Spy Killer (8 page)

The bucko mate, hero of many a barroom brawl and sea fight, was stepping into his own: fast action.

He headed straight for Varinka’s house. To hell with the guards! Varinka was in danger. He knew it without thinking. He couldn’t let her down. Without that automatic he would have been an easy victim for the Death Squad.

He came to her gate, threw back the iron and stepped arrogantly through, ready to blast down the first foe he saw, bayonets notwithstanding.

It came to him as a shock that the courtyard was deserted. He walked straight toward the hut, expecting a challenge which refused to come. He stopped irresolutely before the door, staring about him.

Something had happened here. Something was wrong.

He kicked in the panel and stepped into the room. The fireplace had burned down to a pulsating red pile of coals. The shadows of the room were deep. The lamp was still overturned, spilling bean oil across the Oriental black and tan carpet.

The sound of a sob came to Kurt. Instantly he felt better. Maybe Varinka was still here. Perhaps . . .

Something moved in the corner. He strode toward it and beheld Varinka’s amah huddled behind a drapery. Disgusted, he hauled her forth and in a machine-gun tattoo of Chinese, demanded news of the Russian girl.

“They take her away. They arrest her. I know nothing.”

Varinka arrested? Then he was right. His own release was likely to cause her death. The Japanese did not question a victim for long. The Japanese were more likely to hold the trial after the firing squad.

Varinka was arrested and Kurt knew that she would die. For a moment he felt a helpless nausea and then, hefting the Colt .45, he went out into the courtyard and walked swiftly toward the Japanese headquarters. . . .

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sentenced to Death

T
HE
building did not shed a great deal of light. It clutched shadows to its cold walls and gave off a feeling of menace. Two windows sprayed yellow jets into the street. Kurt heard the wind moan past a cornice.

Japanese voices came from within, purring, assured voices. Outside a car stood, its driver slumped wearily over the wheel. Behind the car was a truck, but no one was in the cab.

Kurt came as close as possible to the window. By standing on a loose paving block he could see in without being seen himself.

Varinka stood before a group of men, who sat indolently in chairs. Their caps and red bands showed that they were officers and their faces displayed a merciless arrogance which was heightened by the effect of their black, bristly hair. Two of them puffed on cigarettes which they held before their sharp faces with nicotine-stained fingers. Guards with fixed bayonets were posted about the room.

They were questioning Varinka in Japanese and their tone was ugly, showing that her guilt was a foregone conclusion. But they were not trying her for the thing Kurt thought.

Varinka’s broad face was without fear. Her slightly slanted eyes were scornful. Her high cheekbones were stained with the crimson of anger. She looked regal—a lionness pulled down by jackals.

“What you say is not true,” said Varinka.

A small, bony officer giggled. “
Takeki
would go well in a
No
drama,
sayo
?”

A bitter-faced fellow with eyes as black as the pit, obviously the ranking
yakunin,
probably a
taisho,
silenced the bony one with a scowl.

“You have lied out of this two times,
Takeki
. You told us that this was some sort of intrigue you were planning. The officers believed you—I did not. They see now that I should have been more determined in my condemnation.”

“Bah,” said Varinka, coldly, “you hate me,
taisho,
because I would have nothing to do with you and with none of your officers. You hate me, all of you, because I had too much power.”

The
taisho
smiled cruelly. “This time you cannot escape. This afternoon I received a letter from Shanghai. Some of the things you reported to us were lies, and you know that they were lies. Your own men there, when properly coerced, owned the hoax.” He drew a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it around to the others.

“A man will admit anything under torture,” said Varinka.

“Perhaps, but there is something else. Tonight you let a man escape us under a pretext. The
taicho
there did not stop him because your authority was higher than the
taicho’
s. This man,
Takeki,
is doubtless your partner. You are working for the
Shina-lin,
and anyone working for the Chinese is the enemy of Japan, therefore a traitor.”

“But that proves nothing.” said Varinka.

The officers looked at one another, smiling as men do when they have an ace as yet undisplayed. They looked back at Varinka. She was standing straight and steady. Her blue tunic with its high collar set off the brilliance of her yellow hair. But they saw nothing of her beauty. Not now.

“Tonight many men were killed,” said the
taisho
. “And this has just been brought from the scene.”

The man took the automatic she had given Kurt from his pocket and showed it to her.

“The number of this gun,” said the
taisho,
“corresponds with the one issued to you. This is your gun. Some way you gave it to the foreigner. The final proof,
Takeki,
is that the men killed were members of Lin Wang’s Death Squad. Their papers disclosed that to us. What more proof could you want?”

Heads moved from side to side. With an air of finality cigarettes were dropped to the floor and ground under boots.

“The sentence,
Takeki,
is death. A firing squad is being sent from the barracks.
Taicho
Shimazu, take this woman to the Wall. Bring back her head, so that there will be no tricks. That is all.”

Varinka’s expression did not change. She met their eyes unafraid.

From the street came the clank and measured tread of marching men. The sound stopped and the Japanese clambered into the truck. Two men stepped up to Varinka’s side and took hold of her arms,
Taicho
Shimazu barked a command and went out through the entrance, followed by his prisoner.

“Sayonara, Takeki,”
said the
taisho
. “Goodbye. I shall treasure your head.”

Varinka did not look back. The guards thrust her into the car and sat down on either side.
Taicho
Shimazu took his place on one of the intermediate seats.

“Drive!” barked Shimazu to the silhouette of the driver.

The car started off. Varinka held her head erect, disdainful of the hands which held her fast.

An early dawn was coming up. The world was cold and thin as though seen through heavy gauze. The pearl shafts of the east did not reach far into the streets of Kalgan.

As the brightness grew, Chinese and Mongols on the streets turned to stare at the touring car followed by the truck full of soldiers. The sight was not new. This was obviously an execution party. Some luckless soul was about to add his death to the long list which paid for conquest.

Varinka looked straight ahead, chilly in her silk tunic, which fluttered a little in the brisk wind.

“Driver,” said Shimazu, leaning forward, “this is not the way to the Wall. You are driving too fast.”

Kurt smiled a triumphant smile. He had knocked out the driver and had hidden his body beside the wall of headquarters. In the darkness, with only his purloined military cap in evidence to those in the rear, he had easily escaped detection.

He stamped on the brakes and swung swiftly about, the blue-nosed .45 pointed generally at the three.

“Tobi-dasu!”
cried Kurt. “Jump out! All of you!”

Varinka uttered a small cry of relief and surprise. The two bayoneted rifles swung forward. The soldiers would defend themselves and their prisoner at any cost. Kurt saw the flash of steel.

The captain snatched at his own automatic, fearless of death. Kurt caught the three separate movements and knew that he could not shoot fast enough. One of the three would get him.

But Varinka was not merely a spectator. In a swift movement she reached out with both hands and snatched the rifle barrels, holding them up for the instant which was needed.

The
taicho
’s gun flashed up. Kurt fired point-blank. Kurt reared up as the captain toppled to one side and caught the body by the shoulder. With a quick thrust he sent the
taicho
over the door and out.

The smoking muzzle of the .45 covered the other two Japanese. They let go their guns as though they were white hot. Varinka threw the weapons onto the floor of the car.

“Tobi-dasu!”
cried Kurt again.

The two soldiers jumped away from Varinka and swung out precipitately.

The truck was coming up and the soldiers there had already seen the dead body of the captain on the ground. A rifle bullet ripped through the back window and bored a sparkling hole in the windshield.

Kurt threw the car in gear and stamped on the accelerator. The touring car lurched and gathered speed. Varinka crouched low. A slug ripped the tonneau over her head.

“Head south!” cried Varinka.

Kurt whipped the machine around a corner and raced out along a rough road. A gate was before them. Two guards, seeing the pursuit of the truck, stepped out with leveled rifles directly in front of the car.

Kurt jerked the wheel to the right and left. The Japanese jumped aside. The machine careened out through the twin towers and roared down a twisting road into China proper.

Varinka climbed over the back of the front seat and settled herself beside Kurt. She smiled at him.

He expected some kind of praise and was all ready to turn it aside. But she said, “I do not think that Anne Carsten could do that thing. I mean to catch the guns before they shoot.”

Kurt stabbed her with a black-eyed glance, “Why bring her up?”

Varinka smiled and folded her hands upon her lap. She was sitting quite at ease, although the car plunged down a winding grade at sixty miles an hour.

“I thought,” said Varinka, “that you loved her.”

“Hell, no,” said Kurt.

She looked disappointed. “But she is my friend.”

Nothing about how he had gotten there, nothing, about what they would do or where they would go. Kurt snorted. Varinka sat there baiting him about love.

Wind whined through the hole in the windshield. The motor bellowed. Carts and droves of camels spilled off the road to make way for the juggernaut. The world was fully awake now, up and about its business. The morning sun yellowed the plain which stretched away from the hills deep into China.

The truck was far behind them, lost in dust, much too slow to keep pace with Kurt’s masterful driving and the touring car’s Western engine.

They rode for half an hour and then Varinka raised up to look behind them.

“They have gone now. Lucky, eh? You can turn at the next road and head east.”

“East? That’ll take us back into Japanese territory.”

“You must head east,” said Varinka. “I have business.”

“Say, listen, haven’t you had enough?”

“Oh, no. I must never leave unfinished business. Head east.”

Grudgingly, Kurt turned down the road which was far worse than the one he left. He was beginning to think that Varinka was crazy.

He thought he knew it when the road started a little bit northeast. He was certain they would run into Japanese troops and the word would be telegraphed ahead of them. There would be no escape now.

But he didn’t want to argue with the girl. He respected her too much.

They came to another crossroads and to a ruined stone tower whose stones strewed its base. Withered creepers clung forlornly to the cracked structure.

“Stop here and put the car behind this place,” said Varinka.

“Stop here? What the devil do you want? What are you going to do?”

“Oh, I think very soon some Japanese will come along this other road in a car, heading east. How good are you with a rifle, my Kurt?”

“Good enough.”

“Then take one of these and go behind that wall and when the Japanese come, we shall see. After that we go further east, to a certain deserted fort.”

Kurt knew it would be useless to argue with her. He parked the car, took one of the bayoneted rifles and got out. Dust was already rolling up along the other road.

“They come,” said Varinka with a cat smile.