by Don Wilcox
Yolanda’s only guide was gone!
And she was hopelessly lost.
CHAPTER XIV
Rain and Blood
The road was almost a river of water.
Yolanda no longer knew which way she was going. She hoped she was still on the way toward the roadmen’s camp, for that was the only refuge of which she had heard.
Under the heavy downpour she was completely soaked. Her shoes, tied over her shoulders, were like two little pitchers of water. Barefooted, she waded on through what seemed a swift, shallow, paved river.
Something like a house showed under the purple lightning. She groped for the path, found her way into the shelter of the low curved porch roof.
It was not a house but a pagoda. The wind roared through its open sides. Continual waterfalls spilled over its edges. But it offered a roof, and Yolanda accepted the offer.
She dropped down on the dry rocky floor and cried for several minutes. She was so tired, so afraid, so completely lost.
But her soft sobbing sounded foolish to her—so weak and futile, contrasted against the sounds of thrashing trees and ripping thunder.
Lightning flashes would reveal the jungle storm in blinding purple patches framed in the hard black of stone doors and windows. For the instant her shelter would take on the qualities of size and form, and every vivid detail of the crisscross bars and foliations around the open walls would be exposed.
Yolanda took advantage of every flash to see more of this black shelter. She groped toward the sounds of flapping curtains. Soon a blaze of lightning revealed two weatherbeaten pieces of drapery hanging at the sides of a window.
The draperies were full of the smell of dust. But the rain hadn’t reached them, and Yolanda was in dire need of dry clothing. She jerked the draperies down and shook the dust out of them.
She got out of her watersoaked clothes, and wrapped herself in the tattered cloth. It was harsh and scratchy, but warm.
She wrung the water from her discarded clothing and found a shelf along the wall where she could spread it out, safe from rain and wind.
For a place to sleep through the night she chose the dry stone floor beneath a massive wooden table, where she would be partially shielded from the brilliant lightning flashes.
She made bedding of the remainder of the draperies, wondering as she did so, whether she was committing any sacrilege; or whether the draperies of such a place should be touched only by those who came to pray.
She consoled herself by offering a little prayer before she went to sleep—a prayer to the lost paper doll of Jolly John How—that she might have the courage to go on with his unfinished work . . .
She was awakened by voices that shook her out of frightened dreams into reality.
At first she thought she had hardly slept. But the storm was gone, bright moonlight was glistening on the drooping wet tropical leaves outside the windows.
The voices were approaching from the opposite side of the pagoda. Two men were talking in fluent American. Their rough slang was incongruous with the sacred air that Yolanda felt belonged to this ornamental little pavilion.
The voices were quarrelsome, “Talk fast,” one of them said. “I’m in a hellova hurry.”
The voice was high and taut.
“What’s the big hurry, Heavy? I told you I’d meet you here to talk over something big.”
This was a low smooth drawl. It came from the taller man, Yolanda knew, now that their silhouettes came into view beyond the farthest door. “Settle down, Heavy. I want some information on O’Connor.”
“O’Connor’ll be expecting me back soon, Slack. He sent me out for a errand.”
As the chunky fellow talked on in his high nervous voice, he snapped on a flashlight and shot it around through the open interior of the pagoda.
The beam crossed Yolanda’s eyes, turned back on her for a split second, then flashed off.
“What’s the idea?” growled the tall thin fellow, who went by the name of Slack.
“Just makin’ sure there’s no one around,” said Heavy. “You never know.”
“There’d be no one at this godforsaken place,” said Slack. “Not unless you planted ’em here.”
“Or you.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Slack. “You oughta know by this time I’m a lone wolf.”
The chunky fellow stood inside the arched doorway and folded his arms.
“All right, Lone Wolf Clampitt. What am I doing here?”
“I’m givin’ you a chance,” said Slack Clampitt, “to get in on a good thing. I’ll take all the risks. All you gotta do is give me a few little hunks of information while the information’s hot. No stale stuff, you understand. This job calls for timing to a T. Get me?”
“Go ahead.”
“Okay, Heavy. Listen close. The first thing you gotta do is fix things so that you can bust away from work at any minute without O’Connor’s getting suspicious. Have yourself some errands cooked up and ready. That way when a particular letter comes, that I want to hear about—”
“Breakin’ away from work ain’t so easy.” The chunky, high-voiced fellow shuffled his feet restlessly.
“How’d you get away tonight?”
“O’Connor went into town,” said Heavy. “He’s takin’ in the shows most every night. Gotta mean crush on that little black-haired American dancer.”
“Wait a minute,” Clampitt snapped. “You don’t mean that snappy-eyed one named Katherine Knight? . . . Huh?”
“What’s it to you? You’re a lone wolf.”
“M-m-m . . . That damned O’Connor thinks he owns the world . . . Wait a minute—you said he sent you on an errand!”
“Huh! Yeah—that is—” Heavy gulped with confusion. The darkened flashlight twisted in his hands nervously.
Slack Clampitt was angry, now, and he whirled toward the short plump fellow with a threatening gesture.
“Don’t go stringin’ me with a line of lies, Heavy. Let’s get this straight. If O’Connor sent you out on an errand, what the hell was it?”
“I’m not stringin’ you, Slack, honest. He did ramble in to the show, like I said. But he phoned back—”
“Yeah?”
“And said there was a woman strayin’ down the road, within eight or ten miles of camp.”
“Woman? Young or old?”
“He didn’t give her pedigree. Just said he figured she’d get caught in the storm, and Jones and I had better ride out on bicycles and pick her up.”
“Hm-m-m.” Slack Clampitt was skeptical. “Where’s Jones?”
“Probably back at camp by now. He took the other branch. Maybe he found her, maybe not.”
“Here,” said Clampitt. “Give me your light. Let’s take a look around.”
Heavy made a pass, but the flashlight conveniently slipped out of his hands and clattered to the floor. He must have previously unscrewed the lens, for it all fell with a crash and a clatter.
“Hell’s bells,” Heavy growled. “How’d I do that? O’Connor’ll give me the devil.”
He picked up the pieces, but presently he muttered that the bulb was on the blink.
Yolanda took a deep relieved breath. She had been on the verge of making a break for the out-of-doors. She had bound the makeshift clothing tightly around her body, and had proceeded, with utmost care, to gather her damp clothing and her purse in a compact bundle.
She felt sure that Heavy knew she was here; that flashlight had caught her when she had first awakened.
But he had played a secret hand against Slack Clampitt from the start. Instinctively she knew she was being protected.
The moon was slipping down low in the western skies. Time was growing short. Slack Clampitt told his informer to sit down and forget about the flashlight.
Slack went over the list of instructions two or three times to make sure that Heavy understood.
“Pick up every whit of information about George Wilmington.”
“O’Connor never me
ntions him.”
“Well, there’ll be a letter or a wire from him soon. When it comes, I want to know it.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s on our list.”
“I never had a thing against George,” said Heavy. “As long as he stuck on his truck and stayed on his own side of the road—”
“Listen, Simple,” Slack mocked. “If you knew that George Wilmington was fixin’ to bust into a million dollar pie, and not say a word to you about it, do you figure you’d take it lyin’ down?”
“A million? You’re talkin’ silly.”
“A million, easy, and heaven knows how much more. He’s bumped into it by accident. It’s hid over here somewhere, and he’ll be comin’ over with a neat little map tucked in the pocket of his Sunday suit—”
“Slack Clampitt, you’re talking through your hat,” Heavy sneered. “You’ve had a bad dream—”
“Dammit, I’ve got the letter right here—”
The silhouette of rapidly shuffling arms made Yolanda’s blood freeze. It happened almost faster than she could see.
She thought that Slack Clampitt was reaching into his pocket for the letter.
At the same instant Heavy jerked at his pocket and came up with a pistol. “I’ll take that letter, Slack Clamp—”
Crack!
It was a gun, not a letter, that Clampitt drew from his pocket. He shot first and did his talking afterward.
The single shot must have plugged the chunky man squarely in the heart. Heavy fell forward on his face. His elbow struck the empty flashlight case and sent it clinking across the stone floor.
“I figured you were up to doublecrossin’ me, Heavy,” the tall lanky man muttered, gathering up the other’s gun. “I saw your jealous eyes watchin’ me the night I lifted O’Connor’s letters. So I decided I’d call your hand. Got anything more to say?”
Silence.
Slack Clampitt pushed the body over with his foot and Yolanda could see a black pool of blood.
The murderer bent down to listen for any hint of breathing. Then he straightened up.
“I didn’t figure you’d have anything more to say.”
With that, Slack Clampitt turned and walked off into the moonlit jungle.
CHAPTER XV
A Purely Business Tete-a-Tete
The following noon at the road builders’ camp Carter O’Connor was the most surprised man west of the Pacific.
It was Yolanda Lavelle!
At first he couldn’t believe it. But as soon as she spoke of John How, the tragic accident at Tolozell’s show, and the inevitable passing of the little old Chinese cook, O’Connor could no longer doubt.
“I came,” Yolanda said apologetically, “because I promised John How—”
She reeled dizzily. Carter O’Connor helped her to a canvas cot. He called orders to two or three of his men. The girl wasn’t well.
“I—I think I’m just a little frightened,” Yolanda said.
“Nonsense. It’s overexertion in this tropical heat. You’ve got to rest,” said O’Connor. “One of the boys has gone to pick up a native nurse a few miles down the road. She’s a blustery old Siamese grandma, but she knows just what to do for folks like you.”
“I—I’ve got to tell you something—something dreadful.”
“Nothing can be so important that it can’t wait till you’ve had a drink.” He forced a glass to her lips.
The sight of her, clad in ragged strips of native cloth bound tightly around her partially naked body, was puzzling to Carter. Her yellow hair was in disarray, her cheeks were flushed from the sun. Her blue eyes were bright with intense excitement.
Strange, he thought, that a girl of such loveliness should come walking out through the hot sun. The canteen he had tossed to her on the previous afternoon had evidently been lost. So had her luggage. The rainstorm, of course, accounted for her change of clothing.
It was stupid of Jones and Heavy to fail to find her last night, thought Carter. But as for this morning, why hadn’t she hailed a ride back to the city with one of the supply trucks?
“Please lie down,” Carter repeated. “You can talk just as well. If you had only called me from Bangkok I’d have saved you all this walk.”
“But I wasn’t coming here,” said Yolanda. “Not until what happened last night. Then I had to come—and like a scaredy-cat I was afraid every minute that Slack Clampitt would jump out of the bushes and murder me.”
“Slack Clampitt!” Carter felt the blood leave his face. “Where’d you ever run across—”
“I saw him kill a man last night—one of your men—”
“Heavy!” Carter saw the girl nod weakly, and he began to understand the terror in her eyes.
“They were trying to get together on a deal over a stolen letter from someone named—”
“Wilmington?”
“That’s it. Then they suddenly pulled guns on each other.” The girl’s eyes went closed.
“There, Miss—Yolanda. That’s all right. Don’t think about it. There’s nothing you can do. Only—I hope you weren’t mixed up in it?”
“No. Clampitt didn’t know about me. I’d taken refuge in the pagoda. When I first heard the voices I was too late to rouse up and run away. So I lay there hiding, helpless. I didn’t know they had guns.”
“You’re quite certain that Heavy is dead, not just wounded?”
Yolanda nodded. “I was afraid to tell anyone but you. You’re almost the only one I know—and I didn’t have time to find out who could be trusted.”
“It isn’t always easy to tell when you’re living among gangs of underground trouble-makers. Until the last few weeks I’ve trusted Heavy—”
“I can always tell whom to trust,” the girl murmured quickly. “John How taught me.”
Carter was still gazing at her when she dropped off to sleep a few minutes later.
His thoughts rambled back to the few memories of old John How. He hadn’t known the man well, as this girl evidently had. But he recalled the high respect which his father, along with all the native Chiams, held for the master Chiam mystic.
In John How’s hands had been placed not only the keys to the great Chiam treasury, but also the secret gems of Chiam science and magic.
And now here was an eighteen-year- old girl, a stranger to this land, who blandly echoed the late Chiam master.
She could tell whom to trust. John How had taught her.
A feeling of awe came upon Carter O’Connor. He had little to say the rest of the day.
The old Chiam nurse arrived, to make much fuss over the girl’s beauty while applying her native ointments and prayers. A group of men went out to find and guard the slain body of Heavy. The secretary made out a report of the affair and drove away to notify the civil authorities. Work slowed down to snail pace along the new roadway. There was tough talk among the workers; if the civil authorities didn’t hang that damned Slack Clampitt they’d do it themselves. The straw bosses listened to this bhister and didn’t cavil.
Meanwhile Carter O’Connor stayed near the tent, to be within call when Yolanda Lavelle awakened.
It was early evening when he joined her and they shared a workman’s dinner of rice and black coffee. Yolanda was looking much better for her rest, and insisted that she needed no native prayers or ointments, only plenty of solid nourishment.
“I still don’t understand,” said Yolanda, “why you seemed so very surprised to see me. Didn’t you know I might be making a trip to this land?”
“Should I have known?” said Carter. “Did you write me, or send a cable—”
“No, but my friend Katherine Knight is over here, and she wrote asking me—”
“Is Katherine your friend?” Carter felt a thrill of surprise that was not particularly comfortable. In recent weeks he had found the black-eyed American dancer a very bewitching girl, but just now the thought of her was jarring.
“You do know her, then?” Yolanda said, and there was a look of
deep curiosity lingering in her intense blue eyes.
“Why, yes. She and I are quite friends. That is, I’ve been seeing her quite often, now that she’s playing here at Bangkok. You know how it is, Americans a long way from home.” Carter paused. Yolanda’s face was full of questioning, but she apparently meant to ask nothing more. Well, there was more he wanted to tell her, and much he hoped to ask.
“It’s strange,” he went on, “that Katherine never mentioned knowing a girl like you. Did you know her in New York?”
“New York?” Yolanda’s face betrayed amusement. “Don’t you remember seeing my playmate, Katherine, when you visited the Rocky Hill mansion, eleven years ago? We both did everything we could to entertain you, though we probably only annoyed.”
Carter gave a reminiscent nod. “So that’s who she is. She said I was supposed to know her. Well, I’m still a bit flabbergasted that I missed the connections. The fact is, she’s had so many things to tell me about the show business and her particular worries that we haven’t got around to talking America.” Yolanda nodded and fell silent again. Carter saw that she felt very much left out. It was strange, indeed, that Katherine had never mentioned Yolanda might be coming.
“You’ll have to excuse her,” said Carter. “She’s been rather on a spot with the manager of her circuit. You’re her friend. I’m sure she won’t mind my telling.”
“Perhaps I’d better not hear,” said Yolanda. “We had best confine our talk to—er—strictly business. In fact—”
“You’re not interested in Katherine?” Carter broke in abruptly.
“Of course I am.”
“Then get a load of the jam she’s in. She’s sent to America for a stage-designer. She did it without authority. Even offered to pay the designer’s expenses. It was a rash thing to do.”
“Very.”
“But she’s been skyrocketed to success, and somehow her optimism got the better of her. She tells me—”
Carter hesitated, realizing he was taking liberties with Katherine’s confidences; but he felt that this lovely, serious friend from America must understand Katherine’s plight.
“She tells me that she was simply compelled to do the rash thing. Some irresistible inner urge demanded that she get her own stage designer. But now the big manager tells her it was all wrong. So you see how it is. If this designer comes, Katherine’s future is darned uncertain.”
