Dark Vendetta, page 11
He crossed the short stretch of open deck between the shelter and the poop and hesitated near the poop cabin door. There was another hatch in the centre of that square of deck and he wondered whether Maclean might be down there. Then he suddenly heard Dressler’s voice from inside the cabin.
He pressed up against the bulkhead, his eyes were hard and his knuckles were glaring white where he gripped his improvised club. He found a tiny chink in the rough planking and peered into the gloom of the cabin. He saw Maxine held fast in Reutall’s sadistic hands; and Dressler standing over her with the tong hatchet.
Dressler was saying:
“Another tong killing will keep the inhabitants of these stinking sampans quiet, and the use of Tao Shen’s hatchet will help to confuse your murderous friends.”
Larren clenched his teeth as he wrestled with a sudden rush of indecision. His job was to find Maclean, not to worry about the fate of a woman who had once screamed for his blood; and whichever one he chose to save he would lose all opportunity of helping the other. He told himself savagely that Maxine Kia deserved nothing better than death, and deliberately he turned away. His job was to find Maclean, and there would never be a better time than now, while Dressler and Reutall busied themselves with Maxine.
Then Maxine uttered a single shriek of terror, and the sound brought a grim memory rushing back with startling clarity to his mind. He saw his wife, Andrea, the only woman he had ever loved, the woman he had worshipped with body, heart and soul; his beautiful Andrea who had died beneath a shattering burst of gunfire in a Paris back street as the result of direct orders from the spy ring of whom Dressler and Reutall were now the only surviving members. Andrea too had shrieked as she died, and Larren saw her fall again as Maxine’s cry speared through his brain.
Nothing could have stopped Larren then; not a thousand gallant men or a million sunken submarines. Vengeance and hatred flamed in twin bursts of fire from a white hot core deep inside him, and like a man possessed he crashed bodily into the cabin.
Dressler was in the very act of raising the hatchet and the scream was still in Maxine’s throat as she fought to twist away. Dressler let out an angry yell and then Larren whirled his crude club in a smashing blow that sent the thin man sprawling. His free hand closed on Maxine’s arm and he yanked her to her feet, tearing her from the startled Reutall’s grasp. Larren kicked out savagely with his foot, booting the black-gloved sadist squarely on the spot where his enemies had operated on him so long ago. Reutall screeched hideously and fell reeling back against the wall.
Larren swung his club back again, tensing for a blow that would have crushed the German’s skull into a grey and bloody pulp. Then Maxine screamed a warning and he turned to see Dressler wrenching an automatic from his pocket as he struggled up from the deck. Larren hurled his club as the man fired and both of them missed in their haste.
The bark of the gun and the sound of Maxine’s voice brought sanity back to Larren’s brain. Maxine was staring up at him and she was not his beloved Andrea. Dressler had slipped back to the floor but was already bringing his gun up for another shot.
As the burst of madness died Larren knew that Dressler would not miss a second time, and the man was too far away for him to leap on to the skinny frame. Savagely Larren sprang for the door, dragging Maxine with him as he burst out on to the deck. He was only just in time for the second shot from Dressler’s gun tore through the opening behind him and only just missed as he twisted away.
Maxine was running beside him, her wrist still clamped fast in his hand as they sprinted along the deck. Larren pulled her to a stop in the junk’s bows, directly opposite the nearest moored sampan.
“Jump!” he ordered harshly, and together they leaped over the junk’s side. They cleared the intervening stretch of dirty water and landed with a crash in the bottom of the sampan. The craft rocked wildly and Maxine yelped with pain as she cracked her shin and fell forwards. Larren heard the angry yelling of Dressler’s voice and looked back to see the man racing after them along the junk’s deck.
He turned back to Maxine and heaved her to her feet. She sobbed for breath and stumbled after him as he ducked low through the canvas shelter that was stretched over the centre of the sampan. They reached the stern of the craft and then jumped for the next one that was only a few feet away. An old Chinese woman screamed and her man yelled angrily as they pushed past them and blundered down the centre of the sampan, ducking again beneath the canvas shelter.
There was an uproar of further shouts and screams as Larren dragged the stumbling woman through half a dozen sampans in quick succession. Chickens squawked under their feet and children began to howl as they passed. One furious owner made a clumsy attempt to stop them but Larren sent the man flying into the harbour with a vicious swing of his fist. Then, as they jumped for yet another sampan, Larren slipped; he missed his footing and plunged into the stinking water, still dragging Maxine down with him.
He had to release Maxine as the water closed over his head and he clawed his way frantically to the surface. His head burst out into the sunlight again and he spat out a mouthful of filthy water as he swam back to the sampan. Maxine was already on the surface and pulling herself over the sampan’s low side and she turned to help him in. Her gorgeous dress of black and gold silk was sodden and clinging wetly to the high curve of her breasts, and the natural slit at the thigh had torn even higher to reveal the smooth white flesh above her stocking as she knelt to pull him into the boat.
Larren fell on to the deck of the sampan beside her, his chest heaving as he retched up more of the foul water he had swallowed. Now that the continued progress of his flight had been stopped the reaction that stemmed from his original hurts began to soak through him. His brain was reeling under the battery of pain waves that radiated from the back of his head and for the moment he could do nothing but sprawl helplessly and retch.
Maxine looked up into the face of the elderly Chinaman whose sampan they had invaded. The man was cowering back beneath the canvas hood in the middle of the boat, his eyes were wild and frightened and he was holding tightly to an equally terrified woman who was obviously his wife.
Maxine said quickly, “Do not be afraid. We will not hurt you. But you must find a boat to take us to the shore.” The old man merely cowered back deeper below the hood and she cried desperately, “I will pay you well — anything you ask.”
Slowly the old man raised his arm and pointed to the stern of the sampan.
“There is a boat,” he quavered. “Take it — but leave us in peace.”
Maxine glanced round fearfully. The people in the adjoining sampans were shouting and staring but were making no physical attempt to interfere. She could still see the high sail of the junk above the sampans, but there was no sign of any pursuit from Dressler. Larren still lay helpless before her, his last burst of strength completely spent.
Quickly Maxine got to her feet and scrambled through the hood shelter past the old man and his wife. She almost entangled herself in a curtain of hanging nets in her haste as she came out in the stern of the boat. Frantically she wriggled free and saw a small flat-bottomed boat moored to the sampan. She jumped swiftly aboard and untied the rope, then pulled herself hand over hand along the side of the sampan until she was opposite Larren.
Despite her entreaties the old man was too frightened to help her to get the Englishman into the boat, but Larren found another small reserve of strength to help himself and caused the smaller boat to rock dangerously as he literally fell aboard. Maxine threw a handful of Hong Kong dollars on to the deck of the sampan and said:
“We will leave the boat at the quay. You can send a friend to pick it up.”
The old man stared but made no answer and Maxine dug the steering pole that had laid in the boat deep into the water and began to pole away. Larren lay stretched out between her feet, gazing up at the tense lines of her body beneath her dripping dress. He decided that she could pole just as well as he would be able to and thankfully closed his eyes. His head was aching with concentrated fury and he felt more dead than alive.
Maxine steered a zig-zag course through the jungle of sampans, just in case Dressler was trying to follow them. The tiny boat lay low in the water due to Larren’s weight, but it moved swiftly enough as she thrust hard at the pole. She worked strenuously for ten minutes and then the harbour wall appeared out of the mass of water craft and she turned towards it.
“Wake up, Larren,” she said urgently as their boat bumped against the quayside. “Wake up, please.”
The desperation in her voice roused Larren out of his stupor of pain and weariness and with an effort he struggled halfway to his feet. She helped him with insistent hands and pushed him up onto the quay. Larren swayed unsteadily until she climbed up beside him and by then his brain was beginning to function again.
“Telephone,” he said grimly. “I must find a telephone.”
“This way.” She guided him past gaping coolies and fishermen mending their nets; past playing children who stopped their games to stare, and through a maze of coiled ropes and suspended nets that were hanging out to dry.
Larren trusted her blindly, his eyes half closed against the pain in his head. His only thought now was to find a telephone; to report to Alan Kendall and pray that the Naval man could lay on a raid to the junk fast enough to help Maclean.
Maxine led him into the foyer of the first building they came to — a cheap hotel — and Larren almost collapsed against the desk where a Chinese clerk was dozing sleepily. His hand was already on the desk telephone and he had half dialled his number before the man knew what was happening.
The clerk yelled angrily and Larren turned and snarled at him to keep quiet. The man backed up nervously and did not attempt to protest again.
Larren burned with impatience until he heard the polite voice of a secretary at Naval Headquarters. He snapped into the mouthpiece and moments later he heard the welcome sound of Alan Kendall anxiously asking what the hell was going on.
Larren told him as briefly as he could; pausing only once to ask Maxine the name of the junk and of the harbour.
Kendall said grimly, “I’ll have a swarm of police down there as fast as possible. Where are you speaking from now?”
Larren looked round at Maxine but she had been standing close enough to hear the question and was already demanding the information from the scowling clerk.
The man said, “This is Wing Soo’s hotel.”
Larren passed the fact on to Kendall who rapped back. “Stay there, Larren. I’m on my way.”
The phone clicked as Kendall rang off and Larren wearily replaced his receiver on its rest.
He said slowly, “If this is a hotel then you’ll have rooms. We’ll take one for the rest of the day.”
“No rooms,” said the clerk sourly.
Maxine slapped a fistful of notes on the desk.
“One room,” she said curtly. “A good one.” And it was the voice of a tong warlord’s daughter that spoke.
The clerk hesitated, but there was something in Maxine’s tone that was backed up by the glare in Larren’s eyes. He picked up the notes and slowly handed them a key.
“Room twenty-seven,” he muttered surlily. “First floor.”
Maxine took the key without another word and helped to support Larren as they crossed the foyer to the staircase that led to the upper rooms. Somewhat unsteadily they moved up the stairs to the landing. Maxine hesitated for a moment and then turned left along a musty corridor. Three doors down she found number twenty-seven and let herself in with the key.
The room was cheaply furnished with a washstand, a chest of drawers and a sagging double bed. Maxine kicked the door shut behind her and helped Larren to the bed. Larren fell back gratefully.
She looked down at him and said softly:
“Sleep, my brave friend, there is nothing you can do now until your comrades come to find you.” Her hand rested gently on his sweating forehead and she added: “You are safe enough with me.”
Larren was already unconscious; now that the danger was gone he had finally succumbed to the stealing blackness that had crept over his senses. Maxine sat on the bed beside him and carefully began to pick at the knotted ropes that still hung from his bleeding wrists.
The sound of Alan Kendall’s voice and the liquid fire of whisky burning his lips were the first sensations that came to Larren’s brain when he recovered. He choked and slowly opened his eyes.
Kendall was standing over him, supporting him with one arm and holding a glass to his lips. There were two other men in the room whom Larren did not know, and at first everything was strange and he wondered where he was. Then memory returned as he looked around the drab room with its paint-peeling walls, and he remembered Maxine Kia bringing him here after he had phoned Kendall.
He said weakly, “Maclean — did you find him?”
Kendall said slowly, “I’m sorry, Larren. I did my best but when we raided the junk it was empty. There wasn’t a soul aboard her.”
Larren was silent, bitterness and anger mingling within him as he realised that despite everything that had happened since he had first entered the Scarlet Dragon they were still back where they had started: Maclean was still missing.
Kendall went on, “You’ve had a tough time, Larren, but I had to drag you back to the world of the living. Is there anything you can tell me that will give us a lead to where Dressler might have gone now? Anything at all?”
Larren said, “Ask Maxine. She might know.”
Kendall said grimly, “If you mean the woman who brought you here that’s impossible. She disappeared completely before we arrived. The clerk below says he doesn’t know where she went.”
CHAPTER 12: INVITATION TO LOVE
The first grey chinks of dawn were beginning to crack through the fading blackness of night but it was still bitterly cold. Five men were toiling up the steep slope of a rugged range of hills towards a dense cluster of pines where they intended to rest and conceal themselves throughout the coming day. Each man was bent low, as much by the killing weight of his pack as by the need to remain hidden. They were breathing heavily and every muscle of their bodies ached with the steady, gnawing weariness that had grown upon them with every hour of the long, tiring night.
They reached the miniature forest and Paul Mason led them cautiously among the slim boles of the trees. There was vegetation here, low, coarse bracken that would be just tall enough to hide them provided they lay flat, and it was here that Mason stopped. He turned towards them and said quietly:
“This will have to do, it’s nearly daylight. Wait here for me while I find out how far these trees extend.”
The remaining four men nodded silently and gratefully lowered their packs from their bowed shoulders. Mason left his own pack behind and continued alone into the gloomy darkness between the pines. He knew he should be sending one of the two Chinese guides — it was their job to scout for the simple reason that they were the only two who could bluff their way out of any trouble they might encounter — but he knew that Fen Liu and Chao Lin were both much more tired than he was. They were good men, but neither of them had the stamina to stand any more marching tonight.
Mason himself was feeling the strain of four nights’ marching, but he knew that somebody had to scout around and make sure that there were no farmhouses or similar habitations nearby. He reached the far edge of the small forest where the grey streaks of dawn were penetrating more deeply through the branches and moved more cautiously.
Beyond the edge of the trees there was a gentle slope that rose to the crest of the ridge that they had been climbing. Mason stooped low as he climbed those last few yards and keenly surveyed the valley beyond. There was a dim vista of flat paddy-fields sweeping away in the faint morning light. A low mist lay along the centre of the valley and a few crude stone farmhouses rose above it like clumsy ships becalmed on a white sea. A dog barked somewhere below but both the sound and the buildings were too far off to cause any threat.
Mason backed away and retreated into the thick shadows below the trees. Dry twigs crackled under his feet as he searched for his companions and eventually he heard the soft Scottish burr of Hugh Logan’s voice guiding him home.
Logan was on his feet waiting for him; the two guides were sprawling exhausted on a carpet of wet moss and bracken; Randell, the second Sergeant, was carefully fixing up their radio. Mason looked at the luminous face of his watch and saw that it was time he made his daily call to the submarine Watchful that still lurked out at sea.
Logan said quietly, “We did well today, Captain. Another two nights at this pace should bring us to Disaster Point.”
Mason nodded and said, “I shall be damned glad to get there. Once we’ve done the job we can at least dump these blasted aqualung outfits. After this the return hike will be a picnic.”
They both relapsed into silence as Randell began calling the listening submarine. There was no sound now in the dark glade except the insistent sound of Randell’s low voice and the slight crackle of the radio.
Mason scowled as he listened. Randell was having trouble again and the radio was acting as though it was about to pack up. They had had difficulty in contacting Watchful the previous evening and now it looked as though the failure of the set was going to be their first setback.
Then at last Randell said, “I’ve contacted Watchful, sir. The signal’s weak but they’re coming through.”
Mason’s scowl faded and he thought that at least they were going to get through tonight, even if it was for the last time. He took Randell’s place before the small radio transmitter and quietly and briefly gave his report.
A few hours after Mason’s report had been sent by coded signal from Watchful to Hong Kong, Simon Larren was listening to a verbal version of it from Alan Kendall.
