The Devil With Wings was seated indolently in a soft chair against the far wall. He was carelessly turning his .45 around and around in his black-gauntleted hands. An amused smile played in the corners of his mouth—the only visible portion of his goggle-masked face.
If Shinohari had been confronted with death personified, the agony of his amazement could not have been greater. He felt hot sweat start forth from his body and run, chilly, down his yellow flesh.
He felt all his energy draining from him as the sawdust comes running from a doll, to leave it flabby and shapeless. He began to rock slightly, trembling with the onset of hideously nauseating reaction.
Abruptly he collapsed into a chair behind him.
“Didn’t you expect me, Honorable Captain?” said Forsythe. “I hardly thought you could do less. The fine boasts you have been making about hanging my head in the main street of Port Arthur were not, I hope, without point. You appear pale. Do not alarm me by saying you are in poor health.”
“You…you are a devil!”
“Oh, come now. Can’t I make a casual call…?”
“How did you get here?”
Akuma-no-Hané smiled and the goggles flashed.
Shinohari’s brain was beginning to function smoothly again. He glanced toward another red-covered couch and saw there the coat and uniform cap of a Manchukuo irregular officer. That took the superstition out of it.
“I am so sorry,” said Shinohari, himself again, “that I had no slightest knowledge of your arrival. Oh, of course I knew you were in the vicinity, but to come here to the center of our strongest military post… You wished to honor me by requesting some small thing?”
Forsythe stood up, a terrifyingly tall figure to Shinohari. He still handled the .45 with lazy assurance. He did not pay Shinohari the compliment of keeping steady watch on the belted Luger at the officer’s side. A bottle and two glasses stood under the lamp and Forsythe slowly began to pour out the drinks.
Forsythe stood up, a terrifyingly tall figure to Shinohari. He still handled the .45 with lazy assurance.
“The patrol may look in,” said Shinohari. “Or headquarters may send a runner for me. Perhaps, for your own safety, you had best depart.”
“Thank you for your consideration,” replied Forsythe, knowing now that he ran little chance of being disturbed. He pushed a glass across the board to the Japanese. “Drink?”
“Certainly,” smiled Shinohari, the color almost wholly back in his pitted face. He took the glass delicately and raised it in solemn salute. “May I drink to your success?”
“And may I drink to yours?”
They drank.
“And now,” said Forsythe, “you are probably curious about my visit, wondering why a man would risk running the lines even if his goal was to talk to such an important officer as yourself.”
Shinohari acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow. “I admit there is some slight curiosity lingering in my mind. Won’t you have another drink?”
Forsythe poured it out. “Again to your success, Honorable Captain.” He put the empty glass back on the table. “You are having a bit of sport with the Russians, I see.”
“Oh, not much more than usual. A few shots, a few men dead. Nothing of importance.”
“No, of course not. What is a world war to an intelligence officer?”
Shinohari smiled. “You are very quick, Honorable Sir.”
“If war does flare, Japan’s position would be very admirable.”
“Naturally,” smiled Shinohari.
“Naturally,” echoed Forsythe, grinning. “And your own financial position, Honorable Captain, would also be admirable.”
“You allude to something definite?”
“I am not sure,” replied Forsythe.
Shinohari wanted to divert this trend in the conversation but he showed nothing of it on his polite face. “May I ask if you have made your lovely traveling companion comfortable?”
“Quite. It was about her that I came to see you tonight, Captain Shinohari. You know of her brother, of course.”
“Of course. A most regrettable situation, eh? And a most pitiable plight for the beautiful young lady. She has a powerful friend in you, Akuma-no-Hané!”
“Thank you. And while we are on the subject, would it be violating your military secrecy for you to tell me what you did with this brother?”
Shinohari’s blank mask slipped for a fraction of a second. Blandly, then, he shrugged. “You flatter even me, Honorable Sir.”
“Nevertheless,” smiled Forsythe, spinning the .45 round and round until it was a glittering blue pinwheel in the yellow light, “nevertheless, I think it might be prudent for you to inform me of his whereabouts.”
“There are many unmarked graves in Manchukuo, Honorable Sir.”
“Ah, yes. And we have both had our share in filling them. But I do not speak of graves, Captain. I speak of a living man. Robert Weston. A young engineer of great promise…” Forsythe stopped, smiling placidly. “After all the favors we have exchanged, Captain, it would hardly be sporting for me to shoot you so ignominiously. Besides, once dead, you are not likely to talk. I regret the necessity of speaking about such crude things, but…” He shrugged and suddenly the .45 was motionless, muzzle centered on Shinohari’s temple.
Shinohari studied the blankness of the goggles above the gun. There was something horribly unchanging about those lenses. They gave the impression that Akuma-no-Hané was capable of no feeling whatever. Shinohari’s black gaze fastened upon the muzzle and he felt small hairs rise up along the back of his neck.
But the captain was calm. “I am afraid I must disclaim all knowledge of this young man, Honorable Sir. One in my position, even though lowly, cannot keep constant watch upon all persons in the land.”
“Pardon,” said Forsythe. “But you did not think for a moment that…” He drew the message from N-38 out of his pocket and tossed it down on the table. “…that I would believe this other than a misleading report destined for the files and the files only.”
“My dear sir,” said Shinohari complacently, “you are in error, I assure you. This you accuse me of is high treason.”
“Yes,” said Forsythe. “High treason against the Japanese government.”
Shinohari was almost chuckling. “You rave insanely, Akuma-no-Hané. There is the message. It is from N-38 here at Aigun, and you found it on file in Port Arthur. No signature, nothing to make it valuable or believable to any power under the stars.”
Forsythe was smiling broadly. Very softly, he said, “Only one thing has slipped your mind, Captain. Two months ago, here in the Amur section, your N-38 attempted to knife me as I slept. I shot and killed him.”
“Yes,” shrugged Shinohari. “But…”
Forsythe’s voice became a monotone. “Yes, two months ago here on the banks of the Amur, N-38 died. And Robert Weston did not reach the Amur until two weeks after that event.”
A cold, sharp knife of realization went twisting through Shinohari’s questionable heart.
“The report here,” said Forsythe, indicating the paper, “was never filed by N-38 but by the only man who had access to those files. Yourself, Captain.”
Shinohari said nothing. He could think of nothing.
Forsythe was not smiling now. “You wanted that report to be false because you have your own personal reasons for Robert Weston’s drop from sight.
“Where is Weston?”
Shinohari was tense. His midnight eyes were set and staring, out of focus, at the gun.
“And while you are answering that,” said Forsythe, “you can give me the Confucius you took from him.”
Shinohari still sat without speaking. His nervous hands had frozen about the arms of his chair and he held himself partly pushed forward. Abruptly he sagged back, clawing at his collar with a long yellow f
inger.
“I know nothing about that.”
Forsythe paced around the table like a stalking panther. The black goggles were boring straight through into the captain’s shivering brain.
Shinohari suddenly chanced a draw. The Luger rasped as he yanked it forth.
A clean blow to the yellow jaw, a splintering of wood and the crash of his body shook the room. Forsythe reached out and yanked the man to his feet.
Forsythe was not talking now. He had seen a bulge under the mustard-colored jacket. He ripped away the buttons and grasped the hard surface of a small doll.
He threw the captain backwards to the couch and went toward the light. He paused and looked closely at the image.
It was brown, pinpricked with wormholes. The shiny lacquer had worn away long ago, leaving the bare wood in patches like scars. Confucius had been carved holding his staff. A placid smile was on the bearded face. Forsythe gave the philosopher a cold grin of triumph in return. He thrust the image into his pocket and turned again to face Shinohari.
“High treason,” said Forsythe. “The penalty, for you, would be very severe. I think you would find that it hurt to be a figure of scorn where you have been such a hero. Had I better shoot you now out of kindness?”
Shinohari’s nerve was coming back. He was trying to gather enough courage to bluster his way out.
“You have no evidence!” cried Shinohari. “You are trying to intimidate me. You know nothing about…”
Forsythe’s grin had the freezing capabilities of liquid air, showering down upon the luckless captain.
“Shinohari,” said Forsythe, “we have matched wits too long to underestimate each other. You cannot help yourself by bolstering false hopes. From the moment I stepped into this Weston puzzle I knew your records were false. I have tried to find out why you hid truth from your own government. The only answer is that you did this for personal gain. Your pay is not high, your position makes large demands upon your salary. A less astute person would falsify his reports like a common burglar and rob the cash box with erroneous expense accounts. But not you.
“You have been playing your cards to make yourself wealthy. Oh, don’t deny it. Robert Weston located a mineral deposit of great wealth. His find was immediately reported to you by your own agents. Instead of relaying this information to your government, you sidetracked it for your own interest, spiked all possible leaks. You did not kill Robert Weston because he was valuable to you personally.
“Greedy for the reward which you thought your work and position demanded, you have taken matters into your own hands. Somewhere near the Amur at this very instant, Weston is working for you under heavy guard—and your superiors know nothing about it. That, Captain, is treason. The reward for treason is death and disgrace.
“But have no fear about my reporting this to your war office.”
At this the wilted Japanese showed swift signs of hope.
Forsythe knifed them instantly. “No, not to your war office, but to the military intelligence of another nation.”
“You’ll sell me out?” shrieked Shinohari.
“You have sold yourself out. Your price for being good is your life and your reputation. To cover this treason you pinned a crime on me—a crime which was never committed. Repaying that, I am holding your life in my palm.”
Shinohari was thoroughly beaten down. He was a pile of mustard-colored cloth, sagging hopelessly.
Forsythe clothed himself in the irregular officer’s greatcoat, turning up the collar and pulling down the cap until they almost met in effective disguise.
He went to the door and halted there for an instant to turn and click his heels in a stiff and mocking bow. He stepped out into the thick gloom and was gone.
Shinohari sat shivering, yellow fingers pulling weakly at a loose thread on his jacket. Abruptly he was animated with mixed decision and terror. He sprang up and snatched the field phone from its hook.
“Colonel Shimizu!” cried Shinohari. “I have seen Akuma-no-Hané! Send out immediate orders to all troops and pilots to be on the alert! Give orders for them to shoot the renegade on sight and shoot to kill! HE MUST DIE BEFORE DAWN!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Secret of Confucius
MORNING had come to spread its yellow flood across the restive reaches of the Amur River. The three huts which huddled close beside the muddy bank of the twisting stream seemed to be without occupants or hope of ever having any, so squalid was their condition.
A staccato sound grew in volume to mingle with the lapping rush of the river. A cloud was churning skyward from the trackless plain and a plunging dot grew in size as it approached the huts.
Forsythe slewed the mustard-colored motorcycle to a stop beside the stream and looked cautiously at the three houses. No shots greeted him and, reassured, he drew off the irregular officer’s now very dusty coat and cap and lashed them to the handlebars close beside a small pennant there which, in Japanese, indicated the machine to be the property of “Staff Dispatch. Japanese Imperial Army Headquarters. Aigun.”
Forsythe kicked the stand up and twisted the grip. The engine raced wildly and he ran with it toward the yellow flood. At the bank he let go.
The motorcycle bellowed outward into the air, curved down and vanished with a dirty, spluttering splash. The river swept onward, leaving not a ripple to mark the spot.
Forsythe adjusted his goggles. What was visible of his face looked white and strained and weary. But as he walked toward the first hut he summoned up the energy to grin.
Before he reached the door it opened and Ching stepped out.
“The next time you beat it off like that,” said Ching, “I’m going with you, girl or no girl. I couldn’t sleep all night! How did you make out?”
“I talked with Shinohari,” said Forsythe. “And he generously gave me…”
He hauled the Confucius from his jacket pocket.
“You got it!” cried Ching. “Quick! Lemme see!”
Forsythe gave it over, suddenly disinterested in it and very interested in Patricia, who was peering over Ching’s shoulder. She showed the worry of a dangerous night but even this could not sap the vibrant vitality of her.
Forsythe thrust Ching aside and stepped into the room. He pulled off his gauntlets and cast them to the table. He turned, smiling, to Patricia.
“Your brother is alive.”
Her eyes on him were wide and blank as she tried to understand what he had said. She did not move or speak.
“He’s alive,” said Forsythe, “and the key to his whereabouts is in that Confucius.”
He said it very casually and then turned away from her to give her a chance to collect her startled thoughts.
A North Chinese with a face as impassive and yellow as brass was standing beside a small Primus stove, waiting to be recognized by Forsythe. He was one of many such subagents and his position was that of caretaker for these huts which appeared so abandoned but which were, in reality, an outpost and fueling station and hangar.
“Lin,” said Forsythe, “do you think you could cook me up some ham and eggs? I’ll need them before the day is out.”
Lin almost smiled but not quite. He was flattered by the request and went swiftly to work with the Primus and a frying pan. Forsythe walked through a curtained doorway and Patricia, looking after him at the swaying cloth, heard water splashing as Forsythe washed up.
She turned slowly to Ching and saw him still fondling the doll. In a small, wondering voice, she whispered, “Bob’s alive!” The dawning realization had taken minutes to drive away the chill certainty of her brother’s death.
Abruptly, she shouted, “He’s alive!” She grabbed the startled Ching and hugged him. She danced around the table and gave Lin a giddy spin across the floor. And then she left them both and stood outside the curtain looking at it with glowing, excited eyes. I
n every flowing curve of her graceful body she showed thankfulness and admiration.
But Forsythe did not come out and Patricia danced back to the table and began to set his place for him.
While she was doing this, a small cloud drifted over the brightness of her face. She laid the plates more slowly and then stopped with one held in midair, looking oddly back at the curtained door. No thought could be dark enough to hide her jubilance, but still she was troubled.
Had Akuma-no-Hané gone to this trouble for her alone?
No. Everything she had ever heard about him belied the fact that he had.
The Confucius was valuable.
Yes, very valuable.
Suddenly it came coldly over her that she and Bob Weston were less than pawns in a struggle much greater than their own small triumphs and fears. And Akuma-no-Hané, obviously, had only availed himself of an opportunity to strike at Shinohari.
She sat down slowly and watched Lin frying ham and eggs.
Forsythe came out. Perhaps if he had returned in his shirt sleeves without his helmet, her reaction would have been different. But he evidently could not chance her seeing his face and though he smiled, the oval lenses, glinting at her above the smile, sent lances of misgivings through her.
Forsythe slid into a chair across from her, regarding her curiously. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you hear me? Bob Weston is alive and you’ll see him before night.”
She managed a faint “Thank you,” and then averted her glance to her plate.
Forsythe shrugged and turned to Lin who was ladling out the food.
Ching, in the meanwhile, had been rolling the Confucius around and around in his hands, studying it with lowered brows and pursed mouth. He began a systematic tapping and, when that failed to bring anything important to view, carried the image over to Lin’s larder. Ching took some flour and rubbed it on the ancient wood. Suddenly a white line appeared around the base where the detachable portion had made the smallest imaginable crack.
Excitedly he unscrewed the base and produced a small, tight roll of paper. He started to open it when he glanced at Forsythe.