The Power Bug, page 5
It was Nang Fat-soo.
Then they were together. Dingle chopped his hand down on Nang’s wrist, forcing him to drop the torch, which rolled on the floor. It didn’t break, and its dim light cast grotesque shadows as the two men fought.
The power of the Chinese agent surprised the Englishman. Those outsize hands were pressing into Dingle’s throat; he could feel his strength draining. Dingle lifted his knee sharply; the Chinese grunted, relaxed his hold and a hard right uppercut from the Englishman sent him sprawling backwards on to a bench.
Nang started to pick up a heavy spanner. Dingle hurled himself towards him, tripped over some unseen object and landed in a heap at the other’s feet.
He saw the spanner coming down, raised an arm to ward it off but only succeeded in deflecting it. As it connected with the side of his head a million starshells seemed to burst inside Dingle’s brain. He had an impression that the torch, still lying on the floor was spinning, faster and faster, like a Catherine-wheel. Then he lost consciousness.
*
Dingle knew that he was asleep; that he was having a nightmare. He was in bed, soaked in sweat, but he couldn’t wake up. If he didn’t wake up he would die. He opened his eyes; but it didn’t make any difference. He was still gripped in the nightmare. He couldn’t see anything; his head was throbbing and there was a terrible roaring noise; a wild animal was attacking him and he could feel its fur smothering his face. He tried to escape but he was slipping in his own sweat. The roaring noise grew louder… like an aeroplane. An aeroplane; he had to catch a plane…
Consciousness flooded back. It was. an aircraft he could hear. Dingle struggled to a sitting position, brushing long grass away from his face. He was soaking wet. He was in the ditch that separated the road from the air-strip.
The incredibly strong Nang Fat-soo must have carried him there and dumped him; probably the Chinese agent thought Dingle was dead and had decided to hide his body in the ditch.
“The bastard,” yelled the Englishman in an agony of despair.
Dawn was breaking now with startling suddenness, and he could see the aircraft. The engines were revved up to a pitch that threatened to burst Dingle’s throbbing head. Then the plane began to move, faster and faster, finally lifting itself from the ground.
Dingle crawled on to the road, managed to stand up, and walked unsteadily to his car.
Chapter Four
Back at the hotel, Dingle explained to the night porter that he’d had a slight accident. He went upstairs, and by the time he’d had a shower and put on his pyjamas and dressing gown, the porter arrived with a first aid kit.
Dingle allowed him to dress the wound on his head and collect his clothes for cleaning. He tipped the man and asked to be called at ten o’clock. As soon as the night porter had gone, Dingle climbed into bed; within seconds he fell into an exhausted sleep.
*
As soon as the knock sounded on the door, Dingle’s eyes opened; he was instantly alert. He glanced at his watch on the bedside table; noted it was five minutes past ten.
He sat up quickly; the pain knifed through his head, the room spun and then steadied. There was another knock, louder this time. As the pain began to recede into a dull, throbbing ache he called: “Come in.”
“Room service,” said Captain Gwa cheerfully as he opened the door, carrying the Englishman’s freshly-pressed suit. “I hear you’ve been in the wars. How do you feel?”
“News travels fast around here,” answered Dingle wryly. “I’m all right; although I don’t think a visit from the police first thing in the morning is a guaranteed cure for a sore head.”
“It’s not exactly first thing,” said Captain Gwa, adding softly, “and I keep telling you I’m not a policeman; my duties are concerned solely with counter-espionage.”
“Okay, okay,” said the other wearily, “so you’re a spy-catcher. And I keep telling you that I’m not a spy.”
The captain smiled. “We’ll call that round even. Now, you tell me what happened to you last night.”
“Oh, it was silly really,” replied Dingle. “I just went for a drive to pass the time away. Then I collected a puncture. I was having a hell of a struggle to change the wheel in the dark, and I dropped one of the nuts. It rolled across the road, and as I went to pick it up I tripped over a stone, fell and cracked my head on the road. I must have carried on rolling, because when I woke up some time later I was lying in a ditch.”
Captain Gwa clucked sympathetically. “And I suppose you haven’t had the puncture repaired yet?” he asked casually. Too casually.
“Of course not,” said the Englishman. “Haven’t had time yet.”
“Ah! Then perhaps you will allow one of my men to collect it and get it repaired for you.”
Dingle gaped at him. “Do the Rangoon police — sorry counter-espionage — department always give such a friendly service?”
“No… let’s just say I feel sorry for you and want to help you.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you,” said Dingle warmly. “But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. And speaking of service… ” Captain Gwa was still holding Dingle’s suit, which he now held out to him… “I said I would bring this up to you.”
“That’s very nice of you,” said the British agent. “Thank you. Could you put it over that chair?”
The captain did as he asked. “Well, I’m glad you’re not too badly damaged,” he said. “I’ll go now; you’ll be wanting to get dressed. Oh, I nearly forgot…” he fished in his pocket… “this came for you,” he handed Dingle a cablegram. “It arrived a couple of hours ago, but they didn’t like to wake you up.”
“Thanks,” said Dingle. He thought swiftly; guessed there could be nothing incriminating in it. These cables were always carefully worded — and the captain had probably already read it anyway. “My head’s still aching a bit. Would you read it for me?”
He handed it back.
The Burmese officer looked faintly surprised; then he ripped open the envelope. “It’s from Industrial International it says:
“MIX-UP THIS END STOP SPARES NEVER SENT STOP EXPEDITING STOP SHOULD ARRIVE FRIDAY STOP’.”
He looked up. “So that explains the mystery of the missing spares.”
Dingle stopped his elation from showing on his face. This was just what he needed. London must have had an inquiry about him from Captain Gwa, realised he was having trouble and sent the cable; the object was to gain him time — Friday was three days away — and to allay suspicion.
He spoke angrily: “That’s bloody typical. How the hell do they expect me to do my job if they don’t do theirs? If they lose the damn contract now, they can’t blame me.”
Captain Gwa laughed. “I’ll leave you to cool off. Is there anything you want sent up?”
“Oh, thanks. Could you ask them to send up a pot of black coffee and some toast?”
“Right.” Captain Gwa walked to the door, turned again and said: “I nearly forgot. Can I have the keys to your car? I’ll get that tyre mended.”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Dingle reached for the keys on the bedside table and tossed them over.
The captain caught them deftly. The too-casual note was back in his voice. “Is the car in the hotel garage?”
“Yes.”
“American model isn’t it…? A Chevrolet?”
“Yes… oh no, I forgot. I changed it yesterday. It was too big for me; I’ve hired a Volkswagen now. You’ll find it down there… a light blue one.”
“I see.” Captain Gwa opened the door.
“And thank you again,” called Dingle.
“My pleasure,” replied the other, closing the door behind him.
Alone again Dingle sat laughing silently. The extra trouble he’d taken had been worth it. He’d anticipated the captain’s interest in his injury, and on the way back to the hotel he had stopped to prise a rusty nail out of a fence. And he’d hammered the nail firmly into the spare wheel tyre.
He rose, shaved, took a cold shower and began to feel much better. The ache in his head was only slight; soon, he hoped it would be gone. Dingle was a very fit man.
When he returned to his room the coffee was already there. While he drank it and ate the toast he thought about the events of the night before. He cursed himself for being outwitted so easily by Nang Fat-soo; he should have guessed that the Chinese agent would be somewhere near. But at least with fatso on the job things might not be going so well for Lucas. A call on Ranjit might give him some indication.
By eleven-thirty Dingle was entering the offices of Sky Sea (Burma) Enterprises.
*
There was a small, dark and very pretty Burmese girl in the outer office; Miss Lee’s replacement.
“Good morning, sir,” she said politely.
“Good morning. Is Mr. Ranjit in?” asked Dingle.
“Yes, sir, but he’s engaged at the moment.”
“I’ll wait then.”
“I don’t know how long he’ll be. There are two pilots with him now; and I think he might be busy when they leave.” She apologised: “I don’t know how long these things take… I’m new here.”
“Oh, trouble of some sort?” inquired the Englishman.
“Yes, but I don’t think it’s serious. Mr. Ranjit had a message saying that one of his aeroplanes has… has… ” she searched for the word… “broken up.”
“Crashed?”
“Oh, no!”
“Broken down?”
“Down, that’s it, yes; broken down. But I don’t think, perhaps, I should be telling you.” The girl was getting confused.
“That’s all right,” said Dingle heartily. “Has old Keith Lucas got himself stuck in Bhamo, then?” He made Lucas sound like a close friend.
“You know him then?” She looked happier. “Yes it is Mr. Lucas’s aeroplane. Mr. Ranjit made me telephone to Mr. Kadar and Mr. Nadzir. I think he is going to send them to help Mr. Lucas in Bhamo…”
The inner door opened and Ranjit emerged, followed by the two Indian pilots.
Ranjit stopped: “I didn’t know you were here Mr. Dingle,” he said. He turned on the girl. “You should have told me…”
Dingle interrupted: “I told her not to disturb you if you were busy. I said I’d wait.”
The new secretary looked at him gratefully.
“I see,” acknowledged Ranjit. “I am rather busy; having a spot of trouble. But what can I do for you?”
“Just thought I’d let you know that my spares should be arriving on Friday.” He held out the cable he’d received from London. “Can you fix a flight to Pakokku then?”
Ranjit read the cable. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I think so. Perhaps you will find out what time they will be arriving, so that I can fix a flight schedule?”
“Well, I think it would be safer to fix the flight for Saturday. They’re certain to be here then, and you can go ahead and arrange the flight time to suit yourself.”
“That’s settled then. Thank you Mr. Dingle. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Ranjit held out his hand.
Dingle took it, but seemed in no hurry to leave. “Perhaps I might renew my acquaintance with Mr. Lucas. Will he be flying with me?” he asked.
“Possibly. It will be either he or Mr. Kadar here,” Ranjit inclined his head towards the Indian pilots who were still hovering uncertainly behind their chief.
“And how is Mr. Lucas?” the Englishman persisted. “I suppose he’s in Bhamo now?” He turned his head, so that only the girl could see his face, and winked. She looked relieved. At least the English visitor wasn’t going to get her into trouble for talking too much.
“Yes. As a matter of fact it’s proving to be an expensive Might. He’s got some mechanical trouble and his radio has broken down. I had a radio-telephone call from him at the Bhamo airstrip not long ago. Kadar and Nadzir…” again Ranjit nodded towards the two pilots… “are going to fly replacements up to him. And now I really must ask you to leave Mr. Dingle; I don’t want to appear rude, but there’s a lot to do…”
“Of course; I’m sorry if I’ve delayed you,” said the British agent. He walked to the street door, then wheeled around suddenly.
“I say, I’ve got a wonderful idea,” he said excitedly. “Why don’t you reduce your loss on this Bhamo trip by letting me go with Mr. Kadar as a fare-paying passenger?” He grinned. “Tourist rate, of course. I’ve got nothing to do until my stuff gets here on Friday, and it’ll be a grand chance for me to see North Burma. I mean, there’s nothing to stop me going this time, is there? Mr. Kadar won’t be carrying valuables; just a few spares for Lucas.”
Ranjit hesitated. “Mr. Kadar may have to stay to help Mr. Lucas with the repairs. It may be a big job, I don’t know. I couldn’t guarantee that you would be back here by Friday,” he said.
“Well, if the transport’s not here to get my gear to Pakokku, then there’s not much point in my being here is there?” said Dingle reasonably.
Ranjit was cornered: “There’s not much time. The plane will be taking off in an hour and a half.”
“I’m ready now.”
The Indian capitulated. “All right. If you’ll excuse me, I must give my pilots a few instructions…”
Dingle broke in: “Look, while you’re doing that I’ll run my car back to the hotel garage and…” he turned to the airmen… “will you be going past the Post Office?”
Kadar nodded: “Yes.”
“Right, then. I’ll park the car, nip round to the Post Office and send a cable to tell the firm I’m taking a short holiday, then I’ll wait for you on the pavement outside the Post Office. You can pick me up as you go by.”
Before the others could reply, Dingle was outside, walking towards the Volkswagen.
Ranjit gestured the two pilots back into his own office.
“Dingle could be a genuine businessman, or he could be a British agent; I’ve no proof either way yet,” he told them. “But if he is an agent, it might be just as well to take him with you. At least we’ll know where he is and you can keep an eye on him. Explain the situation to Lucas; he’ll think of a way to handle things up there.”
Kadar said: “If he is an agent and he shows his hand, we’ll manage him all right.”
“Yes, but if he is the businessman he claims to be, just think what an excellent and convincing witness he will make for us,” said Ranjit.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Nadzir. “It could help our plan a lot if he comes along.”
“Exactly,” Ranjit said quietly.
The two fliers gazed at him in open admiration.
*
As Dingle rode back to the hotel he noted that he again had U An for company. He hadn’t noticed him on the way out to Ranjit’s place, but now he had spotted him. U An had a different car today; but he had the same smile on his brown face.
The drive-in to the garage was on the main street, next door to the hotel’s entrance. Dingle turned in, went down the slight ramp and parked at the far end of the garage. He climbed out of the car and hurried through a service door at the back of the garage. He found himself in a narrow lane at the rear of the hotel, followed it to the end of the block and came out near the Post Office. No one was following him; Dingle guessed that U An would be waiting for him to walk out of the garage and into the hotel’s main entrance. He smiled to himself. Soon, when he failed to appear, U An would start to worry.
He went into the Post Office and sent a cable to Industrial International: OUT OF RANGOON FOR SHORT HOLIDAY — STOP DINGLE STOP.
That would let them know he was still on the trail; and it would help him to explain his absence to Captain Gwa when he returned.
Dingle stepped outside and waited on the pavement. Nobody appeared to be taking any interest in his movements. Two minutes later a car drew up alongside him, and Nadzir leaned back to open the rear door for him.
*
The plane shuddered and shook as the engines were warmed up. Then the whole aircraft seemed to strain forward, leaped ahead like a dog suddenly freed from a restraining leash, and bumped roughly over the cracked and crumbling concrete runway.
A pale-faced Dingle, wearing a flying suit that Kadar had found for him, was strapped into a bucket seat which had been installed in the fuselage for his benefit. His nerves were screaming in sympathy with the engines. He was always terrified during a take-off, even in the latest trans-Atlantic jetliners. He had once been aboard a Service aircraft that had crashed on take-off; had been the only survivor.
In an incredibly short time the shrieking, roaring jangle of sound gave way to an even drone; the jolting and rattling ceased; the ground that had been racing past his window suddenly slowed, then dropped away beneath him. They were airborne, climbing quickly, smoothly.
He could see the Indian pilots through the doorless opening in front of him. They were sitting silently, narrow shoulders slightly hunched, gazing straight ahead.
Dingle sensed the tension easing out of their shoulders. He breathed deeply, leaned back in the seat and allowed his muscles to relax.
Nadzir turned round to look at him. He shouted: “All right?”
Dingle grinned weakly and nodded.
The co-pilot smiled back. “We don’t have much room down there; have to unstick pretty damn quick.”
“So I noticed.” The Englishman pointed to his seat belt, raised his eyebrows inquiringly and then pointed towards the pilots’ compartment.
Nadzir nodded. “If you like,” he called. “It’s quite safe now.” He turned to look ahead again.
Dingle released himself, stood up and walked forward. Kadar glanced at him, waved his hand to starboard and said: “There’s Rangoon for you, over there.”
Dutifully Dingle looked. He could see the sprawl of the city in the distance dominated by the great golden pile of the Shwe Dagon pagoda. It was impossible to miss it, with the sun glinting off it. Standing on a hill, the 368ft. high building is loftier and bulkier than London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. And from base to summit it is covered with pure gold. Dingle had seen it from the air before, but it was a sight that never failed to impress him.
