Pagoda, page 13
The terrain of Burma was a darkening patchwork, catching the declining rays of the sun. Rice paddies were sheeted with molten gold, and the dark forest tracts were going indigo with shadow. Gall said he hoped the Haiphong radio was standing by all night. McCarl answered that it didn’t matter, they could make Hong Kong direct if they had to.
“No,” said a third voice, from behind them.
Gall spun around. Albert Yone, the Rangoon newspaperman, was standing in the companionway. He was clutching a Mauser pistol in his right hand and hugging his left arm close to his body, like a wounded animal. He was not dapper any more. His clothes were torn and his coat was bloody under the left armpit.
“No,” he repeated. “We will go into Bangkok, Captain.”
“Listen slopehead!” McCarl’s neck tightened as he shouted, and Yone fired a shot very close to his face. The anger drained out of McCarl; he subsided, a look of unbelieving disgust on his face.
“We will go into Bangkok and turn the plane over to General Pe Win,” Yone went on. His voice was tired and detached, as though he had reviewed all the possibilities and found this one best. “Change the course, Captain Gall.”
Gall banked the plane south, and the slight figure holding the snouted pistol steadied himself against the wall.
“I know your friend died today, Captain,” the editor said. “Many people died in Rangoon today. A squad of rebels came out to my house and killed my wife and my two children. They were shooting at me, but they killed my family.”
Gall didn’t answer. There wasn’t any answer. The plane flew on through the dusk with no sound but the air rush and the steady thunder of the props. Once or twice they passed through turbulence, and while the plane was bucketing, Gall noticed how Yone was being pitched around; but he did not turn and grab because their guard was watchful and hair-triggered. He kept the muzzle of the pistol well up.
When Gall called the Bangkok tower, the operator stalled him for a few minutes. Surprised, he thought. I’m surprised, too. Finally they gave him landing instructions, and he let down to eight hundred feet. The lights of Bangkok studded the ground beneath them, like flung handfuls of dirty yellow jewels.
“No trouble, please,” advised Albert Yone stiffly, as the plane flared for a landing. “Just taxi up before the administration building.” He sounded tired, and Gall figured he must have lost a lot of blood from the shoulder wound.
When the wheels went on, Gall leaned forward and tried to catch McCarl’s eye; but he couldn’t tell whether the other pilot noticed. Dakota Victor rolled forward and began to lose speed; the air rush diminished. When the tail wheel bumped down, Gall counted in his head and let her go another hundred yards. Then he tromped suddenly on the brakes, his booted feet jamming forward, hard.
The plane tilted abruptly. The tail bounced up, and Albert Yone was pitched out of the companionway and flung across the pedestal. Gall shouted at McCarl. Holding his bad hand over the throttle knobs, he slammed Yone forward with his good arm. The surprised and disheveled editor was trying to claw free, but his head thudded into the recessed division between the windshields. McCarl was half standing in his seat, and he sledged the little editor in the back of the neck with both fists.
“Okay, okay!” Gall was fighting the plane back on the runway. In spite of his protecting left hand, the throttles had been knocked forward, and the plane was trying to loop. “Don’t kill him, just haul him off.”
McCarl jerked the limp figure off the controls. Gall braked the plane to a halt and told McCarl to ease Yone out the back. As McCarl dragged the unconscious man through the empty cabin, Gall watched the control tower. He knew they must have seen the erratic landing. Sure enough, a car was rolling toward them, and he shouted a warning. McCarl came pounding through the cabin, and as Gall pushed the power back on, the other pilot heaved himself into place beside him.
“Let’s get going,” said Gall, and they hurried into takeoff procedure. They had used up half of the runway in landing, and now the tail lifted as they gunned down the last half. They were picking up speed with agonizing slowness. Bullets chunked through the plane somewhere, and Gall figured the car’s occupants must be firing at them. He told McCarl to cut all the lights, and the stocky man started flipping switches frantically. Gall had everything forward; his jaw was clenched as he hauled her off. He couldn’t read the instruments, and felt safer because he couldn’t.
The plane staggered up. The dark treetops at the end of the runway brushed against it, ominously loud, and then they had it made. Staying low, still running without lights, Gall cut the power back. In his earphones he could hear the Bangkok tower crackling as it called Dakota Victor over and over. When he had reset the course for Haiphong and put her on the auto-pilot, he lighted a cigarette. His hands were shaking badly.
“That was a good trick, Pappy,” said McCarl, and sighed. “Another quarter-inch, and you would ’a’ put the prop tips in the runway.”
“If you don’t like the work,” answered Gall, “you shouldn’t sign on. Was he dead?”
“Naw. Moaning when I dumped him out.” McCarl lighted a cigarette and dragged on it. They sat in silence, Gall thinking about Yone and his slaughtered family.
“The trouble with us,” he said finally, adjusting the mixture control, “is that we’re a couple of businessmen completely surrounded by patriots.”
“I guess so,” answered McCarl. The plane droned through the darkness, low and running without lights. Gall adjusted the mixture control even leaner. Then he sat back, feeling used up, barely aware of the even thunder of the engines.
About the Author
Philip Atlee (1915–1991) was the creator of the long-running Joe Gall Mysteries, which is comprised of twenty-two novels published in the 1960s and 70s. Born in Fort Worth, Texas, Atlee wrote several novels and screenplays—including Thunder Road starring Robert Mitchum, and Big Jim McLain starring John Wayne—before producing the series for which he is known. An avid flyer, he was a member of the Flying Tigers before World War II and joined the Marines after the attack on Pearl Harbor.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1951 by Philip Atlee
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-6592-4
This edition published in 2021 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
THE JOE GALL MYSTERIES
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.
Now the Mysterious Press has gone digital, publishing ebooks through MysteriousPress.com.
MysteriousPress.com. offers readers essential noir and suspense fiction, hard-boiled crime novels, and the latest thrillers from both debut authors and mystery masters. Discover classics and new voices, all from one legendary source.
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
FOLLOW US:
@emysteries and Facebook.com/MysteriousPressCom
MysteriousPress.com is one of a select group of publishing partners of Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
The Mysterious Bookshop, founded in 1979, is located in Manhattan’s Tribeca neighborhood. It is the oldest and largest mystery-specialty bookstore in America.
The shop stocks the finest selection of new mystery hardcovers, paperbacks, and periodicals. It also features a superb collection of signed modern first editions, rare and collectable works, and Sherlock Holmes titles. The bookshop issues a free monthly newsletter highlighting its book clubs, new releases, events, and recently acquired books.
58 Warren Street
info@mysteriousbookshop.com
(212) 587-1011
Monday through Saturday
11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
FIND OUT MORE AT:
www.mysteriousbookshop.com
FOLLOW US:
@TheMysterious and Facebook.com/MysteriousBookshop
SUBSCRIBE:
The Mysterious Newsletter
Find a full list of our authors and titles at www.openroadmedia.com
FOLLOW US
@ OpenRoadMedia
Philip Atlee, Pagoda
