Spy Killer (7 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Any Man’s Prey

K
ALGAN,
at the hour of two
AM
, had the appearance of a tomb. The darkness, in spite of the brisk wind which came down from the mountains, had a clammy, dismal air, like waiting death.

The houses, square against the lighter sky, stood out in regimental rows. The walls which hid private gardens from the public eye were black scowls along the street.

Kurt had the feeling, and rightly, that he was being watched. He went slowly, following the deepest shadows. The convict under the executioner’s knife knew that death was coming, and from whence it would come, and at what instant—but Kurt did not know. He could only guess, and wait for the stab of thunder and sparks around the next wall. He did not think he would ever hear the shot or feel the impact of the bullet.

Captain Yang, in a rage against Lin Wang and Kurt, unable to carry out the duty assigned to him, not quite sure just who this
Takeki
might be, would deal a death of vengeance. The mountain of flesh undoubtedly felt that Kurt was to blame for everything that had happened here in Kalgan. One of Lin Wang’s men was already dead, his body in the possession of the Japanese. Yang had given Kurt one last chance and, in Yang’s eyes, Kurt had failed.

Kurt had a feeling of fatalistic helplessness. The gods of China were against him and he could do nothing to extricate himself. Perhaps he would be able to fight his way out, but knowing that the Japanese would get him if Yang did not, anything he did was futile.

He could only walk close to the wall, silently waiting, and watch for the powder flame which would mark his finish.

He thought about Varinka for a while. She was a brave kid and she might have incurred the wrath of the Japanese when she gave him a chance at freedom. Sooner or later, if Kurt managed to stay alive throughout the night, the suspicious men would come to the conclusion that she was not being above-board with them. Perhaps even now her power was slipping. He had noticed but little courtesy displayed toward her. The guards were not so much guarding her life as guarding her.

Kurt stopped then, brought up sweating with a terrible knowledge. If he lived out the night, then the Japanese would think that he had gone free with information destined for the enemy. They could not help but think that.

But if he was found cold and dead in the filth of the street, then Varinka might have a chance.

His sense of humor came to his rescue then. He laughed silently, harshly, leaning back against the gray wall. He had thought earlier that his own safety depended upon Varinka’s death. And now Varinka’s life depended upon his own demise. Fate had spun the tables.

Anne Carsten would think . . . He paused then, and wondered what she would think. He hadn’t meant anything to her, but Anne Carsten recurred constantly in his thoughts. She was beautiful, even more so than Varinka. Of all the women Kurt had known, those two seemed to him the finest, the most desirable. Perhaps he did think a great deal of Varinka, perhaps he even loved her, but it was unthinkable to marry a White Russian woman in China.

He laughed again, feeling light-headed, his thoughts very clear. Here he was worrying about Anne Carsten and Varinka when he would not live another hour.

What he wouldn’t give for a shot at Lin Wang now. The twisted, scaly leper had taken Kurt in, right enough. But Lin Wang had not been smart. He could not have known that Kurt knew the one called
Takeki
. Lin Wang had not suspected that a man would stay his killing hand for the sake of gallantry, even when the killer’s life itself was at stake. Lin Wang, in his warped cruelty, did not know many things.

For a moment Kurt wondered at his own stupidity. Things were clear enough to him now. He was going to die. An electric light bulb, before it burns out, flares into sudden, final brilliance.

The reason, Kurt knew, for Lin Wang’s sending him here to Kalgan to kill
Takeki
was sound enough. Funny Kurt hadn’t thought about it before. Of course. Yang had his orders. When
Takeki
was dead, Yang would turn
Takeki
’s killer over to the Japanese, at no risk to himself. That would simplify matters for Lin Wang.
Takeki
’s murderer would not be looked for in China. The Japanese, all too often, had demanded huge indemnities for the killing of one of their people—and Varinka was certainly that.

And now that Kurt had refused, Yang would kill him, having no further use for him. Again Kurt laughed. He had been a fool. The confession had meant nothing. Kurt would not have lived anyway.

Pausing there in the shadow of the wall saved his life.

From the next corner came the whisper of slippers on the paving stones.

The Death Squad had tired of waiting.

Kurt saw a black blot detach itself from the building ahead and start down toward him, groping along. Something shiny glittered in the outstretched hand.

The man came slowly, a step at a time, undecided as to Kurt’s position. Kurt sank deeper into the shadow.

The Chinese came on, an inch at a time. A shaft of light from a high window struck the untroubled face. The Chinese came placidly enough, unworried by his mission. Killing had become second nature to the Death Squad.

Kurt drew out the automatic and determined to make a stand. Where were the others? Was this one alone? Did Kurt dare risk a shot?

The ominous silence of Kalgan blanketed the street. The wind moaned a little around a corner. The sound of Kurt’s automatic slide sounded like a sledgehammer blow.

The Chinese stopped, listening, probing the shadows with narrow, killer’s eyes.

The sound of Kurt’s automatic slide sounded like a sledgehammer blow.
The Chinese stopped, listening, probing the shadows with narrow, killer’s eyes.

Kurt raised the pistol, extended it to full arm’s length. The shadow covered the groove down the slide. Carefully Kurt compressed his whole hand. Odd how steady he was. He knew that he could not miss.

Flame and sparks ribboned like a lightning flash. The Chinese cried out, threw up his hands and stumbled forward. His arms were down again, clutching his chest. His own gun clattered to the paving. He tripped and sprawled, spread-eagled.

A shout came from the corner. Two men leaped into sight and came running. Kurt started to race away, and then knew that he would make too good a target out of his shadow.

Kurt spun about and leaped up to the top of the wall. Broken glass had been set up in the cement to discourage robbers. Kurt’s hands were gashed into a slippery mess.

But he had no thought of pain. He swung over. A gun roared below him as he crouched for an instant at the top, silhouetted against the sky.

He dropped to the garden and whipped his way through a line of shrubs against the wall. Water shimmered in front of him. He skirted it, tripped on a loose stone, and for a moment pushed himself along across gravel on his hands and knees.

The Death Squad had found the postern. Already they were hammering against it with their brawny shoulders. Kurt’s one thought was to get across the garden and over the other wall.

He heard wood splinter and knew that the postern gate had given way. He scrambled through a flower bed and stepped through another pool. Before him, dimly seen, a one-legged iron stork gazed wisely at him. At his right a metal turtle seemed to bob up and down. But it was only the water lapping.

Kurt reached the other wall. Feet were grinding the gravel paths in rapid pursuit. With only one thought—to get away—Kurt tried to scale the wall.

He looked up then and his heart dropped within him. This was no wall at all, but the side of a house. There was no getting away.

Men floundered through a pool and came on. Kurt turned to face them.

The Chinese loomed hugely against the lighter gray of the far wall. But they did not seem to have faces or hands, only arms. They were great shadows come to life without wits, with only the will to slaughter. They knew that they had to be fast. The Japanese guard would be coming soon to locate the firing.

With his back pushed against the chill stone, Kurt raised the automatic and fired.

A shadow in the lead went down and stumbled back to splash into the pool beside the iron stork.

Kurt moved hastily to one side. An answering shot whined away from the stone beside his head.

Crouching low, steadying his gun on his arm, Kurt drew a bead on another Chinese to the left. The man and his two mates faltered. That was all Kurt wanted. While he was in the dark, the others were in relief, whether they knew it or not, against the lighter gray wall.

Kurt’s target leaped sideways, crying out and stumbling. His two mates changed their position hastily and started to close in toward the man they could but dimly see.

Rock chips flew beside Kurt’s arm. He shifted his position. One of the Chinese was almost on him. Kurt leaped out, straight into the fellow’s face. Kurt jammed the muzzle catch deep into the yielding stomach and pulled the trigger. The shot sounded dead.

A blast of pain went through Kurt’s shoulder. He whipped away, carrying a knife with him, embedded in his flesh. With a roar the last Chinese flung himself upon Lin Wang’s victim.

They went down into shrubbery with a crash, the Chinese on top. Kurt, anger setting red balls dancing before his face, felt that he embraced a clawing tiger. Kurt kicked hard with both feet. Fingers were locating his throat. Kurt’s gun was gone.

He realized dimly that something was white hot in his shoulder. The man’s knife.

Kurt rolled to one side, struggling. The fingers sank deep into his windpipe. The stars above him began to spin crazily. His chest was burning for lack of air.

He reached across the Chinese’s arms, toward his own shoulder, trying to think, forcing himself to do the thing. With a tremendous effort, Kurt clutched the knife hilt and tugged the weapon free from his own flesh.

He twisted again, trying to get arm room. He held the knife high above the other’s back and brought it down. He pulled it out and brought it down a second time. The blade would not move.

The world was black for seconds, and then the fingers eased up. Throat rattling, the Chinese slumped down on the man he had almost killed.

For seconds Kurt lay dragging in precious air. He had never before known how good it was to just breathe. But after a little he assembled his strength and thrust the body away from him. The Chinese was like an overweight tree, already rigid.

Kurt got to his feet and fumbled about for his gun. He could not find the one he had been given. In its place he took a Colt .45 which had fallen from the hand of the second man he had killed.

He went through the garden toward the shattered gate, stopped beside each body, looking for Yang.

But Yang was not there. Yang was still alive, still waiting for the kill.

From the street came the sound of running men. Equipment clanked. The Japanese guards were on their way to determine the reason for the shooting. Kurt knew that death waited for him at their hands.

He ran down the wall and found another gate. Shouts echoed through the garden. Kurt fumbled with the lock and finally opened it. He slipped out into an alley and quietly eased down its length to another street.

From the direction of the garden came the shouts of the guards. Soon all Kalgan would be searched. Kurt wondered if they would realize who had fought there, and why. But whoever had, would find the going hard before a Japanese court.

Kurt was still mad. He did not give his sliced hands and his gouged shoulder a thought. He felt that he could whip the whole Japanese army with a pop gun and that if he met Lin Wang in the midst of all his guards, it would be an easy matter to blow the man down.

For a long while the bucko mate had been tossed about by worry and by cross purposes. But now he was mad. He didn’t care what happened to him. He was walking out to even up the score, and if he kept going like he started, nothing short of beheading would stop him.

He took the middle of the street with a swagger. His face, usually so handsome, was twisted up into a hard-boiled scowl. His gait was a sea roll and he carried the automatic in plain sight. He was insane and he knew it and didn’t care.