West from Singapore (Ss) (1987) (13 page)

Like a tiger, Jim was on his feet. A left knocked the gun from Kull's hand, and a right sent him reeling against the parked bomber. But Kull was not one of Europe's crack amateur heavyweights for nothing. He straightened, slipped Ponga Jim's left, and hooked a hard left to the head. He ducked a right, and sunk a left in Jim's body, then a right.

Ponga Jim grinned. "A boxer, eh?" he said.

He jabbed quickly, and the punch set Kull off balance. A right caught him in the midsection, and a sweeping left sent him to his knees. Coolly, Jim stepped back.

"Get up, Kull, and take a socking!" he ordered.

Kull straightened and then rushed, hooking hard with both hands. Jim staggered, grinned, and tied Kull up, whipping a wicked left to his head and body. The punches traveled scarcely six inches, yet they landed with sledgehammer force. Kull jerked away, and Mayo whipped up a right uppercut that knocked him back against the plane. Then Jim stepped in and crossed a short, hard right. Kull slipped to the stone pavement.

Ponga Jim wheeled and swung open the door to the cabin of the amphibian.

The motor sputtered and then roared into life. Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Blucher turn, puzzled. Then he started, and gave her the gun. It was little room for a takeoff, but enough, and Ponga Jim cleared the trees at the other end of the terrace by a matter of inches. He zoomed for altitude and then banked steeply and came back flying low.

Blucher stared at him, puzzled, and a half dozen of the renegades stared upward.

Then Jim cut loose with both machine guns, raking the terrace.

With a roar of rage, Blucher jerked up his gun, but the blast of leaden death was too much for him, and he broke and ran for the jungle. His men were less fortunate, and the machine guns swept the terrace like a bolt of lightning.

Then it was all over. Slowly he wheeled above the huge stone building, getting a good look at it for the first time, the great towers, the battlements, and the queer, fantastic architecture. Jim glanced over the side, and nothing moved on the terrace.

He turned the plane and flew for the distant masts of the Semiramis.

Night had fallen when they met on the Captain's deck of the tramp freighter. Above on the bridge, Slug Brophy paced casually, watching the channel as the dark jungle-clad banks slid by.

Ponga Jim leaned back in his deck chair, pushing back his cap.

"There goes your Qasavara trouble, William!" he said cheer90 fully. "Again Mayo comes to the rescue. It seems I have to save the British Empire about once every thirty days."

Arnold chuckled. "You aren't doing so bad. Picked up a nice amphibian plane, just like that."

"The fortunes of war, William, merely the fortunes of war! Hello! Here comes Ulysses!"

The big Toradjas stopped a few feet away and then stepped forward, handing Ponga Jim a thick wad of Bank of England notes. Colonel Sutherland gulped, and his eyes widened. "Me find him House of Qasavara," he said. "You take, eh?"

"You bet I'll take!" Jim said, winking at Arnold. "Ah, the sinews of war! Ulysses, you are now a member of my crew, a full-fledged member!"

"You betcha!" Ulysses said.

"That man," Major Arnold said positively, "has the makings of either a thief or a philosopher!"

Ponga Jim got up and offered his arm to Carol.

"Both, William, both! He's going to be a soldier of fortune!"

*

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Halmahera is a smaller version of the spiderlike Celebes, one of the famed Spice Islands that drew ships from all the world. Wild bananas still grow there, and when ripe they split open exposing a thick mass of black seeds. The banana is one of the oldest, if not the oldest, domesticated fruit, probably as old on the earth as man himself. In its several forms, it has long been a staple of his diet.

Gam Konora, mentioned in the story, was the only active volcano on Halmahera, although the interior of the island is mountainous and rugged. Few people live in the interior, dwelling instead along the coast where the sea offers a rich harvest.

At the time of which I write there was a constant cloud of smoke hanging above the crater of Gam Konora.

Indonesia has more than its share of strange and interesting lakes. On the island of Flores are the colored lakes of Gelimoetoe, one a deep jade green, one a perfect blue, the last a deep red. These are crater lakes, and the saying is that when people die they go to the lakes, the young to the green lake, the old to the blue, and the evil to the red lake.

Not far from them is the country of the dragon lizards of Komodo. These are largely found on the island of Komodo, close by, but also on Flores itself. These lizards often weigh several hundred pounds and for short distances can run fast enough to overtake a horse. They are meat eaters and can be very fierce. They will stand up on their hind legs and tail to survey the country around.

*

Rain had fallen for three days, and the jungle dripped with it. The fourth day had begun with heavy showers and faded into a dense fog. Yet despite the rain, the drums had not stopped.

The path was a slide of mud between two solid walls of jungle, green by day, an impenetrable blackness by night. Three miles by trail, they had said. It would be like Frazer to live in such a place. He walked slowly. The drums bothered him.

He knew as much about the interior of Halmahera as anyone did, which wasn't a great deal. Mostly, the natives lived along the coast, rarely going into the interior.

But the drums were somewhere beyond Mount Sahu, apparently, and they might be as far away as Gam Konora.

The only way he could tell when he reached the clearing was by the sudden feeling of space around him. Then he glimpsed a light from the bungalow. He wondered again why Frazer had sent for him. The man had never been one to ask for help. He had been notoriously a lone wolf.

Suddenly he dropped to a crouch and then squatted down, listening. Someone was coming around the house! He dropped one hand to the gravel path to balance himself and waited.

The footsteps stopped abruptly, and he realized the person had stepped off the path.

He heard then the soft swish of receding steps through the grass. He started to call out, but then thought better of it and waited.

After a moment, he stepped up on the veranda and rapped softly. There was no reply.

He pushed the door open and stepped in.

Then he stopped. The headless body of a man lay on the floor beside the desk! Staring, he stepped closer, noticing an old tattoo on the hand, between the forefinger and thumb. A faded blue anchor. Stepping carefully around the pool of blood, he glanced at the papers on the desk. He was just reaching to pick them up when a cold voice interrupted:

"So, we have a murderer!" The man's voice was flat. "Put your hands up."

Looking up he saw three men standing in the doorway. The speaker was a tall man with a cold white face, blue eyes, and blond hair. The others were obviously policemen.

"I'm afraid you've made a wrong guess," he said, smiling. "I came to pay Bent Frazer a visit and found things like this." "Yes?" The man was icily skeptical. "Nevertheless, you will consider yourself under arrest. It so happens that Benton Frazer had no visitors.

He was a recluse."

"You think I murdered this man?"

"What else am I to think when I find you standing over the body with bloody hands?"

Involuntarily, he glanced down. His right hand was bloody! But mingled with the blood sticking to his hand were tiny bits of sand and gravel. The path, that was it! When he crouched he had put his hand down. Whoever had carried the head away had obviously gone that way or else was wounded himself. Then, he thought swiftly, the man he had heard had not been the murderer, unless he had returned on a second trip!

"Don't be dumb," he said sharply. "If I killed him, where's the head?"

The man scowled. "You could have disposed of that. Hans," he snapped, "keep an eye on the prisoner. Thomsen, you will search the house!" He turned to the prisoner.

"I am Karl Albran, the resident official from Susupu. Now what is your name, and where are you from?"

"My name?" the prisoner echoed. "My name is Mayo-Ponga Jim Mayo. I'm skipper of the freighter Semiramis, of Gorontalo." "Ponga Jim Mayo!" Albran's face blanched. Then slowly the expression faded, to be replaced with something like triumph. "So," he said softly, "Ponga Jim Mayo! I have heard of you, my friend." Albran turned slightly. "Hans, this fellow has made something of a record for escaping from tight corners. So shoot if he makes even one false move."

Hans smiled wolfishly. "This is one corner he won't get out of!" he said. "I hope he tries."

After Albran turned on his heel and left the room, Jim let his eyes rove around.

There was still the problem of the murdered man. To the right of him, and near the window, was a pool of water. Remembering his own movements, he recalled that he had come around the other side of the blood, and none of the three recent arrivals had stood over there. Then, naturally, it had been someone else, who had arrived on the scene and surveyed it carefully and without interruption. Probably the man who had stepped from the path. But who?

A white man, Jim was sure. Bare feet don't make such a sound on a gravel path. And white men in Halmahera were few and all too easily traced. Albran? He considered that. Yet it was hardly probable. And why had the head been removed?

Albran and Thomsen returned to the room with two other men. One of them Jim recognized instantly as Doc Fife. The roving surgeon was known in all the islands. He glanced at Jim out of shrewd eyes.

"Albran tells me you killed Frazer," said Fife, smiling a little. "I told him he was crazy."

Jim shrugged, said nothing.

Albran's eyes were cold. "I found him here, starting to go through the papers on the desk. The body was still warm, and Jim had blood on his hand. Has it now. And I say he killed Frazer!"

Ponga Jim stared at Albran very thoughtfully. "Want a case pretty bad, don't you?" he said.

Albran smiled coldly. "This is time of war. I shall not delay the progress of justice, but order you shot-immediately." "What?" Fife demanded angrily. "Why, you can't do that, Albran! Nothing has been proved-"

"Proved?" Albran demanded. "Am I to deny the sight of my eyes?"

"Wait a minute!" Jim snapped. "I'm getting sick of this nonsense! If the sight of your eyes was worth anything you'd know the dead man is not Bent Frazer!"

Albran whirled, consternation in his eyes. Fife looked startled. "What do you mean?"

Albran demanded.

"Notice the faded blue anchor tattooed on the man's hand?" Jim said drily. "Frazer wouldn't let himself be tattooed under any circumstances. Then, he was at least two inches taller than this man and not so heavily built. This is Kimberly Rinehart.

He was a friend of Frazer's. I knew him well and recognized the body as soon as I came in."

"Then-then where's Frazer?" Albran exclaimed. "He must have murdered this man!"

"Nuts," Jim said drily. "Frazer wouldn't kill Rinehart. He is one of the few friends Frazer ever had. In fact, I think whoever killed this man thought he was killing Frazer. I think somebody wanted Bent Frazer dead. They sent a man to kill him, and he killed the wrong man."

"Perhaps you know more about that than we do!" Albran snapped. "We'll take you back to the village!"

"Okay." Jim shrugged.

Hans stepped toward him, and Ponga Jim started to follow Albran. But suddenly his foot slipped in the blood and he plunged forward, his head smashing into Albran's back and knocking him through the door into a sprawled heap on the path outside.

Tumbling across him, Jim rolled over, scrambled to his feet and dove into the night and the jungle.

Thomsen snapped a quick shot into the night, and Ponga Jim grinned as it went yards from its object. After his first plunging run had carried him through the thick wall of jungle, Jim had stopped dead still. To move meant to make noise. He realized suddenly that he was clutching a bit of paper from the desk, picked up at the moment Albran discovered him. He thrust it in his pocket.

Back at the bungalow, Albran was shouting orders at Thomsen and Hans. Nearby, Doc Fife was talking in low tones with the man who had come up with him, a man whose face Ponga Jim could not distinguish.

Gradually Jim worked around a thick clump of ferns. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way back from the clearing. For a half hour he tried nothing but the most careful movement. Then he struck out, moving more boldly, and found the bank of a small stream.

He stepped in carefully, found it shallow, and began to wade downstream toward the shore.

Walking in the water made travel faster, and Jim had time to think. He didn't know why Bent Frazer had written him after all this time. He had no idea what Kim Rinehart would be doing there or why he should be killed or, if his theory was right, and Kim had been killed by mistake, just why anyone should want to kill Frazer.