The Lamp of Vengeance, page 13
“I hear, Satan,” Chen shouted.
“It is of no use, this fighting. In the end I will win.”
“Hah! But what is it that you will win? Nothing. I made sure of that. The chiefs you so carefully guarded are no more. I will die too. I know that. But one life was enough for me. Do your worst, Satan devil.”
They saw a startling change come over the sardonic features of the man called Nemon and by Chen, Satan. Evil spread like pus over his face until it was diffused by a yellow glow. He thrust his cowl back until it hung about his shoulders. And from a scabbard hung about his waist he drew a long straight sword.
“I come,” he shouted. “To make sure you don’t live?”
“Then come and greet me properly, with my sword in your throat,” Chen shouted in reply.
As though Nemon’s words were a signal, the fight was resumed with even more terrible vigor than before. Again the small body of Tamerlane’s guards moved forward against the superior number of the enemy. But this time they moved slowly. And more slowly until they came to a halt. The dead and dying were piled in great heaps clogging the passage so that the men had to climb over the corpses and those still alive to fight the well and strong.
IT WAS Tarrant who noticed that the fight had raged past the room from which Nemon had stepped. A wild idea gripped him. Though it had been dark when they stepped into the room, he had seen the reflection of water. Calling to the others, he gripped Mona about the waist and lifted her to his shoulders.
“Chen!” he shouted, trying to make his voice heard above the din of clashing steel and the sound of men dying with screams on their lips. “Chen! In this room.”
It was a miracle that he was heard. And more so that Chen was able to withdraw his men so quickly. It proved to be just what was needed to revive their flagging hopes. They moved so fast that they were, able to close the great doors in the very noses of their enemies.
Of course they knew the relief was only temporary. But it would be long enough for the men to get a second wind and perhaps time enough to plan further strategy.
The huge room seemed to hold the silence of the tomb. Tarrant stepped to the wide window and flung it open. The sound of surf booming against the rocky headland came clearly to their ears. And they could see a rosy glow suffuse the cloud mass above. Dawn was poking its head above the mountains to the east. And with it would soon come the planes loaded with death and destruction. They did not have too much time.
“Chen,” Tarrant called from the window. “Just where is this boat?”
Chen loped to the window and stood beside Tarrant. His chest was bare; he had not escaped unscathed from the conflagration of the battle. Blood criss-crossed dark streamers over the wide, smooth skin. A sword tip had ripped across one cheek and the resulting wound gave him a rakish cast. But despite the wounds he seemed not to feel tired or beaten out.
He pointed to a spot just to the right of the window.
“There. In that cove which looks like a pocket cut into the skirt of the sea. There’s a boat with a motor lying at anchor. I had hoped we could reach it before we were discovered. Now . . .”
“We still can,” Tarrant said decisively. “Tell some of your men to strip those maps up. We can tie them together, make a rope out of it. It’s too far to drop from here; with the girl I’d be afraid to take a chance. But with the canvas it’d make the drop shorter.”
“I think you’re right,” Chen said. He had been looking from Tarrant to his men holding the door, and from then to the map. “Here!” he shouted. “Some of you rip that map into long strips and tie them securely.”
Oregon and Hu helped while several of the guards ripped strips from the wall map. It was the first time they were able to put themselves to some use. It did not take long. But time was running out again. There were a dozen men straining at the door, shoving hard against those trying to get in. It was an uneven battle and they knew it.
At last, after what seemed ages, Hu and his friend ran over with the makeshift ladder.
“We’ll act as block and tackle,” Chen said. His lips were a straight line across the lower edge of his face. He was beginning to show signs of strain.
“What about you?” Mona asked.
“Me? Satan will take care of me. He could have killed me long ago. Like he did your father and Bruce. But it’s a much more painful death to die by the sword. He would rather see my belly ripped open and see me trying to hold my guts from falling out. That’s why all this . . .” he pointed to his men still straining at the door. Suddenly it started to move inward. “Aah! The last page in my story,” he said and his mouth split in a wide grin.
IF IT had not been obvious before it was now. Chen loved a good fight. Nor was he through having his say. He picked Mona bodily from the floor, brought her to the window sill and said:
“Last act. You first, Miss. And Tarrant . . .”
“Yes?”
“Give my best to Gaylord. He was the best boss I ever had.”
Though death was approaching fast, Tarrant had to find this out:
“You mean you were one of the security patrol?”
“Not one. The one and the best one. I said before that though Satan brought me back from the dead I was not the, same. I knew from the beginning what he intended. So I joined the forces of good. But enough of talk. We don’t have too much time. Hu!”
“Present.”
“I see you’re a member of my tribe. They will understand you. A hundred miles straight east and you will find a settlement of tribesmen who will get you to the borders of China. Understand?”
Hu shook his head.
“Then off with you and luck . . .”
He turned from them and leaped to join his men who were already fighting again. And still he had time to tell four of them off to the task of acting as support for the improvised canvas ladder.
One by one, with Mona taking the lead, they grabbed hold of the canvas and slid down into the gathering light. Tarrant was the last. Only he saw what happened. Satan himself, at the head of his men, charged into the room, breaking past the barrier of Chen’s warriors through sheer numbers. It was he against the huge Mongol. There was a flash of brilliant sword play. And suddenly Chen staggered back, both hands clasped about his middle. Great gobs of blood seeped between his fingers. A mad grin was on his face. He fell backward to the floor and sat these looking up at Satan.
Tarrant heard, his last words just as he slid down:
“Win—you win—but not the last round. Go back to hell, you—devil . . .”
They were waiting impatiently for Tarrant at the boat. Hu sat at the motor and the instant Tarrant stepped aboard he flicked the switch. The boat shot out into the water with a roar which echoed and re-echoed among the cliffs which lined the shore. Their eyes turned back to the great rock that was called Basalt Mountain. Light flickered in the window they’d just quitted. They dimly saw shapes that were phantoms in the window. Then they were out of range and into the sea.
CHEN had made sure they had enough of water, and food. For he knew how wide the sea was and that they might have to spend a full day on it, fast as the motor boat was.
The glow deepened until the whole sky was alight. The cloud masses moved heavily like the water’s swell. The light came between the edges of the clouds. It was enough, to see quite “clearly by. Suddenly their ears heard a peculiar drone. The sound was unmistakable. Planes, large planes were approaching.
Hu bent over the motor and flicked the switch to full power. A savage light gleamed in his slant eyes. They had to make greater speed. A single bomb would do tremendous damage; a number of them might blow them clear out of the water. Hu listened to the sound of the motors. He gauged them to be at least at fifty thousand feet altitude. But where they were he couldn’t say.
One thing he knew, though. They weren’t too far off.
“Can’t you speed the thing up?” Tarrant asked.
“Fast as I can make it go. Wish I could get more speed. Those babies up there are coming too fast. And some of those apples they’re going to drop might land in the water,” Hu said.
“Yep. And if they do, we might as well call it quits,” Oregon said. “There’ll be a tidal wave that’ll wash us clear to New York.”
The drone was louder, clearer and there were many of the planes, they knew.
The first bomb fell just as the mountain dipped from view. Immediately after the first came the rest, four separate and distinct explosions. A gigantic and frightening mushroom of smoke and flame shot up to and past the clouds. For an appreciable instant the clouds glowed with strange colors, orange, blue, purple, red, all mixed together. The sounds came to them later. Their ears were deafened by the sounds and the boat rocked in the waves which came up as if from nowhere.
Nor were their troubles at an end even then.
The sky suddenly began to rain rocks. One struck the edge of the boat nearest Mona and tore a whole section of the wood clear off. How they escaped without injury was something they couldn’t understand. For the rocks continued to fall for several minutes. But all the time Hu was bent over the motor racing it to the highest, desperately trying to outrun the doom which was so hard on their heels.
When at last the waters stilled and the rain of rocks came to an end, it was an exhausted group of people who lay about. They were so fagged not a single one could do more than stir. It was Mona who put new life into their veins.
“Let’s not just lay around. It’s wonderful to have escaped from that terrible place. But let’s think about getting back. We know that there are men in power who must be gotten rid of. It’s going to be up to us to see to that.”
“But didn’t Chen say something about those things on the thrones dying and at the same time, holy whitefish bellies!” Tarrant finished in disgust. “I sound like a guy who’s troubled with double-talk tongue. What I mean is, now that the mountain and Satan . . .”
“Do you believe that about Satan?” Oregon asked.
“I don’t know,” Tarrant said.
Nor did the others. For it was beyond their power of thought to believe, or their power of faith.
The discussion ended on that point. For an instant later Hu saw land.
THE man at the wide desk which was as neat as a child on its way to Sunday School, smiled gently at the four standing in a group about him. Directly in front of him stood Gaylord. A broad grin lighted the security man’s face. He was more than proud. He was delighted that his men had proved themselves so well. He regretted the death of Lansin very much. But death was one of the risks his men took, and each of them regarded death as a sort of distant cousin with whom they had more than a nodding aquaintance.
“The nation,” the President said, “owes you four a debt of gratitude which it may never be able to pay. For your deeds will never go down in history. Too much was involved. Too much was at stake. And too much would be treated with disbelief. But you can all go on knowing that because of what you’ve done, a whole world has been saved from destruction. I am sorry, deeply grieved at the loss of your comrade Edmond Lansin. He died a hero’s death. And what is a greater pity was that though he did not die in vain, his death has meaning only to a few of us. But so it is for so many heroes. They die nor ask not why.
“Miss Lavy, may I give you my personal thanks . . .?”
One by one as he called their names, they stepped forward to shake the strong thin hand of the President of the United States. Gaylord was the last. Again they were in the now-familiar office of Gaylord’s. The handsome Gaylord found enough seats to go around. And after they were all seated, he said:
“So it ended at last. I hated to lose Lansin. He was the best man I ever had. But tell me. I’m still mystified by a great deal of what went on.”
“We will,” Tarrant said. “First, the people the Secretary of State mentioned when you brought me in to see him, what has been taking place in their countries?”
“That’s why I want to hear more of what happened,” Gaylord said. “You see, death struck them down. All of them. And all at one time. We got the reports. Every last man we had on the list died at exactly the same moment. But what is puzzling me, is what happened to them after their death. Only one report of what took place has come to me from England. The report says that the body of Charles Hemain fell into a heap of dust when they tried to put it into a coffin . . .”
The four sitting in the room looked at each other. Chen had spoken the truth. They believed now. But would Gaylord?
It was Tarrant who answered for all of them:
“What matter? They’re dead. And their work can now be circumvented. Let’s just call it quits.”
They walked the street, his arm about her waist. Suddenly he looked up and said:
“Well, I’ll be It all started here, remember?”
She looked up at the frowning granite face of the building and said:
“That’s right, Dale. You were in such a hurry. You almost ran out of my life.”
“Out of your life, honey? You mean into your life. You’re going to have to step mighty fast to get out of it, sweetheart.”
“Want to go back to the restaurant where it all started?” Tarrant asked.
“For food or excitement?”
“Neither. I wanted to do something while I was sitting across from you. I just thought maybe I could do it now . . .”
THEY seemed to be the only customers. There was one other, a man, seated at a small table not far from them. They ordered coffee. The waitress brought it to them. But before they could drink it there was an interruption.
“I beg your pardon,” a voice said.
It was the man who had been sitting at the small table. Tarrant recognized him instantly now that he was near. It was the detective who had followed them that day.
“Remember me?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t work for the agency any more so I thought I’d tell you why I was following you that day . . .”
“Well . . .” Tarrant hedged. He didn’t give a hang one way or another. He wished the other would go away.
“You thought it was because of the young lady. It wasn’t. I was following you because you owe the Mongam Company some money . . .”
“The car I bought,” Tarrant said with a blank look.
“That’s right. They wanted to see if you had an income.”
“Well, thanks,” Tarrant said.
She waited until the man was out of earshot.
“So,” she said, “you were a dead beat, eh?”
“N-no. I just owed some money to these people . . .”
“Look, darling,” Mona said, honey-sweet in her voice. “No husband of mine is going to be called a dead beat.”
“Hus-husband?” Tarrant bleated.
“Well, it didn’t look like you were ever going to ask me, so I decided one of us had to take the initiative . . .”
He did the only thing possible under the circumstances. And her lips answered the pressure of his with an ardor which more than equalled his.
THE END
Berkeley Livingston, The Lamp of Vengeance
