs which swept his upper lip in smooth regularity. The tip of the pointed beard quivered as the chin muscles twitched. “Yes,” he said, “I expected you back.”

  Major Brane nodded. “I didn’t know you were here,” he observed. “Otherwise I would have been more cautious.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, Major. Incidentally, my associates here know me by the name of Brinkhoff. It would be most unfortunate if they should learn of my real identity, or of my connections.”

  “Unfortunate for you?” asked Major Brane meaningly.

  The teeth glittered again as the lips swept back in a mirthless and all but noiseless laugh.

  “Unfortunate for both of us, Major. Slightly unfortunate for me, but doubly – trebly – unfortunate for you.”

  Major Brane nodded. “Very well, Mr. Brinkhoff,” he said.

  The dulled silver eyes regarded him speculatively, morosely. “Rather clever of you to prepare a forgery which you could use as a red herring to drag across the trail,” he said. “That’s what comes of trusting subordinates. As soon as they told me how clumsy you were in your attempt to thrust the check into your mouth and swallow it, I knew they had been duped. – Fools! They were laughing over your clumsy attempt! Bah!”

  Major Brane inclined his head. “Thank you, Brinkhoff.”

  Ominous lights glinted back off the dulled silver of the eyes. “Well,” rasped the man, after a moment, “what did you do with it?”

  “The original?”

  “Naturally.”

  Major Brane took a deep breath. “I placed it where you could never find it, of course.”

  The teeth shone again as the man grinned. ‘No you didn’t, Major. You took advantage of your arrival here to conceal it some place in the room – perhaps in the cushion of the chair. When you escaped, you went in a hurry to draw pursuit. You returned to get the check.”

  Major Brane shook his head. “No. The check isn’t in the house. I placed it where it would be safe. I returned for the girl.”

  A frown divided the man’s forehead. “You hid it?”

  Major Brane chose his words carefully. “I feel certain that it is safe from discovery,” he said.

  The man with the beard rasped out an oath, starte
d toward Major Brane.

  “Damn you,” he gritted, “I believe you’re telling the truth! I told them you’d come back after the girl. That’s why I had them carrying on a loud conversation in the next room. I thought you’d try to slip in here and listen, particularly if the room was dark.”

  Major Brane inclined his head. “Well reasoned,” he said. His voice was as impersonally courteous as that of a tennis player who mutters a “well played” to his opponent.

  For a long three seconds the two men locked eyes.

  “There are ways,” said the bearded man, ending that long period of menacing silence, “of making even the stoutest heart weaken, of makmg even the most stubborn tongue talk.”

  Major Brane shrugged his shoulders. “Naturally,” he said, “I hope you are not so stupid as to think that I would overlook that fact, and not take steps to guard against it.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as seeing that the check was placed entirely out of my control before I returned.”

  “Thinking that would make you immune from – persuasion?” asked the bearded man mockingly.

  Major Brane nodded his head. “Thinking you would not waste time on torture when it could do you no good, and when your time is so short.”

  “Time so short, Major?”

  “Yes. I rather think there will be many things for you to do, now that that check is to be made public. There will be complete new arrangements to make, and your time is short. The Nanking government and the Canton government will be forced to settle their differences as soon as the knowledge of that check becomes public property.”

  The bearded man cursed, bitterly, harshly.

  Major Brane sat perfectly immobile.

  The bearded one raised his voice. “All right. Here he is. Come in.”

  The door of the room in which the loud conversation had taken place burst open. Four men came tumbling eagerly into the room. They were not masked. Major Brane knew none of them. They stared at him curiously.

  The bearded man glowered at them. “He claims he ditched the original check in a safe place,” he said. “He’s clever enough to have done something that’ll be hard to check up on. The check may be in the house. He may have left it in the room where he sat; or he may have picked it up when he came in the second time, and put it some place where we’d never think to look. He’s that clever.